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I’ll Kill Him
My mum doesn’t comment on my hair at breakfast Friday morning. I’m not even sure she notices, and for the first time, I’m relieved she only acknowledges my existence when she wants something.
Even my dad is nose-deep in yesterday’s newspaper, but I think that has more to do with ignoring my mum.
As she slaps fried eggs onto my plate before me, she says, ‘Do you know anything about the blood on the doorframe?’
Toast gets lodged in my throat. ‘What?’ I choke.
‘There’s blood on the front door. I noticed it last night when I got home.’ But the way she seems too indifferent,and the hinting tone of her voice, implies she’s already well aware who the blood belongs to.
I despise many things about Susie Johnson, but it’s her expertise in accusing someone of something without directly saying it that riles me most. Maybe she likes watching people squirm. Maybe it makes her feel in control.
But today, it pisses me off.
I swig my glass of milk. ‘Really? I mean, I got in pretty late, so what time did you get home?’
She glances back at my dad, still absorbed in his newspaper, before she gives me a narrow look over her glasses. ‘About three,’ she says at last, and returns her attention to the frying pan.
I nod thoughtfully. ‘Don’t all pubs close at half twelve? Where were you for three hours?’
I look at my dad, hoping my line of questioning intrigues him enough to eavesdrop. But he doesn’t even look at his wife. I sigh despairingly. He’s probably scouring through the cats up for adoption at the local rescue—he’s always reading through the lists and laughing at the random names.
Meowsington is still my favourite.
Before my mum can reply, a knock sounds at the door.
She’s clearly on edge by my questions, because she throws up her hands. ‘I am up to here with these scammers!’ When no one moves, she glances back at my dad. ‘Kevin?’
‘Yeah,’ he says absentmindedly, without looking up.
My mum stares at him for a long moment, and I wonder if she contemplates smashing him over the head with the frying pan. But she calmly turns off the cooker and puts the pan on a different hob before walking to the door. ‘Fucking useless,’ she mutters as she passes him. ‘Make your own breakfast. Starve for all I care.’
‘It’s okay, Dad,’ I say. ‘I got it.’
I hear the front door open and close, and I assume my mum told the fake charity hosts to piss off, until she says, ‘Frankie, why didn’t you say you had a boyfriend?’
My knees nearly give.
No.
It can’t be.
He can’t be here.
I turn, and he’s there, standing in my kitchen. My kitchen with its pile of dirty dishes in the sink and splotches of dried sauce on the tiles from the casserole my mum made yesterday; my kitchen with its bruised, sunken apples in the center of the table and its peeling, discoloured wallpaper over the cooker.
And he’s smiling. He’s smiling as if last night never happened. As if he didn’t strike me and cut my head with his key and call me stupid for crying about it.
Our eyes meet, and his tighten at the corners as he notices my hair.
I should greet him. I should introduce him to my parents.
But all I manage is, ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
Susie’s gaze darts between us. My dad watches Archer suspiciously.
Archer clears his throat. ‘Archer Toban. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Johnson. I apologise for intruding. I’m here to give Frankie a lift to school.’
