12: It's a sin
ON Saturday I listened to Radio 3's comparisons of our GCSE set-text, Vivaldi's Gloria in D, on my black Crown portable (I preferred a boys' choir for the purer sound), then accompanied Dad to McColl's the newsagent on the parade for his Lottery ticket and then the Racecourse for a stamp-fair. I liked going to the racecourse. In the close-season, when there weren't thoroughbreds thundering round the grass, they held antique-fairs, car-boot sales, model-railway exhibitions and military-modelling displays and I had, over the years, acquired many books from their monthly second-hand collectors' stalls. The stamp-fair was OK. Once I'd been really keen and still had this blue, hard-backed album from Stanley Gibbons of 391 Strand, London, WC2. This included a red one-penny stamp from Australia of King George V, a red two-cent George Washington (US Post) from 1902, some weird diamond-shaped ones from Mongolia, a set of twelve stamps issued in 1933 in the Deutsches Reich to mark President Hindenburg's birthday (the 10-mark stamp was missing), a nice set of British cathedrals in old money (York Minster 5d, St Paul’s 9d, Durham 5d, Canterbury 5d, St Giles Edinburgh 5d and Liverpool Metropolitan 1/6d) and the really colourful Christmas stamps I'd liked, angels from 1972 and scenes from Good King Wenceslas from 1973. I'd also collected foreign stamps from places that had changed their names like East Germany (DDR), Ceylon, Tanganyika, the USSR (CCCP) and the Belgian Congo. The countries were all in alphabetical order and I'd stuck flag-stickers on each page. Stamp-collecting had taught me names of countries in their own languages, like Finland is Suomi, Greece is Hellas and Poland is Polska. Cool, eh?
Dad, collecting stamps from the Empire, tracked down some from India with George VI's head on them, four from 1937 and the two he needed to complete his set of nine from 1940, and some coronation stamps from Canada. Though I'd actually grown out of collecting stuff ages ago, it was still an interesting morning out and, for old time's, I bought a four-stamp set for Winston Churchill's centenary and a five-stamp set of British explorers from 1973, which had Livingstone (3p), Stanley (3p), Drake (5p), Raleigh (7½ p) and Sturt (9p). I marvelled that stamps'd once been so cheap. The dealer who sold me the explorers' set, some white-haired old boy with a purple nose and rheumy eyes, was totally checking out my arse. As I sauntered down the grandstand steps, I felt his eyes undressing me. I couldn't help running a hand through my fringe and smiling at him. Jailbait Jenny had arrived.
We watched a bit of telly when we got back. The adverts included Rowenta Tap-Master, which Mum wanted, Denim 'for men who don't have to try,' which Dad wanted, Monster Munch, which I wanted, then a Western movie shoot-out for Hubba Bubba, ('Big Bubbles, No Troubles,') preceded a massive cat like Kitten Kong from The Goodies, stalking a miniaturised Bernard Cribbins round a Hornby railway set. It was all rather disturbing, though I found adverts quite interesting after an English project last year to create our own TV ads and John-Boy Walton, me and Boxhead Harrison (Willie picked the groups) made 'Hob Nobs, the knobby biscuit' and the 1st prize-winning 'eco-friendly shoes – good for the soul,' ha ha.
After lunch, I cycled to Tim's. He'd invited me to tea and to try out this new Battle of Waterloo game he'd got. Although we were still spit-brothers, this, and tennis, was about the only thing we had left in common since he'd exchanged Biggles for the Bible, Kate Bush for Graham Kendrick, pictures of Jimmy Connors for pictures of Jesus and me for that owlishly spectacled tambourine-basher Charlie Rix. He was in a different house, he wasn't in my form any more, or any of my Options groups, having chosen Latin over German, Geography over History, Art over Music. We really had gone our separate ways. He was now about five foot nine, having grown a couple of inches or so since September. God, I was such a titchy little kid, especially now the peachy fuzz on his legs had been matched by some soft down on his cheeks. I didn't envy the moist-looking zits on his forehead or the dandruff flecking his brushed-up centre-parting though. I felt self-conscious enough about this spot in the left corner of my nose but, thank God, at least they weren't spattered all over my face like Maxton's.
