The Lesser Bohemians (18 page)

The next morning was like I’d been blasted. None of me was right. I kept checking the mirror and – bruise aside – everything looked fine except     I didn’t know how to use my body. I remember clunking downstairs touching the woodchip that I could hardly feel and my weird fucking legs. She was pretty manic in the kitchen – maybe she had shocked herself. She didn’t acknowledge me though, just raced about hurling dishes in the sink. Even one of the boys got a clip round the
ear for laughing when something smashed.

For the whole week after she ignored me and I had a month of nights on my own. But after that, she got herself organised. Picked up where she’d left off. I don’t know why the delay or what was the spur, only that it became fairly regular then, once a week, sometimes more.

At first it was all pretending she was doing something else. Eyes averted. Under the sheet. As if not looking at each other made it less real. That was only the beginning though, of the very very bad. I remember trying so hard not to get hard but what can you do at fourteen? Now I know it’s a mechanical thing but, back then, I thought it was me. I couldn’t understand why I would. Sometimes I’d imagine she was testing, that I was about to be hauled off to some hospital where they’d fix me up people like me, whatever that was. Later, when she got more confident she’d imply she was the victim     of me     that I was the     I made her do those things to me     and all the time it was getting worse. Further from what you could pretend it wasn’t making it more like wanting responses and     not the whole way     not kissing or that but     almost everything else     all under the guise of her fucking caring and love, how she understood I couldn’t help myself. But I never cried about it again. Went into my body to get out of my head. There was no way to think about it so I didn’t. And I stopped feeling everything pretty soon. Just let her do what she wanted and did what she asked in return.

He looks around the room but not at me. Lights another cigarette. Pours another drink. Then, pressing his knuckles to the pitiless tic, continues on.

Once she was done, she’d get up and walk out and I’d just lie there getting back to blank. Sometimes I’d throw up. As it progressed, I started dropping lit matches on my stomach, or legs. Not to feel, just to revive some self that could act normally in my skin – I know you know about that. I’d wait to see how long I could take it and, as time went on, for fucking ages. By the end they could burn themselves out.

I should have said No, I know that. I should’ve known to push her off     and it sounds ridiculous but     the way she had me       I couldn’t go against her at all. For years after I left I kept wondering if the real truth was that I’d enjoyed or invited it because physically I did you know       do you know what I mean? She always made sure I did and    and once that happens it’s like you’re implicated, like you’re the accomplice somehow. But    it wasn’t what I wanted and I know that because of what I ended up doing to myself to get over it.

All of him shivering now, like a dog in the rain, but still You alright with this? he says I know we both have it so     is it too much? And I am    I feel     so distraught. This is not my story though or time for upset. I’m fine, you tell me whatever you want. The tic gone so bad his mouth can hardly hold his smoke. Okay, but if you change your mind     I say I won’t, please don’t worry about me.

Well, at some point, she started slipping me sleeping pills after – maybe the throwing up was disturbing the peace. At least it meant a dreamless sleep and started me considering when else I’d like that – which was already most of the time. So I began helping myself. Just the sleeping pills first but – once I started to search – there were prescription bottles stashed all over the
house. I used to lift so many at a time she must’ve guessed but she never mentioned it and, as she was only getting worse, there wasn’t much incentive to stop. I can see now though I was getting depressed. I’d come in from school and just lie on my bed so exhausted I could hardly move. I was sick all the time. Every flu. Nosebleeds a lot. Then the tic started too and that frightened her, I think. She used to beg me to stop it – as if I could. It was that bad sometimes I couldn’t speak. They used to excuse me from class to go sit in the bog just to get it under control – like school wasn’t already nightmare enough. I hated it. Kept getting into fights which, actually, cheered me up. It was almost as if they solidified me. Gave me somewhere to be angry and feel like I wasn’t queer because, once she started, I lost all interest in girls – that poor one I walked home, don’t know what she must’ve thought, I never even looked at her again. My mother’d go mad though, at the bloody nose, ripped shirt, so I’d get another hiding and I always let her. Never even considered not. Whenever she wanted. Whatever she grabbed. Bottles, brushes, tin of paint once – had to get stitches after that one. I mean, by the end I was nearly twice her height but – same as the fights – I almost got to like it. Seeing how much I could take. Because the less it looked like it hurt, the angrier she’d get, then the further she’d go and that was revenge. She’d feel so bad after and I’d feel like I’d won. But also I was wolfing down pills by then so I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. What I remember most was just finding it hard, really hard, to be alive.

