by Marc Horn
‘Because she had a huge mole beside her nose.’
‘That’s terrible.’ She opens the flask and sips the soup.
‘My parents were pathetic, but I still loved them. They were mine and it tortured me when Victor teased them.’ I look at her, but she does not seem as disgusted as I had hoped. ‘I know it’s natural for schoolchildren to devise insults, but we were teenagers, and Victor knew how much I opposed it.’ Elizabeth screws the lid back on the flask, licks her lips and sets it down. ‘He circulated these nasty nicknames the day after he met them.’
‘He made up one for your father, too?’
‘Yes – Slaphead.’
‘Because he was bald?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘Victor was always so nice to them in person. It appeared that he enjoyed their company, but then, at school, he would brand my father boring and my mother vacuous. He would pass on these remarks when I was nearby, at a volume low enough to suggest he was conscious of me listening, but loud enough that I could decipher each word.’ Elizabeth opens the water bottle and drinks, maintaining eye contact with me. ‘I was never told the nicknames referred to my parents, but Victor made sure I knew. In front of the others he would ask me if I’d ever met Rolo and Slaphead, and they would laugh whilst I feigned ignorance. Again, as was the case with most of Victor’s mockery, I tried to shut it out, but this was more difficult to achieve as it concerned people I loved.’ I lean in a couple of inches. ‘I was too weak to face the truth, that I had to move on and leave Victor behind.’ She looks mesmerised, the bottle in both hands away from her lips. ‘It was terrible when I worked out that my parents were the butt of the jokes. Had Victor revealed it directly, I might have voiced disapproval, but admitting I’d been fooled was unbearable, so I selected my favourite option – to hide and hope it would go away.’
‘He was so cruel,’ she says.
‘“They’re cartoon characters”, Victor would lie to me. “Channel four. She consumes vast amounts of rolos whilst slapping him on top of his head”.’ I watch the water rock back and forth in the bottle. ‘Have you ever experienced the pain of having to act stupid and oblivious, while knowing you are too dependent on someone and too selfish to confront them? I put my needs above my love for my parents and that haunted me. And it lasted years.’
Elizabeth’s eyes are slightly wet. ‘It must have been a horrible ordeal.’
‘He knew I loved them. And he knew I was smart. He knew he was punishing me immensely.
‘Victor often brought a pack of rolos to school. He must have been sick of them towards the end, but he would carry on to taunt me. He would offer them around, brashly and obviously, and compliment me on choosing a big one.’
‘What an animal.’
‘He thrived on oblique, persistent bullying. The type of bullying that authorities totally overlook. See, Victor never laid a finger on me, because bruises only hurt initially, and disappear within a few days. Victor’s bullying was life-scarring, yet unpunishable – in the government’s eyes anyway.’
Elizabeth is engrossed. I shake my head and sniff. ‘He’s got green stitching in his ice wash jeans...’ She looks up at me, awaiting an explanation. ‘When fashion became paramount, I chose a pair of ice-wash jeans from my mother’s home shopping catalogue. I cannot remember their brand, but it was not a well-known one. The jeans were tight and weaved together by green stitching. I liked them, but soon after Victor saw them, he would sing an unintelligible sentence in class. Before long, others would join in. Sitting at their table, I pretended to ignore it, but listened intently, trying to decipher the content. I knew from both the laughing directed at me and the special intuition a natural victim possesses, that it was about me. A natural victim never relaxes, they are always on guard. As the weeks passed, Victor pronounced the sentence a little more accurately. I almost cried when I realised what the sentence was – He’s got green stitching in his ice-wash jeans... I should have clued on immediately – Victor had told me the jeans were cool and suited me, and in response I had thanked him and expressed my fondness of them. Simple ammunition for him.’
Elizabeth’s face is full of pity. Slowly, she sips the water. ‘I never wore them again, nor did I wear anything I felt he would criticise.’ I stare at the ground as I speak, forcibly detached, wanting my words to be clear and understandable.
