Chapter 29 #2
She avoids looking directly at him, as though life has slowly eroded her confidence.
At first, she seems confused.
Who are these two neatly dressed men at her door? City folk.
Marco tries to hug her, but she flinches.
“Ma,” he says.
Her expression wavers.
We stand very still.
Watching. Waiting.
Then recognition slowly dawns.
Eyes widening, her face crumples with emotion.
“Mark?” she whimpers.
“It's me, Ma,” he whispers.
His eyes fill with tears.
She wraps her arms around his neck tentatively, as though he might be an illusion.
“You're so tall,” she grins.
“Who the fuck is it?” bellows a voice from down the hallway.
Immediately, he shelters her with his arms.
“Your dad's on the dunny,” she warns. “You should probably go…”
“I'm staying,” he insists.
She’s afraid for him, I think.
But also relieved.
We hear a flush, followed by heavy footsteps.
Marco steps inside before the door can be locked on him.
I flank him instinctively.
And there his father looms in the shadows.
Scrawny and unkempt, pathetic almost.
◆◆◆
“Who are these cunts?” he snarls.
His words cut through the air like broken glass.
God, the smell in this room is intense.
I try to hold my breath.
All I care about is keeping Marco and his mum safe.
Even if that means I can’t touch him, can’t comfort him.
The bastard trudges through from the kitchen, beer in his hand.
The entire energy of the room darkens.
“Ray, leave them alone,” she wails.
It’s surreal to see these two men side by side.
If I squint, I can see that father and son share the same jawline and nose.
Almost the same smile, but his is sinister.
It’s as though someone has taken the man I love, and distorted him horribly.
Aged him by decades, starved him for a month, and then soaked him in piss.
Now add some manky long hair and cheap half-assed tattoos.
He probably seemed enormous to a small child, simply because of his rage.
I look at him the way I’d look at dog shit on my shoe.
A silent warning that says: don’t step any closer.
And not just because he’s violent.
The stench is repulsive.
Filthy bugger probably hasn't showered all week.
Has he wet his pants?
It’s hard to tell.
Standing beside Marco, I position myself close enough to shield him.
The coward glares at me, jaw grinding.
But something in my eyes must have registered.
Ray hesitates, stepping back to find a weaker target.
His face hovers inches from hers.
“I said... who the fuck are these cunts?”
I can barely hear her reply.
“Mark and his friend.”
It’s taken him this long to recognise his own child.
“Mark and his poofter friend,” he booms. “Showing up uninvited in my house!”
He tips his beer over her head before we can stop him.
Marco rushes to help her.
My fists clench in rage, the tension in the room lingering thick.
I stand directly between the two men, as he helps his mum dry her hair.
Ray can barely stand up straight.
When I take a step toward him, he staggers backward into the coffee table.
“Dumb fuck,” I whisper.
I note the dented walls.
The broken lamp in the corner.
This is just a glimpse of all that has gone down in this house.
Now I’m close enough to see the monsters on his arms.
Blurred demonic faces, snakes coming out of skulled eye sockets.
Shoddy line work, whoever did it.
But enough to give any kid nightmares.
Especially when those arms have inflicted so much pain.
And his dark bloodshot eyes.
Cold as ice.
The old man grumbles under his breath.
“Fucking moron came back did ya? Piece of shit isn’t welcome under my roof!”
The words carry the venom of someone who has spent years wallowing in resentment.
His wife turns toward him quickly.
Her voice is trembling.
“Can’t even say hello to your boy, can ya?”
“He’s not my boy.”
The words land like a kick to the stomach.
I feel Marco’s body stiffen next to me.
Without thinking, I reach for his hand.
Ray scoffs from the doorway.
“Always knew you were a bloody faggot.”
He smashes his bottle against the wall.
Brown streaks cascade down the wallpaper to the skirting boards.
The sound echoes harshly across the tiny living room.
Then he shoves his way past me.
I cop a sharp elbow in the ribs as he bolts toward the front door.
It slams behind him, windows rattling.
Through the window we watch him storm down the driveway.
He’s barely able to walk in a straight line.
“Better be out of my house when I get back, you fucking faggot!”
◆◆◆
His voice booms loud and clear across the yard.
He catches his foot on the edge of a wheelbarrow and kicks it hard.
Metal clangs as it tips over with a crash.
For a moment, I think he’s gonna throw something at my truck.
But he changes his mind.
We can still hear him a block away, muttering curses to himself.
Heat floods through my chest as the house falls into silence.
Every protective instinct in me wants to throttle that scum.
To shove him against the wall and make him suffer.
But I’m not that man.
And I never will be.
Defending Marco from a fist, or worse?
Without a doubt.
But chasing that fuckwit down the street for all the hurt he’s caused over the years?
My baby wouldn’t want that.
Adding more violence to a day that’s meant to be about healing?
No. I need to let karma take care of it.
The best revenge is knowing he’ll die alone in this shithole he calls a home.
Or on the side of the road somewhere.
No one will miss him.
I hold Marco and his mum in my arms.
Arms without inky monsters.
He’s shaking like a leaf.
Something in the way he and his mother cling to each other, hands clasped, voices trembling, tells me that they have endured far worse than this, many many times.
She tries her best to smooth the moment over.
“You know what he’s like, he just…has a bit of a temper.”
“Mum, you don’t need to make excuses for him. He’s always been a piece of shit.”
He reaches up to dab her eyes with the corner of her robe.
Her hands clutch the sleeve of his shirt as though she’s afraid he might disappear again. “Mark,” she smiles softly. “My sweet Mark.”
He hesitates, unsure whether to give any clues that might allow his dad to find him.
“I didn’t tell you in the letters, but my name is Marco now.”
She repeats the name carefully, almost reverently.
“My Marco.”