Please Don't Make Me Go

by Fenton, John

  ‘Amen. Hail Mary …’

  I must have said at least three decades of the Rosary in my mind before I reopened my eyes and, as for all fervent believers, it had a soothing effect on my troubled mind. I looked at Bernie and saw that he too was lost in deep reverie, so rather than disturb him, I returned to my silent prayers for divine help.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you.

  ‘Blessed art thou …’

  Chapter 7

  June 1958

  I had been awake since the break of dawn. It was the first Sunday in June and I was going home for the whole day. I was anxious to be on my way because I hadn’t seen my mother since February. There were no visits from relatives at St Vincent’s. I missed her badly and had read each of her letters to me at least fifty times. They made me feel less isolated and comforted me, helping me to endure the bullying I was being subjected to daily. I ran my tongue along the inside of my bottom lip. I could feel the bumps and scars from being punched in my mouth, causing my teeth to penetrate and bruise the inside of my lips.

  I knew with certainty that the bullying would go on. It was the way of the school and nothing was going to change it. The only way to stop it was to fight the bully and hurt him sufficiently that he would never, ever, target you again, but I couldn’t do that because I was a coward, a boy who was frightened of his own shadow, a boy who would be bullied and abused for the rest of his days. I shook my head hard, trying to shake off the shame and fear that had taken over my life.

  Fear is like a cancer. It eats away at your mind and gives you no respite. I’d try to hide from it in shadowy corners, but it always found me. I pulled the bedclothes over my head at night, only to find it lurking in the darkness. I shut my eyes tightly to erase it, but it lay in wait for me and jumped out without warning. I felt weary from the constant battle going on in my mind. I needed the luxury of crying. I wanted to let my emotions out without the fear of someone seeing me. I wanted to sleep without fear.

  Sleep without fear. I doubted if I would ever be afforded that luxury again. Jimmy Wilkinson had made sure of that. He was a constant reminder of my weakness, my cowardice, my shame and humiliation. He had destroyed any small amount of belief I had in myself and I could find no way to excuse my lack of action. I had lost my self-respect and felt like shit. He almost destroyed my belief in God and weakened my faith in the power of prayer. That dreadful night would live with me forever.

  It was in my second week at Vincent’s that I was woken in the middle of the night by Wilkinson. He was kneeling by the side of my bed and had shaken me gently to wake me up.

  He held out an unlit roll-up. ‘Do you fancy a smoke?’

  ‘I – I suppose so,’ I whispered. Bernie and I had often spoken about the dangers of Vincent’s. I knew I should refuse, but I couldn’t. It seemed that all my senses had been paralysed with fear and that to refuse his offer would be unwise.

  ‘Follow me and no noise.’ He waited silently by the dormitory door as I climbed out of bed. When I got near where he was standing, he crouched low and hurried along the corridor that ran parallel to the dormitories. I followed him in the same crouching manner until we reached the first-floor showers and toilets. He ushered me in and closed the door behind us quietly.

  A match flared into light and briefly illuminated our surroundings. The plain white ceramic tiles that covered all four walls reflected back our gloomy shadows. Wilkinson’s face appeared chalky white as he puffed the roll-up into life and his watery blue eyes stared at me in a peculiar way. I felt uneasy. The match went out and we were plunged into darkness. I could just discern the red glowing tip of the cigarette as it wove intricate patterns en route to and from Wilkinson’s mouth.

  ‘Here. You have it,’ he whispered. I took the offered cigarette and puffed in a welcome lungful of smoke. My teeth began to chatter and I clamped them tightly together. I knew in my heart that I shouldn’t be in this place, that it didn’t feel right. I gulped in another mouthful of smoke.

  Bernie and I had bought several roll-ups off Wilkinson by this time so while I already regarded him with fear and suspicion I was at least on first-name terms with him.

  ‘I think we should go, Jim. We don’t want to get caught by Arnold.’ I reached out to hand him back the cigarette. ‘I – I think we should go.’

  ‘In a minute.’ Wilkinson’s voice sounded husky. ‘I’ve just got to do something first.’

  I jumped like a scalded cat when I felt him starting to lift my nightshirt. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Stay still, you little wanker. You knew you’d have to pay for that roll-up.’ He pushed me hard, face first, against the tiled wall. ‘Don’t worry; I’m not going to stick it up you. I’m just going to put it between the tops of your legs.’

  My legs felt weak and I’m sure that if it wasn’t for the fact that I was pressed up against the wall they would have crumpled under me. Sweet Jesus. Please help me. Mary, mother of God. Please help me, my mind screamed out. I could feel his hand on my buttocks and I clamped them tightly shut with straining muscles. His breath was warm against the back of my neck and coming out in short, laboured gasps. Oh, Jesus. Please help me. He was fumbling with his own nightshirt and with absolute horror and revulsion I felt his erect penis pushing against me.

  Suddenly, without warning, his right forearm smashed into the back of my head.

  ‘Loosen up your legs,’ he said through gritted teeth ‘or I’ll break your fucking neck.’

  His arm was pushing my face onto the wall. I felt dizzy and confused; the initial blow on the back of my head had hurt me and I thought I might pass out at any time.

  ‘Loosen your fucking legs,’ he repeated.

  I think I may have lost touch with reality for a few moments as I suddenly became aware of his penis sliding rhythmically in and out between my upper legs. I clenched my eyes tightly shut and tried to erase from my mind what was happening to me. I’d never felt so completely alone and unloved. There wasn’t a person alive who could help me and now I had been deserted by God and the Blessed Virgin.

  Wilkinson let out a shuddering gasp of breath and pushed me even harder against the wall. I could feel a warm viscous flow trickling down my legs and I couldn’t help but let out an involuntary cry of anguish. I felt defiled. He pushed his mouth up against my left ear.

