Unholy Rites by Kay Stewart, Chris Bullock Page A

safekeeping. What if his mum’s real purpose was to confront Liz with something she’d discovered?

Six
    Stephen played with Happy while he waited, his stomach in knots. He hadn’t seen his brother in several weeks. Would he recognize Eric? Or would prison have changed him into a different person, someone in striped pajamas with handcuffs and leg irons, like in the comics?
    At the knock on the door Stephen dumped Happy back in his cage and raced to the top of the stairs. His mum came clacking out of the kitchen and poked her head into the lounge, saying, “Now please, Bob, don’t make a scene.” Stephen doubted his dad could hear her over the Man United game, or would pay any attention if he did. She stood in the doorway with one of her best black shoes on the worn carpet, the other lifted, ready to run away. Stephen knew she was wondering whether to say anything else, or leave well enough alone.
    The knocking came again. The telly went on blasting away, his dad didn’t appear. His mum turned to open the door. Eric swaggered in.
    â€œI told him it’s my house, he didn’t have to knock,” Eric said, Mr. Clough following him in. Stephen felt relief wash over him. His brother hadn’t changed, it seemed, and it wasn’t just the jeans and jacket hanging open over his favorite Anathema T-shirt. Eric walked through the world like he owned it, he didn’t scurry around like a mouse, hoping not to be noticed. His mum tried to give Eric a hug and he pulled back. She gave a little cry, like he’d kicked her. Stephen felt his shoulders slump. He could never be like Eric. She put on her smiley voice and said thank you to Mr. Clough, and yes, she’d make sure Eric didn’t go out without her or Bob.
    They made it through Sunday dinner with only one explosion from his dad.
    â€œBloody hell, would you look at this, burned to a crisp,” his dad said when his mum set the joint down for him to carve. “Simplest thing in the world, stick a joint in a pan, stick it in the oven, take it out again, and you can’t even do that right.”
    â€œSorry, Bob,” his mum said with teary eyes. “Eric came just when it was time to take it out, and I got distracted.”
    Eric held out his plate. “Looks fine to me. I’ll have your share if you don’t want it.”
    â€œThere’s a man for you, teeth like steel.” His dad heaped Eric’s plate, then shook his head at Stephen. “You wouldn’t want this burned stuff, it’s not good enough for you.”
    â€œBut Dad—”
    â€œDon’t worry, Stephen,” his mum said as she headed back into the kitchen. “There’s plenty of mashed potatoes to fill up on.”
    His dad was staring at him, just waiting for an excuse to send him to his room or worse. Stephen dropped his eyes. His mum would save him some for later. He kept quiet through the rest of the meal while his mum asked Eric questions. Eric didn’t say much about the Cloughs except “They’re all right.” He told a long story about going to a big house in Cressbrook to measure up for a cabinet to hold the missus’s Toby jugs. “Put a locking door on it,” the man had said. “Those things are valuable.” Imagine that, locking up bits of pottery you could get in the jumble sales.
    â€œCome upstairs,” Stephen said when they’d finished the baked jam roll, Eric’s favorite. “I want to show you something.”
    As soon as they walked into the bedroom they’d always shared, Stephen knew he’d made a mistake.
    â€œHey man, what’s that thing on my desk? That’s mine, get that thing out of here.”
    Eric crossed their small room, picked up the wire cage, and gave it a shake.
    Stephen heard Happy scrabbling around. He grabbed Eric’s arm. “Stop! You’re frightening Happy! Mrs. Rosson let me keep him over mid-term, she’ll