The Devil's in the Detail. Matthew S Wilson

must have been his language. Although she wasn’t exactly Oxbridge material herself, she always maintained that she wanted him to speak decent.

      ‘Sorry Mum – but do you know how frustrating it is? It’ll be another four years until we have another shot. Four years!’

      Still nothing. He changed tack.

      ‘What’s for dinner then?’

      He looked to see what she was washing. Being Sunday, it was probably potatoes for the roast. Or perhaps pumpkin. God, he hoped it wasn’t sprouts – he hated sprouts. But when he looked at his mother’s hands under the running water, he suddenly wished it was sprouts. Blood seeped from her hands into the sink, spiralling around and around the plug hole.

      ‘Mum? What happened?’

      He placed a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. When she eventually did speak, her usually boisterous East-London accent was barely audible.

      ‘It’s nothing, Davey. The knife slipped is all. Stupid of me, wasn’t it? I should have been paying more attention, shouldn’t I?’

      When she turned, he saw her face. Her eye wasn’t black yet, but he knew that in an hour or so it would swell up enough to stop her from seeing out of it. It always did.

      ‘Where is he?’

      ‘What? Come on Davey, don’t be silly. What do you want for dinner hey? Shall we get a Chinese tonight? What do you say? You like Chinese.’

      She was smiling, but her cheeks were glistening with tears.

      ‘Did he go down the club?’

      ‘He’s been working all day, love. He’s just down there for a couple with Sam.’

      The Saint George’s Club was a working men’s club on Bronswood Road. It was a place where the local men went to have a mid-week drink and discuss work and football. In truth, most of them had spent all week talking football at work and the club was more of an escape from their families. His Dad usually went there to “cool-down”. Which generally meant drinking with Sam – the guy that ran a betting stall on Blackstock Road. The two of them had gone to school together and been mates since. They nursed their pints, stewing on how good their lives had once promised to be. And some time later, usually much later, his Dad would stumble in drunk offering rough sex to David’s mother as some form of apology. David turned to leave.

      ‘Where are you going love? Leave your father alone. He’s had a rough time of it – what with how work has been and all. Just leave it darlin.’

      He peeled his mother’s fingers off his arm – her blood-soaked fingerprints still on his skin. He looked her squarely in the eye.

      ‘Mum – he’s going to kill you one of these days.’

      She laughed and gasped all at once.

      ‘Kill me? Now why would your father do that? He loves us, he does, Davey. It’s hard for him to run the shop and keep food on the table. He doesn’t have any time for himself, love.’

      He walked backwards towards the hallway. She followed him slowly.

      ‘Davey, please …’

      As his heels passed the threshold into the hallway, she crumpled onto the black and white lino of the kitchen floor.

      ‘Davey, please don’t.’

      Her eyes implored him, her blood stained hands clasped in prayer.

      ‘He’ll leave Davey. Do you understand me? He will leave. What’ll we do without him?’

      His throat burned as he tried to swallow.

      ‘I’ll look after us, Mum.’

      ‘How, love? How will you look after us?’

      She was right. He didn’t have an answer. Mum didn’t have a job and he didn’t have a trade to support them with. How would they survive? Surely the best he could do was walk over and wrap his arms around his Mum and let her cry into his shoulder, the way she usually did. But something felt different. Perhaps it was Mike’s words still ringing in his ears, or perhaps it was because he couldn’t even hug his Mum properly without hurting her bruised and battered body. Something clicked. He kissed his mother gently on the cheek and then turned to walk out of the kitchen.

      ‘Davey, where are you going love?’

      He walked down the stairs.

      ‘Davey, come back love. Please, baby. David if you do this ….. if you defy me … and your father...... I will never forgive you. Just leave it ….. just leave it be ….. I am begging y….’

      He pulled the door after him before he could hear the final syllable of his mother’s shriek. The streets were still empty. How different it would be had England won. People would be spilling out into the streets, singing, drinking and kissing. Instead, everything was eerily quiet.

      He walked down to the club, which looked just like the house either side of it, save for the neon Fosters sign in the window. He’d been in there a couple of times, but only after his father had phoned home for more money to be sent down. This time would be different. This time he was going to walk into the club and grab one of the pool cues from the rack. He’d walk up behind his father, cracking that wooden stick over his father’s temple as hard as he bloody could. And as his father fell off his stool and his stout spilled over the bar, David would push his foot over his throat and hit him again and again and again in the face. He’d keep smashing his face until Sam, or one of the other fuckers, pulled him off.

      He placed his hand on the door knob and began to twist. Although it was unlocked, he couldn’t open it. He didn’t have any strength in his fingers at all. Cowardice could be funny like that.

      His fingers slipped from the door knob and he turned and walked dejectedly away from the club. As he did, he heard an enormous cheer from within. England must have scored. Perhaps they could still win. And a half hour ago, David would have given anything for England to win that football match. But it wasn’t important anymore.