At primary, Tim and I had shared a passion for history, especially Big History, leaders, kings and queens, battles and stuff, and mined R. J. Unstead's Story of Britain and Royal Adventurers for tales of Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan and Frederick the Great (favourites of mine), King Alfred, St Augustine and Edward the Confessor (favourites of Tim) and Napoleon, favoured by both. We'd re-enacted much of the Second World War on various carpets with model soldiers and Action Men. We'd played Escape from Colditz over and over, got the wire-cutters, stolen the Staff Car, tunnelled out of the Chapel and collected our Red Cross parcels. We knew every line of The Battle of Britain, calling each other Rabbit Leader (me) and Red Leader (him), shouting 'Scramble' and warning each other to beware the Hun in the sun. Once at grammar school, we had to select two after-school activities so I joined the Choral Society, he joined the Christian Union, and we both joined the Wargames Club. I'd collected a few over the years, Seelöwe, the German invasion of Britain, Search and Destroy, my Vietnam game which involved guerrilla-fighting, laying explosives, digging tunnels and other Viet-Cong stuff, and Global War, the game of World War Two, which took months to play. We had to dismantle it every week, writing all the information in notebooks so we could set it up again seven days later. I'd played it last year with Tim, Adam Rubenstein and Martin Cooke. The Axis forces had won. Playing as the Germans, I had, to a massively appreciative cheer, nuked the Pentagon.
Adam was into space-based games so we'd played this really cool Battlefleet Mars game for several weeks, space combat in the twenty-first century, zapping star-ships with lasers and the like, whilst Cookie got me interested in older stuff, playing as Hannibal in The Punic Wars and as Alexander the Great sweeping through Persia. Although I loved the history, the games I really wanted were Fulda Gap, a 'battalion-level game featuring chemical and nuclear warfare, pitting NATO's active defence against the Soviet multi-echelon attack' and World War Three, which SPI's catalogue described as 'Hypothetical (hopefully) strategic conventional warfare between the superpowers with multi-scenario, nuclear options.' Playing a nuclear war against Adam and Cookie, who were great wargamers, would be challenging.
Anyway, so Waterloo was set up on this table in the loft near Dentist Wilson's model railway. I thought it was really cool, with little tunnels, fake tufts of grass and miniature phone-boxes with miniature people, minuscule cows, and microscopic milk-churns on the platforms. At six o' clock every evening, Dentist Wilson set a tatty grey cap on his tatty grey hair, played a record called Sounds of Steam, sat himself at the console then, pipping an old tin whistle, sent the 1800 from Fuck-Cares-Where chuffing out of the station. Spellbound, I'd watch this green Great Western drag two blood-and-custard carriages through this amazing landscape to a tiny town with thatched cottages, red signal-boxes, skeletal gasometers, butchers' shops, greengrocers and goods yards filled with trucks and shunting engines. It blew my eight-year-old mind. Tim thought it stupid but I envied the awesome railway-set, as I envied the massive tank of brightly coloured tropical fish in his bedroom and his easy, effortless charm with girls.
''How's Holly?'' I asked.
''Fine,'' he answered guardedly. ''Wants to know when you're coming back to the youth group. Says you could help with the confirmation class.''
''Oh,'' I said. I always felt Holly dismissed me as a total heathen. ''You kissed her yet?'' I grinned. ''Or maybe gone a bit further, eh? Eh? Tim? You dog, eh?''
''Don't be so immature,'' he frowned. ''A kiss is as good as a wedding-ring. And as for any further, as you put it, we're still children, you know. And it's Timothy, actually. Holly prefers me to use my full Christian name.''
''You must've held hands,'' I said, ''In the pictures or wherever you go. Timothy.''
