‘Down!’
They twitch their toecaps, steel, next to my nose . . . I see my reflection, I swallow . . .
‘Pick it up!’
I feel for it, my fingers in the dust, I close them around it.
‘What’s that tattoo on your arse say, boy?’
He delights himself and turns to the others. I tremble on my knees...
‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen it before, officer.’
I felt myself going to say it, and then out it comes of its own accord. He grabs me by the neck, digs his fingers in, and pushes me down, forcing my face into the concrete. I feel his boot, the toecap, he sticks it into my kidneys.
‘What’s that? Answering back! I can see that we’re going to have to teach you some manners! Aren’t we! A little boot massage! Come on, say it again, come on! Speak up so’s we can hear you!’
‘I think I have the right to remain silent.’
‘Oh, oh, it thinks does it? Hark at that lads. It thinks! Well, you think an awful lot don’t you boy, but you don’t know much do you? In fact you know fuck all! The only rights you’ve got are the ones I say you’ve got, and that’s none! Got it? You ain’t allowed to shit unless I says so, got it?!’
He extracts his toecap; I scramble to my feet, shaking. To be honest I felt pretty vulnerable stood there starkers between those bruisers, dark blue, grinning, tapping their boots. I keep my eyes averted, I have to. You see I’ve got this look, the jaw line, the arrogance that I can’t hide. He stares me out then turns his face in disgust.
‘OK, book the cunt!’ They write my name in the charge book then rough-handle me through to the lock-up. The jailer wags his keys like a bunch of bananas.
‘Is there a toilet? please? I need to go to the toilet.’
That’s exactly how I talk — straight, clear, precise, without a hint of sarcasm.
‘Pardon?’
‘Is there a toilet, please?’
‘Oh yes, we’ve got a toilet for you your lordship, a very special toilet, just you follow me, right this way, sir. A real nice shit hole, deep and dark, so’s you can get right down in the pan and curl up at the bottom, ’cos that’s where you belong, isn’t it? In the shit!’ He shoves me through the doorway. Hey, that’s no way to go speaking to a young writer! He throws the bolt, double locks it, the keys rattling. Growing quieter . . . walking up the gangway, another door, another lock, receding . . .
I take a piss in the bucket, read the wall, and shake off the little droplets. Not so many luxuries in this hotel, and that bastard hasn’t even killed the light. Not even a blanket, no mattress, just a couple of slats, hard, stone-like. And the wind comes at you. How’s a fellow meant to get his head down? I pace the concrete floor, naked, and prance like a flamingo. I swap feet, I have to keep moving. And no bed, not even a blanket. . .
OK, so I slipped up: can’t a fellow make an honest mistake? I only wanted a wee dram, for Christ’s sake, a humble little nip . . . And let’s face it, that fat cat had plenty to spare . . . Bottles of the stuff . . . whisky galore! row upon row . . . Why should he have everything in the drinks department — a cosy fire, a full brandy bowl in one hand, and a fancy cigar in the other — whilst all I’ve got is three worthless pennies to rub together?
I got to know that floor pretty well during the course of my visit. Concrete, grey, with a piss trough running to the little drain in the middle. I counted all the ridges, different undulations. Then I have to crawl onto the bench. I collapse, I lay on my front and tuck my legs up under my body, I stick my arms between my legs. A hundred contortions to hold in the heat, to not die from the cold, to last the night. . . I trembled so hard that I almost jumped off the bench.
‘Oi, you! Wake up!’
I look up and there’s a pair of mirthless eyes grinning at me through the grill.
‘Are you playing with yourself?’ I keep schtum. ‘Oi, I’m talking to you, you little pervert! Are you wanking in there? Are you wanking in your pit? Do you want me to come in there and give you a good kicking?’
I say nothing. I’ve learned humility. Anyway they’re below me. For my friends and loved ones I will suffer and endure ’til the bitter end . . . A young writer . . .
I see his mug at the peep hole, I will memorise it for posterity. I mumble, I go to speak, I have to ask it, I’m delirious with the cold.
‘Can I have a blanket, please?’
‘Can you have a what?’
‘A blanket. . . please . . . I need a blanket.’
