Free The Family Men by Catherine Harris Page A

They’re probably still stoned on something they took in Phuket. Anyway, I’ll have to ring you back. I can’t talk.”
    â€œSure you can. Come on. Did they make you dance with the girls? Did they treat you to a special lap dance?”
    â€œNo, really. I can’t.”
    â€œDon’t brush me off, Harry. We’re mates. There must be something.”
    â€œBye, Maggie.”
    â€œWho’s Maggie?” says Rosie, the second he is off the phone.
    â€œMind your own business, okay, Big Ears?”
    â€œI was only asking. There’s no need to be so shirty.”
    Rosie is fond of aphorisms. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you . What goes around comes around . Actions speak louder than words . “Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me,” she adds.
    â€œGood. Drop it then, alright?”
    In geometry, an oval or ovoid comes from the Latin word ovum , meaning “egg”. Off the top of his head he can list the basic properties of ovals – smooth, closed curves that don’t self-intersect, with at least one axis of symmetry. It is one of those factoids he picked up at school (science), that and a couple of useless grammar rules (English) – “I before E except after C” (so much for “science”). No wonder he can’t spell.
    A football oval, like the ball itself, has two axes of symmetry.
    â€œTurn around,” he says to Rosie, forcing her cheek against the glass. “I want to try something.” He puts his left index finger against her shoulder blade and attempts to trace the outline of a playing field in a single gesture, a complete rotation without lifting his hand before returning to the start point. As he presses his fingers into Rosie’s back, he wonders if perhaps this entire episode hasn’t been a set-up designed to land him in a shit sandwich. Jack makes no secret of his enmity for the Fureys, that’s what happens when you’re always cast as second best, but to drop him in it like this – had to blood the young fella – what an arsehole. Though what did Harry expect? Good blokes, my arse. Ted could stick that in a pipe and smoke it. Jack was a fucker. So was Eddy. He didn’t care if they were always first to volunteer for the Good Friday Appeal. There was “giving back” and then there was giving something back. The real question was, had he said enough to make Margo go away?
    â€œYou know, you can trust me,” Rosie says out of the side of her mouth as he stumbles over her zip. “Do you want to tell me? I know something’s bothering you. It doesn’t matter what it is. I’m good with secrets. I won’t tell anyone. We can deal with it together. A burden shared is a burden halved.”
    It occurs to him that she might have heard more than she is letting on. “Why do you think I’ve got a secret?” he asks. “And why would I tell you if I did?”
    â€œBecause you can’t sleep. And when you do you thrash around like something’s trying to get out. And you shout in your dreams. It’s like you’re possessed.”
    â€œI’ve always talked in my sleep. I told you that.”
    â€œYeah, but this isn’t talking.”
    The car reeks of mustard dipping sauce. A small brown stain marks the back of her dress where Harry’s finger first pinched the fabric. He presses his hands more firmly into her trunk and tries the circle again.
    Startled awake at four in the morning, trying to latch back on to unconsciousness, a fuzzy image of his father in gumboots, something about an ambulance, random details from his dreams, receding, unable to be reconstructed. Fuelling his wakefulness, the music, as though someone has adjusted the faint volume up, up, his pulse keeping time or is that also an illusion? One, two, three, four … one, two, three, four … Fairly certain that he’s dreamt the