Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

George’s reply is muffled by her embrace, “Hi, Ma.”

  She clasps his small head in both hands and machine gun kisses his forehead, with a kiss between each word, “I… do… love… you.”

  “I love you too, Ma,” he replies with another sniff.

  Martha eventually stops kissing and from her pocket pulls out the packet of biscuits he’d tried to take last night. George tears at the packet and shovels food greedily into his mouth. As he scoffs, Martha strokes his long blonde matted hair, looking down adoringly at her only child; her only living relative. Using her thumb and forefinger she pinches snot from his constantly running nose, and wipes the slimy mucus directly onto her coat. Martha then uses her long red painted fingernail to carefully pick out congealed sleep from the corners of his eyes.

  She cherishes her sober times with George; he loves these stolen moments of close attention from his ma too, and practically purrs with pleasure as he pops the last biscuit into his mouth; then screws up the wrapper and plonks it into her palm. She smiles contentedly; content that he’s eaten something today.

  George crouches in front of the old cash till and presses the £1 button; that pops up the amount and pops out the register draw. He retrieves a well-worn children’s picture storybook and thrusts it at Martha. She takes hold of the book, knowing exactly what he wants, and enquires, “Again?”

  He nods enthusiastically, “Again.”

  “Come on then!” she sits down cross legged on George’s makeshift bed and pats her palms on her thighs encouraging him to sit. The boy reverses onto her lap and shuffles his backside to get comfortable. Martha holds the front cover towards them and reads out the title, “The Story of Saint George and the Dragon.”

  The colourful front cover is a cartoon picture of a fearsome green fire-breathing dragon, bellowing flames in the direction of a strong handsome-looking armoured knight – Saint George; while a restrained damsel in distress looks on. Martha opens the book and clears her throat; while George engrosses himself, imagining he’s inside the pictures, as his mother’s narration begins, “Once upon a time…”

  •

  Half an hour later, the old man in the park hurls the ball for the umpteenth time, though now with considerably less vigour; in contrast to his dog’s enthusiasm which has not waned one iota. The hound continues barking relentlessly while retrieving the ball again and again, until this time, he barks so loudly that he disturbs the pigeons perched on the crossbar. They had all turned around to face the playing field, as if sat waiting for a game to start; but now startled, they open their wings and with a flutter take to the sky. In their ascent they fly low across the heads of George and his mother, who walk arm-in-arm across the churned-up muddy pitch. With six-inch heels Martha struggles to balance on the mud, and uses her son’s fragile frame for support.

  George stops, looks up, and watches the pigeons fly overhead; then gazes up at his mother and asks inquisitively, “So… you’re the damsel in distress…” Martha smiles and nods gently as the boy seeks confirmation of the characters, “and Maurice… is the evil dragon?”

  The smile falls from her face, and her expression darkens as she confirms, “Yes, baby.”

  He nods, “I thought he was.”

  After a brief pause, her bottom lip starts quivering; she wells up, and explains, “But you…” a single tear rolls from the well, down across her cheek, “You…” She cups his snot-streaked face in her palms and utters, “You’re my brave Saint George.”

  He looks bemused as she pulls him tightly to her chest, bursts into floods of tears and splutters, “I’m sorry, George.”

  George feels his mother shudder as she weeps, and though his face is completely smothered between her bosoms, his muffled voice comforts her, admitting honestly, “I don’t really like fighting, Ma… coz I’m not big yet… but I will save you… from the dragon.”

  Hearing his innocent words, knowing their naivety, and sincerity, she cries harder.

  As George continues, “I wanted to fight that fat bloke last night, that bloke who… who, you know; but Maurice was there, and I know I’m not big yet but when I am big I promise… I’ll get Maurice… I’ll protect you, Ma.”

  Martha tries to get a grip of herself. Regaining composure slightly she kisses his head and replies, “Thanks, baby…” then after wiping tears onto her sleeve assures him confidently, “By the time you’re big… I’ll have conquered all my dragons.”

  He pulls back from her embrace, confused; looks inquisitively into her eyes and questions, “More dragons?”

