by Sam Haysom
Gary Roberts lay fuming in his sleeping bag.
He’d been lying there for an hour now, barely noticing his aching thigh muscles or the blisters that had sprung up on both feet after a day’s walking, focusing only on the anger.
He had a cut in his lip which he kept probing with his tongue.
Fucking Tom. Fucking Tramper. Fucking Tom.
The thought cycled through his mind like a mantra. He concentrated on it, focusing the anger on those names even though he knew it was only fuelling the sense of injustice he felt.
That fucker hit you, and you just stood there and took it.
That was his old man’s voice, speaking up in his mind as if the bastard was lying there in the tent next to him.
You just stood there and took it, didn’t you? You’ve always been weak, Gary. Just like your mother.
Gary gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He made an effort to block the voice out and focus his attention on the two people that deserved it.
Fucking Tom. Fucking Tramper.
Lying in bed with the same thoughts going through his mind again and again, the same angry accusations, was nothing new to Gareth. He remembered doing it ever since he was little, after his dad shouted at him or hit him for doing something wrong. He’d learned from a young age that crying didn’t do any good, and running to his mum for help did even less.
She’d always open her arms to him, but she never said anything while his dad stood there berating them both.
That ’ s right, you go running to your mother. Can ’ t even stand still and face me when I ’ m talking to you. It ’ s you he gets it from, Laura, you know that, don ’ t you?
Eventually, Gary learned to hold the tears in. He learned to ignore his mother and just stand still and try to go to another place while his father stood screaming in his face, his stale beer-breath pouring out in rank waves as he told his son exactly what a disappointment he was. Gary would stand there and in his mind, he’d be somewhere else, and any fear or anger he felt would be scrunched up and pushed down deep inside.
Then, when he got upstairs and everyone was in bed, he’d start his mantra.
Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you, you fat, worthless cunt.
It was better that way. It was better if he got it out quietly like that, without his dad knowing what he thought. The one time he’d slipped and told his dad to shut up – it must have been when he was 11 or 12, a good year or two ago now – the old man had slapped him hard around the face. It had hurt badly and left him with a black eye.
Being shouted at didn’t hurt, there was that at least. Better to keep your mouth shut and go somewhere else, and then say your mantra every night like a prayer.
And if he sometimes found himself getting angry during the day at teachers or people in the playground he didn’t even know? Well, that was a small price to pay, wasn’t it?
Fucking Tom. Fucking Tramper. Fucking fat Tramper.
And really it was James Tramper that had started this all off, wasn’t it? Just because he couldn’t take a fucking joke. Just because he had to get all whiny and run off to Tom for protection.
It was just a joke, that was the thing. Gary might get into fights occasionally in the playground and Mrs Williams might call him a bully, but Gary always stood up for his friends.
Once, at the start of Year 8, some Year 10 kid had stuck out his leg and tripped James up in the hallway. Gary had been with him at the time and James had gone sprawling, his Scooby Doo lunchbox flying out of his hands and his crisps and sandwiches scattering across the floor. He’d got up with a red face and looked as though he was about to cry, and after picking up his stuff for him Gary had gone running back down the corridor and punched the Year 10 boy as hard as he could in the face. He’d got into trouble for that one, too. Big trouble. His parents had been called in for a meeting with the headmaster and although his mum had sat there looking as though she was about to cry, his dad had held in a smile and then put his hand on Gary’s shoulder as they walked out into the school car park together.
He’d stuck up for Tramper and he’d do it again, he knew he would, and what thanks did he get? A sense of humour failure and a split lip from the kid who thought he was God’s fucking gift, that was what thanks.
Gary turned over in his sleeping bag and looked at his watch. 11.00pm. He glanced over at the sleeping bag next to him, at Matt’s huddled form. His new tent mate. They’d swapped the sleeping arrangements around tonight without even asking him if he was okay with it, of course. Just so poor old Tramper wouldn’t feel scared and he could cosy up next to big, strong Tom. Fucking pathetic. Now Gary was stuck with Matt, who’d barely said a word since they finished dinner and climbed into their sleeping bags. And what was it that Matt had muttered to him earlier that afternoon, after Tom had split his lip?
