by Gerard Gray
“Discipline,” I proffered, “lack of discipline in schools for one. There’s no discipline anymore. Anyone can see that. We’re not even allowed to discipline our own kids in our own homes.”
“You mean corporal punishment? Fucking bollocks. Let me get this straight – taking our violent friend here as an example. Do you think that if we had beaten this boy in the classroom that he wouldn’t have beaten you up in the street? Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron? So, to stop him hitting you, we hit him. You went to University, right? Fuck, they’ll let anyone in these days.”
Steven walked over to the beleaguered boy, placing the knife down onto the table. “No, Peter, it’s the media who’s to blame for this moronic society. That finely honed machine that preys on society’s fears. And do you know why? Because fear sells, and that’s what they’re in the business of doing: selling stories. Terrorists, youths with knives, MMR, Paedophiles, Global warming, they spin them all to the point where you don’t know what the fucking truth is anymore. No wonder we’re all on Prozac.
“But let’s go back to your precious youth of today? Let’s go back to that. Boy do they pedal that one: the youth of today is far worse than the youth of yesterday. And you eat it all up. There is no broken society, just brainwashed mugs.” Steven laughed. “You’re not taking this in, are you? You think I’m fucking with your head. Let me put it to you another way. When you’re young the world is your oyster, you’re a loose cannon free to roam wherever you choose. You can go around the world, join a band, hang around on a street corner drinking with your mates, anything, you have no ties. Then you get older, find a wife, buy a house, have kids and settle down. All you want to do at the end of the day is come home, close your door and relax with a glass of wine in the firm knowledge that both you and your loved ones are snug, cosy and warm. You’re no longer a loose cannon; your goals in life have changed. In short, you want stability, but what threatens stability? I’ll tell you what. Loose cannons threaten stability. Anything that threatens your family and home threatens stability. The youth haven’t changed over the years, Peter, you have. You’re middle aged, just like the rest of society. The youth are no more a threat to you now than they’ve ever been.
“Please don’t hurt the boy,” I mumbled.
Steven smiled, all the while analysing me behind his shielded glasses. Without looking at the table his hand reached out and picked up a pair of scissors. He opened them slightly, moving them towards the boy’s hand.
I quickly got to my feet, making a pleading gesture.
The scissors stopped just before reaching the boy’s fingers.
Steven paused thoughtfully. “Since we’re on the subject. Do you know when that phrase was first coined?” Steven moved the scissors away from his victim and pointed them towards a wall. For a moment he reminded me of a teacher I once had. He had had long grey hair tied back in a ponytail as well, but he didn’t have glasses. “Do you want to know when the first person turned around and said that they thought the youth of today was far worse than in their day? Do you want to know?”
I stared into the face of the moribund kid. He was no longer screaming, but he was shivering violently. I had to stop this madman from doing anything else to him. I had to keep him talking until I figured out how to get out of these cuffs.
“I’ll tell you when it was first coined. Ancient Greece – three thousand years ago, at least that’s when it was first documented. I’m sure such middle-aged thoughts have been running round our heads since we were swinging from the trees – the monkey youth of today.” Steven laughed out loud on saying this. He was amusing himself.
“Yes, the press are to blame as much as anybody,” he said, his laughter abating. “But I have to admit they do know how to throw a good party. Did you see what they threw for my brother? And what about the two towers? Do you remember the two towers, Peter?
I stared at him slightly confused, wondering where he was going with his mad rant now.
“Well, I do,” he continued. “Did you watch it live, or did you hear about it on the news afterwards?”
“Sorry?”
Steven smiled.
“Did you watch it live or on the news afterwards?”
I staggered in my thoughts. “I think… I saw the second tower come down on a projector at work,” I mumbled.
“Really? Do you remember how you felt as you watched it come down?”
I shook my head. “Shocked, I think… Saddened.”
“Liar. Where you not entertained?”
“Entertained? No. Watching people throw themselves from a building. Watching four thousand people die before my eyes. No, I wasn’t entertained.”
“Yes you were,” he spat, venom dripping from his lips. “Did you not stare at it intently, transfixed by the spectacle before your eyes?”
“No…”
“Liar, liar, liar. Do you want to know what I was thinking as the second plane went into the tower? I was thinking, thank fuck, the world is alive. Thank fuck! It was like watching a Spielberg movie but a thousand times more intense. I was entertained, Peter, just like the rest of the world as I stared mesmerised into the heart of the arena. And when the second tower came down. Holy fuck! Now that was the money shot. Were you not entertained, Peter? Were we not entertained?” Steven had his arms stretched out wide, his scissors pointing to the heavens.
“You’re a madman,” I mumbled, half wanting him to hear and half not. I knew what he was capable of, that he could turn on me as quick as a stab to the guts. Steven lowered his arms and cocked his cock-eyed head to one side. He looked unnervingly calm. He stared sadly into my face.
“Would that make you feel better, Peter, to know that I was mad?”
“I know the look of a madman, and you have it.”
Steven quickly grabbed the boy’s hand, placing the blades of the scissors on either side of his thumb.
“Are you ready to be entertained, Peter?”
“No, please no.”