  While cuddling George, the loose fitting sleeves on Martha’s cotton coat have ridden high up her arms, exposing naked skin on her forearms from wrist to elbow. She looks down with dismay, at extreme needle tracks that run the length of both arms; external battle scars from her hopeless habit. Martha yanks the sleeves down, licks her thumb, and attempts to rub smeared caked-on snot from George’s face.

  He grimaces at the rubbing, and asks again, “What do you mean, more dragons?”

  “Well…” she attempts to explain, “through our lives, we all have decisions to make, and… well, I’ve made some really bad choices…” Martha’s becoming emotional again, and whimpers as she admits, “I’m weak George, weak in my head… That’s why I’m what I am.”

  Still confused, he replies honestly, “I like the way you are, Ma.”

  She’s trying hard to fight back tears, “That’s because you don’t know any different.” Her eyes redden and moisten, until the floodgates burst once more, as she confesses from the heart, “I’m not a good mommy!”

  “DON’T YOU SAY THAT!” he shouts angrily, “DON’T YOU SAY THAT!”

  “I’m telling you the truth, George.” She needs him to know; stroking his head she sobs and explains, “But you won’t end up like me… You’re better than me. You were born with a strong head.” She taps his forehead with her finger, “You’re strong inside your head,” and places her palm across his heart, “and strong in your heart!”

  He’s still confused, “I don’t know what you’re saying, Ma.”

  She tries to explain, “There’s lots of evil in this world… lots of dragons to face… and they will come for you, baby. So when they do… you must keep your head and heart strong… To make the right choices.”

  “What choices?”

  She looks him in the eye, “To fight… or to follow them.”

  He’s flummoxed, “Who?”

  “The dragons!” she exclaims.

  He’s concerned, “Real dragons!”

  “No, not real dragons, bad things and nasty people.” Martha knows it’s hard for him to comprehend, and that she’s struggling to make her point, but continues, “The really scary thing is… if you saw a real dragon, you’d know straight away to stay away from it… coz it’d be massive and scary; breathing fire and doing horrible nasty things… but bad things and naughty people don’t always look scary. Sometimes they look nice… to trick you… because they want to get you.”

  The young boy’s now utterly confused, and a little nervous, “I’m a bit scared now, Ma.”

  But Martha needs him to understand, “Sometimes, baby, even though we don’t want to fight… we have to… or the dragons win.”

  He admits point blank, “I don’t understand the dragon thing.”

  “You will one day,” she assures him. Martha can tell he’s had enough; she has too, and so changes the subject. “The reason I read you the story of Saint George, is because my dad used to read it to me… When I was little, he told me our surname, Knight, was given to our family because your great, great, great, great grandfather was actually… a real knight.”

  “Really?” George is impressed.

  She nods. “That’s where names come from; in olden days people were named after their jobs: blacksmiths were called Smith, butchers Butcher, carpenters Carpenter… and knights were called Knight.”

  George smiles, “I understand that!”

  Martha smiles too; then to light
en the mood further, kicks off her red shoes, stands barefoot on the mud and picks him up. Instinctively he wraps his arms and legs around her and holds on as she begins spinning them both around and around in circles; while at the same time breaking out into their well-rehearsed song and dance routine.

  With her tongue, Martha lah-lahs the first line of Johan Strauss’s classical masterpiece “The Blue Danube”.

  She starts off slow, “Lah lah lah lah laaah…”

  George as always, finishes the line off, “Pop-pop! Pop-pop!”

  She lahs a little faster, “Lah lah lah lah laaah…”

  He pops a little louder, “Pop-pop! Pop-pop!”

  “Lah lah lah lah laaah…”

  George is delighted, “Pop-pop! Pop-pop!”

  “Lah lah lah lah laaah…”

  He yells, “POP-POP! POP-POP!”

  She lahs louder, “La lah lah lah laaah…”

  “POP-POP! POP-POP!”

  And spins faster, “Lah lah lah lah laaah…”

  “POP-POP! POP-POP!”

