by Simon Bourke
“It’s very good, Mum,” he said solemnly, but she could tell he wasn’t impressed. In fact, his interest in the project had begun to wane considerably.
“Will we start putting the family into it now?” she enquired hopefully.
“Okay,” he smiled, his enthusiasm returning.
“Great,” she said. “Who will we put in first?”
“Tony,” he replied, not missing a beat.
She had already left spaces for him to draw in each family member so, indicating where to draw, she invited him to do his best representation of his uncle Tony.
They continued in this manner with more family members being added (she was pleased to come in at number four, two places ahead of her husband), until just one place remained. She had purposely left a vacant spot on the far reaches of the tree’s outermost branch. Jonathan could add his birth-mother here if he so desired.
“Who will we put here, Jonathan? There’s just one space left.”
He studied the chart, reciting the names as he went through them and repeating the action just to be sure.
“I think we’ve got everyone, Mum,” he concluded.
“Are you sure, Jonathan? There’s no one else you’d like to add?”
“I’m not putting Paul in, Mum; no chance.”
“That’s fine, Jonathan. I didn’t want you to put him in.”
“Well, who then?” he enquired.
Margaret hesitated. It would be so simple to take the easy way out. She could just tell him to put in her father, who’d died when he was still in nappies, or she could suggest putting in his pet goldfish, Hannibal. Either would seem plausible to him and would bring the project to a satisfactory end. But she could hear Malcolm’s voice, his mild indifference cloaking a profound disappointment. She would have failed him, and in the process failed her son too.
“How about the lady whose tummy you came out of?” she asked, as brightly as she dared.
Jonathan smiled uncertainly. Was this a joke, another one of those silly games adults played? It didn’t look like it; his mum appeared to be deadly serious. She’d gone completely mad.
“But she’s not in our family, Mum! We don’t even know her!”
“We might know her someday, Jonathan.”
“When, Mum?”
“When you’re older.”
“Well, we can put her in the family tree then, can’t we?” he declared, getting down from his stool. Taking one last look at the project, he said, “Why don’t we put Hannibal in that space, Mum? He’s part of the family.”
Hand shaking, Margaret picked up an orange crayon and drew what she hoped resembled a goldfish.
1999
Seán
1.
Seán McLoughlin hated school. He was much the same as any other fifteen-year-old boy in that regard. But as much as Seán hated school – and he really hated it – he hardly ever missed a day. Even when he was sick he went. His grades might have been mediocre, but his attendance record was unrivalled. In fact, it was so good, that he had received a special commendation from the headmaster. He’d been called to the office one day, with no prior warning. On the way he’d racked his brains for any recent misdemeanours. He couldn’t think of any. Was it possible that the principal had found out about the time he’d called Laura Griffin a ‘dirty fuckin’ slut’ in front of the whole class last year? He’d fretted about that for months after, thoroughly expecting to be summoned to the office any time the intercom system crackled into life. But that had been a whole year ago, an entire summer had passed since then.
When he got to the office he nervously took his seat, eyeing Mr. Aylesbury warily as he did so. But there was no dredging up of the past, no threats of suspension and no calling of his parents. Instead, he was praised for something. Praised. In school. It might have only been for turning up. But still, it was praise.
“You’ve only missed two days in your entire time here. Did you know that, Seán?”
“Yeah, I had an idea all right, sir.”
“That’s one of the best attendance records I can ever remember, Seán.”
He shrugged indifferently.
“You might not be the most gifted student, or the most hard-working, but your commitment to the cause cannot be questioned.”
“I’m not sick very often,” Seán offered meekly.
“Well, nevertheless, it’s quite an achievement.”
They carried on like this for a few minutes more; Mr. Aylesbury showering his student with platitudes, Seán batting away the acclaim like an Oscar-winning actress. Eventually he was permitted to leave, after promising to keep up the good work.
