DISHONOUR. Jacqui Rose

a brief moment as his sister shouted out to him.

       ‘Arnie?’

       ‘Yes?’

       ‘Do you still love me more than life itself?’ Arnold smiled before he replied to his sister, whose face was lit up with eagerness.

       ‘Yes. Yes Izzy, I do.’

       Arnold ran as fast as he could back to the house to get the sandwiches he’d forgotten. The grass made him feel as if he was springing along as he bounded down the hill towards the isolated house. The River Coquet ran alongside and though it looked particularly turbulent today, hungrily sweeping along broken branches and leaves, many a summer had been spent paddling in the shallow part of the river, followed by a desperate attempt to dry out their clothes before returning back home.

       As he ran he thought about Izzy. He hated it when she was angry with him. Hopefully when he got back she would cheer up and be his friend again. As long as he had Izzy he didn’t need anyone else and hopefully neither did she.

       Approaching the house, Arnold was cautious to check his clothing, making certain no stray piece of mud or grass had surreptitiously got onto his trousers.

       The large wooden front door creaked open. Standing in the entrance hall, Arnold contemplated going straight into the kitchen to pick up the lunch he’d left on the side and hoped his father hadn’t heard the door. But then it would mean breaking rules and he was loath to do that; even for Izzy.

       The mahogany stairs leading up to his father’s office were highly polished, as was the rest of the house; pristine, with nothing out of place. Pictures of unknown relatives stared out from their gilded frames and the gold ornate wallpaper gave a feeling of formality to the high-ceilinged hall.

       The mock-crystal candelabra with the glass droplets was in the exact same place, turned the exact same way it always was and Arnold was careful not to go anywhere near it as he passed, recollecting what had happened last year.

       It was a simple mistake. An unintentional one when he’d run past the decorative candelabra, trying to get to his room before his father had finished counting to ten, being warned but not knowing what would happen if he didn’t make it to his bedroom by the end of the countdown.

       He’d been aware of knocking it slightly, but he hadn’t thought anything else about it, until his father had come into his room in the middle of the night. Waking him up, suppressed rage in his voice, sweat dripping down his forehead, wanting to know who’d smashed the light. His father had dragged him out of bed and along the corridor to look at the candelabra.

       ‘Look at that Arnold, look at it. I didn’t know I lived with vandals.’ Arnold had looked, but hadn’t seen anything different. The candelabra still stood in centre place on the carved red wood table and the glass droplets gleamed as much as they always did.

       His father had leaned into his face, punctuating each of his words as he spoke. ‘It’s. Been. Moved. Arnold.’ The fear Arnold had experienced only allowed him to mutter two words before he’d wet himself.

       ‘Sorry Papa.’

       ‘Well Arnold, you know what happens to boys who destroy people’s things. They have their own things destroyed.’

       His father had then spent the next two hours quietly breaking all of Arnold’s treasured possessions which, in the absence of any toys, were made out of things Arnold had collected and found in the woods for him and Izzy to play with. The origami birds he’d made which Izzy loved. The pictures he’d painted at school and the stories he’d written for her to read up in the woods were cut up with a shiny pair of scissors, along with anything else Arnold held as valuable.

       Clearing his thoughts of that night, Arnold stood outside his father’s office, hoping his Father would open the door straight away and let him get the sandwiches to take back to Izzy. He was aware his hand was shaking as he knocked lightly on the panelled door. A voice came from inside.

       ‘Yes?’

       ‘Papa, it’s Arnold.’

       ‘I thought I told you to go to the woods son.’ Pushing himself further against the thick door, Arnold spoke again, hoping his father wouldn’t think he was shouting, but at the same time needing to be close enough to hear him, as his father never repeated anything twice.

       ‘We did go to the woods but I forgot the sandwiches Papa.’ The long silent pause was exaggerated by the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall below. Eventually the door was opened and Arnold jumped back, standing up straight with his hands firmly by his side.

       It was only his head his father put round the door but curiously, Arnold could see his shirt was without a tie with the top two buttons undone. The normally immaculate black hair was ruffled and a slight red flush sat on his cheeks. A strong sweet smell hit Arnold’s senses. His father glared and Arnold wanted to be sick.

       ‘Forgotten your lunch? Then what does that make you Arnold?’ Arnold put his head down and muttered inaudibly.

       ‘I can’t hear you Arnold.’

       ‘I’m stupid Papa. I’m just a stupid ignorant boy.’

       ‘And what else Arnold?’

       Arnold stood in silence before his father promoted a reply. ‘Say it. I want to hear it boy.’

       ‘Izzy … Izzy doesn’t love me. She only loves you and not me.’

       ‘That’s right, and don’t you forget it. Run along now Arnold and get those sandwiches.’ As Arnold turned to go, his father’s words stopped him. ‘Shouldn’t you say something to me Arnold?’

       ‘Yes Papa. I love you more than life itself.’

       Arnold was singing now. Singing a number song he’d made up about Izzy. He didn’t know why and he certainly wouldn’t tell Izzy this, but numbers made him nearly as happy as she did. Wherever he looked he would count and see numbers. It was almost as if the world was made up of them; rushing into his mind as if they were trying to tell him something. If he looked at the trees within a matter of minutes he could count the leaves. If he looked in the sky he could see how many clouds there were. If he saw numbers written down he could add them up, take them away, his brain making constant patterns with them.

       It was his secret comfort, and in the back of his mind he had a memory of a lady who’d sung a number song to him as he lay curled up in bed when he was small. Singing to him; making him feel safe. He’d often wondered if it’d been his mother, though he had no one to ask. His father had always warned him never to ask about her – ‘You know what happens to boys that ask about her.’ Arnie didn’t, but all the same, he didn’t ask.

       The tree he’d left Izzy by was the tallest in the woods, flourishing with branches which intertwined with the surrounding trees. He’d carved Izzy’s name on the base of the trunk two years ago and much to her delight, it was still clearly visible.

       The vibrant green grass growing around it was like sitting on a mattress; soft and comfy. When they lay on the ground they’d watch the clouds go by, promising each other when they were older they’d always be together. It was their special place, but looking around now, he couldn’t see Izzy.

       ‘Izzy. Please come out. Izzy, I’m sorry I made you cross.’ The trees in the warm wind blew gently, caressing the air with their scents. Arnold sighed and hoped the whole afternoon wouldn’t be spent searching for Izzy as she watched him, laughing and looking on from a hiding