The Litten Path

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HIS DAD WAS squatting by the bed directing the Anglepoise into his face. Through the glare Lawrence could smell fresh outdoors, cigarettes masked badly with peppermints.

“What?” he said.

“Said wake up.”

He turned away from the bother but his eyes were so scrunched that he misjudged the distance and clumped his head against the wall. Cold stucco. He bit the inside of his cheek and kept his mouth shut.

“Kid.”

Movement. Then what sounded like his homework being blundered off the desk. When his blanket was peeled back, Lawrence yanked it towards his neck again and hissed “Jesus” over his shoulder.

“Not him.”

“You’re funny.”

“Not as funny as this.”

The blanket was torn away entirely.

“Shit, what’d you—”

Arthur’s rough palm smothered Lawrence’s mouth. Those beer lips were always so clumsy against the ear.

“Quiet. An’ watch your lip. Your mother didn’t raise a bloody yob.”

Even the gentlest moments could turn against you. A minute ago Arthur’s outline had been dimly lit between the doorway and the landing. Now this. Lawrence finished his sentence anyway. His curses emerged as muffled nonsense.

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