Tom Houghton Read Online Free PDF Page B

before I’d finally fallen asleep, but it felt like hours that I lay there awake – uncertain of the feelings in my gut, replaying the images from the backyard over and over within the cinemascope of my mind. Mum had one arm cupped tightly around my chest and her nose was in the crook of my neck, breathing in deeply before releasing out a long breath. She smelled of her job: stale tobacco smoke, spilt beer smeared across her skin; the dried perspiration of hard work mixed with her citrus perfume. I lay in the sanctity of her embrace and made the rise and fall of my breath match hers. Up for one, two, three seconds. Hold. Out for four.
    I could tell by the quality of the light that I should have been getting ready for school by now but I felt so tired after yesterday’s excitement that the last thing I wanted to do was drag myself out of bed. Each Monday felt it was the beginning of a new school year. Everything was out of my control again; unexpected threats lurked menacingly in darkened corners. My body had other ideas, however, so I carefully pried myself free of my mother’s grip and snuck out the bottom of the bed. She was still fast asleep, always exhausted from her never-ending work and her entertaining.
    I silently opened the bedroom door and closed it behind me before making my way to the toilet. I felt that greater powers would smite me for waking in bed next to my mother with a hardy. Weeks before it had poked into her leg and she had laughed and said I was finally growing up. But the thought of leaving Mum in bed alone played on my mind and the shame of the stiffness between my legs could not outweigh my desire to lessen her loneliness. Still tired, I sat down to relieve my over-filled bladder. As I sat there with my eyes closed, the breeze from the open window reminded me of last night’s images and I felt uncomfortable, as though I’d been a more active participant in their panting. As soon as I’d finished, I pulled my pants up and sleepily made my way into the kitchen. I reached up into the cupboard to pull down a box of cornflakes but then had a brainwave – there was still cake left in the fridge. I was now twelve! I would eat cake. I cut a large enough piece to satisfy my hunger, but small enough to go undetected by my ever-watchful grandfather. I poured myself a glass of milk and flicked the switch on the electric kettle. Waiting for it to boil, I decided to go and watch some cartoons.
    I was dumbfounded to see the strange man’s naked torso splayed over the leather couch like a human blanket. I blinked twice, hoping it was my overactive mind. Now I could see the man clearly enough to make out his features. His face was dark with stubble and his nose was large and porous. The hair on his skull was cropped close and tight and it mirrored that on his broad chest. I put another forkful of cake in my mouth and sat cross-legged on the floor a few feet away from the man. He was snoring softly. Could this be the man my mother would marry? I studied his face more intently, traced its lines, and watched as the hairs in his nostrils quivered with each breath. Then the man farted loudly. It startled me so much I threw my plate high in the air. Cake landed on the man’s chest. He opened his eyes groggily, picked up the cake in confusion, saw me staring at him, then lurched back into the lounge and threw the cake onto the floor in front of me.
    His composure regained, he rubbed his hand across his head, and yawned. ‘Morning. You must be the son.’
    â€˜You’ve got to make an honest woman of her now, boy, you’ve got no choice,’ I said.
    â€˜Sorry, buddy?’
    â€˜It’s the honourable thing to do.’
    â€˜Hmm,’ the man said with a dismissive chuckle. ‘Okay then . . .’ He squeezed his eyes together tightly, cricked his neck from side to side and yawned again. He moved his legs around, long hairy stumps just in front of my