Mother was on one again, and Dad was doing his usual calming-down routine. John decided right then that when he grew up, he’d marry someone quiet. Someone who didn’t bang on about God every waking hour.
—John Cooper? Get down here. Now!
John sighed. He left his small room and headed down the creaking stairs into the living room.
—Yes, Mother?
—Ah, John. I need you to go to the shops. Now. Not when you feel like it.
—Okay, what do you need?
—Flour. So I can bake a pie for your Sunday School session this week.
John looked at his dad. Nothing. His face said nothing at all.
—Er, Mother? I’m not going.
—WHAT?
—It’s not for me. They talk about things I don’t —
—You ARE GOING. That’s final. NO child of mine will be a heathen.
—Now, Miranda, love. The lad is old enough to —
—Don’t you support HIM ON THIS! How could you? HE WILL go to church AND Sunday School.
—Miranda, you can’t dictate like that. He’s a good lad —
—NO! He WILL have faith. I will NOT raise a non-believer —
—But that’s what I am. I don’t believe any of it.
John didn’t know where the words came from. They came out on their own. His mother recoiled like he’d slapped her.
—WHAT did YOU SAY?
—Don’t heed him too much, he’s young and figuring —
His mother jumped to her feet, arm out, pointing at his dad.
—YOU. You’re encouraging this. You’ve NEVER believed yourself.
—No. You’re wrong. I have my beliefs. They don’t match yours. But the lad is old enough to make his own mind up.
—NO. HE is NOT. James Cooper, you should know BETTER.
—I’m not going, Mother. I hate it.
Even his dad looked shocked.
His mother collapsed back into her chair, clutching her rosary beads, sobbing. His dad sat on the arm of the chair.
—Look, love, he’s a good lad. He doesn’t need the church —
—WRONG! Our son needs spiritual guidance. Without it he will be lost. LOST, I tell you.
—I can think for myself, Mother.
—YOU DO NOT KNOW what you need. You are too young.
—I’m eleven. I know things.
—Leave it, son.
His dad waved a hand. John felt daft standing there. He turned to leave.
—DO NOT leave this room, young man.
His mother stared at him like he was something dirty. She leaned forward, pointing a skinny finger.
—You WILL go to Sunday School. Father O’Malley will be expecting you. And I will ask him to keep you back for extra prayers and Bible study.
It happened then. That feeling rose right up into his head. Then a voice.
—Alright, fella? Tell her to fuck off.
John looked around. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His mum and dad were still there. That was it.
—I’m ’ere. In yer head. Ask to leave the room. Bathroom break or summat.
John nodded. His dad gave him a look.
—Er, I need to pop to the bathroom.
—Go on then. But straight back down here, right?
—Yes, Dad.
He left the room and climbed the stairs.
—In yer room, mate.
John did as the voice said.
—Don’t talk out loud. They’ll ’ear ya. Say the words in yer head. I’ll hear yer.
—Who are you?
—Tobias Green. How I got in yer head we can get to. First, yer need to sort that nutter of a mother out.
—How?
—Two choices. Tell the bitch to fuck right off. Or do her in.
—What?
—Easy. Get the big old hammer out of yer dad’s shed and give her the heavy end.
—You’re telling me to kill my mother?
—I’m saying it’s an option.
—The other option?
—Stand yer ground. Go down and tell the pair of them to shove their Sunday school shit right up their arses. That’ll do it.
—I’ll be grounded for months.
—Nah. This is the new you, mate. John and Tobias. The team yer don’t fuck with.
—JOHN? Down here NOW, please!
His dad called him.
—I’d better go back down.
—I’ll talk yer through it. Just say what I tell yer.
John walked back down the stairs. Terror rose through his chest.
—Calm, lad. Stay calm.
He walked back into the living room.
—Where WERE YOU?
—In the bathroom, like I said.
—Hmm.
—John, lad? Me and your mother have had a chat. We need you to keep going to Sunday school for a while.
—Here goes. Say ‘no fucking chance.’
John waited. Sweat ran down his back.
—Go on. Watch what happens.
—No fucking chance. I told the pair of you.
John heard the words. He hadn’t said them. His mother recoiled again. His dad stared.
—What did you just say?
—I said, fuck off. No way am I going to that Bible-thumping bollocks. Not anymore.
—JOHN!
His dad stood and took a pace towards him.
—Sit down, before I knock you down, James. I can’t be arsed with this.
—WHAT DID YOU SAY? You apologise —
—The language! SUCH horror! He is DOOMED!
His mother fell back in her chair, clutching her beads.
—Walk out now, mate. Make sure yer slam the door. Hard.
John tried to walk. His legs locked up. He had to push to move. Once he got to the front door he opened it and stepped outside. The sun on his face felt real. Nothing else did.
He slammed the door. Hard.
—Good lad. Now we can ’ave a proper chat.
John started walking.
