by Simon Bourke
“Say something, Mam, please.”
Sinéad rose from her chair, propped her cigarette in the ashtray and went to her son, her broken little boy. The force of his embrace surprised her; he hadn’t hugged her like that since he was a child. Now he held on for dear life, relief pouring over him. Finally, there was someone who didn’t hate him. It had felt like the whole world was against him, but now here was his mother accepting him, not judging his actions. When the tears came, he didn’t fight them. He let it all out, sobs racking his body as he buried himself deeper into her arms. Her new sweater would be ruined, the blood from his, still tender, wounds seeping deep into its fabric. She’d get the stains out, though; she was great at stuff like that. Eventually his crying faltered, the sobs died down, but he didn’t want to let go. Because he knew that once he prised himself free he would have to return to life in this house, this place which housed so much fear and anxiety. As soon as this hug was over and his mother had made him something to eat, he would go to bed, and as soon as he woke up in the morning, battle would resume. Daryl would have been told everything and he’d be champing at the bit. Restrictions would be put in place: curfews, household tasks, the banning of friends – anything which might help make his life a misery. Then, when it was just the two of them, the abuse would resume in earnest. It would probably start off slowly, a few comments here and there: sleazeball, sicko, that kind of thing. Then he’d ratchet it up a level, goad Seán until he got a response. That would be his aim, and Seán wouldn’t be able to resist. He’d fight his corner and Daryl would get his argument, what he’d been waiting for. Then he could let loose and get it all out, all those insults and put-downs he’d been saving up. He could sermonise, lecture and admonish to his heart’s content, and Seán would just have to sit there and take it because it was Daryl’s house and Daryl’s rules. He was just a lodger, and a perverted, creepy one at that.
Jonathan
1
Jonathan awoke with a raging thirst. He tried to ignore it, to roll over and go back to sleep, but it was no use; he was parched. These summer nights were far too hot for his liking. He got up and tiptoed out into the hall, cursing himself for not bringing a glass of water to bed. It would have been much easier to drink from the tap in the bathroom, but his mother always said that the water that came out of there wasn’t hygienic, so he carried on downstairs. The clock on the hall table glowed brightly: 3.36. He hoped he’d get back to sleep; tomorrow was a big day. He’d made it to the County finals, and a top two finish would see him qualify for the regionals. In the kitchen, he went to the sink without even bothering to turn on the light and took a glass from the draining board. He filled it to the brim and gulped down the water in one go. He filled it again, drank it off and placed it in the sink. He felt much better. Those poor saps had no idea what they were in for; he was the next Seb Coe.
“Everything all right, son?”
The voice startled him. He spun round to locate its owner and for the first time saw the figure hunched at the kitchen table.
“Dad, is that you?”
“Yes, son.”
“Christ, Dad, you frightened the living daylights out of me. What are you doing, sitting there in the dark?”
He went to turn on the light but his father stopped him.
“Don’t, Jonathan, you’ll disturb the others.”
Jonathan stood there, puzzled. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw why his father was sitting here on his own in the middle of the night. He had a little plastic tumbler in front of him, and beside it a bottle of dark liquid.
“Everything all right, Dad?” he asked, knowing that everything couldn’t possibly be all right.
“Yes, son, don’t you worry. Go back to bed now, you’ve a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”
“Are you going to bed too, Dad?”
“Yes, I’m going up after this,” he said, shaking the contents of the tumbler.
Jonathan hesitated. It was clear that something was up, but what he was supposed to do? He had a big day ahead of him tomorrow, his dad had said so, and he needed his rest.
“Okay, Dad,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
“Yes, Jonathan,” replied Malcolm, knocking back his drink and reaching for the bottle once more.
*
“Are you nervous, Jonathan?”
“A little bit, Mum.”
“Well, make sure you eat all that, now. You’re going to need your energy.”
“I know, Mum.”
Since becoming serious about athletics he had been forced to adhere to a strict diet, and his mother had been on board from the start. If he needed a carb-heavy breakfast full of proteins and iron, then that was precisely what he got. A light lunch, designed to tide him over until after his training, likewise. He appreciated the effort she made, but although he’d woken to find another immaculately prepared meal waiting at the breakfast table, he didn’t feel like eating. He was feeling tense about the race, but something else gnawed away at him. What he’d seen last night. At the time his main concern had been getting back to bed, but now with a clear head he was worried about his father’s well-being. Maybe he’d just been down the pub and fancied a quick nightcap before bed? That was probably it. It wasn’t so much the drinking that concerned him as his demeanour. His dad was a warm, loving man, always smiling, always happy; a great dad. The man at the kitchen table last night had been a cold, distant figure. It had looked like his father and sounded like him, but it wasn’t the father that Jonathan knew.
His father never displayed weakness; he wasn’t a man prone to emotion. He went to work every day with a smile on his face and came back hours later, as if he’d just been down to the shops for the newspaper. On a Friday evening he might relax by the telly with a glass of whiskey but, as far as Jonathan knew, that was the extent of his vices. His life revolved around his job and his family. If he wasn’t working, he was with them. If Jonathan or Sophie needed to be somewhere, then he drove them; if they needed to be collected afterwards he would be there again, waiting outside at the assigned hour. Jonathan knew he was lucky. He might have been adopted, but it was unlikely that any biological father could have bestowed as much love on him as his dad did.