Steven’s smile lengthened into a tortured grimace, his face manic with excitement. He was preparing himself for the grand event. And with his clinical eyes still firmly fixed upon mine… he snipped the thumb from the boy’s hand.
I fell to my knees, covering my face, but I wasn’t quite quick enough to escape the horror. I whimpered in pain, squirming like a wounded animal. You would have been forgiven for thinking that the monster had just snipped the finger from my own hand.
“You’d so love to pigeon hole me mad, wouldn’t you,” he said calmly. “But what if I’m not? What if I actually know what I’m doing here? What if I have a plan? Look at me, Peter, look at me.”
I raised my sobbing head to stare him right in the eye. I found his gaze as disturbing as the beleaguered boy before me. I looked hard into his cock-eyed stare, my heart suddenly filled with hatred. For the first time in my life I wanted to kill someone.
I suddenly reached down to touch my stomach. Something had occurred to me, something that had been screaming at me for the last ten minutes.
“I need the toilet,” I said, quietly.
“What? Put your hand up if you want to speak to me.”
“I need the toilet.”
“I said… you want to speak to me you put your fucking hand up. You don’t want to end up in the corner like this one, now do you?”
“I need the toilet,” I cried.
Steven pulled one of the boy’s fingers right back and wrapped the scissors around it. “Put your hand up.”
I stuttered in my thoughts, my heart racing. Something had dawned on me. I had just realised that I might have the answer to getting free from here, at least for a minute or two. This man hated the notion of going to the toilet. He seemed to loathe it. If I pressed my case hard enough, threatened him with the fear that it was actually going to happen, then he might set me free, at least for a couple of minutes. And this time I would attack. I could feel the anger building in my painful guts. I would bide my time and then I’d come down on th
e insane fucker with the force of a concrete sledgehammer.
I slowly raised my hand.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Can I go to the toilet?”
“Please…”
“Please, can I go to the toilet?”
“Later,” and on saying this he cut the finger from the boy’s hand.
“Oh sweet God, no,” I cried. “No fucking more. Please don’t do anything more to him.” I fell forwards, burying my face. For the first time since entering the room I realised the truth: I wasn’t going to be able to stop him. I prayed with all my heart that he would just finish the job quickly. I lay bent double with my face against the floorboards, the boy’s screams ringing in my ears. I could hear myself mumbling but my voice had nothing to do with me anymore. It was reiterating the same line over and over again like a scratched record: “I need the toilet. I need the toilet. I need the toilet…”
Steven started to laugh. “Do you want to see what I do to boys who aren’t toilet trained?”
I wasn’t listening to him anymore; my brain was lying along side me on the floor, a scrambled mess. Steven walked over to me and gave me a quick kick. “Wake up, Peter. No sleeping in class. We’ve got a lot to get through; can’t have you falling asleep during lessons. Have a look at this.” Steven grabbed my chin with his fingers, pulling my head up until I was staring at the boy. “Now keep your head there. You might learn a valuable lesson. It might just change your mind about wanting to go to the toilet.” Steven tentatively slipped his fingers out from under my chin. I think he was expecting my head to flop forward, but I held it steady, my mind numb.
Steven stood up and walked over to the boy. “I don’t like shit, Peter, as I’ve told you before. You would be amazed at how quickly these little bastards shit themselves when you cut off a finger – the youth of today, eh.” Steven spread the legs of the kid wide open and pointed his scissors towards the boy’s groin.
“A woman’s vibrator right up the jacksy and some tightly bound masking tape solves one problem – works a treat, Pete. Thank you for getting me my messages, by the way. That was most kind of you.”
“Now, let me draw your attention to the penis.” Steven picked up the boy’s member with the blades of the scissors. I had to do a double take to make sure I was seeing this correctly. A piece of string was tied in a bow right around the middle, but something looked wrong.
“What we have here is a piece of wire tied tightly around the old John Thomas, to create what is know in the business as the sausage effect.” My mouth dropped open on seeing what he had done. He had tied the wire so tight that the Penis had been divided into two, like link sausages.”
“Can’t stand shit and piss, Peter. Just don’t do it. Blood on the other hand I have no problem with. That’s why we have the old swimming pool. Thank you kindly again, Peter, for getting me my messages.” Steven moved the blades of the scissors around the divide separating the two parts of the penis.
“Fancy some breakfast?”
Snip.
I collapsed back onto the floor retching, and as I did so something terrible happened. I lay there as quiet as a mouse. I was in trouble. I had just done the one thing that would possibly turn this psycho against me. Perhaps if I didn’t say anything then he wouldn’t notice. But what about the smell; surely it would create a smell? Who was I kidding, I already smelled like a rancid scrotum from my week in the cellar.
I had just shat myself.
The boy across the room wasn’t making much of a noise anymore, probably due to the fact that he was almost dead. He was either in shock or the loss of blood had led to him passing out. He was still gurgling slightly, so I knew he wasn’t dead yet.
I suddenly felt ashamed. The sheer indignity of my abject situation reverberated through my cramped guts until all that was left was an unadulterated rage. How dare he do this to me, how fucking dare he. I tried to curb my anger but it had already taken control. I wanted more than ever to pound the bastard’s face into the ground. And in a flash I knew how I could do it. I knew how I could hurt him.
