The Don.

Chapter 1, part 3

The Don was The Don no more. The Don was dead and in his place lay a drear Donald Carthy, thin-lipped, hollow-cheeked, dribbling spit and dripping piss into a bag that hung below the frame of his bed in the downstairs back. Even in sleep he looked hard, frowning at some dream enemy, eyeballs dancing behind tight lids as if to mock their owner's useless limbs. As if, even now, they were itching for a punch-up.

Connor's dad lost his motor function and three mates when Low Hazel collapsed. They dug a ghost out from that failed seam, and the feared fighter's status was changed forever in Valley history, the definite article retained as a badge of respect for the worker they lost. He was old now, much older than his fifty-five years; his yellow skin had tightened around his skull while his ears had carried on regardless, huge fleshy tabs that diminished the head that lay between. Donald Carthy was a mummy of a man.

Connor looked away. As ever, the room was immaculate. Carpet hoovered. Lace curtains prim. Mantelpiece dusted, clock centred. Grate brushed, scuttle full, brass fire-irons erect. On the far side of the bed the glass fronted G-Plan they'd bought for best with its ranks of framed former selves and distant relations imprisoned forever in their holidays and honeymoons. The books that nobody read. And Jesus. Jesus with his bleeding hands and his burning heart.

-a new day dawns, eh? Is it?

Awake! Connor shivered. He'd never get used to that nasty rattle. Not that he missed the bark and bravado of the big man of his childhood, but this was the voice of a usurper, a parasite that had entered his lungs in the depths of the pit. Donald’s words sounded like they'd been strained through gravel.

-morning, dad.

But the eyes were his dad's: blue, impossibly blue, and smiling.

-Connor.

What?

-you look…

What? What did he look like? Irish? Like his old man? Smart? He liked a tie, did Donald. Probably because he'd never had to wear one, except for Mass. It meant something. It meant something to Connor, too, and he wore his with heavy irony, the school colours spliced into a fat double Windsor. Far too easy the long-tail-skinny knot of the weekday rebel, and anyway that was a badge in itself and Connor didn't wear badges.

Duty done, Connor stood to leave but a quick hand grabbed his sleeve-

-Straight spine!

-I'm going to be late, dad.

But unconsciously Connor stiffened. That grip. Those hands. Those hands that once had fascinated him with their crease-maps and their valleys that he'd trace with his fingers, with their blue veins and their knuckles like mountains. The tools that dug his dad's destiny.

-Line of Kings!

Christ. If you say so, dad. And then, faintly whispered-

-proud of you, son.

Christ alive, another year of this. The Carthy family’s Great White Hope.

Connor peeled the fierce fingers away from his blazer and left the room quickly. He didn't want tears, thanks for asking. Not today.

---

Seven Fifty Four is a literary experiment, a serialised novel released in 500-word episodes.