Page 5

Only when their bedroom door thumps shut does Joseph allow himself to breathe again. He re-examines the kitchen:bloody footprints across the floor leading from the bloody mural where he fell; a red handprint on the nearest worktop; a red glimmer on the light switch.
There’s blood on Max’s side of the kitchen, too – on the taps, and the floor beneath the sink. It looks darker than Joseph’s, rustier. More like paint flecks than fresh blood. Through the arch to the utility he sees rust marks on the washing machine door, hanging open. Beneath it lies a pile of Max’s clothes and a pair of bloodstained trainers. On the work surface above the machine stands a box of washing powder beside a bottle of whisky, uncapped, and an empty snifter.
Joseph limps to the kitchen roll spin stand. He tears off a long sheet and presses it to his stomach. He’s still bleeding freely, but the wound isn’t deep, just messy.
‘Dad, for God’s sake, I know this stuff. You’ve got to let me take a look.’
Joseph waves him away. From a drawer he grabs a box of clingfilm and wraps plastic around his torso, fixing the kitchen roll in place. ‘We’ll clean up this mess,’ he says. ‘Then we’ll sit at the table and you’ll tell me exactly what’s going on. You won’t spin me a tale, lie by omission, any of that stuff. You’ll tell me the truth, all of it, and then we’ll figure this out.’
He watches Max’s eyes closely, looking for the tell-tale glance – up and to the right – that in childhood indicated dishonesty. Because as fiercely as Joseph loves him, he knows he hasn’t managed to fully heal his son from the trauma of five years ago. That even now there are things that remain unsaid. Often, these days, the boy seems more comfortable around his stepmother and stepsister than his own father.
Now, though, instead of deceit, Joseph sees something infinitely worse – an expression on Max’s face utterly alien. It makes him fear that the truth of what’s happened will bemore devastating than he can bear, that the last safety line tethering him to his son has been severed, and that from here there’s no way back.
The thought is so crushing it drives the air from Joseph’s lungs. He clenches his fists and vows that whatever this is, he won’t fail Max tonight like he’s failed him before. He’ll protect him no matter what.
No matter what.
THREE
They work side by side in strained silence. For Joseph, despite his dread at what he might soon discover, it’s an opportunity to breathe, order his thoughts, process what just happened.
Max stands at the sink with a dish scrubber, scouring dried blood from his nails. Joseph uses more kitchen roll to soak up his own spilled blood. He mops the floor with detergent. Then he adds a few squirts of bleach to fresh water and mops the whole thing again. He returns the whisky bottle to the cupboard and puts away the snifter. In the utility, he wipes down the washing-machine door.
While Max cleans the kitchen taps, Joseph examines the pile of discarded clothes beneath the machine: his son’s shorts, grey T-shirt and white socks. The shorts and socks are spotted with rust stains. The grey T-shirt is more heavily soiled, the blood on it still wet. Briefly, Joseph considers loading the clothes into the drum and running a boil cycle. Instead, he double-bags them in bin liners, along with the ruined trainers.
When he turns back towards the arch, he finds Max staring at him from the kitchen. Again, he sees something deeply troubling in his son’s expression. It lifts the hairs on his arms, wicks the moisture from his mouth.
‘Let’s sit,’ Joseph says.
‘I’d rather stand.’
‘Sit.’
For a handful of breaths, Max doesn’t move. Then, without breaking eye contact, he goes to the breakfast table by the bifold doors and pulls out a seat.
‘Drink?’ Joseph asks. The tension between them is palpable. He needs to find some way of slackening it.
Max shakes his head. He rests his forearms on the table edge, inspects his fingernails. Then he hides his hands in his lap. ‘I can’t talk to you.’
‘Why not?’
‘This …’ Max licks his lips. ‘You were never meant to see it.’
Joseph opens the fridge. He grabs a Coke Zero, pops the tab and takes a long swallow. Then he sits opposite. ‘Whose blood is that?’
Again, Max shakes his head.
‘What happened tonight?’
‘It’s best you don’t know.’
‘Was it a fight?’
‘Dad,’ he begins. Then he grimaces, closes his mouth.
Abruptly, Joseph realizes what’s been frightening him about his son’s expression. It’s as if he’s seeing two people struggling for supremacy inside the same face. One is the boy he loves; the other is a traumatized stranger. The battle twists back and forth. Moments ago, his son resurfaced. Now, the stranger has reappeared, watching with wary eyes.
Joseph wants to reach out, take Max’s hands, create a physical connection if not an emotional one. Deeper instinct tells him the time isn’t right. Better to proceed cautiously, and wait for his son’s return.