He walked away from the office feeling better than he’d done in months. Maybe he wasn’t such a good-for-nothing after all. His commitment to the cause could not be questioned, that’s what the headmaster had said, and if anyone knew, he did. What he didn’t know was that Seán only came to school every day because it was preferable to being at home. He would have rather have been anywhere than at home, because he was there: Daryl, his stepfather. He was there, skulking from room to room, simmering, just waiting for Seán to say the wrong thing. He was there in that house, in his home. Seán would have stayed in school all day and night if they’d let him.
But that wasn’t possible. At 3.45 every afternoon the bell rang to signal the end of another day. The sound was greeted with joy by most of the students; it meant freedom, the end of a day of drudgery. For Seán, though, it meant the resumption of hostilities. It meant returning to that house to face his nemesis. His mother would arrive home at six, but until then he was on his own. As soon as he walked in the door, it would begin.
“Don’t leave your shoes there, Seán, that’s not where they go. How many times have I told you about that before?”
He moved the shoes, wordlessly and without complaint. He couldn’t remember ever being told about it before, but he knew better than to argue. Hoping to avoid any more confrontation, he retreated to his room; but Daryl was right behind him, always right behind him.
“Have you got homework to do?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, get to it then; that last report card was a disgrace. And you’re not to leave this room until it’s done.”
Seán took out his books and stared at them for a while. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually done his homework; usually he just copied it from one of his friends in school the following morning. If Daryl asked to see what he’d done, he would just show him yesterday’s work. Not that it mattered; his stepfather’s education had been curtailed before he’d even reached his teens. That didn’t stop him criticising Seán’s academic performance, however. He reacted to each report card as if it were a personal insult. How dare Seán get an E in Maths? There Daryl was, busting his arse in work every day, providing for the family, ensuring they all had a roof over their heads – and Seán had the nerve to underperform in school? Maybe he was just a thick bastard, was that it? Seán assured him that he wasn’t, that he was in fact more intelligent that Daryl could ever hope to be. But that just led to threats of physical violence and more name-calling; he was a waster, a good-for-nothing, a fucking leech. After a while, Seán began to believe his stepfather. He was a waster. He was a good-for-nothing. He was a fucking leech. So why even bother trying? Why do his homework or pay attention in class? He was never going to amount to anything anyway, so what was the point? He’d just do enough to get by and hope he passed his exams in a few years’ time.
So instead of doing his homework he just pottered about, counting down the minutes until his mother returned and he could finally relax. He got a drink of water from the kitchen, creeping in and out so as not to alert Daryl, but no sooner had he returned from his sortie when Daryl appeared at his door once more.
“What have I told you about leaving the lights on? Do you pay the electricity b
ill?”
They both knew he didn’t. He had no viable income, what with being fifteen and all.
“Well, do you?” Daryl repeated as Seán stared at the floor, determined not to answer.
Eventually Daryl was forced to answer his own question.
“No, you don’t. I do,” he said, jabbing a thumb into his chest, “which is why I turn off lights when I leave a room.”
Sometimes, during these entirely pointless sermons, Seán would stare into Daryl’s eyes in the hope of gaining a better understanding of the man; but it was like staring into an abyss. There was nothing there; plenty of animation, yes, eyes that danced back and forth, a mouth that spat out words with venom and disgust. But no real feeling. Did he know or care what he was doing? What could he possibly be getting from it? It seemed to Seán a rather pitiful existence.
These daily showdowns were wearisome in the extreme, but he could deal with them. They rarely escalated to anything beyond a good dressing-down, or ritual humiliation on a bad day. The real fun and games started at the weekend.
Sober, Daryl was easy enough to handle; you just kept quiet and waited for him to get bored. Drunk, Daryl was a more difficult proposition, and from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon this was the version Seán had to deal with. He countered this by spending the majority of his weekends with his friends, either at their houses or just hanging around in the local park. He couldn’t stay away forever though, and if he stayed out too late even his mother would ask questions. In one way it wasn’t so bad; Daryl was in the pub a lot, which meant Seán sometimes had the house to himself for a few hours. But even during these times of blissful solitude he had to be on his guard at all times, because as soon as he heard the scuff of Daryl’s work-boots in the porch and the jerky scratching of his key that followed, he knew trouble lay ahead.