His parent’s marriage was good, wasn’t it? He could hardly recall an argument. Perhaps they were having issues and had been keeping it from Sophie and himself? He watched his mother as she cleared away the plates, humming as she worked. She looked the same as always, a woman content with her lot in life, determined to help her son on his big day. He instinctively knew that whatever was troubling his father was as yet unknown to his mother.
“That was great, Mum,” he said, pecking her on the cheek and going upstairs to gather his gear.
They got to the track in plenty of time. Because it was the summer holidays, the sports complex was milling with kids and flustered, out-of-breath parents as they dropped them off, collected and corralled them.
“It’s just up here, Mum.”
“Okay, Jonathan,” she said, coming to a halt in the designated area.
He undid his seatbelt and fished his ID card from the glove compartment. “You know where to go from here, Mum, don’t you?”
“Yes, Jonathan. Be sure and look out for me before it starts.”
“I will, Mum.”
He was disappointed his dad couldn’t make it but understood that he was busy. Sophie had half-heartedly offered to come, but he knew she had no real interest so he’d politely declined and let her off the hook. If he could finish in the top two and qualify for the regionals, he would expect them all to be there, but today it was just his mother and that was good enough.
He accepted her hug and the numerous kisses that accompanied it before fetching his bag from the boot. Waving a final goodbye he headed for the check-in zone, where his coach and team-mates would already be assembling.
2
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He waved to her just as he’d said he would, and cringed when she stood up from her seat and called his name. There wasn’t time to be embarrassed by an overly-enthusiastic parent, though; he had to focus. He had to go to that faraway place where the only things that mattered were the track beneath his feet and the steady cadence of his legs as they pulled him further and further away from the rest of the field. He knew that if his mind was right and his body was right, none of the other runners could compete with him. His biggest enemy, the main obstacle to his success, was himself.
He heard his name being called out over the public address system and took his place in lane five. Not long now. They were called to their marks. He bent down, waiting for the gun. It always seemed to take an age, as if they were teasing him; he felt like standing up and telling them to get a move on, but that wouldn’t help anyone. BANG! He was off. All the tension, all the nerves immediately left his body. No more thinking was required, now he could finally race. His coach had told him to forget about his competitors and focus on his own race; everything else would take care of itself. That was what he did. He positioned himself in the middle of the pack, right by the kerb, maintaining a steady pace, concentrating on not getting bumped and jostled by the other athletes. The 800 metres was a dirty business, and even at this age level the runners weren’t above unscrupulous tactics.
It was a fast pace, so fast that the field was already being stretched out. By the 300-metre mark, a couple of runners had been dropped. Those at the front had gained a lead of twenty metres on Jonathan, but he wasn’t concerned. Just stick to your pace and you’ll be fine. Don’t get drawn into a dogfight. His coach’s words echoed in his head; to disobey them now would be folly. He waited until the end of the first lap, when the bell rang to signify the last lap, before upping his tempo. Gradually moving through the gears, he moved from fifth place to fourth and then to third as he cruised down the back straight. This was where he excelled; this was his zone. When they hit the 600-metre mark he would crank it up a little more; draw alongside the leaders, perhaps pause for a little chat and then kick for home, leaving them in his wake.
He bypassed the runner in second place with nary a second’s thought, which just left the leader, an old foe of his: Paul Whitworth, tall and fair-haired with incredibly pointy elbows. They’d competed against one another on three previous occasions. The first time Whitworth had pipped him on the line after Jonathan eased off in the home straight. The defeat had crushed him; he wasn’t used to losing, and his coach had flogged him in training for weeks afterwards. It did the trick, though, because the next time they faced off Jonathan had beaten his adversary comfortably. In their most recent encounter it had been a little tighter; Whitworth had stayed with him all the way around the final lap, and as they came down the home straight they were neck and neck. Then Jonathan found something extra, summoned fresh energy from within and gained the advantage. He’d been pushed harder than ever before; his reward was a new personal best.
Personal bests were the last thing on his mind right now; he just wanted first place. It didn’t matter that the top two went through to the regionals; winning was everything, anything else was failure. As on their previous encounter, Whitworth matched him stride for stride as they entered the home straight, but Jonathan had left plenty in the tank and still had another few gears to go to. He sneaked a glance at his rival; Whitworth was blowing out of his arse. This was in the bag. All that extra training was about to bear fruit; all those evenings working on his speed endurance with his coach, Ernie, bawling at him from the edge of the track were about to pay off. He lengthened his stride, opening up fully, and powered ahead, now in full-flight. He poured it on, leaving nothing to chance. He dared not look back but knew he was clear. Whitworth was receding into the distance, a tiny speck on the horizon. The finishing line loomed large, but rather than stumble towards it as he’d done in previous races he sailed through, savouring the moment, relishing the victory. He crossed unopposed with Paul Whitworth at least fifty metres behind. He had not only won, he had decimated the field. He looked for his mother. It wasn’t difficult to find her; she was the deranged lunatic in an otherwise sane crowd. Jonathan raised a victorious fist in her direction. He couldn’t wait to see her and be lavished with praise. But even more than that, he couldn’t wait to see his dad.
