Should Be Seen and Not Heard by MJ Burns

The father didn’t need to give the orders anymore ‒ the curtains were to be closed at four o’clock. Even if it was sunny. The boy blinked in the chilly shadow of the lounge and watched his father sink into his chair. The father sat where he always did: the single armchair by the hearth ‒ the deep-winged, plum one that blinkered him left and right. The boy sat opposite.

Every evening, before he lowered his tall body down, the father took stock of the living room’s contents. He completed one full circle of the room, adjusted the curtains, gazed at the portrait of his late wife for four seconds ‒ the old one of her in her red dress ‒ glanced at the clock, glanced at his son, poked the fire, perched his reading glasses on his fine Roman nose and unfolded his newspaper.

The Hook, it said in heraldic typeface. The paper covered his whole upper body, so that the boy could only see the crown of his bald head.

*

The room was wintery, even with the fire lit. The boy took up a porcelain cup and filled it with tea to warm his hands. He poured one for his father too. Steam unravelled into the air above it.

Today The Hook didn’t have a photograph. Yesterday, a photograph of an escaped criminal was on the cover. The boy had stared at the wanted man across the lounge all evening, having made-up conversations with him.

His father’s tea went cold.

*

He could start a fire. That would certainly jumpstart his father. Flicking his eyes between him and the hearth, the boy sat thinking. What would he do if he reached in with the tongs, plucked out a burning coal and set the newspaper alight? He could see it now. The flame would bite into the corner, giving it black, ashy teeth that would decay away and crumble onto the father’s lap. The fire would stream up the page in a lively, orange fountain. It would sting his fingers.

It was a shock that had started this daze ‒ so maybe, like the words of a spell, the same thing had to happen again to break it. Not a fright like for the hiccups, he scolded himself. It had to be something big like when Mama died.

Still worth trying though…

The boy yanked the footstool from beneath the father’s feet. His slippered heels thudded the carpet, still crossed at the ankles. The father didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He readjusted his legs, taking up one ankle and resting it on his knee.

The boy sighed and knelt by the hearth. Taking up the poker, he stirred the coals. Between the cracks, the fire swelled, lava-like and bright. A small coal lump skittered onto the marble hearthstone, rolling in an aura of blue flame.

“Careful.”

The boy whirled around to see his father’s face. But he missed it. Maybe he imagined it.  It was back behind the newspaper. He looked back at the coal. Its flame had gone out. It now only hissed white with smoke.

*

The next day, the curtains were whisked shut at four o’clock and the father was in the middle of his circuit around the room. He stood gazing at the painting of the boy’s mother. The smile the artist gave her was nothing like hers had been ‒ he had made her look docile. He had made her milk-pale and rounded at the edges.

“Papa?”

The father’s hands tightened behind his back.

“What?”

“My tutor said I failed my maths test.”

The father sat himself down. He reached over to eat a single biscuit before he picked up his paper. The boy tried to send his thoughts across the room into the father’s downturned forehead. Maybe eye contact was necessary for telepathy ‒ windows to the soul and all that. The boy stared hard at him. Even the father’s animal instincts seemed impotent ‒ he seemed to not sense he was being watched.

“Do better next time.” The father said.

The boy waited to respond. He waited until his father’s eyes flicked up. There was little more than a dull interest in them, but they met the boy’s.

“Do you understand?”

“No.”

The father went back to reading, “Good.” he said.

The boy waited a few seconds. Then he snorted. He let it develop into a snicker.

“What is it?” The father said without looking up.

“Nothing.”

“What’s so funny?”

“You thought I said yes.”

“What?”

“You thought I said yes, when I said no.”

“What?” The father’s jaw struggled to stay in the one place as he searched his short-term memory. Perhaps his brain hadn’t bothered to even make the memory. He looked up. The moment his eyes connected with the boy’s, The boy flashed him a grin. The father looked down with a scowl. His wrinkles had definitely deepened over the year. With a rustle, the paper went up.

*

The boy took up the box of matches from the table below the portrait. On a Friday, the father would alter his routine by having a cigarette. The servants had learned long ago to leave the match and cigarette box exactly where they were. Beside it, a tall elegant candle flickered in its stand.

The boy glanced behind him at his father. Watch this, he mouthed. He licked his thumb and middle finger. As quick as a pouncing cat, he squeezed the wick. The flame snapped out. Smoke curled up into the air and the boy took a long sniff of it. It reminded him of birthdays long ago.

Behind him, the father didn’t move. The boy plucked out a single match from the box and dashed the head of it across the board. A flame erupted with a hiss and a swell of pure yellow light. He gave it to the wick to share. It dwindled and settled onto it. He let it get bigger then snuffed it out again.

The second match, he dragged across the board a lot slower. It was a satisfying spark. It made a nice loud noise. He glanced back at the father as the match flared. Snuffing the candle out, he lit another, and again, and kept this up for a further six matches.

He held the last match in the box. With this one, he didn’t light the candle, but held it steady, watching it as the flame chewed its towards his hand. His fingers began to grow hot. He grinned.

It bit him.

“Ow!”

“What are you doing, boy?”

“Nothing.”

“Put those away.”

“There’s none left.”

“Right. That’s it.” The father threw the newspaper down. On the ground. In three steps, he was right in the boy’s face. Nose to nose. He seized his wrist.

“Enough.”

There was a sharp tang to his breath. Stale whisky. He was close enough for the boy to see the faded sunspots and freckles on his cheeks. His eyes were bright. There was an odd oily sheen to them, like the slightest thing could set them aflame ‒ even the lightest touch of hot breath. The boy didn’t breathe.

“Sorry, Papa.”

“Sir.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The father thrust the boy’s arm back to him and turned away. The energy hissed out of him in a long breath as he sank back into the chair. Back in position, he disappeared behind his newspaper.

The boy pressed his wrist ‒ the heat and pressure of his father’s handprint lingering. The cold stole its warmth by the second.

As he left the room, the grin on his face was sore.

M J Burns

Image: A lighted match with a yellow flame and blue grey smoke against a black background. From Pixabay.com