His stepfather always seemed to return home from the pub with one grievance or another: an unsettled argument with a fellow drinker, a three-legged horse that had let him down for a couple of hundred or, most commonly, someone leering at his wife as she pulled pints behind the bar. Of course, Seán could just have gone to bed and avoided it all. But he never had the place to himself, and weekend nights were the best for telly. Anyway, there was no telling what time Daryl would get home or whether his mother would come back with him. Those were the best nights, when she was with him. He’d hear their voices as they came in, and know that there wouldn’t be any arguments that night. Sinéad would put her husband to bed and then it’d just be the two of them, mother and son. They’d talk for a while about school, about work, about their plans for the weekend and then she’d go to bed too, leaving Seán to watch telly for as long as he wanted.
Usually, though, Daryl came home alone and when he did, Seán was there in the living-room in his armchair, remote control in hand, living the high life. Kevin, Seán’s younger brother, was in bed, which meant it was just the two of them. Even at this late juncture he had the chance to avoid confrontation; all he had to do was slip quietly to his room before Daryl got settled. But something inside him made him stay put. Even though he dreaded what was coming, he refused to run away from it. He would take whatever came his way like a man.
In came Daryl, muttering away to himself, already vexed by some perceived slight. Seán braced himself, listening to his stepfather rattle around the kitchen. He heard the ping of the microwave, the clink of cutlery. Any second now, he’d have company. He could have moved over to the couch, made things easier on himself. But why should he? No, he’d stay right where he was and watch the end of the film.
“Up,” Daryl commanded as he came in with his plate.
Seán looked at him for a moment, hesitated and then moved to the sofa, bringing the remote with him.
“What’s this shite?” Daryl asked, glancing at the television.
“A film,” Seán said quietly.
“I hope it’s nearly over.”
“It’s not.”
“Well, if you think I’m sitting here looking at that for the night, you can think again.”
Seán said nothing, he knew what was coming next. From the corner of his eye he could see Daryl scanning the room for the remote. It wasn’t on his arm-rest where it was supposed to be. It wasn’t on the table in front of him; where was it?
“Where’s the remote?” he asked testily.
Silence. Seán’s heart thudded in his chest, but his eyes remained fixed on the television. The film was ruined now, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.
“You must know,” Daryl persisted. “Where is it?”
A shrug of the shoulders, barely perceptible.
Daryl laid down his plate and got to his feet, spotting the object of his desire as he did so.
“You have it there; give it to me.”
“I’m watching this.”
“Gimme the remote.”
“No.”
“No? Who the fuck do you think you are, boy, eh?”
More rhetorical questions. He didn’t think he was anyone, he was just a teenage boy who wanted to watch the late film on a Friday night.
“Give me the remote, Seán,” Daryl repeated flatly.
Again he chose neither to answer nor oblige. He often wondered what would happen if he dragged it out a bit longer, continued to deny his master. Could he drive him to physical violence? Was that what Daryl really wanted? Probably not; he was too cute for that. A physical fight might leave marks, things that would be hard to explain; so the abuse remained psychological, emotional and verbal. The worst he could do would be to switch off the television completely, so that they both sat there in silence; Seán staring at the blank screen and Daryl, the victor, scoffing his food.
On this occasion Seán relented; by doing so he could make a statement, one last gesture as his ship sank.
“Here’s the remote,” he said sweetly, handing the valuable piece of plastic to the king of the castle. “How could you live without it?”
As the transaction was made he fixed his stepfather with a look; a look of utter contempt and loathing.
“Don’t you fuckin’ look at me like that, you little cunt!”
Seán held his gaze, a smirk playing across his lips.
“Think you’re fuckin smart, don’t you?” Daryl spat. “All you are is a little bastard. We don’t even want you here; you’re not part of this family. The sooner you finish school, get a job and get the fuck out of here, the better.”
