Retard (8 page)

She’d been keeping a close eye on his cheek. Wesley had perked up a little after a slow drink of water followed by a few rounds of buttered toast but still appeared weak and not quite himself yet.

Christine had allowed herself a small smile. At least he’d sleep well.

His cheek proved painful to the touch, and the corner of his eye had descended to an angrier scarlet. The actual cheek though, the way it looked half-deflated, bothered her the most. She concluded that she may have fractured his cheek bone.

Christine had been quick to medicate. With the last of the vodka gone, she had plunged to the very far reaches of the kitchen cupboard, finding a sliver of rum and the small bottle of clear liquid Sally had brought her back from Majorca. It was a step up from drinking detergent, although it tasted the same, especially with the lemonade gone. She avoided the green spirit at the back.

It didn’t make the problem disappear but prevented the nerves from taking over…for the time being.

The lounge room spun, and the cartoon made no sense. Christine sat at the end of the sofa, rubbing Wesley’s feet with one hand and taking a drink with the other.

I could go to prison for this, she thought, the realisation hitting her like a sick joke. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end? I try and do the right thing by Wesley, raise him right despite his ways. What do I get for it? Locked up to be fisted by the big bull dykes while he gets sent to some cushy foster family. Probably let him do whatever he wants, get him everything he desires, like all those posh cunts at the party.

Another long sip from the half-glass; it didn’t taste as bad any more.

Wesley had finally fallen asleep.

Christine lifted his feet and stood, losing her balance for a second before stumbling through the lounge to the kitchen and her pack of cigarettes waiting on the table.

“I’m not going to prison,” she told it, shaking a stick loose and popping it between her lips. She lit it up and collapsed onto one of the chairs. “I’m not going to prison over him.”

The cigarette tasted worse than normal, more chemical. Must be the drink.

How long do fractured cheek bones take to heal? You never hear of people being put in face casts. Are they one of those that just heal themselves? Some of them just heal themselves.

Christine shook her head. The smoke and the alcohol mixed all her thoughts about like a spoon swirling the contents of her skull. Even her inner voice was rambling and slurred.

Three weeks until he has to go out…longer if I have to find a new school…

Why did he have to touch that little girl?

Three weeks…he might be healed by then…

She leaned back and looked through the archway, past the stairs and into the lounge. Wesley still lay on his back, the light from the television dancing across his pale face, fast asleep. He wasn’t drawing on the walls or throwing plates around or generally screaming and bellowing for no reason. Her son was quiet. Still.

Three weeks.

She weighed it up. The only person who might come calling was Sally, and she could easily be dissuaded. Keep Wesley inside for three weeks and this whole mess would be behind them.

Christine shook her head. He always did the opposite of what you needed, like the kid could read your mind and then do everything in his power to disrupt your plans.

She puffed out a lungful of smoke and drained her glass, head reeling.

Not anymore, she thought. Look at him. Quiet and…and…behaving.

Three weeks. I can get through three weeks.

10.

His mum was on the phone, and Wesley knew it was a secret because she closed the door. She never did that. Who could she be speaking to? Probably Aunt Sally. There hadn’t been any special uncles for a while…and they didn’t know anyone else.

It might be the school. Today is…Tuesday?

The Fabled Four video had been rewound and played four times through that morning. Wesley happily watched under his mum’s thick duvet. She’d turned off the gas heating even though a cold wind had started to rattle the windows, and Wesley swore he felt it tickle his face every now and then.

He watched the video in relative comfort, his eye no longer hurting. Heat had settled into the flesh of his cheek like belated sunburn, and Heaven forbid he touch it. That brought back the deep, agonising spark. His mum had spoon-fed him a bowl of soggy cereal, and he’d enjoyed a cold glass of orange juice. The urge to be up and off the sofa, to be doing
something
, was starting to return.

“No, Sal! He can’t come here. I told you.”

Wesley frowned from his mum’s raised voice. She might always shout at
him
but never Aunt Sally.

