Settling the Account (39 page)

‘What the hell’s got into you? You watch
your tongue, woman—have to get it myself, will I?’

‘Yes, you will.’ Amy did not look at him as
she spoke; she was too busy getting together a bowl of water and
some clean rags, as well as a spoon for the laudanum. When she had
the things assembled, she paused for a moment and glared back at
Charlie. ‘Do you know what you’ve done to Mal?’

‘Gave him a hiding, that’s all. There’s no
need for you to be carrying on with a load of nonsense. He’s got to
learn that—’

She cut in before he could get into full
flow. ‘Charlie, you’ve broken his nose. You might think that’s
teaching him a lesson. I think it’s… well, never mind what I think.
I doubt if you’re very interested in that.’

‘I’ve not done any such thing! I’ve maybe
given the boy a bleeding nose, and that’s no more than he was
asking for, but I—’

‘You’ve broken his nose,’ Amy repeated
doggedly. ‘I know what it looks like, I remember a boy at school
got his nose broken once. It wasn’t his father that did it to him,
though,’ she added bitterly. ‘I’m going to patch him up as well as
I can, and you’re going to have to dish up your own pudding for
once.’ She left the room without waiting for a reply.

It was difficult to get Malcolm to swallow
the laudanum, but she managed to get as large a dose as she dared
into him, though she spilt half as much again before she had
finished. While she was waiting for the drug to take effect she
noticed for the first time traces of blood on the back of his
shirt.

‘What’s this from, Dave?’ she asked, her
fingers brushing against the marks. Even her soft touch was enough
to make Malcolm groan afresh.

‘That was after Pa knocked him down. He
started belting him with the stick. I tried to stop him then, too,
Ma—he said he’d give me the same when he finished with Mal, ’cause
he was wild at me for butting in. But he…’ David looked at the red
marks and swallowed audibly. ‘He broke the stick on Mal. Suppose
he’ll cut a fresh one for me tomorrow.’

Amy bit back the words that sprang to her
lips. She did her best to avoid criticising Charlie to his sons; it
had never been more difficult.
Couldn’t you have done one thing
or the other, Charlie?
Punch him or belt him, but not
both.
‘He might forget about you before tomorrow,’ she said
when she could trust her voice again. ‘Look, Mal’s gone to sleep
now. You hold his head still for me while I wash his face.’

They were soon too busy tending Malcolm to
exchange more than an occasional word. Slowly and carefully Amy
washed away the blood and mucus until she could see the battered
mess that remained of his nose. She shuddered as she handled the
mangled flesh, painfully aware of her lack of skill in what she was
attempting.

She knelt beside the bed and moved her
fingers delicately over Malcolm’s face, moulding the nose into
something as close to its original shape as she could manage,
trying to tell herself that the work was not so very different from
a complicated piece of embroidery. She felt small pieces of bone
under her fingers and gently pressed them into what she thought
must be their proper positions, stopping to mop up blood whenever
it began oozing again.

When she had done as much as she could, she
wadded clean strips of bandage around her handiwork to hold it in
place, then sank back on her heels and took a deep, shuddering
breath. Her fingers felt cramped after the long minutes of
painstaking work; she flexed them tentatively.

‘Well, that’s the best I can do,’ she said,
her voice shaking with weariness. ‘Dave, do you think you can get
his boots off without moving the rest of him? I don’t think I can
manage just now.’

David did the job as carefully as she would
have herself. By the time he had finished she felt strong enough to
go back to the kitchen and fetch them both something to eat; she
did not feel particularly hungry after the gruesome work, but she
would need her strength for the night ahead.

Charlie was in the parlour, pretending to be
engrossed in his newspaper; he looked up as she passed through, but
did not speak.

She and David ate sitting on the floor with
their backs against the wall, Amy keeping a close eye on Malcolm
for any sign that the laudanum might be wearing off. She had lit
the lamp on the boys’ chest of drawers, and the light fell across
Malcolm’s head, accentuating the brightness of his hair and the
white bandages that stood out starkly against his bruised
flesh.

‘You’d better sleep in my bed tonight,
Dave,’ she told him when they had finished eating. ‘I’ll be sitting
up with Mal.’

‘I’ll sit with you, Ma,’ David offered.
‘I’ll keep you company.’

