Teaching
Right
“John?
John.”
“What?”
He opened his eyes, or his left at least. His right didn't open.
Right. Yeah. He remembered now. He'd been too slow to avoid Jimmy's
fist. Too stupid, more like. He rolled over, groaning at the jolt of
pain from his ribs where he hit the table going down. There was
broken glass next to his head. Shards of pottery. Spots of blood.
His? Maybe. Stevie's round face close to tears.
“Jesus,
John. I thought you were dead.”
“It'll
take more than that.” He drew his knees up, preparing to stand. “Is
he still here?”
“No.
He's gone out. Mam, too.”
John
focused on his brother's face. “He didn't hit you, did he?”
“Nah. I
hid. He doesn't know where I hide.”
“Good.”
John knew. Stevie had a shelf at the top of the airing cupboard,
above the towels and sheets where their mam couldn't reach to drag
him down. At least Stevie wasn't hurt. That made the beatings he got
worth it, somehow. Someone would phone the council if a four-year old
was bruised. Fifteen year olds, no so much. He rose to his feet to
survey the damage. “Help me clean up, Stevie. Jimmie will go spare
if he comes home to this.”
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