Herbie Brennan: Faerie Wars

Henry got up early on the day that changed his life. He was making a cardboard sculpture and he'd left it the night before for the glue to dry out. All he had to do now was add a toothpick shaft and some decorations and the flying pig was finished. Three weeks' work, but today he'd turn the handle and the pig would take off, flapping cardboard wings. Pigs might fly. That's what it said on the base.

He was out of bed at seven, dressed by three minutes past and testing the set of the glue just one minute after that. It was solid. What else would it be when you left it overnight? That was the secret of cardboard models -never hurry. Take your time with the cutting out. Proceed stage by stage – which was what it said in the instructions: proceed stage by stage. Leave lots of time for the glue to set. Just do those three things and you ended up with cardboard sculptures that were as solid as the Taj Mahal. He had seven in his room already, including one that really was the Taj Mahal. But the flying pig was his best yet. It had a mechanism inside, made up from cardboard cogs and shafts. The mechanism raised the pig from its base and caused the wings to flap.

At least that's what it said in the instructions. Henry was about to find out.

Using a small nail, he bored a tight hole and inserted the toothpick. It was the last thing he had to do, if you didn't count the decorations. But it was tricky getting the toothpick seated just right. Trouble was, you couldn't tell until you tried it. And if you tried it and it wasn't right, it could wreck the mechanism. There was a red warning about that in the instructions. Get it wrong and you were back to square one. But get it right and you were king.

He thought he had it right.

Henry looked at his handiwork. The base was a black cube with nothing on it except the handle and the wording Pigs might fly. The pig itself crouched on the top, all pink and porky. Its wings were so cleverly folded you couldn't see them. The model was finished except for the last few stupid decorations. But he might even forget about those. The decorations didn't have anything to do with the mechanism. This was the real moment of truth.

Henry held his breath, reached out and turned the handle.

The pig took off smoothly on its pillar, onwards and upwards, unfolding cardboard wings. As it reached the end of the pillar, a hidden cog fell into place so that it stayed aloft, flapping. It would stay there until you turned the handle backwards. But Henry didn't turn the handle backwards. He kept the old pig up there, flapping, flapping.

Pigs might fly.

'Yes!' Henry exclaimed, punching the air.

His mum was in the kitchen, sitting at the table staring into a cup of coffee. She looked wretched.

'Morning, Mum,' Henry said cheerfully. He headed for the cornflakes cupboard. 'Got it working,' he said as he shook cornflakes into his yellow bowl. He carried it back to the table and reached for the milk jug.

His mother dragged her eyes out of the coffee cup and let them settle on him, large, liquid and entirely vacant. 'What?' she asked.

'Got it working,' Henry said again. 'Flying pig. Got it working. Never thought the machinery would hold up – cardboard machinery, give me a break – but it's cool. I'll show it to you later, if you like.'

'Oh, yes,' his mum said, but in that dreamy, distant tone that made him wonder if she still didn't know what he was talking about. She forced a smile and said, 'That would be nice.'

Martha Atherton was a good-looking woman. Even Henry could see it. Her hair was starting to go grey, but the FBI and the Spanish Inquisition would never get her to admit it. To the world she was brunette with auburn highlights. Her build was curvy – not exactly plump, but enough to stop her looking starved. Henry liked that, even when she looked like death. Who didn't look like death first thing in the morning?

Henry spooned cornflakes into his face. 'Where's Dad?' he asked. 'Did he come home last night?' Sometimes Dad stayed over when he was working late. He wasn't back last night when Henry crashed. But then Henry crashed early last night. He'd been so tired out by Mr Fogarty that he'd hardly managed to glue the last bit of the flying pig together.

For a second he thought he saw something in Mum's eyes. Then it was gone and so was the vacant look and she was saying casually, 'Oh yes. I expect he'll be down in a minute.'

Henry expected so as well. His father had his train to catch and hated to rush. 'What you got planned for today, Mum?' She was headmistress of the local girls' school, but it was closed for summer holidays.

'Nothing much,' his mother said.

Henry wondered if he'd turn into a zombie every morning when he was his parents' age. He finished his cornflakes and shook out some more, then reached for a banana from the fruit bowl. He had another busy day with Mr Fogarty. Slow-release carbohydrates were what he needed.

He heard his father's footsteps and looked up in time to see him on the landing headed for the bathroom. 'Hi, Dad!' Henry called and was rewarded with a grunt. As the bathroom door closed, he tilted his chair and reached into the drawer for a knife. He cut his banana into chunky slices – weird how the size made a difference to the taste -then cut in an apple as well. 'We got plenty of bananas?' he asked his mother.

'What?'

'Bananas, Mum. Have we got plenty?'

She stared at him for a moment, then said, 'Yes, I think so.'

'Mind if I have another one?' Henry asked, wondering what was wrong with her. This was way beyond her usual Morning of the Living Dead.

Her eyes drifted up to the landing. 'Have as many as you like,' she said in that offhand way he usually interpreted as disapproval. But why make a big deal about a lousy second banana? He felt the familiar flash of guilt, but took the banana anyway and cut it in as well.

Then he got up and headed for the fridge to see if there was any strawberry yoghurt.

He was doing justice to the mixture when his father came out of the bathroom, showered, shaved and dressed in his natty blue-grey business pinstripe. Something suddenly occurred to Henry. When the old man had been heading for the bathroom, he wasn't coming from his and Mum's bedroom – he'd been coming from the direction of the spare room.

Or had he? Henry frowned into his cornflakes, trying to remember. He thought Dad had been coming from the spare room, but he wasn't sure. Why would the old boy want to sleep in the spare room anyway? Unless he got back so late Mum had already gone to bed and he didn't want to wake her. Except he'd been home late lots of times and that had never worried him before. Maybe Henry just got it wrong. He'd only caught a glimpse after all.

'Hi, Dad,' he said as Timothy Atherton walked into the kitchen. 'I got my new model working.'

There was something wrong and Henry couldn't figure out what it was.

'Will you be late again tonight?' This came from Mum, without preliminaries and sort of sharp. Maybe she was freaked because Dad came home late last night.

'I'm not sure,' his father said. 'I may well be.'

'Tim, we need to – ' She stopped and Henry could have sworn it was because his father threw a warning glance in his direction.

'I'll phone you, Martha,' his father said tightly.

It wasn't what they were saying, since they weren't actually saying very much. It was more the tone of voice. Not just Mum, but the two of them. Henry frowned. Maybe they'd had a fight last night, after Dad got home. Henry was fast asleep by then: they could have shouted the place down and he wouldn't have heard them. His mind went back to something he'd thought earlier. Maybe Dad really bad slept in the spare room. Maybe Mum sent him there. Must have been bad – far as he knew, they'd never slept apart before.