  She stops suddenly… Still, rigid; they both do, motionless in silence, statuesque – part of their routine – and as they pant for breath, Martha releases him. He slides from her arms to his feet, takes hold of his mother’s hands… then they complete the crescendo, waltzing frantically, “Lah lah lah lah laaah, lah lah laaaah, lah lah laah, lah laah, lah lah, POP-POP-POP-POP!”

  Routine complete their gyrating grinds to a halt with both mother and child breathless, blowing and laughing; but their mirth is soon halted by a recognisable voice bellowing across the park, “MARTHA!”

  Barefooted Maurice strides menacingly across the grass towards them. Martha steps back into her shoes, wiping remnants of tears from her cheeks. George squeezes hold of her hand tightly and with complete conviction states, “I’ll protect you, Ma!”

  Maurice yells, “Come here, Martha. You got work. NOW, WOMAN, MOVE!”

  She whispers through the side of her mouth, “Here comes the dragon!”

  Twenty metres away Maurice continues ranting, “Bitch, have I got to drag you by…” but then stops mid-sentence… He stops walking and talking, dead in his tracks, immediately on feeling the sensation of something warm and gooey squelching between his toes.

  Inspecting his foot Maurice realises, he’s trodden barefoot into a large fresh dollop of steaming dog shit, and curses loudly, “AHHHH SHIT MAN!”

  A stinking mound of poop, the size of a small cow pat, has squelched right between his toes, and splashed up his ankle; lumpy globules of sliming oozing turd.

  He’s not impressed, “Shit man, ah shit… shit!” he curses, hopping on his un-shitted foot, around in a circle. And as he does so, strands of dog diarrhoea “slime in a line” and “plop in drops” from his foot. He shakes his head in utter disgust, continually cursing “Shit, shit, shit!”

  While mother and son watch with delight.

  George whispers though the side of his mouth, “Is that dragon shit?”

  They suppress their sniggers, for fear of reprisal, but can’t control their laughing shoulders, that bounce up and down in spasmodic glee, and continue to do so as Maurice scrapes and slides his foot and ankle across the grass.

  Mother and son face each other, sniggering through sparkling eyes. Martha refrains from laughing out loud by biting the inside of her cheek; her son copies her.

  With most of the faeces now back on the grass, irate Maurice beckons angrily with his arm, “Come on, bitch!”

  A slight chuckle sneaks out on her reply, “I’m coming.”

  Maurice heads for home, using a “half walk, half slide” method of movement; yelling a final warning, “I won’t tell you again, Martha!”

  Martha stoops down, places a prolonged kiss on her beloved son’s forehead, and whispers lovingly, “Bye, baby.”

  “Bye, Ma,” he replies; but as George watches his mother teetering away, his smile turns to frown, and through gritted teeth he vows, “I will protect you, Ma!”

  •

  Chapter: 6

  The Fish

  January 16th 1991, the day after Hazma’s sixth birthday, he can barely contain his excitement while sat at the dinner table enjoying a late night meal; because tonight, for the first time, as he’s a big boy now, his father and uncle are taking him to work with them: night fishing on the Tigris River.

  Due to pollution and over fishing, supplies of fish in the river are dwindling; consequently the brothers have adapted their working hours to fish at night, to achieve better catches.

  As Hazma’s mother busies herself around the table, father and son finish their meal; while discussing what size of fish they intend to catch.

  “This big!” exclaims Hazma, holding his hands out in front of him, about eight inches apart.

  “Is that all?” questions his father. “Mine shall be this big!” holding his palms about two feet apart.

  Not to be outdone, Hazma laughs, stretches his arms as far as his bodily span will allow and with youthful exuberance squeals, “This big.”

  “Shush!” Bilal hushes, placing a shush finger to his own smiling lips. Hazma stops laughing and then watches intently as his father cups a hand to his ear and in a quiet voice asks, “What is that strange noise?”

  The loud noise comes from Bilal’s snorting brother, slumped in the armchair sound asleep; exhibiting a fine example of loud snoring, via three intake valves.

  With a questioning expression Bilal scans the apartment, as if searching for the noise’s origin; asking jokingly, “What is that noise?” then answers his own question, “There must be a pig in the wardrobe!”