“Something’s wrong here,” said Yorin. He sat cross-legged in the corner, honing the edge of his great axe with a whetstone. A steady metallic echo almost drowned out the television. “Dragonclaw keeps us comfortable and fed well.”

“It is but a ruse, Commander,” said EagleEye, perched on the arm of the sofa, watching his own show with interest. “Why would we want to leave if are provided with every luxury?”

“Because we are warriors,” Yorin replied. “Warriors who swore an oath the Realm. To protect it from evil”

The door to the hall burst open, and Wesley’s mother, a strange, glowing green noose around her neck, was barged through and into the lounge. She tripped and fell face down on the carpet. Behind her entered Sasha, gripping the other end of her magical whip. Her jade eyes glowed within her violet veil.

“Finally,” she said. “I located the one that trapped us and attacked Globin. Dragonclaw’s assassin!” She planted a sharp, pointed boot into the small of his mum’s back to stop her from wriggling away.

Christine scratched at the thick coils around her throat. The whip tightened in response.

Yorin stood, grim, the axe at his side and nearly as tall. “Bring her.”

Wesley sat up for a better view as Sasha dragged his mother through the lounge and brought her to a stop in the middle of the room. She kicked her over.

“So this is the one,” said Yorin, standing over her. He looked down like he’d seen a smear of dog shit on his armoured boots. “This is the one who hurt Globin.”

“Mind thy place, Yorin,” said EagleEye, leaping from the sofa. The spectacle on the carpet proved more entertaining than a cartoon show. “It is not for thee to judge. Only the Empress holds that burden.”

Yorin sighed. “You have the sight of the gods and can shoot an apple from a man’s head half the world away…yet you cannot
see
, archer. This woman hurt an innocent. Hurt one of ours.” He hung his head. “However, you are correct. It is the place of the Empress to judge, not I.”

Wesley settled back down. The Fabled Four always followed the right path.

“Still,” said Yorin, thrusting his axe high into the air. “The Empress is not here!”

With a glint of metal, the axe speared down, hitting home with the sound of a coconut splitting.

“Mum!” Wesley sat back up too quick, the motion shooting pinpricks through his face.

Expecting her head to be separate and resting at the foot of the sofa in a puddle of pumping gore, Wesley released a gasp of relief.

Yorin had struck with the tip of the axe handle. His mother, the whip about her neck now forgotten, clutched her cheek and wailed.

The Commander straightened and returned his weapon to his side. “An eye for an eye, young Globin, a broken bone for a broken bone. Learn thee well.”

The door swung open for real this time, and Wesley settled back down on the sofa and pulled his blanket up under his chin.

His mother walked inside and slammed the door closed behind her, causing a freezing gust to blow through the lounge.

Wesley pulled his blankets tighter. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong but closed it again. His mum paced. Never good when his mum paced. Pacing meant thinking, and all she ever had to think about were problems.

“Wesley… Bear in mind that it’s so close to Christmas, and Santa is definitely keeping a close eye on naughty children at the moment…” She licked her lips. “Would you do everything I asked, even if you didn’t like it? Would you do that to be a good boy?”

Wesley’s body tightened. What did she mean? What things did she ask him to do that he didn’t like? Eat his vegetables? Fold his clothes and put them away?

That’s it, he thought. She wants me to clean my room.

I hate my room. I never want to go in my room ever again!

***

“No, Mum. Please!”

“Don’t make me… Don’t make this hard, Wesley!”

He’d fought all the way but still weak and woozy despite his breakfast, his mother easily overpowered him. She’d batted away his pathetic attempts at punches and swept a solid arm around him, pinning his arms to his side. Carrying him like a writhing sack, she’d made her way upstairs, careful to avoid his quick teeth that snapped at her ear.

“Do as you’re told!”

A part of Wesley, the side of him in Globin’s robes that was always keen to learn and read and sit back to think, watched the animal he’d become. He had a right to be angry. His mother wanted him to spend all day in his room, never coming out, never making noise. He didn’t give a fuck about Christmas! Santa could suck a dick.

He wasn’t going in his room again.

He wasn’t going in his room again!