You take it too far sometimes, Gary.
As if he was the one who’d punched someone.
Fucking Matt. Fucking Tramper. Fucking Tom.
All he’d done was wind James up a bit about that fucking Emily Brown story, that was all. He knew James had been spooked by the story, and all he’d wanted to do was have a bit of fun with him.
He’d kept it up throughout the day, walking alongside James and telling him a few details he’d thought up that morning while they were packing away their tents. Just stupid stuff. He told James to keep an eye out for a lady in a white dress – he said that was what people were reported to have seen when they were out on the moor at night – and to let Gary know if he saw any dead animals.
‘Apparently that’s what people see, before they go missing,’ he’d said. ‘Sometimes it’s rabbits or crows, sometimes something bigger, like a fox.’
James had looked at him with wary eyes – they’d been walking for eight miles or so by that point and they’d already climbed two tors – and Gary could tell that even though he was tired he was scared, too. That was good. Gary’d come clean in the end and they’d all have a laugh about it – James always laughed at Gary’s jokes, that was why Gary liked hanging out with him – but for now he wanted James to be scared so that he could pull off what he was planning.
‘Yep, that’s right,’ Gary had continued. He did his best to keep his voice soft and serious. ‘That’s how it starts. You’re walking across the moor and all of a sudden you see a foot or an ear in the bracken, and then it’s a trail of intestines and you suddenly realise you’re standing in the middle of a stone circle.
‘You look down and you’re in the middle of this ring of stones with this dead rabbit lying next to you, and then you’ve walked right into the trap. Her trap.’
‘Gary,’ James puffed. They were at the base of Duck Tor, their third of the day, and James was already out of breath. ‘Do me a… favour… would you… and… fuck off.’
He said it without looking at Gary, without the usual smile he had on his face when Gary was winding him up, and Gary had to restrain the urge to shove him.
‘Alright, fine.’ Gary glanced up and looked around. Mr Stevens was walking with Tim not far behind them, bringing up the rear, and Matt and Tom were about 20 metres or so ahead, making their way up the start of Duck Tor. ‘Don’t get your fucking panties in a twist about it.’
James frowned. ‘I’m just not in the mood for it, Gary.’
‘Fine, walk on your own then.’ Gary lengthened his stride, picking his way through the tussocks and accelerating away along the thin muddy path they’d been following. He could feel the anger welling up inside him.
I ’ m not in the mood for it, Gary.
What kind of a pissy thing to say was that, anyway? That was the sort of shit middle-aged women came out with, wasn’t it? Gary picked up his pace and glanced back over his shoulder. There’d been a light drizzle falling all morning, and on the higher parts of the moor there was a thin fog that made it hard to see too far in front of you. James was already about 20 metres behind him, his chubby hands clutching the shoulder straps of his backpack and his head down as he
picked his way slowly and carefully along the path. Gary squinted into the mist but could no longer see Mr Stevens or Tim.
Fuck you, Trumps, he thought. You can walk with the nerd and his retarded fucking son.
Gary picked up his pace even more, relishing the way his thighs burned and blinking away the mingled sweat and drizzle that ran down into his eyes. He could taste salt in his mouth, and he pulled the tube of his Platypus around to take a mouthful of water.
He squinted through the mist and saw Matt and Tom just ahead of him on the path, and put on a burst of speed to catch them up.
‘Alright dickheads,’ he said, pushing through the middle of them. ‘You feeling tired or something?’
They glanced round at him, breathing heavily. Matt looked red in the face, but Tom managed a grin.
‘Not a chance,’ he said. ‘Want me to race you to the top, do you?’
‘Nah, you can babysit these two this time,’ said Gary. ‘I’m gonna scout ahead, but you might want to check on Trumps. Think he’s got his period or something.’
