Short Shocks 2

by Andy Love

  He returned from the burial of his Father, Jack Bonner. As a boy, he enjoyed the tree-lined cemetery at the end of the village. It was a place of peace, quiet and lacked the pain at home.

  Thoughts of his father, ‘Sir’ were pained, when he experienced the most strict and cruel person in his entire life. He thought dolefully about his childhood.

  ‘There were nice times with him, but more bad than good.’

  “No,” he forced from his throat. “Can’t tell no lies.”

  There’s no point in Pete lying, to hide his father persecution of weak people.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  He recalled as a boy, his Father’s cowardice, when he picked on those unfit to defend from the evil and abusive man. Most people disliked him, but some hated and despised the drunken slob. His unshaven grey flecks and unclean appearance always screamed oppressiveness. The broad shoulders on his tall, drab frame swaggered with each step. Jack’s hair-lip exaggerated with ire and increased his many flaws.

  A damp and rancid smell always flowed from Jack Bonner’s clothes. His faux-fur coat aged into matted peaks, and dragged behind him on the snow, like a beaten dog, which obeyed his every whim. The cowardly anger and frustration of his peers were vented at home, which happened too often for the boy.

  He remembered the good moments from his childhood: the warm sun, flightiness of seeds in the air, and multitude of scents from flowers, which carpeted the woods. Birds called to their potential mates, the gurgle from the river as it reached through the trees, and the secrets whispered by the leaves.

  Winter in the isolated woods devoured the recollections of summer in winter. A thick blanket of snow muffled all the pleasurable aromas and sounds. Dark ominous shapes remained, to contrast the white icing on the earth cake. The trees were arthritic, skinned and scared. Their frozen limbs were exposed to the bite of savage north winds. The woods persisted with their whispers in the cold.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Pete’s muscular physic shifted in the car seat, as numbness developed in his buttocks, and an uncomfortable fullness strained his stomach. The acrid stench of stale urine from the back seat made him nauseous, as he shifted his weight once again. His head twitched violently, to shake off the thoughts of his father’s cruelty. He let out a blow of tension between his tightly pursed lips, and realised how taught his muscles were.

  His mind drifted back to a moment before the horrific night infested the Bonner family, a time when he was a confused and innocent boy.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  At seven years tall, Pete stood at the bedroom window and blew hot breath onto the iced glass. Grey braces were strapped over his shoulders. They clipped to the top of his knee-length grey wool shorts.

  The boy scraped off partially thawed ice, and loved the squeak it made against his fingers. He peered at the world through his own little porthole. It served as a private spyglass to the world, while he leaned against the window ledge, alone. With chin on hands, the boy knelt and stared out at the snowy woods beyond.

  His white Arran jumper and left-parted black greasy hair reflected in the pane. Strong gusts of wind heaved against the side of the old wooden house, and groaned its tired joints. The wind screamed periodically through cracks in the old timber house, and whistled a lullaby for him to hear.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Pete pressed his face of stubble hard against the car window, and the coolness soothed his aching head. He watched his foul breath, mist up the glass when he exhaled. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. An unbearable thirst with a mouth so dry, he found it hard to swallow.

  He licked condensation from the window, and let cool moisture sit on his tongue, but still dry as the flaccid breasts on a witch. The molars crunched the edge of his tongue, as he tried to swallow. Blood ebbed inside his mouth, across the taste buds and trickled down his throat. He smiled. The taste took him back to the horrific night, of his mother’s premature death. His childhood revisited.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  He peered out the window, as the snow constantly switched direction in the icy wind. He saw a vision of him as a shy little boy, bullied in the playground, and pushed from one tormentor to the next. He became so dizzy and confused in the rain, before he fell into the mud. The young boy showed signs of inferiority. His father always shouted. ‘Tears are for women and fuckwits! Are you a fuckwit, boy?’ The bullies laughed and laughed until their sides ached, per chance an escape for the boy. His attendance at school became plagued with bullies and heckles. He absorbed the barrage of insults that children inflict on each other. The mar gouged deep into his soul.

