Free Underdog by Euan Leckie Page B

‘Oi!’ he called after Tom. ‘If you see that bird, give her one from me!’
    It felt good to be outside. The clear blue sky was starting to cloud over, the afternoon becoming cooler. As Tom heard the door shutting behind him, he wondered what it was that Stevo wanted to show him. He began to worry that, by ‘proper stuff’,  Stevo might have meant harder drugs. As he stood looking down the street, he also wondered how he was going to find his way home. He couldn’t really remember how they got there. Tom smiled to himself as he followed his still aching nose. It was shaping up to be an interesting summer.

5
    Keith White closed the front door behind him. He looked up the stairs and called out to his son. There was no response. Bending down, he picked up the letters spread over the doormat: a depressing mix of bills and junk mail. He was taking on as many shifts and overtime as he was able, the nights paying and suiting him better. But it was never enough.
    The last of the envelopes was a brown A4, stamped boldly on the back with the sender’s address; something from the school. Looking at his watch, he called out again, just to make sure. Tom must still have been at the butcher’s.
    Keith went to the kitchen and dropped his work bag beside the table. He unlocked the back door, opening it to let in some air. The afternoon breeze drifted into the house with an accompaniment of background noise from the estate: a muffled blend of cars and shouting kids, the occasional barking of a dog. As he stood in the sunlit doorway, he rubbed the back of his neck, kneading away some of his tension. His eyes were sore and he dragged his other hand over them, tired from another uneventful and tedious night’s watch at the factory, and the morning stint that followed it.
    He could still feel the booze inside him. His head felt muggy and his empty stomach churned uncomfortably. The drinking was getting out of hand; every time he drove his battered old car to or from work, he was taking a gamble. But he couldn’t help himself. Alcohol was the only thing that seemed to work. It cloaked the memories and made his sleep during the daytime dreamless; it was an easier fix than the embarrassment of trying to get a prescription. The last thing he wanted to do was to have to talk about any of it.
    Stepping back from the doorway, he turned around, chucking the letters onto the kitchen table before slipping off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. He walked over to the sink and turned on the tap, letting it run cold. Cupping his hands under the flow, he splashed his face. The water felt refreshing, tightening the skin on his forehead and under his eyes. He ran his hands around the back of his head and into the short crop of his dark hair, splashing himself once more in an attempt to wash the fug from his head.
    As Keith dried his face with the kitchen towel, he glimpsed the picture sitting in the corner of the windowsill. It was the first time he had looked at it in a while: Gayle under his arm with Tom squeezed in between them, all together in front of the old house, their smiles covering the cracks. Just months before they found out anything was wrong.
    Keith looked out of the window, then filled the kettle. He sat down at the table and took off his tie, undoing the top buttons on his shirt as he relaxed back on the plastic chair, relieved to have the rest of the week off. It would be good to see something of Tom. It had been too long since they had spent any time, or done anything, together.
    Once the junk mail was torn up, he sifted his way through the bills. He had just finished reading the last of them when the kettle began to whistle. He made himself a strong coffee, then sat back down, taking a couple of sips as he tapped a finger on the envelope from the school. Inside was a letter from the headmistress. It was paper-clipped to Tom’s school report.
    Dear Mr. White,
    Please find Tom’s end of term report enclosed. This