‘Did you hear that, Jeff? Did you hear something squeak? I think we’ve got mice in here.’
‘I need a blanket, I’m cold.’
‘Say ‘please’.’
‘Please.’
‘No!’
He’s delighted himself. He dances down the corridor, I hear his forced laughter, it echoes . . . He rattles my cage. I count time by his visits . . . every half hour . . . just to make sure that I’m not getting comfortable, that a fellow doesn’t get his head down . . . He carries on right to the end of the night, hoping for the excuse to give me a good kicking. Right up until it starts turning grey outside . . .
2. THE MAN WITH WHISKERS
He wasn’t happy; he felt cheated and he deserved better: my father. Christ he deserved better alright, better than all of us! They lock me in the bedroom so I scream. I scream and scream until my mother comes in.
‘For crying out loud shut up! Just bloody shut up!’
She lifts me from the cot and carries me downstairs. I watch the walls . . . They come up to you then they shrink away . . . Railings, banisters, a special effect: on off, on off . . . I’m watching the stairs, we go down and they go up . . . You see I’m being carried that way, and that’s the effect.
She sits me on her lap and I nuzzle her breast.
‘For God’s sake, he should be eating solids! Think of yourself, Juny!’
The man with whiskers shakes his napkin at me. I’m lifted, dumped in the high chair and handed a crust: I suck on it. The man with the whiskers tells me not to play with my food, but to eat it. I look at that crust, I take a special interest in it: three or four different colours, some black bits, and these holes, hundreds of them, some kind of intricate garden.
‘He’s got to learn to eat solids, how are we meant to lead a normal life if you insist on breast-feeding him?’
I play with the Weetabix . . . I dribble it back out...
‘Eat your food, Steven, don’t play with it!’
I look from my mother to the man with whiskers — he must be talking to me. He repeats it, mouthing his words.
‘Eat up your porridge, come along, Nichollas, you too!’
‘He’s had enough, haven’t you darling?’
‘He asked for it so he can finish it.’
‘But it’s cold, he doesn’t like it when it’s cold, do you, Nichollas?’
She fusses and she smoothes his hair.
The man with the whiskers stands and flings down his napkin. He walks out then turns and storms back in again, he makes a grab at the porridge bowl.
‘You’re spoiling the children, woman!’
A blaze of whiskers, old yellow beard, plucking invisible fruits from the skies, arching his eyebrows until they look like viaducts.
‘Look at your dress woman, you’re pissing milk! I will not have you breast-feeding that infant in public! As for you, eat your bloody porridge when mummy makes it or I’ll force it down your bloody throat! Give me the bowl, come along now! You asked for it, now you can eat it. Eat it!’
He picks up the spoon and waves it under his nose like a tomahawk, leaping up and down in front of us, doing a little jig, hanging his arms for effect. Ape-like, chimpanzee-ish . . . Nichollas starts to blubber, he stands and wets himself. He grabs at the table cloth and goes down. The table subsides under the avalanche. He crawls through the porridge; the old man splutters, falls to his knees and rolls in it.
‘Shit and damnation! A sea of porridge, that’s what I’m s
wimming in! A sea of piss and porridge! You’ve turned my very children against me! Well, I’m carrying you monkeys no further!’
He grinds his teeth so hard that he spits powder. A filling falls to my feet and rattles across the linoleum; silver, black, heavy, irregular . . . I crawl over to it, just a kid, on my hands and knees, no kidding . . . He holds out his hand to me.
‘Give it here! Give it me!’ He slips in the milk and crashes into the sideboard, his head bouncing between the shelves. He pulls himself out and smashes his head into the chimney stack, breaking the house down into matchwood. He swivels and bites at his back, then snatches up my stool. The cute little stool I sit on whilst my mother makes pastry in the afternoons. He raises it high above his head and crashes it down onto the cooker. A million particles . . . hundreds and thousands . . . spinning, little orbits . . . Down onto the mat. . . busted . . .
We blink through the sawdust, his peroxide hair shimmering above his head, a halo of gold: old snow ball. . . And his delicate kisser, mincing between his whiskers . . . My breath is locked in my heart, shamed to silence. This is his tantrum and, by God, no one better try stealing his wind, or else! He shakes his fingers at us; they rattle in their joints like teeth. I crawl under the table cloth, following my brother. He sticks his boot in my face, he pretends it’s an accident but it’s on purpose. We crouch beneath the drapes, watching their feet. His shoes shine like gravy, and her in flipflops.