''We go to Prayer Group,'' he said piously, ''Where we all hold hands.''
An awkward pause. My best friend had turned into a twat.
''Hey,'' I said, ''You seen that Hornby advert with Bernard Cribbins and Kitten Kong?
''
''No,'' he said disinterestedly. ''You wanna be Napoleon or Wellington?'' He directed me to a beige map marked with green forests, blue rivers and grey buildings and overlaid with a grid of hexagons. Multi-coloured cardboard counters, blue for the French, green for the Prussians and red for the British, were heaped in groups on their starting hexagons. I studied the rulebook, the victory conditions and demoralization levels on page 6 and the combat results table and probability ratios on the board itself.
''What would Charlie choose?''
''Charlie doesn’t believe in playing at war,'' said Timothy. ''He says it's not Christian. I might do Bible Study instead. By the way, we had a great time down the soup-kitchen last weekend. You really should come. There's some really interesting people.''
''Tramps.''
''Don't be so judgmental, Jonny. Just because they're tramps doesn't make them bad people. You have to look for the person within. Now who do you want to be?''
''Napoléon Blownapart, hon hon,'' I said, adopting an outrageous Inspector Clouseau accent. ''Ze Frenchies are coming, Monsewer Teem. 'Ide your flurffy leetle sheep.''
Studying the map, I decided to avoid the chateau, concentrate my fire on the flanks and work round Hougomont on the left. Then I could send the cavalry round the right through Papelotte, create a pincer and surround the whole Allied line, with a diversionary excursion to Les Vieux Amis and Waterloo itself. Scribbling the start-time of 1100 hours on 18th June 1815 on a pad, I rolled the dice and sent General Jacquinot's First Cavalry Division over the top whilst the infantry left Plançenoit for the Lasne River. I'd done some preliminary research by consulting last year's history project. Chapter 11, about the Last 100 Days, started on page 72 with my brief summary of Napoleon's escape from Elba and his march into Paris at the head of the very troops sent to arrest him. Now that's what I call leadership.
Anyway, my account of the Battle of Waterloo said that ''a sunken road ran nearly all the way along Wellington's front-line. This road was bounded on the right by the Château Hougomont and on the left by the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte and the village of Papelotte. At 11.30 a.m. the French artillery opened fire from the opposite plateau of La Belle Alliance. Then four divisions began moving forward against the British left-centre and the Dutch and Belgian brigade there fled in panic.'' I was hoping the same would happen on the first game-turn of the simulation. ''A fifth division,'' my project continued, ''Took the grounds of La Haye Sainte after Dubois's cuirassiers had ridden down some Hanoverians. Just then, a stunning volley crashed into the French and the British 5th Division charged forward, led by their commander, General Picton.''
Timothy, following history, sent two units against Fichermont but the dice fell badly and he had to retreat. Sending an artillery unit into the village, I seized the bridge and cried ''Ha ha, ze breedge, c'est moi!''
''You're such a spaz, Jonny,'' frowned Tim. ''You just said you are the bridge. You should have said 'Le pont est à moi'.''
''It was a joke, Timothy.'' Man, he was so serious these days. He even wore serious clothes, this plain blue shirt with the collar buttoned and a grey crew-neck sweater. He'd never race Space Hoppers down his drive with me again, you know? Fifteen going on fifty.
We totted up the casualty-count. I'd lost 28 of the 60 available. Another 32 and I'd lose the game. Tim'd lost 16 out of a possible 45. It'd been a bloody first Game-Turn, but I'd gained a lot of territory. Unfortunately the battle went from bad to worse. A series of disastrous engagements cost me a further eleven points, with no ground gained at all, save for some tiny farmhouse miles away from the Allied line. Then Tim advanced the Prussians to the Lasne Bridge. This wasn't good. Sucking my pencil, I decided to gamble and dispatched a cavalry unit round the rear of Hougomont to tie up the English infantry and three units to Lasne to delay the Prussians till I could get some proper reinforcements. Then I captured Les Vieux Amis at odds of 16-18. Although the Prussians drove me back from Lasne, there were resounding successes all over the battlefield. The gamble seemed to have paid off. Papelotte, two hexes worth, was in my hands, along with half of Braine L'Alleud on the left flank. In fact, the Allies were being driven steadily back as the French continued their remorseless advance.
