Chapter Text
The Fisher King
Parents don’t be too kind to your kids
Or else how will they grow up to be
Louche Parisian sinners or Nashville country singers
Singing about the terrible things their parents did
1.
John is seven years old the first time he sees his mother cry.
He and Harry have just come in from the back garden, both of them covered in dirt and grinning like mad. He had found a birds nest high up in one of the branches of the old oak tree in the yard, and Harry had insisted she could climb just as well as any boy. The resulting tumble out of the tree was loud and painful, but the two of them had laughed and laughed, careless and wild in the way only children can.
Mum is sitting at the kitchen table with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her back is to them and John is momentarily bewildered at the lack of biscuits on the table. Mum always has biscuits on the table for them when they come in from outside. Harry looks at him with worried confusion etched all over her round face.
“Mum?” she asks quietly, and John notices for the first time that Mum’s shoulders are shaking and there’s a broken tea mug on the floor, a small brown puddle forming across the linoleum.
John, ever the helper, grabs a towel from the oven handle and bends down to mop up the mess, carefully gathering the bits of broken ceramic and shoveling them into the bin. Harry is over at their mother’s side now, small hand perched on the arm of the chair. John can tell from the look on her face that something is very, very wrong.
“Is it the cup?” John asks tentatively, mentally tallying the contents of his change bank and wondering if he can afford to buy her a new mug. He would buy her ten mugs if it would make her stop being sad.
Mum shakes her head and swipes her palm across her face, clears her throat and then stands abruptly. “Your father won’t be home for supper,” she says gruffly and begins busily tidying the kitchen.
Harry stares at John in bewilderment, her face a perfect mask of confusion and worry. John feels his heart stutter in his chest, wondering what on earth has happened to make Mum so upset. He goes over to the kettle, fills it and turns the burner on. In his mind, there is nothing on the planet that can’t be solved with a good cuppa, so he waits for the whistle by the stove, back still to the room.
It isn’t until much later, when Uncle Mike is over and their mother has locked herself in the bathroom that John finds out exactly what happened.
“Your dad’s been in an accident,” Uncle Mike says gravely to the two of them. He’s seated them on the sofa in the sitting room—the one they barely ever use unless company is over—and crouched himself down on the floor opposite. John registers the words, but doesn’t quite understand their meaning. If Dad’s been hurt, surely they’d be at the hospital by now. Unless…
Harry’s hands come up to her mouth and her eyes shine with tears. She seems incapable of speech, so John asks, “Is he OK?”
Uncle Mike looks uncomfortable for a minute before he shifts to his knees and sighs. All adults seem to do is sigh, and John wonders what it is they all have to be so unhappy about all the time. “Your dad’s fine, John,” he eventually says. “But he hit a pedestrian—someone out walking,” he clarifies, as if John doesn’t know what the word pedestrian means. John feels his irritation ratchet up a little at that. He is top of his class after all, even if he’s still only in primary school.
“Is the pedestrian OK?” John asks, carefully pronouncing the word correctly and glaring fixedly at his uncle. Harry is still sniveling next to him on the sofa, so he puts his arm through her elbow and tries to calm her down. He’s seen adults calm other adults down on telly before, so he knows what he should be doing is putting his arm around her shoulders and offering her a tissue, but he has neither the tissue, nor the inclination to pull her to his shoulder and get her snot all over his jumper, so he settles for patting her knee and hoping it will be enough.
Uncle Mike looks uncomfortable again. He huffs in frustration and turns his head to shout through the doorway towards the bathroom, “Damn it, Mags, can’t you break this shite to your own kids?”
Harry sniffles loudly at the curse and John’s eyes widen. Whatever has happened must be bad if the adults are swearing around them. John feels a hot curl of dread sink into the pit of his stomach, and it only gets worse when Mum comes shuffling to the doorway, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.
Uncle Mike looks half relieved, half exasperated, and stands to meet her, muttering something under his breath that John can’t quite hear. Mum glances over at them and fresh tears brim around her eyes. John wishes she would stop crying and tell them where Dad is and what’s happened. He feels Harry shift next to him and wonders if he should get up and go to Mum, or stay here and continue to comfort Harry.
Finally, Mum comes over to them with Uncle Mike and sits down on the floor in front of them. She seems to collect herself for a minute and, after glancing at Uncle Mike, who has his arms crossed over his chest and looks irritable, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.
“Your father’s in jail,” she says quickly, as if the faster she says it, the less it will hurt; like a plaster being torn off quickly. John feels the sting of it anyway and he hears Harry gasp next to him.