‘Christ, Juny, you must hate me! Do you, is that it? Come on answer me!’
He slaps her.
‘Stop looking at me, and you!’
He pulls at the table cloth, ’til it billows above his head, like a spinnaker.
‘Mind the porridge!’
We hear her shout, but it’s too late, it somersaults through the air, it sticks to the ceiling, droplets, clots . . . It falls like rain. The old man kicks at the bowl.
‘Shit the porridge! Shit it, I shit it, me, the great provider!’
He scoops up a handful of the stuff, and slaps it into his hair. We don’t know if we’re meant to laugh.
‘Yes me, the great provider! My great sin? To provide and to cherish, that’s all! And who’s to say I don’t? Answer me that?’ He defies us with his nose. ‘Come on, speak up! Don’t be shy! We can talk it over like adults. Do I or don’t I?’
My mother let out a little sob.
‘Oh, I see, I get the picture, of course, I get it now, that’s it, I’ve been blind . . . I haven’t provided enough, that’s it, isn’t it? You want more, don’t you? You want blood! Well, step right up and open a vein, come on be my guest, why don’t you? That’s it, is it? Oh yes, lovely . . . I must have been blind. You want blood, that’s it, my fucking guts! Fuck and damnation! I apologise, unreservedly . . . on my humble knees! And I thought that I’d done enough, that I’d been pulling my weight, working my fingers to the bloody bone!’
He rattles them at us again. It’s absolutely true, nothing, no skin on them whatsoever, just clean white bones . . .
‘My giddy aunt, Juny, you bastards stick worse than dog shit!’ He mimes it, he scrapes his shoe across the mat, he comes barking in under the table cloth on all fours . . .
‘And as for him, yes you, you little shifter! I caught you bouncing on my sofa again, didn’t I? Yes daddy! Yes daddy! You must think I was born yesterday! Well, I want to hear it from your own lips, an admittal, an apology, and don’t bother lying to me . . . I saw you, I caught you red-handed! So come on now, own up! Do you know how much that sofa cost? And it hasn’t even been paid for yet, not a bit of it! Well, come on speak up! Juny, come here, Juny! I want you to hear this. Look, this smelly child of yours was caught bouncing on the sofa! On my sofa! Weren’t you, Smell? Look at it woman, look at it, brand new, wrecked! Scarcely a month old! Thread-bare, your children!’
He kicks at it.
‘A write-off, a total write-off! With his shoes on mind, do you understand me? Bouncing with his shoes!’
He calls her to witness, he grabs at the offending foot.
‘What size are they? Where did he get such feet? And look at them, they’re scuffed! Scuffed, I tell you! He’s been playing in his best shoes again! Haven’t you? Look at them, ruined, ruined! You see this pair of mine, look at them, feast your eyes! Bought last week? A month ago? No, ten years old! That’s right, ten years old, going on fifteen!’
He bounds over the sofa and smashes his head into the lampshade, he lets off words like fire-crackers. He starts in again, arse first.
‘Who’s to stop me?’
He bounces up and down.
‘Who the hell’s to fucking well stop me?’
Higher and higher he goes, somersaulting like an acrobat . . .
‘Aren’t -I — the — one — who — pays — for — every — thing! — And — not — just — the — hard — boiled — eggs — and — nuts! — Every -thing! — House! — Clothes! — Furni — ture! — My — facili — ties! -My - sofa! — Every — thing! — All — of — it!’
He catapults off sideways, a little trampolining, then he flies through the air and crashes down on top of my mother. They bounce and land in a heap — arms, legs, pieces of his beard are on the carpet. He scratches at the tufts, a rash, we see red . . . He drags my mother to her feet.
‘All of it! All of it! My facilities!’
She lets out a little cry and he releases her. She drops to her knees and sobs, she gags . . . Blub, blub, blub . . . blub, blub, blub . . . She pleads, but not loudly, inwardly, and she wrung her hands with weep . . .
