Free John the Revelator by Peter Murphy

some toast. How far?’
    â€˜Ten, fifteen minutes.’
    On we went until the houses thinned out and there were no more lights. We trudged through the soft night until we came across a dead bird lying on the grass verge. Jamey stooped to get a better look. It was an owl. There was sticky-looking blood all over its wings and its huge creepy-toy eyes were closed. It had the purest, whitest feathers I’d ever seen.
    â€˜Jesus,’ Jamey said, and shook his head.
    We walked the last couple of hundred yards to my house. I took the key from under the flower pot on the step and let us in. Jamey sat at the kitchen table while I put the kettle on and made toast and removed plates from the cupboard with the exagerrated care of a burglar.
    â€˜This is the best fuckin’ thing I ever tasted,’ Jamey said, spewing crumbs everywhere.
    There were footfalls upstairs, directly over the kitchen.
    â€˜Shit,’ I said. ‘She’s up.’
    Boots came down the stairs. My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed and wide awake. She was always a light sleeper.
    â€˜Ma,’ I said brightly.
    She took in the scene.
    â€˜Who’s this boy?’
    Jamey got to his feet and took my mother’s hand.
    â€˜Jamey Corboy, ma’am. So sorry we woke you.’
    She seemed a bit taken aback. So was I. The manners on him.
    â€˜It’s all right, I was getting up anyway.’
    My mother plugged in the kettle.
    â€˜You lads must be hungry.’
    Jamey looked at me, eyebrow raised, as my mother got out the frying pan and a bottle of sunflower oil and lit the cooker. She cracked a couple of eggs into the pan and put more bread in the toaster.
    â€˜So, Mrs D,’ Jamey said, his voice raised over the crackling of the pan.
    Mrs D?
I mouthed at him.
    My mother shovelled the eggs with a spatula.
    â€˜Yes, Jamey.’
    â€˜You look far too young to be John’s mother. You must have had him very young.’
    My mother flipped the eggs, swirled the oil around, flipped them again.
    â€˜Oh, I had him when I was meant to, not before. John, set the table for us, will you, son?’
    I got out the cutlery, avoiding my mother’s eyes. She dished up the food and sat nursing a cup of tea while we ate.
    â€˜How are your mother and father, Jamey?’ she said.
    â€˜Fine, thanks.’
    He was trying to simultaneously wolf down eggs and not speak with his mouth full.
    â€˜And your brother?’
    â€˜Good form. Bit of a handful.’
    â€˜You’re fond of him, though.’
    Jamey half smiled.
    â€˜Hard not to be.’
    I watched this exchange like a spectator at a tennis match. My mother took a sip of her tea.
    â€˜He’s going to the special school, is that right?’
    â€˜He is.’
    â€˜And he’s getting on well?’
    â€˜Loves it.’
    â€˜That’s good. More eggs?’
    â€˜No thanks, I’m full as a tick.’
    He laid his knife and fork on the plate and patted his stomach.
    â€˜Mrs D, they named you well.’
    â€˜How so?’
    â€˜That was divine.’
    She smothered a smile.
    â€˜Don’t be soft-soaping me, you. Smoke?’
    She picked up her box of Silk Cut Blue and offered him one. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
    â€˜I shouldn’t, Mrs D, but thanks very much.’
    They sat puffing away like old friends, and when Jamey finished his cigarette, my mother said, ‘You’d better get home now, son. Your mother and father will be worried if they wake up and you’re not there.’
    Jamey nodded and pushed his chair back.
    â€˜You’re right, Mrs D. I’ll go.’
    He clasped my mother’s hand between both of his and looked her in the eye.
    â€˜Pleasure meeting you.’
    â€˜And you.’
    He turned to me.
    â€˜John, would you walk me up the road a bit so I can get my bearings?’
    I glanced at my mother. She was looking at him thoughtfully.
    â€˜Ma? Is that