“What happened?” Harry wails, tearing herself away from John and curling into a little ball on the sofa. Mum doesn’t even scold her for having her shoes on the cushions, and John takes that as a bad sign. Mum visibly stiffens again before her shoulders sag and she sighs in resignation.
“He hit someone with his car, sweetheart,” Mum says slowly, her voice catching on the words. “He had gone to the store for some milk, and he didn’t see the person crossing the street.” Harry rocks a little on the sofa, but John feels entirely numb. Dad had gone to the store for milk. For milk. John had needed milk for his Weetabix, so Dad had gone to the store for milk, and now he wasn’t coming home.
“But,” Harry says, her voice too loud in the crowded sitting room, “But it was just an accident! Dad didn’t mean to hit anyone, right? Why is he in jail?”
Mum looks like she’s about to throw up, and Uncle Mike is gritting his teeth so hard John’s sure he’s about to break one. “You have to tell them, Maggie,” he finally says, though he sounds angry instead of sad.
John knows already. He’s known since the broken tea mug in the kitchen, and his voice is completely steady when he says, “He was drunk.”
The whole room seems to stop, and everyone stares at John as though he’s grown a second pair of arms. He suddenly feels like the whole world is staring at him, and he squirms against the uncomfortable sofa cushions. He might be the youngest person in the room, but that doesn’t mean he’s an idiot.
“Johnny,” Mum says softly, and she looks embarrassed, but before she can say anything else, Harry explodes off the couch in a furious rage.
“This is all your fault!” she shouts, finger pointing accusingly at John, who backs himself further into the cushions. “If Dad hadn’t gone to get your stupid milk, none of this would have happened!” Her fist lashes out faster than any of them can blink, and John feels his head jerk to the side before the impact of the blow even registers. The sting on his cheek and the ringing in his ear are delayed by a fraction, but the shock of it hits first.
Suddenly there’s a flurry of motion as Harry launches herself at him, tackling him back onto the sofa and fists flying at any part of him she can reach. John curls himself into a tight ball and tries to defend himself in the only way he can. Mum leaps forward to pull her off, but Harry twists around and shoves her back; her self-righteous anger and adrenaline giving her more strength than any ten-year-old should have. Uncle Mike curses again and strides forward to physically pick Harry up around the middle, her limbs flailing through the air as she scrambles to get back at John.
John lays on the sofa in shocked disbelief. He can taste blood in his mouth and feel his right eye swelling, but the hollow twist in the pit of his stomach is what hurts the worst. Harry is absolutely right: it is his fault, and the guilt of it sinks through to his bones. Harry is still flailing in Uncle Mike’s arms, all furious movement and skinny ankles, hair flying as she tosses her head from side to side. Mum is barely recovered from her ungainly stumble into the coffee table, but she regains her balance and grabs at Harry’s swinging feet. She’s saying something supposedly soothing into Harry’s bright red, tear-streaked face, but Harry’s glare is poisonous as it shoots towards John.
She finally stops struggling and Uncle Mike puts her cautiously down onto the floor, watching for signs of trickery. Harry just stands there, still but for the manic shakes wracking her body. Mum smoothes her hair back off her forehead and presses a small kiss there, swiping at Harry’s tear stained cheeks with her thumbs. Harry always was a drama queen, but John is reluctant to defend himself at the moment.
“I will never forgive you for this,” Harry spits towards him, dark blue eyes harsh and livid. “Never.” She turns on her heel and stomps out the door, clattering up the stairs to the second floor.
“Harry,” Mum calls after her, a step too late and seemingly too shocked to move quickly enough. “Harriet Alice Watson, you get back down here this minute!”
The answering slam of the bedroom door echoes through the house like a cannon blast. Mum and Uncle Mike stare at each other, seemingly at a loss as John tries to keep the blood dripping from his eyebrow off the sofa. It doesn’t hurt as much as it will, but as John wipes at the gash with the back of his hand, he cannot help the low hiss that escapes him.
Mum looks around, devastated and wild-eyed. “Oh Johnny,” she says and moves forward, stumbling around the coffee table before falling to her knees on the carpet. John can feel the panic and guilt bubbling up the back of his throat and tries to keep the bile from rising. His head aches and he’s covered in blood, but he slides off the couch to rest in front of Mum, who is crying again. Heedless of the mess, he puts his arms around Mum’s shoulders and lets her cry into his jumper, stroking his sticky fingers through her hair and rocking her through her sobs. Uncle Mike mumbles something unintelligible and leaves them there on the floor.
It doesn’t matter. Despite his age, John is strong. He will be strong enough for all of them, and he will never let anyone down again.