The Hound - Simon "Ghost" Riley

The Sword or The Noose

The first scream did not wake him.

It was the second one, cut short like someone had clapped a hand over a mouth, that tore Simon out of sleep.

He sat up fast, breath already running ahead of him. His little bed in the corner of the loft was still warm, rough wool blanket tangled around his legs. Moonlight leaked in through the warped shutters and turned the dust in the air silver. Everything looked wrong. Too still.

Then he heard the thud. Heavy. A body, not a chair.

His hand went for the knife under his straw mattress before his mind even caught up. It was small and ugly, the handle wrapped in old leather. His father's, once. His now.

"Mum?" he whispered.

No answer.

He crept off the bed, bare feet silent on the warped boards. The air smelled odd. Smoke, but not from the hearth. Something sharp under it.

Another sound. Not a scream this time. A low, ugly sound. His father's voice. Words slurred, too thick to understand.

Simon moved toward the ladder and went down, one careful rung at a time, the knife tight in his fist. His heart was a drum in his ears. Somewhere outside a dog barked, then went quiet.

The single room below glowed red and gold with firelight. The hearth was burning too hot, flames licking at the soot-blackened stones. Shadows leapt across the walls.

His mother lay on the floor.

For a moment Simon's mind refused to name what he was seeing. Her skirt was rucked up around her knees, hair loose and wild on the packed earth. Her cheek was pressed to the floor, eyes open wide. Her lips moved like she was still trying to speak.

His father was on top of her.

"Get off," Simon heard himself say. The words came out thin. "Get off her!"

His father's head lifted. The firelight caught his face, all broken veins and anger, eyes bloodshot. There was blood at the corner of his mouth. Not his.

"Get back up there," he snarled. "This is none of yours."

Simon's fingers hurt from how hard he held the knife. "You're hurting her!"

His mother's gaze jerked to him. For a heartbeat he saw something bright in it. Hope, maybe. Or terror for him instead of herself.

"Simon," she wheezed. "Baby, go."

The sound of her voice broke something open.

"No!"

He stepped down off the last rung and into the room. The knife looked small, pathetic, in his hand, but it was something. It was all he had.

His father's face twisted. "You little bastard."

He shoved away from her, stumbled to his feet. His belt hung loose, buckle clanging as it swung. He lurched toward Simon, one big hand reaching. Simon could smell him now. Rotgut, sweat, the tang of old blood ground into the wool of his shirt.

"Dad, stop!"

The hand closed over his shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His father shook him once, twice, like he could rattle the defiance out.

"You think you're a man now," he hissed. "Carrying that little pig-sticker around? You're nothing! You hear me?"

The grip tightened. Pain tore through Simon's arm. His eyes stung, but he swallowed it. The knife was trapped down by his side. His father's thumb dug into the bone of his shoulder until Simon felt something crackle.