‘I began to buy the same things he did to avoid the jibes. Not too often, though, as I did not want to irritate him. He bought an exciting lockable holdall. I did too. The bag had two main compartments, one of which could be secured with a lockable zip. The keys, however, were interchangeable – the owner of a key could open all the bags. One day I lost my key. Victor almost certainly stole it. I told him about this on the journey home and asked to borrow his key, as no one was home and my door key was inside the locked compartment. Though he had his bag with him he maintained that he did not have his key on him. Victor watched me as I tore the lining between the two compartments in order to access the secured area. He laughed and I joined in because I had impressed him. Of course he was only laughing because he had forced me to damage my own bag.’
‘It was him - he stole it,’ Elizabeth nods, ‘I’m certain he did.’ A look of disgust creeps over her face.
‘Of course he did.’ I take a deep breath. ‘... I enjoyed playing hockey at school. I was a good player, excellent at cross-field passes. It was Victor who suggested we both take up the sport when we were thirteen years old. To his fury, I picked it up quicker and exhibited far more talent. I made the team and he did not. He stopped playing because of this. I encouraged him to persevere, but all of a sudden he branded hockey a ‘pansies’ game. I knew he was bitter about his exclusion from the side but I wanted him to support my new pursuit. However, whenever I spoke of the excitement and fear I felt about my impending first game, he would cut me off and promptly rally his friends to insult me.’
I run my fingers through my hair. This is difficult. ‘I was ecstatic when I saw Victor and Mike Wickinton sitting among the crowd to watch my first game. This joy was soon replaced with devastation when they swore at me whenever I touched the puck. This ruined my experience and I played terribly, losing the game for us by scoring an own goal. After the game, Victor ran up to me and said “When you scored that own goal, me and Wicks were laughing, did you see us?”
‘I nodded back, tears nestling in my shirt. “Don’t worry about it, Moonface, you’re just no good, that’s all. Give it up before they drop you”.’ I hold Elizabeth’s sad gaze. ‘I never played again.’ I am finding my tales quite emotional too, so I decide to take a break. ‘Would you like a sausage roll?’ I ask her.
‘Yes please,’ she croaks. I fetch four of these and hand Elizabeth two. She wipes her eyes with the back of her arm and sinks her teeth into the end of the roll.
‘I have always been an organised, hygienic person,’ I say. ‘My handwriting was neat and I looked after my text and exercise books, keeping them free of graffiti, stains and bent corners. Victor used to wipe his snot on them, whenever my attention was diverted. I know it seems trivial set against the other stunts he pulled, but he knew I resented it and found it disgusting. He attacked my every vulnerability, however small it might be.’
Elizabeth swallows her mouthful. ‘I am ready, Chalk. I want to hear how you avenged yourself. I cannot resent Victor any more than I do now.’
I smile. ‘And yet he did not make you suffer.’
She leans forwards and for a terrifying moment I expect her to hold my hand. She does not. ‘I am suffering through you,’ she says softly. ‘... I can feel what you felt.’
I look up. Venom clouds my eyes. If she is mocking me I will punish her! Her eyes dilute me, making me soft. They smother my fire, starve it of oxygen and extinguish it. It is an indescribable look that has a truly otherworldly effect. It leaves me doubtless that her words and feelings are sincere. I look away and suck in air to prevent tears. She is becoming my first real friend. My fingers and toes relish the w
armth that pumps into them. ‘There is more, Elizabeth,’ I whisper. ‘I am afraid you will have to hear more.’
30
‘Having recovered from the psychological bullying I suffered every day at Westwood Grammar, I decided to command some respect as a hard-nosed immigration officer. Unable to find love due to the full moon sitting on my shoulders, I took it upon myself to kidnap an archetypal young girl and brainwash her with the intention of returning her to society cleansed and acceptable. She’d be determined to teach her fellow man how to relate to us ugly folk. Her name’s Elizabeth Baxter, and yes, she’s the missing person you’ve seen on the TV, in the papers, and pasted on telegraph poles. Please exercise your discretion though, as this experiment will benefit mankind. Now I am contemplating the irony of posting these memoirs on a website named “Friends Reunited”.’