Gary didn’t really give a shit whether they checked on Tramper or not, but he wanted a bit of space to himself. He needed time to think through his plan.
‘Oh dear, what have you said to him now?’ said Tom.
‘I didn’t say anything to him! We were just having a laugh about that Emily Brown story Stevens was banging on about last night, then all of a sudden he got all pissy on me.’
‘The two of you were having a laugh about Emily Brown,’ puffed Matt, ‘or you were winding him up about her again?’
Gary shrugged and laughed. ‘Just trying to toughen him up a bit, that’s all.’
Matt wiped sweat off his forehead and didn’t say anything. Tom glanced at Matt and then looked down at the path.
‘You didn’t go too hard on him, did you Gary? He’s already knackered as it is, mate.’
Mate.
There it was. Tom’s favourite word. His little way of trying to sound casual and chummy when he was actually just talking down to you. A lot of people didn’t think Gary was very bright – he knew Tom didn’t think he was and he was pretty sure Tom and Matt joked about him when he wasn’t there, he’d bet money on it – but the truth was he just hid it well.
‘I know he’s knackered, mate,’ replied Gary. ‘I was just having a little bit of fun with him, nothing else.’
He gave Tom his best fake smile, then started to pick up his pace again. ‘Right, I’ll see you dickheads at the top.’
He was expecting them to call out something after him but they didn’t, and when he looked back over his shoulder 30 seconds later he saw the two of them standing still and looking back down the path into the mist, waiting for Tramper.
Gary felt another flare of anger. Of course they were waiting for Tramper. He wiped sweat off his forehead and hoisted his pack higher on his back, then turned around and continued up the path. He could see scattered rocks on either side of the muddy trail now, emerging out of the mist and then disappearing back into it as he strode past them. The drizzle coated his face and he closed his eyes and held out his tongue, catching the droplets.
Tom could be such a two-faced prick sometimes. He always laughed and grinned when Gary was winding James up, and then all of a sudden he’d switch and say mate and make Gary feel as if he’d done something wrong. As if he was the leader of the group, and it was him who decided when something was funny and when it wasn’t.
Tom Carpenter, with his long legs and wide shoulders and his easy way of joking around with people and making them laugh. Mr Fucking Popularity. Tom sat two rows in front of Gary in their English class, sat right in between Sarah Harding and Emma Timpson – the two most popular girls in the year – and just a couple of weeks ago he’d seen Tom laughing with Emma as she giggled and ran her fingers through his curly fucking hair. Gary had seen that and he’d remembered the way Emma had rolled her eyes at him in the corridor when she’d seen him giving the wanker sign to Matt and James as they walked past, and in that moment he’d wanted nothing more than to strangle Tom.
Because it wasn’t fucking fair, was it? Gary was tall and he was just as good at football and running as Tom was, but girls like Emma Timpson rolled their eyes at him and they giggled when Tom did nothing more than glance in their direction.
‘Fucking bitches.’ Gary spat the words out into the drizzle. Saying them felt good. ‘Fucking sluts.’
He suddenly remembered something his dad had told him one night, years ago now. Gary must have been about eight at the time. It was late at night but Gary was still wide awake in his bed, because he was listening to the sounds of his mum and dad arguing in the other room. This wasn’t uncommon, but it always kept him awake and even though he didn’t really want to listen to it he couldn’t help himself.
Shouts. Screaming. Crying sometimes, too. The sound of his mum sobbing through the walls of the house as his dad berated her.
That time had been worse than the other times. He couldn’t remember what they’d been shouting at each other, but he remembered it had gone on for a long time and that he’d heard a crashing sound from the other room that made him sit up straight in his bed, eyes wide with fear as he strained his ears and wondered if he should see what was wrong or go and get help. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Who would he go and get help from? Your parents were the ones you were meant to go to when you were scared. Who did you go to when it was them you were scared about?