She squeezed his arm. ‘No, you’d better not.
You’re going to need your sleep. You’ll have to help your pa by
yourself until Mal’s better, you know—you don’t want to be slow and
start annoying him.’

David gave her a look full of trepidation at
the thought. She sent him off with his nightshirt tucked under his
arm, and began her next task. She unbuttoned Malcolm’s trousers and
untucked his shirt and vest, wincing when she had to pull the cloth
away from the stripes of dried blood marking the track of Charlie’s
stick, but Malcolm was too deeply unconscious to show any sign of
feeling.

Amy was still engrossed in washing Malcolm’s
back and buttocks when she heard a step too heavy to be David’s.
The bedroom door opened.

‘Close the door, Charlie, the wind’s cold
tonight,’ she said, not raising her eyes from her task. ‘I don’t
want Mal getting a chill on top of everything else.’

She heard the door pushed to, and looked
over her shoulder to see that Charlie had taken a step towards the
bed. He stood there awkwardly, as if unsure whether to come closer
or retreat.

‘How is it with him?’ he asked, his voice
gruff.

Amy said nothing until she had finished her
washing. She stood up and pressed her hands against her back,
aching from the time spent crouching over Malcolm.

‘I don’t know. I’ve done the best I can to
patch him up, but I’m no nurse. I’d like the doctor to see
him.’

Charlie stared at her as if she had gone
mad. ‘And have that bloody quack telling me how I should be
bringing up my son? It’s bad enough every other fool in this town
passing remarks. I don’t go running for the doctor every time I
give the boy a good hiding!’

‘You don’t usually break his nose,’ Amy
snapped, her nerves stretched too taut for caution. ‘Well, if you
won’t go I can’t make you. You might as well go to bed, then. I’d
be obliged if you try not to make too much noise when you get up
tomorrow, the laudanum might be wearing off a bit by then.’

Charlie took a step closer. ‘I didn’t think
I’d hit him as hard as all that,’ he said, staring down at the
unconscious figure with its hideously swollen face.

‘You’re a strong man, Charlie. I should know
that, of all people. At least you didn’t knock any of his teeth
out. That’s something, I suppose.’

‘He shouldn’t have driven me to it!’ There
was an edge to Charlie’s voice that gave the lie to his bluster.
‘It wouldn’t have happened if he’d behaved himself. He’s got to
learn.’

Amy looked at him without speaking, and he
turned aside from her steady gaze. ‘What am I meant to do?’ he
demanded as if she had voiced a criticism. ‘Let my son take a swing
at me and do nothing about it?’

‘He won’t be taking swings at anyone for a
while. Does that make you happy?’

‘He’s got to learn!’ Charlie repeated, a
hunted look on his face. ‘He’s got to do as he’s told. When I was
his age my father would have—’

‘When you were his age, your father was
dead,’ Amy cut in.

He frowned in mingled suspicion and
puzzlement. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Amy turned her back on him and leaned down
to check Malcolm’s breathing. ‘It means I don’t think you really
remember how you felt about things when you were Mal’s age. It
doesn’t matter, though, does it? I’m too stupid to have anything
sensible to say about it.’

She tucked the blankets more snugly around
Malcolm’s still form and frowned down at him, wondering if he would
be warm enough. ‘I’d better get in with him,’ she murmured.

‘You’re going to stay with him all night?’
Charlie asked.

‘Of course I am. I could hardly leave him by
himself in this state, could I?’

She smoothed the blankets, fussing
unnecessarily over the task but reluctant to start undressing while
Charlie stood there. He opened the door, and lingered in the
doorway for an awkward few moments before blurting out,

‘If he’s taken poorly in the night… if you
think it’s needful… come and wake me. I’ll fetch the doctor.’

‘All right,’ Amy said shortly. ‘I won’t
trouble you unless he gets worse.’

She waited until the door was shut, then put
out the lamp, slipped off her outer clothes and climbed under the
covers to hold Malcolm close all through the long, sleepless
night.

*

Amy hovered over Malcolm, unwilling to let
him out of her sight for more than a few minutes at a time until
she was sure he was recovering. It was many nights before she dared
leave him alone and return to the comfort of her own bed.