So did you ever tell anyone? Did anyone know? He shakes his head.

I never told and     no one ever walked in but, that in itself, considering how long     she was very careful though, about the pretence. Always Morning love! like nothing had happened. Never asked about the burn marks or mentioned the throwing up. No one did. Towards the end though, the stepfather’d sometimes shout through my door Get out of his room, he’s too old for that now. Or make jokes about her being cracked because of all the pills and we’d laugh about that, me and him. But I don’t think he really knew and I probably wouldn’t have wanted him to. Either way, when I left I never saw him again.

More wine? and he stands up without looking at me. Yes please. So he goes to the fridge. Gets another bottle. Opens. Fills my glass. Fills his own then sits back opposite. And when did you? I say.

By the time I was fifteen it was very bad, so I wrote to my father – he was in Newcastle by then – asking if he’d put me up until I got a job and a place. Only fucking thing I’d ever asked. Three months I waited for his reply. Barely legible when it arrived and full with fine phrases about the responsibilities of fatherhood he’d obviously nicked from something he hadn’t understood. The gist of it being Of course I could but – unfortunately – I could not. I was so desperate by then though I decided to hitch up. He didn’t recognise me at the door and, when I explained who I was, he nearly had a stroke. Fucker wouldn’t even ask me in, said his marriage was hanging by a thread and I was old enough to take care of myself. I begged him but he wouldn’t. In the end I said Please don’t make me go back, she’s fucking doing things to me. He just hit me a slap and said Don’t be such a pervert! then slammed the door in my face. I didn’t
know what to do so     I hitched back again     in the dark and     let me tell you, that was one long fucking night.

She was pretty hysterical when I got in. Been up all night. Called the police. The stepfather had already gone to work so it was only her and the other two, hiding in their room. I didn’t want to say where I’d been but she kept on and on so, eventually, I just said I went to see my dad. I had to but, even as I was, I knew what came next would be     well

She went completely off her head. Shouting how I’d betrayed her. Was an ungrateful piece of shit and just like him, slinking off into the night. That she wished she’d never had me. That I’d ruined her life. None of which was unexpected but     then I realised     she was only working up. And my heart just started to pound. Then it really began. Throwing things first. From the sideboard. Plates. Cups. Screaming You’re in for a hiding, my boy, you’ll never forget. And I thought Alright, get on with it. You can take it, whatever it is. So I leaned against the table, like she said – arms out to support myself and I was prepared for a lot. I had faith in my pain threshold. It had always stood me in good stead before     but     this time   she told me to pull my shirt up     then she beat me with the buckle end of the stepfather’s belt   hard as she could     again and again     I thought   I   was   going to   pass out   and   she just kept    on and   probably would’ve but     I couldn’t    I couldn’t manage the pain. It got so bad I couldn’t move and then    there was all this mystery blood so     I stopped her     I turned    I took it away. She went for me then, like a wild animal really, and I was so panicked I could hardly defend myself. When she said Get upstairs, it was a relief. I don’t even remember how I did     but then she followed me up. The other two must’ve been listening because when she called them out they wouldn’t come. So she
went in and belted them out of the room. I want you to watch this, she said A lesson about what ingratitude gets. Then she started ripping my clothes, destroying my things – not that there was much but Where can you go if you’re naked, son? Why didn’t I get rid of you at the start and have a life of my own? And me just going I’m sorry Mum, please don’t. But she wouldn’t     just     fucking     out of control. Whacking me round the head with bits of books. Blood pouring out my nose. I couldn’t even see my back but when the younger two did they started screaming with fright so then she started really knocking them round. That’s what finally woke me up. I knew I had to do something before she killed one of us. So I got hold of her, best I could, and half dragged, half carried her back to her room. Her thrashing about, screeching Don’t you touch your mother! Fucking biting but I didn’t notice that until later. All I could think of was shutting her in and I only managed to, just. Stood there holding the door handle begging Lie down Mum. Please Mum. Please take one of your pills. Which she must’ve done because, after a while, the ranting died down and when I let go, the door stayed shut. Then everything went quiet and we went down to the sitting room.