This is the first scene of violence that I can remember. And I remember realising that my father wasn’t happy, and my mother looked tragic. She made a profession of it over the years. In the end no one could beat her at it; no matter how hard we tried she could always go one better. She prided herself on it . . . It was a whole new era for her.
‘Brup, brup, brup . . . brup, brup, brup . . .’
When it comes to tragedy, no one can outdo a woman; they are the eternal sufferers. Periods, childbirth, hysterectomy and decay, and they always coming up smiling, but sadly, at the edges . . . She cried silent tears, my mother did, great torrents of them. They’re the real tears, none of your yelling and boo-hooing. I had to sit and watch her, my heart frozen. I didn’t want her to die. I tried to hold her hand. She drooled like a sick calf. Real misery is silent, I should know, I’ve seen it from an early age.
3. THE SMELL
The old man pissed off, but never formally left... He still used to show up now and again, but begrudgingly, just to check up. Just to make sure that we weren’t having a good time, that us kids hadn’t been dropping little bits of litter . . .
‘For crying out loud, shut your bickering or I’ll bang your bloody heads together!’
Slam! Nichollas was four years older than me and twice my size — he used to launch himself as our heads came together. I used to see real sparks, stars and comets, a whole light show! And his head wasn’t just bigger than mine, it was as heavy as a rock. It crippled my mother when she had him, twenty-two internal stitches and then some more . . .
‘No wonder he split you like a fig, Juny, look at the size of the head on young Nichollas!’
He stands back admiring it like a new piece of furniture . . . And then Slam! straight into mine. And it wasn’t just bone, oh no, it was crammed full of brains, as they were always at great pains to point out. ‘There’s brains for you, Juny, such an intelligent head.’
Then Slam! That’s the sound of our heads coming together . . . Slam! My little head up against that great slab of bone? Not much of a competition. Crack! That’s justice for you . . . My little head, fine featured, blond hair, not much chance of fair play. And him supposedly the intelligent one, the one with all the brains. ‘Big Brother’ and Crunch! That’s what I learned, and the way Nick used to launch himself, gleefully, at my expense. It was as if they were already in cahoots and no matter what, I’d come off the worse . . .
And now he�
��s surprised that I don’t forget. Bang! That kind of memory, it stays with you. My big brother was petty and vicious alright, already stomping round like the pompous little prick he’s grown up to be.
Once you get used to being on the receiving end like that, it doesn’t take too long before you start learning to inflict some misery of your own. Because whatever else you might say about us humans, even the most stupid of us have some kind of imagination when it comes down to spite. In the realms of laying on pain and suffering, we’re unsurpassable, we truly are world beaters . . . How to dole out acres of misery and suffering? If we learn nothing else in this world, we learn that much.
‘Do you want the police to come and arrest you, Steven? Do you want me to have to call the police?’
I drew on my plimsoll with a bit of chalk.
‘Would you like a little sister to play with?’
Then the snow came and I went up the stairs to their room and there was a cat sitting with her in bed. I wasn’t allowed in their bed, but the cat was. It was a girl cat but it had a boy’s name, it was called George. Then it got cat flu and we had to walk quiet and the snow got deeper and deeper until the river froze over and our tortoises died in the shed.
Then the cat came back to life; my mother nursed it under the kitchen stove . . . She made it a little lead and let it sleep in her bed again. Then I accidentally stood on it. I held onto the banister and put my foot on its back, I lowered my weight and it squawked. . . I felt the old man’s hands on me. He saw the whole thing. He throws his hat down and jumps the stairs four at a time. He shakes me ’til I see stars. I can’t feel the ground. He gave me ‘what for’ — I was just one big mistake, I was a scab and should have died at birth! I wouldn’t stop crying and I wouldn’t stop sucking my mother’s tits.
‘This child will amount to nothing, Juny, nothing!’
Once they did manage to get me weaned, I’d only eat chocolate and chips. I had attacks of boils, and bruised like an apple . . . I couldn’t move. My mother had to hold me down whilst my father burst the pus out of me. They didn’t want to be seen with me in public — I was a disgrace, I had a shitty arse and my teeth were totally rotted. My family called me: ‘The Smell’. I was dragged into the bedroom and thrashed.
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