Eight-year-old Gary had sat there in the dark, his bladder suddenly feeling very full, clutching his Winnie-the-Pooh teddy bear tightly to his chest and straining his ears for a sound from his parents’ room. He thought he could hear sobbing, but couldn’t be sure. He thought about getting up and leaving his room, but he was too scared. He sat still in the dark and held his breath.
It was about five or ten minutes before he heard his father’s footsteps approaching. Gary lay back down on his pillow and squeezed his eyes shut as the door to his room creaked open.
‘Son? Are you awake?’
Gary held his breath as the footsteps came across the room. He felt the bed creak and sag as his father sat down near the foot of it.
‘It’s alright lad, I know you’re awake.’ Gary opened his eyes and saw his father looking down at him. His eyes were red and Gary could see the veins standing out in his cheeks.
‘You okay, boy?’ Gary’s father shifted closer along the bed and leaned forward to look down at him. Gary restrained the urge to cringe away. His father’s breath smelled of whisky and cigarettes.
‘Did you hear any of that?’
Gary stared up at his father and shook his head slowly, and his father sighed. ‘Yes, of course you did. That bloody woman, she—’
His father paused and looked down at him. He shifted his gaze and glanced around the room, not focusing on anything in particular. Without seeming to realise he was doing so, he reached over and pulled Gary’s Winnie-the-Pooh bear out of his grasp.
‘You’re getting too old for things like this,’ he said mildly, staring out across the room and squeezing the bear in his large hands. Gary noticed his knuckles were red.
‘The thing you’ve got to remember, Gary, is that women aren’t like us.’ He was still staring out across the room. ‘With men, it’s simple. We get angry, sometimes we shout at each other or have it out, and then we move on. Women aren’t like that. You can’t have it out with a woman, because if you do they just cry and then you’re the bad guy.’
He paused, then looked down at Gary. Fixed him with his stony blue eyes.
‘Take it from me, son, you’re best off having nothing to do with those scheming bitches at all. They bring out the worst in us.’
He leaned down and kissed Gary on the forehead, then stood up and went to leave the room. Before he got to the door he glanced at the Pooh bear still in his hands, then tossed it into the corner where it lay next to Gary’s tennis racket and his school P.E. kit. Then he left. Even after the door was closed
and his father’s footsteps had receded down the hallway Gary still didn’t dare to go over and pick it up, afraid it was all a test and that if he moved to get the bear his father would know and come back to teach him a lesson.
2
Gary’s father wasn’t a really big guy like Tom’s dad, but he was strong. Wiry was what he called himself. When Gary was a little kid he used to think that was because his dad fixed the wires in people’s homes for his job, but when he got older he realised it was what Mrs Francis in his English class called a metaphor. Like his dad was made of wires.
Gary didn’t much care for metaphors, but he thought that was a good one. His dad may have lost most of his hair (he shaved his head with an electric razor once a week) and he may have a pot belly, but Gary thought wiry was a good way to describe him just the same.
Every now and then when Gary was little his dad would take him along on his weekend jobs, and Gary would sit there on the floor watching his father as he worked. Watching the cords and muscles stand out in his forearms as he unscrewed plug sockets and tinkered with circuit boards. Watching in awe.
As Gary got older, these work trips grew less and less frequent. Partly because Gary’s dad was working less, and partly because Gary began finding excuses not to go along. The thing was, the trips scared him. It was alright if the people whose houses they were in were at home – that meant Gary’s dad was on his best behaviour. If they were out and the house was empty, though, things were different. When Gary’s dad was stuck with a tricky bit of circuitry he’d shout and swear. Sometimes he’d throw his tools. Once, when Gary was slow handing him a screwdriver, he’d cuffed Gary around the head.
Don’t mind your father, Gary’s mum would sometimes say when he got back from one of these trips and told her what had happened. He’s just got a temper, that’s all.
Got a temper was one of a handful of descriptions Gary increasingly heard people using about his dad as he got older. Another was bitter.
You should have seen your father when he was younger, Gary’s mum once told him when the two of them were alone together. We used to think he was going to make it as a professional footballer. He had trials for Tottenham under 21s when he was a teenager.