McMurdo by William Millar

McMurdo liked to keep things in jars. He kept all sorts of things, though never mixed up in the same jars. That would make retrieval difficult. McMurdo wasn’t stupid.

He collected the jars secretly from the waste bin in the kitchen and washed and dried them in the bathroom when he was supposed to be asleep. He kept them under his bed.

One jar had bits of string in it. Another had scrunched up balls of tinfoil that McMurdo pretended were silver bullion, while another contained small bits of unused sticking plaster. He had a few collections, now. He’d started a new one, recently in an old peanut butter jar, of money, mainly pennies and nickels he found from time to time down the sides of the armchairs or the sofa, or sometimes lying in the street.

If he collected enough money he would give it to his mother. His father was forever calling her ‘a useless bitch who couldn’t budget to save her fat ass.’

That evening his dad had come home later than normal from his shift at the plant. After eating he’d started to swear at McMurdo’s mother, calling her a ‘lying whore,’ complaining about how much she’d spent on this ‘fucking shit’ she’d called his supper. Then he’d punched her, repeatedly. He hadn’t noticed McMurdo watching from his slightly open bedroom door.

His father had left the house then, slamming the front door. McMurdo’s mother remained still on the spot where she had fallen. Her eyes were closed and there was blood flowing from one of her ears.

McMurdo thought for a moment. Then he went to his collection of jars.  He started with the one containing the sticking plaster. He’d take it from there.

The situation was under control.

William Millar lives and works in Edinburgh, Scotland.