Behind the blackness of
his eyelids, he could almost picture he was somewhere else.
Almost.
But he could still hear them.
Michael and John were fighting again. Wendy was moaning because her best
Sunday dress was torn, and she couldn't possibly wear it - she needed a new
one desperately.
"But petal, we cannot afford you a new dress," said his wife, in that
irritating tone that always meant she would eventually give in. "Not at the
moment. Your father doesn't receive his wages until the end of the month, and
between then and now we have bills to pay."
"But mother! It's ruined!"
"Next month, my love. Next month. You can wear that pretty dress your Aunt
made for you-"
"But mummy, it's ghastly! I'd rather die than be seen out in it!"
That could be arranged... couldn't it? Good God! George shifted
uncomfortably in the armchair, folding his paper in his lap, hands trembling.
Michael came stampeding into the sitting room, a dark scowl marring his
usually jovial, freckled face. "John is being a pain in the bum," he
announced.
"Michael!" Mrs Darling said, with a short, hysterical laugh. She glanced at
George for support. "Don't say such things! It's not correct."
Not correct. George pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, his
heart beating extraordinarily fast. It felt like palpitations, but he knew it
wasn't - it definitely wasn't a natural phenomenon.
It was becoming all too familiar.
John appeared, with a red mark under his left eye, which would undoubtedly
blossom into a bruise. His nostrils flared as he pushed his glasses up his
nose, face twisted into an ugly mask of anger. "Mother! Michael thwacked me in
the eye. You must punish him!"
"Boys, really," Mrs Darling chided, rising from her chair. George
cocked his head to one side, surveying her. Only now did he realise that there
really was very little authority in her voice and mannerisms. Had there ever
been any? In all the years the children had been around? The problem was that
she doted on them so much she couldn't see that they were taking over the
whole damn house. Spoiled, rotten little ghouls, incubi and succubae, feeding
mercilessly on whatever George provided with not the merest thanks or respect
for him.
Could it be arranged, he wondered. Could it...?
No! Listen to yourself man, a rational part of his brain said. It sounded
uncannily like Liza. They're children! Nothing more. That's simply how
children are.
That's how your children were, old boy, said another part of his mind,
this one new and worrying. Think about it. He pursed his lips, giving a curt
shake of his head in response to this thought. And, like most of the things he
said and did, it went completely unnoticed by his family.
John stamped his foot angrily, face bright red, his little fists balled up at
his sides.
"I demand that he be punished, mother! He can't go around hitting people just
because he feels like it!"
"I can't help it if you're as fragile as a girl," Michael said with a smirk.
"And anyway, that dress has a lace collar, mother. You know how it itches my
neck so. I cannot wear that to church!" Wendy said.
"Not now, Wendy," Mrs Darling said. "Michael, I want you to apologise to your
brother for-"
"He deserved everything he got!" Michael spat indignantly. "And I'd do it
again, too!" To prove this, he raised his fist and waved it in the air,
glaring at John.
George picked at the folded newspaper on his lap, biting his lip hard. One of
the wall lamps spluttered suddenly, but only George noticed. He looked towards
the French doors, out at the tumultuous stormy night and snow-garnished trees
in their small garden. Michael shouted something, but George didn't catch it.
John responded similarly, but George was listening for something else.
And then he heard it. In the far distance, Big Ben struck one-
"Michael! Don't you dare assault your brother again-"
Two-
"And it's lilac! Lilac does nothing for my complexion, mummy-"
Three-
"Just you try it! I'll not stand for it a second time-"
Four-
"George! Please tell them to stop fighting-"
Five-
"Daddy, I really need a new dress for Sunday-"
Six-
"Father, tell Michael to back down, or so help me God-"
Seven-
"John! Do not take the Lord's name in vain-"
Eight-
"Daddy! Are you even listening to me-"
Nine-
"No, Michael, stop it! John-"
Ten-
"Mummy! Daddy! Listen to me!"
Eleven-
"GEORGE, STOP THEM! GEORGE!"
Twelve. The French doors burst open, the glass panes shattering, hinges
ripping from the frame. A thunderous gust of wind streaked into the house,
carrying with it a blizzard's worth of snow, which whipped around the room,
knocking both Wendy and Mrs Darling to the floor. John and Michael jumped with
twin screams, and with their argument suddenly forgotten, they clung to each
other, staring wildly at the silhouette framed in the doorway.
George stepped into the room, his face as white as a ghost, but for the two
blood-red dots shining at the centre of his eyes.
He grabbed the large hooked door latch from the broken frame, and raised it,
advancing on them.
~Fin~
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