Wanted

Chapter 50

The woman went back into the house, while her son remained on the porch leaning against the post at the top of the stairs, looking down at John not hiding his contempt for the other boy. John glanced up sideways to McCarthy and saw that he was looking towards the entrance of his workshop across their yard, next to their stable, where a young man made his appearance.

John took that opportunity to look up at Horace, sending him daggers and slowly mouthing the words "Watch it, arsehole!"

Horace, a little intimidated by this, made himself stand as straight as he could before turning around and limping after his mother. John glanced back up at McCarthy who was telling the young man, who at this stage had made it over to them, to unhitch the horse and put away the buggy. Neither had noticed a thing.

John tried to feel pleased about that.

"That' him," the young man asked, nodding at John as he took hold of the horse they stood beside.

McCarthy nodded and the young man smiled down at John, trying to make eye contact with him in the hope it would elicit a smile but instead it caused John to look away.

"He' sure is small," the young man said, and then quickly added, "if you don't mind me saying so, sir."

"I do mind," McCarthy replied dryly and then told the young man, who he called Carter to get on with it and reminded him that he was not paid to stand around talking.

The man called Carter, led the horse and buggy into the stable, while McCarthy led John up to the house.

John hadn't taken much notice of his surroundings earlier. He had been feeling too sick, and disheartened but now he was curious and had a good look at the place. 

From the front, the house seemed small. Made out of stone,  there seemed to be only one storey with three tall windows, one on the right and two on the left-hand side of the front door. John knew that neither of those two rooms were the kitchen. The kitchen was out the back.

With his hand on John's back McCarthy led John into the house, where they were greeted by the comforting smell of freshly baked bread being taken out of the oven. Like before, the doors to the two front rooms just behind the entrance door were closed and John was wondering if they were the parlour and the dining room of which Mrs McCarthy had spoken the previous day.

McCarthy made John walk down the narrow corridor in front of him until they came to two doors on either side and a couple of steps that led down to a lower level right in front of them. He hadn't noticed those earlier. They went through the door at the left which was the kitchen, where Mrs McCarthy welcomed him with a kind smile, but Horace scowled at him.

"He needs a bath, Clarissa and a haircut too," was the first thing McCarthy said to his wife in his cold way of speaking.

John felt his face go red. He knew McCarthy was right. He could smell it himself every so often. The sour odour of his dried puke and the mixture of cigarette smoke, sweat and egg sandwiches from the other passengers on the train that had imbedded itself in his clothes and was now festering there.

Not knowing where to look, he found Horace's beady eyes smirking at him, from where he was sitting on the bench that had served as John's bed the night before. His foot tugged in under the knee of his crooked leg, he was awkwardly holding a book on his lap with his claw-like deformed hand.

Hiding the gesture by casually lifting his good hand to turn to the next page in his book, he swiftly squeezed his nose between his thumb and index finger, while at the same time grimaced at John indicating his disgust.

John glanced up at McCarthy. It seemed he hadn't noticed his son's gesture either. 

It seemed Horace found it easier to feel pleased about his deceit as he brought his attention back to the inside of his book with a self-satisfied smirk.