Tim unleashed the Prussians on the Couture Marshes then fell into my trap by detaching several cavalry units from LVA to support his infantry at La Haye Sainte where I'd feinted an assault. Everywhere, the French held firm, the Allies collapsed. Immediately I renewed my attack on Braine, moving the Imperial Guard into position for a concentrated assault on Hougomont itself. Massing my troops against the château, I unleashed the dice. The ratio in the book was 36: 18. Two to one. If the Guard failed, I'd lose 'cos the points lost would exceed the Demoralisation Level. It was another huge gamble.
But I did not fail. Hougomont fell and the Grenadiers moved in. Punching the air, I crowed ''You lost it, Monsewer Teem. Surrender your tasty 'orses to our fine French chefs.''
Abandoning restraint, he hurled the Dornberg cavalry unit over a ridge against my Chasseurs, at odds of 1-5. Inevitably, they were totally destroyed and the Battle of Waterloo collapsed into isolated pockets of desperate fighting. I held all the strategic positions but everything now hinged on my casualties staying below the sixty-point limit.
Tim chipped away, grinding me down, a point here, a point there. I decided to fall back, consolidate my remaining strength but most of my forces were cut off from the centre. I was just 6 points away from defeat, Tim, aided by the Prussians, 16. This was just like the real battle, I realised, and unleashed everything I had against the left-flank and rear of Hougomont in an attempt to eliminate his artillery, which was totally battering the Guards around the château. I lost another 2 points, but took 6 off Tim. It was going to be tight.
Tim retaliated by reinforcing La Haye Sainte and forcing the Clocq Forest. My Imperial Guard cavalry unit was destroyed at a cost of four points, and that was that. Defeat. According to page 74 of my project, ''The French faltered and Wellington ordered a charge. Maitland's men lowered their bayonets and charged, the 'Invincibles' fleeing before them. The Prussians swept out from Plançenoit and the British swept over the French battle-stations. Napoleon rode from the field with his army behind him, his Empire finished.'' Bonaparte was indeed Blownapart. Bollocks.
Disappointed, I surveyed the map while Tim sat back with a self-satisfied smirk. I was still holding Hougomont and Papelotte/Fichermont. I'd also cleared the bend of the river and swept the Allies completely from the Eastern edge of the map. I still held Maransart and the Lasne river crossing, so territorially I was still dominant. I'd lost ultimately 'cos of that disastrous first Game-Turn where none of my attacks had succeeded and nearly half my casualty points had been lost. Only the risky venture against the château had paid off. However, just like in history, if it hadn't been for the Prussians… I wondered if it were actually possible for the French ever to win at Waterloo. I'd beaten Tim playing as the Germans on D-Day, pushing his Allies back into the sea. I'd also beaten him in Seelöwe, successfully masterminding the German invasion of Britain. But Waterloo? It always came down to the Prussians, and the casualty counts. Bloody Hun in the Sun, yeah?
As we settled in their antiseptically neat living-room with its nest of tables and pastel paper for the end of Grandstand and the footie scores, I wondered how Dad had got on with the pools this week as Spurs lost 3-0 to Villa and the Merseyside derby ended 2-2. Nicking Philip Brudenall's joke, I said ''Everton are magic. Watch them disappear from the league.''
Tim grunted. He wasn't much interested in football. He hadn't watched England lose controversially to Romania in midweek. Mind you, I wished I hadn't either. Diabolical display, as the pundits had said, despite the dodginess of Romania's seventy-fifth minute penalty. Couldn't see us qualifying for the World Cup Finals now, but what's new, eh?
