Free Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) by Shirley Wells Page B

home.
    Sometimes, he even fantasised about killing him. He’d give him a lethal injection perhaps. Once, he dreamed that his father fell down the stairs in this house and broke his neck, dying instantly. Years later, he could still remember the feeling of disappointment when he’d woken to find it was nothing more exciting than a dream. The bastard would live forever out of spite.
    “I’m getting a dog,” Jamie said.
    Cutlery was stilled. The only sound was the relentless ticking of the clock.
    “It’s a collie crossbreed,” he said. “It’s the image of Ben.”
    “Have—have more potatoes.” His mother pushed the bowl toward him. “A growing lad like you—”
    “And how do you plan to fit that in your life?” Victor laid down his knife and fork. “As things stand, you’re even too busy to visit your own mother. How will you find time for your mother, and for worshipping our Lord, for studying His Word? Hmm?”
    “Plenty of people live good, honest, decent lives and have pets,” Jamie replied.
    “Some people do, yes. Not you though, James. You proved that you’re incapable of such things, didn’t you?”
    In his imagination, Jamie was upending the table, sending plates, cutlery and food flying in the air. “I was fourteen,” he was yelling at his father. “I was a fucking kid, that’s all.” In reality, his father was waiting patiently for his response, and his mother was holding her breath and in all probability praying to God that they didn’t have a fight on Easter Sunday of all days.
    “I’ve grown up since then, Father.” He couldn’t look at the man whose blood ran in his veins. “I made a mistake and I learned my lesson.”
    A nerve twitched near Victor’s right eye. The world seemed to stop turning for a beat.
    “I hope so, James. I would hate to think that you could bring yet more shame on your mother’s head. You’ve disappointed us enough over the years, don’t you agree?”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “You’ve not been fit to be called son, have you?”
    “No, Father.”
    Victor blew out a considering breath before, finally, picking up his knife and fork. “I’m sure you’re keen to read to us when we’ve enjoyed the Lord’s offering.”
    Jamie longed to scream Fuck you! but, although he’d grown up and learned to take care of himself, he couldn’t bear to see the bruises that would appear on his mother’s face if any disagreements raised their ugly head. “I am, Father.”
    “Then let us eat.”
    To get the food past the wedge of anger lodged in his throat, Jamie lost himself in his imagination. By the time the apple pie and custard appeared in front of him, he’d already seen his father smashed to a pulp by a speeding train and drowned in a bubbling bath of acid.
    Die, he silently urged him. Just fucking die .
    Nothing happened, of course. Jamie was more likely to get struck by lightning or win the lottery than watch the bastard die.
    He often thought his birth must have been the only thing in his father’s life that didn’t come under the God’s Will category of events. Jamie must have been a mistake. Unplanned. His arrival in the world must have occurred at an inconvenient time because never once had it been attributed to God’s will.
    Pete, on the other hand, had come along five years later and been hailed a gift, a blessing from God. None had welcomed his arrival more than Jamie. He’d loved his brother dearly and his death was still a raw wound that wouldn’t heal.
    The pain was almost as raw as that of losing his beloved Ben. Pete’s death he could accept. The dog’s he couldn’t.
    Jamie helped his mother tidy up and, when the table was clear, he took the old Bible from his father and sat to read. After half an hour or so, his voice grew a little croaky. At least he didn’t stutter though. He spoke slowly, forming each word in his head before daring to give it sound.
    “That will do, James. I’m sure we all feel better.” Much to Jamie’s