Page 3 of The Bodies

TWO

Pain that makes him clench his teeth and groan. That makes him puff his cheeks and blow. Pain that makes him forget, just for a moment, that he isn’t alone in here. That this isn’t over.

The tomahawk lies near Joseph’s right hand.

It’s a stark silhouette more suited to an apocalyptic movie scene than a suburban kitchen.

He scissors his legs, tries to get them under him.

His heels scribe wet, black skid marks across the floor.

With each contraction of his abdominals, his torso spills more ink.

He snatches at the tomahawk, grateful that he’s blocking the door, that his family is still behind him.

From somewhere beyond that halo of white light he hears movement.

He raises his free hand in front of his face, anticipating another knife slash.

Instead he hears a voice, a name. It scoops up his brain and whirls it around and around, because only one person in the world has ever called him that: ‘ Dad? ’

It’s phrased as a question, framed in shock and disbelief. Joseph groans. Despite the pain of his injury, he pushes himself to his feet. Recovering his breath, he reaches out to the wall.

‘Don’t,’ Max hisses, but Joseph’s fingers have already touched the switch.

Overhead, the LED spots banish the shadows so abruptly that the room seems to flip, nearly throwing Joseph off balance.

Colour floods in. Black ink morphs into bright blood.

And there’s a lot. Smeared wet across his torso – across the floor, his legs and his feet.

But what Joseph sees before him frightens him even more.

He feels like he’s stepped into an alternate reality to confront a time-shifted version of himself.

They’ve always looked similar, he and Max.

Right now, though, except for their age difference and the weapons they’re both clutching, they appear almost identical.

Max is in his underwear, too. And he’s similarly streaked with blood.

Joseph stares, aghast. Did he swing the tomahawk without thinking, eviscerating his son in the dark? If so, that’s a scenario so shocking even the YouTube guy didn’t foresee it.

He drops his weapon on the worktop. Across the kitchen, Max keeps his blade high, as if he’s thinking about slashing his father again.

There’s a cornered-animal look to him, a white-faced terror Joseph hasn’t seen since the night, five years ago, that delineates the now from the before .

His eyes are wild, unfocused – as if captured, still, by whatever trauma they just encountered.

Max blinks, flinches. The knife slips from his fingers, clatters to the floor.

Suddenly he looks present in a way he hadn’t moments earlier.

When he speaks, his words come out in a rush.

‘Oh Jesus, Dad, Jesus, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I just freaked.

I never heard you come down. I thought …

My head’s all over the place. I thought someone was …

’ His gaze drops to his father’s abdomen.

‘Ah shit . I can’t— We’ve got to stop that bleeding. ’

‘Are you hurt?’ Joseph asks, stumbling forward. He seizes his son’s shoulders, searches in vain for visible injuries. When he cups Max’s head, tilting it to examine his neck, the boy pulls away.

‘I’m fine, Dad. Seriously. You’re the one who’s cut. Let me get the first-aid kit. We need to—’

‘Joe?’

Erin’s voice, from the landing. It’s almost too much to process. Joseph had asked her to stay in the bedroom. Clearly, she hadn’t trusted him enough to do that. Looking around the blood-spattered kitchen, he can hardly blame her.

‘It’s OK,’ he shouts. ‘It’s just Max.’

‘ Max? ’

Now, he hears footsteps on the stairs. His eyes meet his son’s. Frantically, the teenager shakes his head. Joseph backtracks across the floor. ‘Don’t come down here, Erin,’ he says, closing the door and bracing it.

But Erin has already reached the hallway. He hears her bare feet slap towards the kitchen.

‘What’s going on?’ she demands.

‘I just need to talk to him. Please, go back to bed.’

‘Joe, it’s three a.m. ’

‘I know. I’m sorry. We’ll be done soon.’

He hears her approach the door, senses her on the other side. The doorknob turns in his hand. He grips it tightly. ‘Erin, seriously. Go back to bed. I need to talk to Max. Father and son, alone.’

Even through the closed door he knows that he’s wounded her, that this will only exacerbate the problems their marriage has been facing.

The pressure on the doorknob ceases. Silence, now, from the other side. Joseph senses his wife’s thoughts – all the responses running through her head. Finally, she retreats, back along the hall and up the stairs.

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 be more 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.