His words meant nothing to Seán, he’d heard it all before. Daryl, Kevin and his mother, one big happy family; and Seán, the outsider, the unwanted baggage. So what? Who on earth would want to be related to Daryl Cassidy?
This would have been the perfect time to say his goodbyes for the evening, to walk away with one last withering glance and retire for the night. But he stayed right where he was, stood in front of Daryl, ready to receive his lecture.
“Fuckin’ looking at me like that,” his stepfather snarled. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You little cunt. Who do you think you are? I’m talking to you, Seán.”
“I’m a little cunt,” Seán replied. “Or is it a bastard? I can never remember.”
“Fuck you,” Daryl growled. He didn’t like his weapons being taken away from him.
He changed tack.
“We don’t want you here, you know. This is our house; you’re just a lodger, a sponger. When I was your age I was contributing, working since I was thirteen. But I don’t think you’ll ever get a job. Who’d hire you, a thick cunt? You’ll probably fail all your exams and we’ll be fuckin’ stuck with you for life.”
This was a relatively new theme, the subject of work. Since Seán had turned fifteen it had become commonplace. Get a weekend job. Contribute to the running of the house. Pay your way. You’re just a sponger. This was what he had to look forward to for the next few years. W
hile most kids his age were preparing for exams and planning for the future, he was being told to get a job and pay his way. Of course he could have got a job, had actually considered it a few times, but what would be the point? Rather than be congratulated for showing some initiative, it would simply open up a fresh can of worms. How much are you earning? You can pay for your upkeep now. What are you spending that money on? And so on and so on. So he stuck resolutely to his guns, for what they were worth. He’d endure this for a few more years, until he’d finished school and could get out of here, away from this shit, away from this pathetic excuse for a man. He’d go somewhere safe, somewhere he could call his own, have his own home.
For now, though, all he had was his room. Once there, safe and snug under the bedcovers, he fantasised about the day his revenge would come. He imagined a Friday night with an altogether different outcome. On this night Daryl would return from the pub and begin his usual routine, stamping around the house like a caveman, effing and blinding under his breath, before eventually coming into the living-room to start on his stepson. As usual, Seán would take it on the chin, sitting there in silence, listening to the insults and the abuse until the storm died down. This time, however, he wouldn’t go to bed. He would wait until Daryl had finished his food and eased himself into his armchair. He would wait until he fell asleep, the remote still firmly gripped in his calloused hand. Then he would strike.
His first task would be to check on Kevin; there could be no witnesses to this crime. His little brother would be dead to the world; he slept like his father that one. Next he would go to the knife rack in the kitchen, where he would pull out the thickest, longest blade available. He’d stand there a moment admiring the blade, caressing it, allowing it to catch the light so that it glimmered menacingly. He wanted to savour this moment, to remember it. But there was no time to waste, his mother would be home soon. So he would return to the living-room, the blade gripped firmly in his hand, and once there he would take a final look at Daryl, standing over his quarry, knowing that in a matter of seconds he would take everything away from him. A small part of him might feel sorry for his stepfather, a hard-working man only trying to provide for his family. Those thoughts would quickly be banished; there would be no pity, no mercy shown this night. He’d take one final look at his tormentor before raising the knife high above his head and plunging it into his chest. Daryl’s eyes would shoot open in horror, his mouth gasping for air; too late now Daryl, far too late. Seán would pull the knife free and watch the blood spurt from Daryl’s chest like a sprung dam all over his mother’s new carpet. Someone would have to clean up that mess later. But he wasn’t finished yet. He’d bring the knife down again and again in a delirious frenzy. Daryl would raise his arms in protest, pawing the air in a last, desperate fight for his life, and then it would be all over. There’d be lots of blood, the living-room now a crime scene. He’d leave the room, stripping off his sodden clothes as he went. A quick shower would wash away the rest of the blood, and as he stood under the water he’d feel a weight lift from his shoulders. He was free, free from it all. Soon enough they would come to take him away. But let them come. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He was happy now.