But Malcolm had the strength of a healthy
fifteen-year-old to draw on, and his body healed more rapidly than
she had dared hope. The swelling on his face turned to bruising in
a hideous range of colours, then gradually faded until all that was
left to show what had happened was his misshapen nose, flattened
below the bridge and with a pronounced tilt to one side that Amy
knew would be permanent.

She kept him drowsy with laudanum, to shield
him from pain but also to put off the time when he and his father
would have to face each other again. Even when she allowed him to
regain full consciousness, for days afterwards Malcolm lay on the
bed in a silence that seemed unnatural. If she spoke to him he did
not reply, but she saw the traces of brooding thoughts in his
eyes.

There was no mirror in the boys’ room, so it
was only when Malcolm was at last well enough to take his first
tentative steps, leaning heavily on Amy’s arm, that he had the
chance to catch sight of his face in the mirror that hung over the
fireplace. He stood stock still and stared at himself for a long
moment.

‘I’m sorry, Mal,’ Amy murmured. Malcolm’s
mouth twisted, and he turned his back on the image.

*

Amy knew that Charlie had been shaken by the
extent of the injuries he had inflicted. Once or twice while
Malcolm was still regaining his strength, she thought she saw
Charlie’s hand tense to slap the boy, and felt her stomach tighten
with apprehension. Each time he seemed to think better of it, but
Amy did not trust his forbearance to last.

And when she watched Malcolm stare at his
father, a chill came over her. He barely spoke to Charlie, rarely
bothering even to answer direct questions, but the look in his eyes
was something darker than Amy had ever seen there. Deep pools of
resentment welled up in those eyes; a brooding sense of injury that
showed no sign of healing. No forgiveness was asked for by Charlie;
certainly none would be given. Malcolm did not speak his feelings
aloud, but Amy could read them in his face.

The first hint of spring was in the air and
Charlie had gone into town to settle his account at the store the
day Amy found Malcolm putting the bridle on his horse.

‘Mal, don’t,’ she begged. ‘Please don’t go
out. You know your father said—’

‘He won’t know,’ Malcolm cut in. ‘You’re not
going to tell him. Anyway, I don’t care what the old bugger says.
I’m going out to see my mates.’

‘Please, Mal. I don’t want him to hurt you
again.’

Malcolm carried on adjusting the buckles on
the bridle as if he had not heard, but she saw his mouth tighten.
When he mounted she put a hesitant hand on the horse’s neck in a
last, silent appeal, but Malcolm knocked her hand aside and kicked
the horse into a trot.

For all his brave words, Malcolm was careful
to be home well before his father. He walked with a swagger as he
came into the house, attracted by the scent of the freshly-baked
biscuits Amy had ready for him.

Malcolm pulled a chair out from the table
and flopped into it. His jacket fell open as he slouched against
the chair back, revealing the worn leather belt fastened around his
trousers.

And revealing something else. Amy leaned
across to put a plate of biscuits in front of him, and the plate
slipped from her hand to thud heavily onto the table.

‘What’s that on your belt?’ she asked,
staring in horror at the grubby handle protruding from a leather
sheath.

‘This?’ Malcolm took hold of the handle and
pulled out a long, wicked-looking knife. ‘It’s my new knife. It’s a
beauty, isn’t it?’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Des gave it to me. He said it used to be
Liam’s. Liam left his knives behind when they took him off to jail.
Des reckons the one he’s got’s even better than this one, but I
like mine best.’

He ran his fingers lightly up and down the
blade with its nicks and scratches, his touch almost a caress.

‘Mal, I… I don’t want you having that,’ Amy
said, her voice trembling. ‘You don’t need a knife. It’s a
dangerous thing—an evil thing.’

‘Mind your own business,’ Malcolm said.
‘Silly bitch,’ he added in a voice so reminiscent of his father’s
that Amy briefly closed her eyes against the pain it gave her.

He held the knife up in the air, turning it
this way and that to catch the light. ‘It’s good having a knife,’
he said. For a moment Amy thought she saw a glitter from the blade
reflected in Malcolm’s eyes. ‘People don’t give you any trouble if
you’ve got a decent knife. Or if they try it, you just sort them
out.’ He patted the blade against his hand in a slow, rhythmic
thud.