Tim wasn't much interested in Doctor Who either. Well, fair enough. This particular story had this cactus for a villain. It was hardly scary. You'd just wate
r it to a soggy death, wouldn't you? It was hardly Sarah Jane facing down Davros the Great Creator, was it? And this was the genius part. What if Davros, the creator-exterminator, was right? That mankind was like sooo tiny we didn't actually matter? I for one was desperate for the aliens to come and save us. Anyway, The Muppets were like hysterical, you know? They started with Paul Simon duetting 'Scarborough Fair' with Miss Piggy, this brilliant Waldorf-Statler line that they'd seen better 'fairs' on the bus, then Gonzo did this song, 'For You': ''For youuu... I'd wash my hair with stinky glue, I'd fry my legs and eat them too, I'd put a spider in my shoe… for yoouuuu!'' Then his chickens and asparagus (like, WTF?) ran away… man, it was mental, and we laughed like drunken hyenas. Tim and I were slowly re-bonding, especially when I said I liked his drawings.
As I said, he did Art as his option and he was actually pretty good. He'd done this grey pencil-sketch of a leafless tree at the end of a footpath. It was set against an empty sky, and I liked the way he'd used light and shade for contrast. It reminded me of David Hockney. He was also working on some pencil sketch of a Rubik's Cube. This, apparently, was a class project in which everyone had to incorporate or translate the cube into some other image. Tim had distorted his into this squeezed diamond shape with a thorn on the top and a drop of blood oozing from the bottom. A lynx-eye stared from the centre. I said it was cool and asked if I might have it for the school magazine. Now he was so flattered he asked what I was planning to play at the music competition and when I said Chopin, he said I was really good with Chopin. Then his Mum called us for tea into this like brown-and-orange kitchen with these mental Moroccan-style brown ceramic tiles and beige Formica tops – the latest fashion, apparently.
She'd baked lasagne, usually one of my favourites, but too much Parmesan made the whole kitchen reek of sick. A jug of water stood on the table in front of Tim's sullenly glaring sister, Julie, whom I had, of course, known forever.
''Hello, Julie,'' I said cheerily.
''Would you like some orange squash, Jonathan?'' asked Mrs Wilson. ''Or milk?''
''No thank you,'' I said. ''It's terrible stuff, all chemicals, E-numbers and Tartrazine and milk makes me spew.''
''I'd forgotten what a strange little boy you are,'' she answered tightly. ''I don't suppose you've got a girlfriend yet?''
Flushing, I muttered I was dating Claire Ashton. Mrs Wilson snorted sceptically.
As I pulled out a chair, Julie turned on me. ''Why don't you come to church any more? Have you stopped believing?''
''No,'' I said, ''But my piano lesson's on Sunday now so fitting it in's a bit tricky.''
''You shouldn't be just 'fitting' Jesus into your life,'' Julie said disapprovingly.
''Are you still with Barbara Lennox?'' asked Mrs Wilson, taking the lasagne out of the oven. She'd been terribly jealous when I was accepted by the best piano teacher in Northern England while Tim was plodding through Grade 1. In Mrs Wilson's mind, Tim could've had the same if he'd had such a break but he wasn't invited to audition because, basically, he was shit at music. To Mrs Wilson, though, there was nothing I could do that Tim couldn't do better and I'd clearly blagged or bribed my way onto Mrs Lennox's books. Nothing to do with natural talent, obviously, or being fucking brilliant for my age.
''To be honest,'' I added, ''I don't really enjoy that type of worship any more, guitars and tambourines and stuff. I'd rather have an organ.'' Realising what I'd just said, I giggled and clapped my hand to my lips. ''Gosh, I don't mean…'' I went phone-box red. ''That sounded sooo gay.'' I giggled again.
''Like your friend Rosie,'' said Tim sourly.
''Alistair Rose?'' said Julie curiously. ''Gail's got such a crush on him, like from when they did Midsummer Night's Dream together.''
''She's not the only one,'' muttered Tim, half under his breath.
