Free Born Under Punches by Martyn Waites

osmotically absorbed him.
    â€˜What’s for dinner?’ he asked, not removing his eyes from the screen.
    â€˜Pot roast.’
    â€˜With what?’
    â€˜Vegetables.’
    Her husband turned to look at her. Louise was struck once again by how tired he looked. His sandy hair now absent from the top of his head, his eyes sunken and dark-rimmed, his mouth – always weak and pinched – now ineffectually disguised by a moustache. Whereas most men spread out as they got older, thought Louise, he seemed to have contracted, hardened.
    â€˜What kind?’ he asked. ‘Parsnips?’
    Louise sighed, swatting something away from her eye with a finger. ‘Yes, Keith. I’ve made parsnips.’
    â€˜Good,’ he said, his eyes returning to the TV.
    They sat around the dining room table, Louise, Keith and Ben. A place was set for Suzanne, but she hadn’t shown. It wasn’t unusual.
    The meal commenced in silence.
    â€˜I had a visitor today,’ said Louise between mouthfuls.
    Keith made a non-committal sound.
    â€˜My brother Stephen.’
    Keith looked up. Something unpleasant flitted across his face before settling back into pinched repose. ‘What did he want?’
    â€˜Doing some work in the area. Popped in to see me.’
    Keith let out a sound that managed to be both sneer and snort. ‘What now? Whingeing on about how dole scroungers can’t get jobs because they were all abused as children?’ He gave a short, hard laugh.
    Ben gave a skittery glance from his dinner, like a tortoise peeking nervously out of its shell, ready to withdraw at any time.
    Louise felt herself redden. ‘He’s writing a piece on Coldwell.’
    Another hard snort of laughter. ‘Well, he won’t be short of material. They’re all on the dole there.’
    Louise took a deep breath, blinked rapidly. Her chest was suddenly fluttering. ‘He’d just been to see someone about it.’
    â€˜Some other moaning liberal, no doubt.’
    Louise swallowed. ‘Tony Woodhouse.’
    A sudden fear appeared in Keith’s eyes. He stopped chewing, his fork and knife limp in his grasp.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Louise calmly, a small triumphant smile pulling at the corners of her lips. ‘Tony Woodhouse.’ Her voice became louder, more confident. ‘And Stephen’s going to be spending quite some time with him, so I wouldn’t be surprised if we see him again.’
    Ben, looking from one to the other, pulled his head right back into his tortoise shell, trying to make himself invisible.
    Keith’s eyes dropped to his plate, his breath quickening. ‘Not in this house, we won’t.’
    â€˜Yes, we will.’
    When Keith spoke there was anger rising in his voice. ‘He’s not welcome in this house.’
    Louise stared at him. ‘He’ll be welcome as long as I live here, Keith.’
    Keith tried to hold her stare, but his eyes flashed with fear, his weak mouth dropped. ‘Well, I’ll make sure I’m out, then,’ he mumbled.
    â€˜Fine.’
    They lapsed into silence. Louise ate, her dinner tasting of bitter, petty victory. Keith’s hands and mouth were idle. Ben, head down, looked in fascination at the way his knife cut, his fork transported food to his mouth.
    â€˜Finish your dinner,’ said Louise.
    Keith jumped, began to obey the command, automatically forking food into his mouth, staring at Louise, eyes like witch-hunt torches.
    Suddenly, cutting through the silence, from the front street came the noise of a car being sonically pulverized, sound system blaring out garage. In response, a door upstairs slammed, followed by feet running downstairs.
    â€˜Suzanne,’ called Louise, ‘your dinner’s getting cold.’
    Suzanne put her head round the dining room door. She was dressed and made up well beyond her years. ‘I’m going out,’ she said.
    â€˜Well, eat first,’ said