“Ma,” he says.
Her expression wavers.
We stand very still.
Watching. Waiting.
Then recognition slowly dawns.
Eyes widening, her face crumples with emotion.
“Mark?” she whimpers.
“It's me, Ma,” he whispers.
His eyes fill with tears.
She wraps her arms around his neck tentatively, as though he might be an illusion.
“You're so tall,” she grins.
“Who the fuck is it?” bellows a voice from down the hallway.
Immediately, he shelters her with his arms.
“Your dad's on the dunny,” she warns. “You should probably go…”
“I'm staying,” he insists.
She’s afraid for him, I think.
But also relieved.
We hear a flush, followed by heavy footsteps.
Marco steps inside before the door can be locked on him.
I flank him instinctively.
And there his father looms in the shadows.
Scrawny and unkempt, pathetic almost.
???
“Who are these cunts?” he snarls.
His words cut through the air like broken glass.
God, the smell in this room is intense.
I try to hold my breath.
All I care about is keeping Marco and his mum safe.
Even if that means I can’t touch him, can’t comfort him.
The bastard trudges through from the kitchen, beer in his hand.