  Pete found peace when he listened to the voices in the wind, but his parent’s argued in the lounge. Their sounds of ire mingled and spoiled. He’d learned to ignore it, but unable to block it out completely. So hard, he wished to become deaf at times such as this. The altercations were more frequent as childhood dragged on.

  His feet protested at the strangulation, by tight plastic shoes. Unable to flow, the blood forced its impatience on his ankles. His shorts were held up by plain grey braces, which failed to protect his bare legs against the rough cold floorboards.

  He tugged at the laces, managed to get one shoe off, pulled the lace on the other, which took longer to wrench off. It eventually gave way and he fell backward. Pete smiled, rolled back and forth on the floor, but remembered the parental warning of no noise. No laughter. He rubbed his feet.

  Shouts of anger came from his parents again, but louder this time. His smile disappeared quickly; he knew raised voices were a prelude to another coverage of welts. The hurt underneath took longer to disappear than the ones he kept covered.

  Pete shuffled to the closed door. A draft from the keyhole made him blink, but he endured to spy.

  “Jack, I’ve not got enough to last the week,” his Mother whined. Jack slapped her face and aped.

  “I’ve not got enough Jack! I never get enough, Jack! Jack!”

  She suffered from the back of Jack’s hand, as he ridiculed Mary’s lack of income. “Maybe if you didn’t waste all the fuckin’ money on drugs, we might have more, you crazy bitch.”

  She defended her prescriptions and defied his need to control the only situation he could.

  “So you can spend it at the pub. I need…” His dry-skinned knuckles punched her face again with a painful sound.

  The boy shuffled from the door, and listened intently to the song the wind whispered through the cracks. He listened intently to the lullaby, for him, alone.

  His mother screamed at the heavy blows dispensed, each punch resounded through the sparsely furnished room, as Jack hurled abuse on each explosive fist. A small silence allowed a thought to surface in the boy’s mind as he shivered. ‘There, did you hear a thud next door? It’s like, when my snowman’s head fell off, into crunchy snow.’

  The front door grated open, slammed shut and a cold draft crept under his bedroom door. He jumped back with fright at the vibration on his knees, and the rattle from the window. His heart raced when the house fell silent. Father’s heavy footfalls crunched through the snow, toward the Black Crow Bar. The boy knew this to be but a lull in the massacre of both mother’s and his emotions. Physical torment would follow the stench of alcohol on father’s return.

  Pete crept with stealth to his bedroom door, and heard his Mother sob so hard; he thought she was short of breath. His stomach churned, nausea swept through him, as if frogs puffed and exploded inside. His chest tightened, like when the overweight school bully sat on him and farted. He tried to hold his breathe as everyone laughed. The confusion and fear showed involuntary tears that trailed down his cheeks.

  The boy thought he should go out and comfort his mother. Pete opened the door a splinter wide, and a little more. He shuffled up to her as she sat in the chair, and the open fire created a glow to her outline. His young mind peppered with concern, he placed a hand on his mother’s arm, and shook it with question in mind.

  "Mum?” He sniffed.

  Mary tur
ned and lifted her head startled. Pete stood with his mouth gapped in awe. His mother looked like a crying monster: black tears, red eyes and puffy lumps on her face. Fresh trails of blood from her mouth ran over the dry and smeared blood underneath.

  "What the hell do you want, boy?"

  His mother snatched him by the arms and lifted him from the floor. She shook him violently, as the boy’s head thrust back and forth, teeth chattering.

  "Can't you leave me alone in peace, for one bloody second?" She screamed in Pete’s face.

  Tears flooded as confusion grew, and his neck pained. "But Mum."

  Mary dropped her Son and swiftly slapped his face. "Don't you ‘But Mum’ me," threw Pete across the floor. "Get to your fuckin' bed. I don't want to see you again, ever. Get out of my sight."