Gail, playing Titania, had leched after Alistair's open-shirted Oberon but, now it was crystal-clear, he'd only had eyes for me, in my green war-paint, shorts and satin leaves. Fuck. How hadn't I noticed at the time? God, and that photo. It was so gay. Fuck.
''I keep telling her,'' said Julie, ''You're wasting your time with that one. King of the Fairies? Talk about type-casting.''
''He isn't gay,'' I said defensively, blushing hotly. ''He's just confused.''
''Huh,'' grunted Tim. ''Same difference. And you made quite a good fairy yourself.''
Fortunately his dad arrived, greeting me with a cheerful ''long time, no see, Jon-Jon. Busy with your music and stuff, are you? Got a girlfriend yet? I mean, you're fifteen, aren't you? Timothy's got loads of girlfriends. I mean, you're not bad-looking, Jon-Jon.''
Cheers, you cheeky slap-headed twat.
''He's actually going out with the headmaster's daughter,'' smirked Tim loudly.
I turned the colour of Superman's pants.
When the food arrived on the table, I dug in merrily, then froze. The others were staring at me, expressions of horror etched on their features.
''Grace, Jonathan, grace!'' said Mrs Wilson, shocked at my forgetfulness. ''I don't know what you do in your house (you bunch of Hell-bound heathens) but in this house we give thanks for our food.''
Tim thanked the Lord for blessing us with food and companionship, asked Him to save us from sin and invoked His peace on the world, His people and on us. Amen.
''You should pray for Rosie,'' Julie said sanctimoniously, ''That Jesus will enter his heart and heal his sickness.''
''It isn't a sickness,'' I said passionately. ''It's a natural state.''
''Homosexuality?'' Mrs Wilson was incredulous. ''Of course it isn't, Jonathan. It's about as unnatural a state as anything could possibly be.''
''These people need therapy,'' added Julie.
''Why?'' I protested. ''If two people love each other, it doesn't matter, does it?''
The Wilsons' collective look of blank incomprehension and Tim's sad, slow shake of the head and murmured suggestion I read my Bible should've warned me to shut up and eat my dinner but they didn't and I was becoming angry.
''I don't get why you're so bothered by what others do in their bedrooms,'' I said. ''Blimey, Tim, you said I'm judgemental.''
Mrs Wilson repeated that she'd forgotten what a strange little boy I was. Furiously, I forked up some lasagne. It was stone-cold. I left soon after.
When I got home, Mum and Dad were waiting in the kitchen. Mum had the kind of expression that normally goes with the tapping of a hand against a rolling-pin, you know?
''What's up?'' I said. ''I'm not late, am I?''
''Pam Wilson phoned,'' she said. ''Apparently you got into a fight about homosexuality.''
I shrugged, whilst struggling to believe the mardy cow had rung to complain. ''So what? She's a stupid, ignorant woman. You know that. You've said it yourself.''
''See?'' said Dad. ''I told you he was just being provocative. You know what he's like.''
''She said you said homosexuality was normal,'' said Mum.
''Well,'' I said, still standing in the doorway, ''It is.''
Then there was this like nuclear explosion of what I can only describe as a load of old bollocks about Nature and God and marriage and kids and family and the collapse of civilisation and so on – you can fill it in for yourself – and Dad finishing it off with this kind of strangled 'How can it be normal? Some fat, hairy bloke shoving his cock up your arse?'
''Roy!'' gasped Mum.
''Well,'' said Dad. ''Anyway, what do you know about it, Jonathan?''
''Nothing,'' I said bitterly, slumping into a chair. ''There aren't any books about it, not for teenagers. There aren't any novels, or characters in novels. If you're g…,'' I changed words, ''If you're a teenager, there's nothing out there to help you. There aren't even any magazines. There's only Gay Times, that's for adults, and Smith's doesn't stock it any more anyway.''
''I should hope not,'' said Mum. ''Filling silly kids' heads with filth.''