His relentless struggling paid off on the landing as he slipped from his mum’s grasp and landed awkwardly on his feet. The pain in his face dazzled yet he fought on, pushing away and making a break for the stairs.

His mother managed to hook his wrist in her tight grasp and yank him. He hurtled backwards, almost falling if she hadn’t caught him. She shoved Wesley through his open bedroom doorway, into the mess and stink that waited for him.

He gripped the frame on either side, refusing to even step foot inside.

His mother barged into him, her elbow connecting with the small of his back, knocking Wesley into his bedroom.

His legs fell out from under him, and Wesley fell among the toys.

Panting, his mother pointed. “Why does it always have to be like this? I want you to stay in here and be quiet for a few hours. That’s all! I’m sure even you can manage that if you fucking tried.”

Wesley leapt from the floor, snarling like a rabid dog, his fingers hooked and aiming for her eyes.

Her hard backhand sent him sprawling to the side and bounced him from the side of his bed, the sound of flesh on flesh like a gunshot. White, dizzying light blazed behind his eyes in a flash, and the pain through his cheek penetrated knife-deep into his face.

Still he pulled himself to his feet, aware through the hurt that they were past the point of no return. He’d be paying the price regardless.

“Stay in here,” said his mum, her words somehow firm and clear through gritted teeth. “Don’t make a sound.”

She turned and stepped through the door, closing it behind her.

Wesley flung himself against it, beating the wood with his fists and screaming at the top of his lungs. He almost toppled back once again as the door swung open.

His mother filled the doorway, her nostrils billowing, face flushed.

“Your choice.”

Her own scream matched his own as she plunged into the room, face a mask of hatred.

***

“Get up, Globin. The Realm needs you!”

He tried to open his eyes but was granted only a blurry sliver for his efforts. His face didn’t feel his own. Amused by this, he laughed in the inner darkness but all that trickled from his mouth was a long, wet moan.

Lifting his head from the pillow proved impossible, like a giant, heavy helm had been put in place while he slumbered. His arms and legs had been similarly bound.

Am I though? Am I tied up?

He sat up to find out. His head seemed to fly a quick lap of the room and slam back down onto the bed. He retched, his fingers flapping uselessly on the mattress.

“You cannot let Dragonclaw win!” said the firm voice. “So come on, soldier. On your feet.”

“You’re not real,” he whispered, drool pooling from between his lips. “Leave me alone.” Still he forced himself to at least sit. His body swayed. “I can’t see.”

“Yes, you can,” said Sasha, her voice an exotic purr in his ear. “You just have to believe.”

His eyelids refused to cooperate at first. His left, the one over the cheek that had become a jagged chasm, was swollen shut. He blinked the tears from his right.

“That’s better,” said EagleEye.

His mother had, of course, closed the door. His bedroom light burned. He had no idea how many hours he’d slept. The usual muffled voices and canned laughter from the television in the lounge below was strangely absent. Could it be the middle of the night?

“I should sleep,” he muttered. “Sleep...”

“No sleep for you, young wizard! There is evil afoot. For the Realm!”

Why can’t you just leave me alone?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. The now familiar dryness in his throat had returned. He may be speaking through a mouthful of cotton wool, his face feeling a thousand miles away, but his throat and bloated lips were worse. He knew how far that could go.

“There is no prison can hold a man,” said Globin, “greater than his own.”

Wesley blinked with his one working eye, realising it was his own voice he heard, quoting the show.

He flopped onto the floor, his head hovering over the messy carpet. The toy cars and pieces from mismatched jigsaw puzzles swam before his eyes.

No. I have to keep moving.

“And go where?” asked Yorin. “A soldier plans before he moves.”

To the phone, he thought. If I can get to phone I can call Aunt Sally. She’ll come and get me. Mum leaves that little book by the phone, I can find her number. If not, the front door is right there. I know it’s cold…but I’ll be fine.

The cold would be welcome and might still the swarm of bees that buzzed within his ballooned face.

Two more shuffles on all fours brought him a few inches closer to the door. Like a zombie lurching from its mouldy grave, Wesley moaned, reaching.