I smile as I delete the paragraph on my computer. It would have been the only honest entry for Westwood Grammar 1996. Around half of my old ‘friends’ have detailed their happy lives on this website. Not one person has anything negative to say. Surely one of the contributors has broken up with a girlfriend, lost his job or is a drug-addict? If one wants to be contacted by a school buddy (which is the aim of the website), then that’s the kind of material they need to write, as people love victims. People aren’t interested in success and achievements. They want to know that they are better. This website is a bragging forum and oozes with lies. I registered myself on it so that I could read about my fellow pupils. Just my name is printed alongside the others on the alphabetical list, with no additional information. I imagine that each of the non-contributors either consider inclusion on the website beneath them, or have nothing positive to write about that could not be disproved, as they still socialise with the same crowd. Daniel Sanchez, who I remember used to swim like a brick, is now a lifeguard; Anthony Carr, a pivotal figure during Victor’s reign and who I recall spoke only to criticise others, is now an occupational therapist; Julian Wakeford, rake-thin during his time at Westwood, is now a power lifter. In keeping with this pattern, I should reveal that I have just negotiated a deal to replace David Beckham as the model for Police sunglasses. The website should be renamed ‘takeitwithapinchofsalt.com’.
I opened the website today, as they had informed me through email that a new person from my school had subscribed. It turned out to be Mark Akers, who had always said he would become a professional golfer when he was older. Mark had subscribed to let us know that he now managed a golf store catering for left-handed players. He also mentioned that he was ‘on the verge of becoming a pro’.
I defrost two Chicken Madras curries with rice and go to the basement. Elizabeth’s welcoming smile has become one of the highlights of my life, however much I might try to deny it.
‘My mother once asked Victor if he would like a crusty roll for lunch,’ I begin, as we eat our curries. ‘At the time the word crusty was associated with excrement, so Victor chuckled as he envisaged a “poo roll”. For the forthcoming months, Victor and his gang would jokingly ask everyone, including me, if they had a crusty roll in their packed lunch. Predictably, Victor kept the source of the joke among his friends, and hoped that I didn’t realise the link to my mother. I found it abhorrent. How ungrateful and rude of him to ridicule my mother for offering him food.’
I swallow a few more mouthfuls before I continue. ‘During our fourth year at Westwood Grammar, Victor and I took some different classes. I took business studies while he took history. Both were the final classes on Tuesday, but since my class was nearer the school gates I always waited for him. For the first few weeks he would join me and we would walk home together. Later on though, he would blatantly disregard me and walk past me with other friends. This happened quite regularly and when it did I felt devastated. When just Victor and I were together, I enjoyed his company even though he was just digging for my weak points. It was the only time I could open up to someone without fear of being publicly humiliated on the spot. During those walks he listened to me and in my desperate mind, made me feel valued.’ Elizabeth has stopped eating her curry and stares at me. ‘You cannot eat it all?’ I ask.
‘Victor makes me lose my appetite.’
‘I will relay just a couple more stories to you and then you will be ready.’ She nods. ‘Our geography teacher, Mr Stringer, was deeply fascinated by geology. His pride and joy was his collection of rocks which he had acquired from many different countries over many years. For our benefit he kept these rocks in a display cabinet in the classroom. One day he opened the cabinet so that we could feel the texture of each rock. None of us disliked Mr Stringer. He was a fair and interesting teacher. However, as I stood in front of the cabinet with Victor, I heard him say, “Let’s smash Stringer’s precious rocks”. I watched him pick one up and squeeze it in his fist until parts of it crumbled away. He did the same with another rock, then set them down and walked away. I found it shocking then, and in character now. Why do you think he did it, Elizabeth?’
‘For the same reason he damaged your coat – it was something you loved, just as Mr Stringer loved his rocks. Victor couldn’t stand the joy they brought both of you.’
I nod. ‘You are perfectly right, Elizabeth. He was an intensely jealous and evil individual.’
I use the side of my fork to slice through a large piece of chicken. ‘He was incensed when his geographical enquiry – a project we all had to complete during the summer holiday – did not score the highest mark. One pupil spent the entire six weeks perfecting his, and it was far better than the others and deserved to win. When a few of its pages were found screwed up, no one owned up to damaging it. The entire class suffered a week of detentions, but still Victor would not take responsibility. I had seen him discretely deface the enquiry. I knew he would, as soon as I saw his reaction to the news that his enquiry had come second.’ Elizabeth looks as angry as she did when she clawed at my arms. I take a deep breath. ‘I will finish Victor’s tale with one of his nastiest pranks...’