  The boy lay on the floor in confusion, unsure what to do now. He tried hard to understand these events, to comprehend his mother’s badness. How can he be the bad one? He only wanted to help, protect her — comfort her. Why? Her tongue lashed out hurtful words again, as she stooped toward Pete.

  "Are you going to bed, or do I tell your father? He can deal with you."

  If Sir were told about his disobedient Son, Pete would be off school. He’d be sick for a good few days, until the illness healed some. He jumped up, ran to his room and closed the door. His hand trembled on the handle, and wide dark eyes stared in terror. Mary shouted another warning, "and bloody stay there until I say, ya little bastard."

  He sobbed softly to sleep and watched shadows slide through the trees. The wind whispered a lullaby for him to hear, and obey. He rubbed the pain away in his arms and wondered if they would bruise again.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  The young man scanned inside the car. Pete became drowsy, and his eyes flitted left to right. His raised eyebrows struggled to keep the eyelids open. His jacket constricted and strangled his bloated stomach as organs were pressed against bone. His body pressurised, like one of those new and convoluted steam digesters, a contraption to cook from the inside and force a puree of organs from every orifice.

  It reminded him of the discomfort in his guts, on the night he stared at his Mother’s carcass on the lounge floor. She was partially hidden beneath a bloody blanket. Dead.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  He recalled the events, a vision with clarity. Pete wrestled from a boyish dream to the sound of strange, raised voices. Heavy feet shuffled and stomped behind his bedroom door as bright beams of white light, swept around his bedroom walls. He sat up in bed; frightened the Martians landed and were about to take his Mum to their distant planet.

  The handle rattled before the door groaned open like an angry ghost. A large silhouette crept through, and cast a shadow across the floor. Blackness spread over his bed as a hulking figure lurched into the room. Light from the window tinted the invader’s profile with colour. Pete made out, what looked like lights on a runway up the front of the body, and terminated with one big shiny eye. It resembled a monster from one of the comics he stole a look at in the local store. Something else his parents never bought, or allowed him to read. He snuck a peek in the store, when his parent’s watchful eyes were averted.

  "Pete,” a male voice whispered. The kind and calm baritone voice found its way to his ears, and brought him back to reality. He recognized it as Police Sergeant James Bailey. He visited the house regularly, for some trouble or other his Father got into. "Pete, you alright son?"

  The boy let tightly clutched covers, drop from his neck. He realised the runway of large shiny buttons as the front of a Policeman’s coat. The big eye was now a visible badge in the middle of a helmet.

  "Sergeant Bailey, what are you doing here? Are you here for the Martians? Was Dad bad again? Are you here to help Mum? Where’s all the…"

  "Slow down young man, calm yourself. It’ll be all right. We need to take you to Doc Ingram's house for a while. Just for a visit. Would you like that?"

  Young Pete barely nodded in acceptance. The Policeman scooped him up and carried him to the Doctor’s car. Pete’s small face snuggled close to Sergeant’s head, and gazed at his cauliflower ears.

  All those years as a boy, James’ ears were pulled and slapped by his father. He was forced to box in the army, not so much for the sport, but for the gratification of his superiors. This contributed to the cauliflower appearance and damage to his hearing. It gave him a rugged appearance, rough on the outside, but not so much on the inside.

  A wry smile crept across the boy’s mouth, but didn’t reach his fixated eyes. He extended an arm behind Sergeant Bailey, flexed his hand open, and closed again. It was a childish farewell, to the bloody body-shaped blanket on the lounge floor. James opened the car door with his free hand and placed the terrified boy in the back seat. Doctor Ingram eventually managed to get the defective window wound down, leaned out and looked up at his friend, Ginger – Sergeant Bailey to anyone else outside his old platoon.

  "Thanks Ginger, I'll see you down at the station, when I get young Pete settled in at the house. Helen will take good care of him, now. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine."

  James nodded. "OK, John. We’re going to pick up Jack Bonner first. He’ll be down the pub. He’ll probably brag to his mates, how he taught his nag of a wife a lesson. He’s gone too far this time, John. I’ll see you later?"