''Filth?'' I protested. ''Information, Mum, information, so you know what it'
s all about.''
''I don't want you knowing what it's all about,'' she snapped. ''It's that Alistair Ross, teaching you all sorts of rubbish. I don't like you hanging around with him.''
''He thinks too much,'' said Dad censoriously.
''Since when was thinking a crime?'' I yelled. ''You should try it sometime, Dad. Give your brain a visit like every decade or so. Maybe you'd find something interesting, but I doubt it.'' His face crumpled like an empty crisp packet. Immediately regretting this cheap shot, I apologised, but the damage was done. ''Maybe it's a generational thing,'' I said placatingly.
''So we're a bunch of dinosaurs,'' Mum cut in, ''Because we have morals and standards?'' Suddenly she flashed ''I don't want to talk about this any more, Jonathan. Get off your bloody soap-box, please, or leave the room.''
''What if I am?'' I snarled. ''What if I'm homosexual? What if I’m gay, eh? What then?''
''Don't be so bloody ridiculous,'' said Mum.
''What's ridiculous?'' I shot back. ''Suppose I am gay. What then? Eh? Eh?''
''You're not gay,'' she said with an air of finality. ''God Almighty, Jonathan, why do you have to be so bloody melodramatic? You've become an insufferable little brat, you know?''
Christ, why was everyone against me? Tim, Julie, Dad, Mum… everyone. Mum said I wasn't gay. So I wasn't. End of chat.
''Stay away from Alistair Ross,'' said Dad suddenly.
''Rose!'' I screamed. ''He's called Rose! There is no Alistair Ross. He's Alistair Rose, for fuck's sake. Get his name right! Ow! Get off, Mum. You're hurting me.'' Her fingers were digging deeply into my upper arm. She was actually shaking me.
''Whatever,'' said Dad. ''You're not to see him again.''
''Bit hard,'' I said defiantly, ''Since we're in the same house and catch the same bus.''
''From now on,'' said Dad, attempting to be decisive, ''I'll collect you in the car.''
''No!'' God, only total losers got picked up by their folks. ''What is wrong with you?''
''What's wrong with you, more like?'' Mum fired back.
''You know!'' I yelled, storming out of the kitchen.
I heard her scream after me ''Don't slam the fucking door!'' as I slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. I heard her start pounding upstairs after me, then Dad yelling at her to calm down and her raging that he always took my side and what was wrong with him?
I wasn't used to fighting with my parents – I don't think only children are – and I hated it. We got along so well. We hardly ever argued about anything and I didn't do the stereotypical teenage thing, you know, like loafing around in bed all day with super-loud music and a bad attitude. Sure, they told me off about stuff when I was a kid, like sitting up straight and not eating bread-crusts off the bird-table and not chewing my hoodie strings but that's what parents do, isn't it? To tell you that kind of stuff? Not that your love for someone else is 'filth'.
I put on The Cure CD Andy Paulus had given me for my birthday and cranked up the volume – ''I try to laugh about it, Cover it all up with lies, I try to laugh about it, hiding the tears in my eyes, 'Cause boys don't cry…''
My folks were such bloody dinosaurs they ought to be featured in Carey Miller's Dictionary of Monsters and Mysterious Beasts, except, if they'd gone alphabetically as The Peters Family, they'd've been between Pegasus the Flying Horse on page 125 and the red-gold fiery Phoenix on page 126, two super-cool beasts, which wouldn't have been right. No, they'd have to go near the ogres or trolls.
''Why's the landing light on?'' shouted Dad. ''This isn't the bloody Blackpool illuminations, you know! And turn that racket down!''
Furiously waving two fingers at the Dalek on my door, I screamed ''Fuck off!''
Sobbing with rage, I slapped my face, then, crying a little, because I knew what I had to do, how much it would hurt, but the blood-sacrifice would save me. I took the compass from my Oxford Maths set, bit my left wrist to stifle the scream and stabbed my left thigh twice.
Out: A Schoolboy's Tale Page 12