“I’ve shat myself.”
Silence.
“Did you hear me? I’ve shat myself you sick fuck!”
Steven rushed over towards me, dragged me to my feet, bent down and sniffed my backside. I smiled with delight, a sneer trickling across my tear stained face. He didn’t say a word. He simply about turned, walked over to the boy and picked up a scalpel. I hadn’t noticed it before. He turned to face me. The smile dropped from my lips. I had made a terrible mistake.
“You disappoint me, Peter. I expect it from this lot, but I thought you were better. You disappoint me. Do you want to see what happens when I get disappointed?”
I braced myself for an attack, tiny droplets of cool sweat forming on my brow. But he didn’t attack; at least he didn’t attack me.
Steven turned to the half dead body, pushed its head back and in one single fluid motion slit its throat from ear to ear.
My world sank into a sea of utter despair. I found myself lying on the floor swimming in darkness. I had thrown up and I hadn’t even realised it. For a second I took solace in the fact that I was facing the wall and not the horrific scene behind me. I didn’t mind that I was almost drowning in a pile of sick. If I couldn’t see what was going on behind me then hopefully it would all just go away. Anything was better than looking at that. Steven was busy doing something strenuous, hacking and heaving far, far off in the distance. I didn’t care anymore.
I found myself thinking of my family. I missed them all terribly. I missed my mum, I missed my children and I missed Karen. But most of all I missed my dad. Where did you go dad, where did you go? I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. I needed to sleep.
Chapter 20
Getting Clean
I ran my hands over a bristling head, the warm water soothing my thoughts. Fingers stopped at either side of my temples. I had a bad headache. I turned around until the water was running over my eyes. It felt warm and good. For the first time in a week I was able to relax, to get clean. But I knew it wouldn’t last.
I pushed the menacing thought from my head.
Tired eyes focussed through the water. The bathroom was luxurious by anyone’s standards. About the size of a bedroom, it had a double shower, twin sinks and a large old-fashioned bath with ornate taps. The walls were tiled in different shades of white, but tastefully done, with a huge barred window at the far end. The only picture on the wall was a framed word above the toilet. It simply read: “WASH”.
I blanked my mind once more. I had just noticed a pile of clothes lying in a heap in the corner of the room. I dissolved back into the heat of the shower, trying my best to forget about the cold air on the other side of the screen. It was bitterly cold out there. I must have been standing in the shower for a good half hour. I didn’t ever want to leave it again.
As the water bathed my mind, I could feel my senses slowly returning. I hid my thoughts quickly; I didn’t want to deal with them quite yet. If I didn’t think then I wouldn’t start crying again – too late.
“Stop it. No more self pity. Stop it. Crying isn’t going to get you out of here.”
I had to think.
“Oh, dear God.” My stomach rolled over on remembering the white sheet. Whatever was under that sheet was next on the agenda. Steven had assured me that I would enjoy it a lot more than the other two presents. I hoped to God it wasn’t what I thought it was. Please God, no. No more.
I cast the window another desperate glance.
It was still dark.
It was still barred.
“What am I going to do, dad?”
I winced. Just like Steven my dad had been a madman, but a very different kind of madman. When he went ill he simply became another person, a person who didn’t sleep, who didn’t care about anyone but himself; a person as hyper as the drive on the Millennium Falcon and just as faulty. Even in his mania he was not a violent man, though, at least he had never ra
ised his hand to any of us, not really.
As the water trickled over my head I remembered a scene from my distant childhood. I must have been about nine years old at the time. My dad was watching the news at the same time that I had wanted to watch Flash Gordon. For once the spoiled little shit wasn’t going to get what he wanted. If I remember correctly I had proceeded to throw a tantrum to the point where I had pushed this mild mannered man over the edge – a difficult task when my dad was well. I finished this performance with a head butt to the wall, closely followed by the smashing of my mother’s favourite vase.
I can still see my dad putting me over his knee in the spare room. He smacked me hard, but not hard enough. I calmly turned around and laughed in his face. He only spanked me once, and then he placed me onto the bed. My dad was a clever man, a teacher – a teacher who had to discipline kids on a daily basis. He had always hated giving kids the belt preferring other techniques of censor. He simply looked me in the eye and said, shaking his sorry head: “Just you wait till your mother gets home.”
The smile on my face vanished. I was in big trouble.
I tried hard to picture my dad’s face. I think it had started to disappear the week he had died. It was a bit like looking at one of those old fashioned sepia photographs. As time goes by the image begins to fade, until finally all that is left is a white blur. I had compensated for this bad memory by placing his photograph all about the house. Karen was fine with this. She understood.
I had even taken his photograph to Lourdes with me. My uncle goes every year to help out with the sick kids at Easter, and on this occasion I had decided to go along with him. The scenery is amazing, being in the heart of a valley high up in the Pyrenees. No wonder the blessed Mary chose it. If there was ever a place to go to, to recuperate and heal from your wounds, then it was Lourdes. She had chosen well.