  Son and mother laugh, until Bilal shushes them, points at his brother and whispers, “Shush… don’t wake Uncle!”

  “Okay,” whispers Hazma, grinning.

  Bilal reaches over, “Pass me your water.”

  He passes the glass, with an inch full of water. Bilal tiptoes stealthily to where his brother slumps snoring, and gives another shush-finger sign before tipping a few drops of water directly onto the groin area of the oblivious uncle’s trousers.

  The other two watch, in confused silence, as Bilal keeps tipping until the glass is empty; then tiptoes back to the table, whispering “When Brother wakes… he’ll think he’s peed himself!”

  They all snigger. Hazma uses a hand to hold his laugh in.

  Bilal continues, “We must all talk loud now… to wake him… Watch his face as he wakes… but don’t make it obvious.”

  Hazma can barely contain himself, whispering excitedly, “Will Uncle really think he has peed?”

  His mother nods back grinning and starts the ball rolling, asking “So, Hazma… how big will your fish be?”

  The young boy throws his arms out wide and shouts, “THIS BIG!” absolutely delighted with the prank.

  His shout has the desired effect. After a few nose twitches and short-sharp snuffles Uncle begins to wake. Mother, father and son try desperately to look like they’re not looking; while secretly watching intently with baited breath from the corners of their eyes.

  As he wakes gradually, an expression of confusion dawns upon his face, as he wonders why his groin feels damp, and comes to terms with the devastating reality of what he may have done.

  Slowly, he moves his head down; glancing discretely into his lap.

  The clandestine three hold hands across their mouths, hiding mirth, as Uncle considers his predicament, and how he’s going to explain it.

  But the tension’s too much; in unison all three explode, laughing. Hazma leaps onto his chair, jumping up and down chanting, “Uncle peed his paa-ants. Uncle peed his paa-ants!”

  Uncle’s still unsure, if he has or hasn’t; until he looks at his guffawing brother, holding an empty upturned glass over his own lap.

  The uncle’s tensed-up face relaxes, as his stress visibly unwinds; he flops back in the chair in relief. After wiping his brow a wry smile appears; he points at them all in turn and admits, “Ha, ha, ha, very funny, you
got me.”

  The smiling mother fetches food prepared earlier. Placing a bundle on the table she confirms, “Here is your food. Bilal, you must take a blanket… I don’t want Hazma catching cold. He may fall asleep.”

  Bilal nods his agreement and glances outside. It’s completely dark. The father rubs Hazma’s head warmly and confirms “The fish are waiting, my son.”

  •

  Several hours later, the temperature has dropped significantly. Hazma sits wrapped in a blanket on a narrow bench seat nestled into the bow of their small wooden rowing boat; yawning as he watches his beloved father and uncle working, making ready the nets as they bob and sway gently on the Tigris. Tonight, there is no moon; the waters are black, like the sky.

  In between yawns, the six-year-old grins with excitement at his birthday adventure. Being born overlooking the river, and having played along its banks for so long, actually getting out onto the water for the first time on the family boat, is a major treat.

  The night-time calm is broken, by Hazma’s shout, “Papa!”

  “Yes, my son?”

  Hazma points up towards their apartment, “You forgot to bring our food!”

  Bilal shakes his head in frustration, and says to his brother, “I’d better fetch it. The boy will be hungry soon.”

  Uncle nods, slides out both oars, and begins rowing back to shore.

  “Can you see any fish?” Bilal asks his son.

  Hazma peers over the side, “No!”

  “Look deep, Hazma… they are there! We just have to find them.” He crouches, tucks the blanket tighter around his son and says, “Some people treat fishing as sport. But to us… it is work! We sell fish we catch at the market… When we sell fish, we can buy food to eat… If we don’t catch fish… we don’t eat… Our work is a constant battle.”

  “Do the fish know this?” enquires the boy.

  “Oh yes, they know it’s a battle… We catch, we win. We don’t…”

  “You lose!” Hazma finishes his sentence.

  “Clever boy… Now look deep, can you see them yet? They usually swim together, in groups. It makes them feel safe… but makes them easier to catch… Large shoals fill our nets!”