  Doctor Ingram winked at the Sergeant. “No problem.”

  The Doctor’s car crunched slowly down the snowy road, and the night folded around the taillights.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Mrs. Ingram busied herself around the local store. She collected provisions for the extra mouth to feed. It’s been over a week since the boy came to stay, and his voracious appetite ate into her housekeeping money. Pete headed for the newspapers, magazines and comics. A picture of his dead Mother caught his attention. Her name emblazoned the headline of the local Dragtoun Daily newspaper, and with closer inspection – if he could read – a part of the reported story stated.

  Local mother Mary Bonner. Beaten to death.

  Found dead after an anonymous report, of disturbance at the Bonner’s address. The Police arrested her husband, Jack Bonner, who was later sent to prison for 15 years. Her son, Pete Bonner has been taken into care.

  The Judge stated it is the most horrific attack seen in his entire career. He also stated the sentence reflected the callous disinterest of Mr. Bonner’s act.

  Helen Ingram grabbed hold of the boy’s wrist. “No, Pete!” She yanked him away from the stand and studied the youngster’s eyes. “You shouldn’t read that, Pete. It’ll upset you.”

  “Jesus, it upsets me.” She whispered to herself.

  The boy blushed with embarrassment, when Helen dragged him by the hand from the shop. She pulled him to the street and into public gaze. His faced radiated heat as anger raged within.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  The heat inside the car increased, and a flush swept over Pete’s face. So despondent, and a bead of sweat rolled down his nose, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t satisfy the dampness on his back, or adjust his sticky groin. His torso rocked back and forth in the car as body odour crawled up his nose in waves. He stared at the stitches on the vinyl seat between his legs. It glowed brightly in the afternoon sun, like the summer as a teenager.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  The Ingram’s off-loaded him to a new family Although he was not happy about being forced to live with the Mackenzie’s seven years later, he was happy Doc Ingram stopped the injections.

  He remembered the misguided kindness Nellie and Bill Mackenzie showed him. The couple made an odd…comfortable pair: her heart of stone made her a grumpy woman, who didn’t make time for the boy, as she always worked downstairs in their restaurant. She misguided people, by taking bookings for meals. When customers arrived at a greasy little Café, they stressed they were deceived, disappointed and angry.

  He sensed resentment to his presence, a teenager who cluttered her life. Because of this child, she spent less time at her precious restau
rant.

  Bill Mackenzie mirrored the ilk of his bitter wife, when it came to their business. In his late 40’s, a bald patch on the crown of his head complemented his portly, but reasonably fit appearance. He always wore a turquoise apron, a little faded on the front, but it remained his favourite. At least he managed to spend time with the boy, and exercised patience. He taught the lad about life, how to look after and defend himself.

  He and Pete would enjoy their time together, have a laugh and compete against each other on who could lift the most weights in the garage.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Many years of feud between Nellie and the lad slid past, until one insidious day. A whisper awoke, gorged on his trauma and continued to burgeon. They infested his head with cacophonous whispers, and demanded assuage. The teenager’s nerves and body were shredded, weakened by the unbearable pain and lack of sleep, which masked any rational thoughts. He wanted to be free from the torment, but this meant he must obey the frenetic whispers.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Nellie Mackenzie mumbled in the middle of the kitchen, her slippers neatly placed on the old hardwood chair. Her precious washing machine spewed out soapy fluid onto the floor, in protest of its overload and lack of maintenance.

  The vexed woman unconsciously directed her annoyance to the defective and mischievous clothes washer, as she stood barefoot in the flood.

  “Oh dear, that’s all we need.”

  Defiant, she placed each hand on her ample hips, looked from the floor to the Belfast sink and wondered how to transfer the water

  She sensed a presence watch her. Nellie glimpsed Pete on the step that led down into the kitchen. With his left hand on top of his head, right shoulder supported his weight against the kitchen doorway. He pressed the side of his right index finger against his lips; partly to stop the fetid voices escape his head. His smirk widened, while his black eyes stared, and remained callous.