Yesterday's Dust by Joy Dettman Page B

her little room upstairs. Sleeping soundly.
    And Jack Burton.
    Dead.
    He was dead.
    Johnny Burton raised saliva enough to swallow. He was going to be okay. Morning was coming. Shadows were playing outside the curtain now. He could see the old oaktree, see its naked branches like grasping fingers.
    Old eternal oak, the seed brought from Germany in a coat pocket. Always there, that tree, always outside that window.
    A good climbing tree.
    The shuddering had stilled, now wipe-out weariness came for him, wanting to drag him down again into sleep.
    Insane agony, this weariness. Every bone, every muscle was begging for the release of sleep.Tired crept up from his feet to his legs, his back, his arms and higher. It crouched on his shoulders like a cat waiting, smiling, knowing its time would come to pounce,waiting to get him again in the dark, to curl over his face, suffocate him.
    His eyes were stinging. He closed them, moistened them, and they wanted to remain closed. But he forced them to stare again at the curtain.
    Intolerable,this weariness. When in his life had he been so intolerably tired?
    He’d never been a good sleeper. Never game to sleep when he was a kid. Slept with one eye and both ears open.
    Nothing to hear in this house. A silent old place. A safe old place. Close your eyes now and picture that old oak behind your eyes. It’s bigger now than it was back then. How long does an oak tree continue to grow? Howlong is forever?
    Shadow fingers swaying, playing, his mind began to wander into the outland of sleep.
    A good old climbing tree, that one. The best. He’d known good times in this little old house with Grandpa. Gentle old man with his wide bed an eight-year-old could crawl into when the bad dreams came. Grandpa’s house. Safe.
    Good times with Grandpa and Mummy.
    Be careful up that tree, Johnny.You’ll fall.
    I’m careful, Mummy.
    He’s a big boy, Ellie. Don’t breed fear into him. Boys were born to climb trees .
    Big boy. Big enough to have a pocketknife. Grandpa said so. Cut Daddy’s head off with the pocketknife if he comes home and hurts Mummy again. Wait till he goes to sleep and just creep in and cut him and let all the blood out.
    Cowardly, weak little bastard .
    Our father, the destroyer,creator of crippling scars, hated be thy name. Thy time will come.
    How many times had he planned his father’s death? The fingers on his left hand held high, he stared at them, grey fingers in the grey light. Slowly he added the fingers of his right hand. Not enoughfingers. How many times had he planned to kill his father? How many leaves fall from an oak tree?
    The scars of childhood had splitopen. Old memories and pain were swamping John Burton. Wide scars, they had never healed, only a fine membrane had grown over them, sealing in the putrescent pus that exploded at will, bursting forth to poison him with that old childhood infection.
    He’d hated his father at four, despised him at eight. Just a little boy, not much bigger than Ann’s oldest boy now.
    Man is only a frightened littleboy, forced to grow tall, he thought.
    Take the little ones away, Johnny. Do as I tell you. Get them away from me .
    Mummy. She’s come alive .
    Fight me, you weak little bastard. I could take you with one hand tied behind my back. Come on. Have a go. I’ll put my hand in my pocket. Have a go, you cowardly little mummy’s boy .
    Light was creeping out of the east like grey water. He needed the dawn.He needed light in which to work. Light to dig holes. Light to fill holes. To hammer. Fix. Fill his mind with doing and leave no room for memories.
    He’d make a start on the old bedrooms over the river. Strip the wallpaper in Ann’s old room and he’d get Ben to bring home some paint from the shop. White. Or something light. Pale blue, maybe. She’d loved blue.
    Is the ocean water all blue if youput it in a cup, my Johnny? Is the stars still up on the sky when it is day