Stations
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“I want the guitar,” no preambles, no sweet talk, just dropped on the table in the middle of Saturday morning. Her mother was cleaning the dishes; their father had already left. It was just the three of them at the table, with breakfast in front of them. The house was placid, as much as it ever got to be.
Paul didn’t play with it anyway; it just sat there in the boy’s room abandoned, just Noelle stealing chances to make good use of it. Really, he had no reason to say no to her.
“Ok.” He said, “I will give it to you,” smiling all beatifically. Noelle tensed in her seat. She knew that stupid fucking face, but he didn’t speak, because he was a sadistic fuck, a bloody idiot.
“Ok…” She said she was not willing to give him more than that. He took it anyway, famished for even a sliver of power.
Her brother nodded and shook his fork in the general direction of Liam, who looked up, mouth full of Weetabix, “But you have to take the kid,” Paul said.
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Noelle and Liam, everyday moments, 1982.Series
- Part 1 of Stations
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Liam, greedy lad he was, held onto her with grabby hands, huddled around her. She could smell him all around her, his sweat. The new and pungent smell of his aftershave—a birthday gift—all of his sixteen-year-old bravado marinated in it, leaving a trail like a damn skunk. Everything covered by the smell of beer, of alcohol reeking from his mouth.
That was new, too. It clogged her senses. It was, she thought mournfully, the smell of a man.
It all came in a package, it seemed: long limbs, deeper voice, bigger arms, hands, sharper jaw. He was taller than her now, curling around her, enveloping her completely.
A man.
Not that his brain seemed to recognize it, hiding in his big sister's room, as he did before when he was a child and had a nightmare.
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Noelle and Liam, one summer night 1988.Series
- Part 2 of Stations