I remember mopping the boys up. At some point making them lunch – meat paste sandwiches as I recall – but having no real thoughts, which must’ve been the shock. Then I remember just being sat forward on the couch hoping my back would scab soon. When the stepfather came home he couldn’t believe the state of the place, or me – bite marks all down my arm and neck. Bloodstains from my back on the leatherette and no energy for pretending left. When he asked Where’re your brothers? I just pointed up. And he raced up the stairs, of course he did. There was a bit of consoling, then he went in to her and What the
fuck did you do? You know, usually, if he put his foot down that was it. But not that night. She went for him – which must’ve been quite a surprise. He certainly looked pretty alarmed, coming back down, mumbling I don’t think your mother’s very well like that was fucking news. Anyway, she passed out again then he went out for fish and chips.

Luckily when she came round the next day she was calm. Spent it in bed. Darkened room, all that. The following day she materialised at breakfast, apologising Poor little boys. Mummy’s just had a bad turn. Promised to see the doctor about her nerves. But to me Go to your room. I’ll speak to you later young man.

She got him to take them to the pictures, to make it up. I had to stay in because    well   I couldn’t go out    looking like that. And she waited until they had before coming up for me.

I listened to every step. I knew it would be bad. But it was still daylight so I kept hoping for a yelling at     Of course   it wasn’t that    it was the other thing. And she took the blanket off so there’d be no mistake. The fucking fear of it. Lying there. Waiting. I didn’t want to but     I was already half wrecked and she already knew how to make me go against myself. And she was so     she had no     knickers on when she got on me and I   He dry retches into his hand but when I     waves me back Will you let me? if you can?   I’ve never told anyone and I     I say Alright.

Breathe and watch him breathe.

I think she thought once she did that I’d never leave      be able to     or I’d be ruined at least. And in some ways I was. I was never the same again. But at the time I begged til I started to choke      and I tried sitting up but my back and     she     kept pushing me down   trying to get me to     and my brain fucking
jumping. Fucking gagging and panicking and then     you know

               it was too late and

                     all of a sudden, I was that     became

            a person who has done the worst thing

          is that even a person any more?

If she’d left at that moment I would have gone out the window but she    she didn’t. She kept going on so the pain     it started to do something else

all those fucking bruises and cuts        wouldn’t let out of myself.

And she hadn’t counted on that     that there, in the fucked-up body getting fucked, was a person starting to come to life, starting to want to hurt her and do all the things to her body that she’d done to his. Do worse. Wanting to fucking fling her on the floor and stamp on her face and     I could tell I was starting to go off my head. That if it wasn’t over soon I definitely would. So I went through to the end. Finished it, like she said. And when she got up to go clean    He dry retches again. Are you alright? He nods but the grey eyes black and the wall they stare through into that past is gone so eerily thin I can almost see her too.

When she got up off me, I said If you ever fucking do that again I’m going to kill you and then I’ll kill myself and everyone will know you for what you are. It was the first time either of us had referred to it aloud. First time I ever saw her like that. Knocked off herself, you know? But, of course, the clever kicked in. Cogs going round. I could almost see it, her working out how to handle me, which trick might be best. She chose guilt. Falling down, crying I should never have let you do that but I love you so much. You’re all I have. But the shock at myself had me out of the bed. Getting my clothes. Dressing quick.
Her following me, holding onto me and all the fucking talk. If only you could understand how lonely I am. All these years without your father but I love you son. Just shit pouring out but I’d gone completely beyond. I knew this was the only chance I’d get. If I didn’t go now, I’d never have the nerve and then she would have me for good. So I    what was left of me   prised her off     and     took her by the hair   and I was just shouting it, I remember, repeating the same thing   If you ever fucking lay a finger on me again I will kill you and then I will kill myself and everyone will know. And I dragged her to the door. Still fucking hanging on. Clawing into me screaming Don’t son! Don’t! Then I threw her out. And I slammed the fucking door on her hand and      she fell. I heard her. On the stairs. Like fucking comedy bumping and      I shouted through the door I hope you’re fucking dead. I hope you’ve broken your fucking neck. And she lay there screeching, pleading up for help. I just kept shouting I fucking hate you and I always have. Over and over. But she didn’t stop. So I ripped up the bedsheets, all covered in fucking stuff, and I took them out to the landing and just threw them over the banister. Then I watched them tumble down and land all over her. Go wash those fucking sheets, I said. And she stopped screaming then. Stopped crying. Everything went still. Then she got up. Picked the sheets up. Went on down to the kitchen and       How fucking banal is that? Unworthy of her, I think, not to reappear with a knife. So maybe my father taught me something after all, because although I threw up with fear, it was sorted. That was the last time I ever saw her and, by the time the others were back, my whole life had changed.