Falling out of Heaven. John Lynch

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       The Firebird

      I watched as he patrolled the house, his eyes flicking periodically in my direction, sizing me up, daring me to shatter the silence he had spent the best part of the morning setting in place. It began with the way he responded to my mother’s request that he run her into town. He stared at her as if she had just insulted him and then walked the length of the kitchen and looked back at her, disdain in his eyes. She knew better than to say anything, that she had to let him posture and sulk his way through this latest mood otherwise there would be war.

      From her he moved on to me. I remember I was drawing at the table, it was the picture of a bird in flight, a red bird with bright orange flames for wings. I had spent most of the morning on it, enjoying the feel of the crayons between my fingers. I could feel the heat of his presence as he stood over me; I could smell tobacco and diesel and hear the sharp running of his breath.

      I recall sitting there, my hands frozen in the middle of their task, my brain desperately trying to read the situation. Should I look up at him and smile, careful not to make it too sure or confident, or should I continue drawing? I knew from experience that the best thing was to do nothing. After what seemed an age he moved off and sat by the door of the kitchen and lit a cigarette. I watched my mother, her eyes keeping track of him; aware at all times where he was, and most crucially who he was looking at.

      I felt sorry for her that morning. I loved her; I wanted to kill for her, to smash down the grey walls of her life and to free her. Anger clutched at me as I looked at the man she had married as he sat there, the smoke from his cigarette climbing lazily, his legs crossed.

      He saw it in me as I looked from her to him, my eyes meeting his, in that second he had me. He knew it; I had revealed myself to him. I remember him smiling as if to say go on, let’s see how long you can hold it, let’s see how big you are.

      ‘Seen enough?’ he asked.

      I nodded carefully and took my eyes from him, wondering if he would pursue it, but he didn’t. I was easy prey. I was a pushover.

      My sister broke the silence that morning. She rushed in from playing outside, her hair strewn across her face, her doll Lola pressed to her breast. She threw open the door and yelled.

      ‘Mammy.’

      The wind rushed in, blowing apart the game my father had been playing. It ran through the kitchen like a storm of freshness, banishing the silence, busting it into a thousand little pieces.

      ‘Sssh,’ my mother had said. ‘Your father’s thinking.’

      ‘What? What did you say?’

      ‘Nothing. I meant…’

      ‘Don’t take the piss.’

      ‘I’m not. Please, I’m not.’

      ‘Yes, you were.’

      ‘No, I wasn’t. It just came out. I didn’t mean it that way. Ciara, come here, do this dress up, what have you been doing to yourself?’

      ‘Don’t fuck around with me,’ my father said as my mother fussed over my sister, running her hand across her face, gathering the snot from her nose between her fingers and shaking it into the sink, then running the tap.

      ‘Don’t speak like that.’

      ‘I’ll speak any fucking way I please.’

      ‘Alright. Alright.’

      ‘Is that clear?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I said yes.’

      ‘Good.’

      As he left he slammed the door behind him. I remember sitting there looking at my hands, they were shaking. Ciara began to cry, dropping her doll as she put her hands to her face. My mother bent down to her and pulled her close as we heard the sound of my father’s car pulling out of the garage in the yard and roar away from the house. I could imagine him sitting there, his hand ripping through the gears, his eyes blazing with anger, his world small and cold.