Once the formalities had been completed and he’d received another trophy to add to his collection, Jonathan went to the mix zone where he knew his mother would be waiting. As soon as she saw him Margaret came running through the throng, easing children out of the way as she rushed to her little hero. The force of her hug almost bowled him over. He still had the trophy in his hands, and it jabbed into his ribs as she smothered him with kisses.
“I’m so proud of you, love.”
Jonathan offered a sheepish grin to a couple of teammates who had come over for a look at the cup.
“Ta, Mum,” he said, as she finally let go and looked at the trophy for the first time.
“Oh, my God, it’s huge,” she said, grabbing it from him and reading the engraving aloud.
“First place, North-west Under-Fifteen’s 800 metres,” she called out, ensuring that everyone in the vicinity was fully aware that her son had won his race.
Jonathan’s teammates walked away with knowing smiles, by now familiar with his mother.
“Did you phone dad?” Jonathan asked.
“I tried, Jonathan, but his secretary said he’d been out of the office all day. We’ll try again when we get home, shall we?”
“Sure, Mum,” he said, disappointed. He’d hoped his father would be nervously waiting by the phone for news of his son’s endeavours, but that didn’t appear to be the case.
They walked back to the car, Jonathan’s bag slung awkwardly over his mother’s shoulders so that he could carry the trophy unhindered, and set off on the short journey home. As soon as they got in Jonathan went straight to the phone and dialled the direct line to his father’s office, which he’d been told to use only for emergencies. It rang out. He called the standard number and got through to his father’s secretary.
“Oh, hello, Jonathan. How are you?”
“Fine, Mrs. Walker. Is my dad about?”
“He left about twenty minutes ago, said he was taking a half-day. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t. Thanks, Mrs. Walker.”
“Okay, Jonathan.”
He hung up the phone. A half-day. If he could take a half-day, just like that, then surely he could have made time to see his son’s race? There had to be a logical explanation, his dad was always there for him. Chances were he’d received word of his son’s exploits and was now rushing home to congratulate him. Any second now he’d burst in the door, probably with a cake, and they’d dance around the living-room in a celebratory jig. Yeah, that was it.
But he didn’t arrive. There was no cake, no jig. Jonathan sat in the living-room, staring out the window, waiting for the car to appear, but he gave up after an hour. As much as it hurt him he had to accept that his father simply didn’t care about his race, or that he had obliterated one of the strongest fields he had ever raced against. For reasons known only to himself, he had been too busy to bother with his son’s big day.
“I’m making your favourite tea,” his mother said, as he went into the kitchen to mope around there for a while.
“But Coach Tur-”
“I’ve rung your coach, and he said you can have whatever you want after a performance like that.”
Jonathan smiled; good old Mum, she thought of everything. Lasagne and chips it was, then, but it wasn’t the same without some ice-cold Coke to wash it down. He checked the fridge; nothing. Sophie, the little guzzler, had drank the lot.
“We haven’t any Coke, Mum.”
Margaret pulled out a fiver from her purse and pressed it into his hand before returning to the oven.
“Get some nice ice cream, too,” she called as he closed the front door behind him.
3
“Another one there, mate,” said the man in the expensive suit, raising his empty glass.
The barman studied him closely. There were only two other people in the pub, both regulars. This bloke was new.
“No problem, pal,” he said, taking the glass and refilling it with a measure of vodka. “You from the area?”
“Aye,” said the man in the suit.
“Whereabouts?”
“Not far from here.”
He didn’t seem the conversational type, so the barman let him be. As long as he paid for his drinks and didn’t cause any trouble, he could sit there in silence for as long as he liked.
Malcolm knocked back the drink in one go. He didn’t even like vodka, but it left less smell on his breath. It would soon be time to go home, and he didn’t want to walk in the front door reeking of booze. The thought of returning there made him feel sick – no mean feat considering the amount of alcohol he’d consumed without once feeling even remotely nauseous. How could he face them? They hadn’t a clue. As far as they were concerned, everything was fine; Daddy was at work, earning the money on which they would all live from here to eternity. They had no idea what was going on or what he had done. They didn’t realise that he was a fraud – worse, a pervert; a dirty old man who couldn’t control his urges. He couldn’t tell them what he’d done. But he couldn’t live with the guilt either. So here he was drinking his cares away, drowning in a sea of alcohol; the coward’s way out.
Life had been so good. Two beautiful kids, a wife he wanted to grow old with and a well-paid job that he loved. The small business he’d started with his best friend almost ten years ago was continuing to grow. They now employed more than fifty people, and Malcolm was in charge of them all. He let Dennis take care of the business side of things; Malcolm had always been more of a ‘people person’. They each knew their role: Dennis was the executive, spending his days in the office brokering deals with new clients, thinking up ways to move the company forward and lure new investors; Malcolm was the shop-steward, keeping the workers happy, dealing with office politics and monitoring productivity.