I spend the next couple of minutes eating my curry. Elizabeth tucks into hers too. Then I place my empty plate on the floor, interlock my fingers together and rest my chin on them.
‘My birthday is in October, so I was one of the eldest in my class. I was also an early developer. When I turned thirteen I was undergoing puberty. This would have been clear to my fellow pupils, as they shared the same shower with me after P.E, and could also see the thick black hairs on my arms in class. “Chalk,” Victor began, to an audience of four in science class, “we all know you’re going through puberty. Have your parents told you about periods yet?”
“No, they haven’t,” I replied.
“How much do you know about periods?”
“I’ve heard of them, but nothing really.”
“We’ll tell you about them because you need to know now.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome. You know about sperm, don’t you? The sperm fertilises the egg to make baby Chalks and all that?” They all laughed and I joined in.
“Yes I know about that,” I said, actually knowing very little but not wanting to appear dense.
“Well now that you’ve hit puberty your sperm cells have gone live–”
“Live?”
“Yes, Chalk, live. That means they’re active and ready to shoot out your penis.”
“Okay.”
“Obviously you’ve not seen them yet.”
“No I haven’t,” I said.
“Then you are going to be in a lot of pain soon unless you act now.”
“Why will I be in pain?” I was becoming concerned.
“Now that your sperm cells are live, you have to force them out your body before they become infected and start to bleed. This is scientifically referred to as the sperm cells dying. When that happens they will build up and in one month’s time automatically leave your body via your penis. That is what a period is.”
“How much will that hurt?”
“Immensely.
It’s called period pains.”
“How do I stop it from happening?”
“Regular masturbation, Chalk, once a day at least.”
“Masturbation?”
“Jesus, I should be a teacher!” More laughter. “It’s when you rub your penis up and down until the sperm comes out. When it does it feels great.” Mike Wickinton demonstrated the technique on his ruler.
“And you have to do this often?”
“Yes, as I said, at least once a day, as it only takes twenty-four hours for your sperm to become infected. When that happens there’s nothing you can do, so as they say, prevention is better than cure.”
“And my sperm cells went live as soon as I started puberty?”
Victor paused before answering. “Yes, how long ago was that, Chalk?”
“More than a month I think, more like six weeks.”
“And you’ve not had a period yet?”
“No I haven’t.” I felt worried.
“Then you are going to have a really bad period. You had better masturbate as soon as you get home to stop any more sperms dying.”
‘When I returned home that day I was anxious, scared and uncertain. Since the subject matter involved my genitals I did not feel comfortable questioning my mother about it. Both of us were sitting in the lounge. She was drinking a cup of tea and reading a magazine. I hoped that she would notice my unease and ask me what the matter was, but she did not. She never noticed anything. I was restless, sweaty and desperate, aware that each second of inaction would increase my suffering. After twenty minutes of hell I got up and as I walked out the room I mumbled, “I am going to masturbate”. My mother jumped up from her seat and scolded me, branding me a filthy, foul mouthed embarrassment. I tried to explain myself but she would not allow me to speak. I had to wash my mouth out with soap and spend the rest of the evening in my room.’
Elizabeth’s look is sympathetic – she finds no humour in the recollection as most would. She is a good person, interested in my life and understanding of my pain. She is a friend. I swallow the lump in my throat, break the stare and continue. ‘It took me several attempts to achieve what I wanted, but once I did achieve it, it became habitual, mainly to minimise my period pains, but also for the feelings it generated. Whenever I told Victor that I had not yet had my period he would advise me to masturbate more regularly as the longer the period took to occur, the more intense the pain would be, so I had to stop further sperm cells dying. It wasn’t until after one P.E lesson that Victor told me the truth. The class were in the shower. There had been a lot of giggling during the last few group showers and I had known it was about me. I had assumed it was because of my body hair. But on that particular occasion everyone stared at my private parts and laughed. “Look at it, it’s red raw!” Victor screamed, hysterical. “Moonface, boys can’t have periods, you can ease off!”. I felt such a fool that I burst into tears. It was a terrible lie that had caused me considerable anguish.’