  ‘If you ever mention this – I’ll fucking kill you.’ He hit the back of my head with another forearm smash and pulled away from me, opening the door quietly. ‘Stay there until I’ve had time to get back to bed.’ The door closed behind him and I stood alone and trembling in the dark.

  Time seemed to stand still. I leant against the wall, not moving, alone in the darkness. I haven’t a clue how long I stood there – maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour; time meant nothing to me. It was the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway that brought my frozen heart back to life; it hammered against my ribs and forced me to scamper into one of the cubicles and close the door quietly behind me. The footsteps stopped outside and I could hear the handle of the door turning.

  Fear took hold. I was unable to move and every nerve in my body was tingling in terrified anticipation. With a resounding crash the door was flung open and the lights switched on.

  ‘Are you in here, Fenton?’ It was Brother Ambrose. He had found my bed empty on his two-hourly check. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’ I let my breath out in an audible sigh. Ambrose was alright – a grandfatherly kind of man with horn-rimmed glasses, who seemed very pious.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bro. I have diarrhoea. I didn’t have time to put on the light.’ There were a few moments of silence then the sound of his footsteps going back down the corridor. As he went away I could hear him softly reciting the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come …’

  I sat without moving until I could no longer hear him, then I stood up and walked, trembling, out to one of the shower basins. I had to wash away all traces of that filth
y discharge that was still clinging to my legs like a slug’s trail on a garden path. The water from the shower was only lukewarm but that didn’t bother me. Even the limited foam from the carbolic soap acted like a healing salve as it washed away that filth. When at last I stepped out of the shower I felt clean again but bitterly ashamed. I stood naked in front of a long mirror and watched the tears streaming down my cheeks and dripping off the end of my chin. My right cheekbone was red and swollen from being smashed against the tiled wall and there was a small graze on my nose. It took me all of me limited willpower not to scream out in torment at my misfortune.

  You will pay for this, you bastard. No matter how long it takes; you will pay. I stood looking and talking to myself, imagining the pleasure I would have in seeing Wilkinson dead. I vowed to myself and to God that I would have my revenge on that filthy piece of shit. One day.

  I dressed myself and crept along the corridor and back into bed. I buried myself under the bedclothes, trembling and starting at the slightest noise. The thoughts of the revenge I would have helped me cope with my fear and I eventually fell into a deep sleep.

  I was wakened in the morning by the boy in the next bed shaking me gently.

  I jumped up and snapped at him, ‘Don’t touch me like that.’ I swung my legs out of bed and onto the floor. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’

  ‘It’s time to get up.’ The boy looked surprised at my reaction. ‘Next time, I’ll leave you in bed, you wanker.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I whispered. The boy had been doing me a favour. I would have got booked for being in bed after the first call. ‘I didn’t mean it. I was half asleep.’

  ‘No damage done,’ the boy replied. Although he grinned, I knew he wouldn’t forget my rebuke. I shrugged my shoulders. I had bigger worries than some boy who’d had his feelings hurt; I had to face Wilkinson again. I had resolved the previous night that there would be no recurrence of that abuse, no matter what the consequences. I didn’t know how long the shame and humiliation would stay with me but I did know that I would rather be dead than allow it to happen again. I also knew that I would have my revenge, no matter how long it took.

  I likened myself to Edmond Dantes in The Count of Monte Cristo, one of my favourite books, who seeks revenge on Raymond de Villefort and Fernand de Mondego for the injustices inflicted on him. Wilkinson was now both of these characters rolled into one and although his crime against me was different from the ones against Dantes, I felt equally as vindictive. Wilkinson didn’t know what was coming to him. He didn’t know what a bad enemy he had made and how much I now thirsted for evil to befall him. I stood up and grinned ruefully. Vincent’s was my Chateau d’If but, unlike Dantes, I didn’t want to escape. I had a reason to stay. I had my hatred for Wilkinson to see me through.

  I had decided that everything that occurred that night would stay a secret. There was no need for Bernie to know; I was too embarrassed to tell him. When he asked me about the new bruising on my cheek I told him I had been punched in the face by one of the boys in the dormitory. He found nothing unusual in this as it was a normal occurrence. I had no reason to come in contact with Wilkinson so it was easy to avoid him, but I watched his every movement from afar. Everything he did I evaluated. I was getting to know him well. When my time came I would be ready. I had already started to formulate an unpleasant surprise for him and when the time was right I would act.

  That June, the soporific chugging of the train wheels rattling along the track was the only noise in the carriage. I sat hunched in a corner seat staring unseeing at the landscape flashing past. Every puff of Golden Virginia tobacco I inhaled caressed my throat and relaxed me deeper into a state of euphoria. I was on my way home – only for a few hours, but I was on my way.

  The horrors of Vincent’s were already fading from my mind; they seemed far away and distant. It was the first time in months that I had looked around me with a feeling of unbridled interest. I didn’t recognise the names of some of the railway stations we stopped at – Bexleyheath… Erith – but I knew that I was getting closer to London and home. When we stopped at London Bridge Station I was fascinated at how dirty the surrounding houses appeared to be. The brickwork was filthy from years of soot being dumped on them by passing trains and the net curtains hanging in windows were discoloured and grey. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the people who lived in these drab surroundings. Were they happy? Did they have problems? How many children lived there? So many thoughts were going through my mind that it wasn’t until the very last minute that I noticed we were pulling into my destination: Charing Cross Station.

  It was an underground train ride to Ealing Broadway Station and then a ten-minute bus ride to West Ealing and my home. I let my eyes feast on familiar surroundings and even gave an old mailbox on the corner of my road an affectionate stroke as I walked past. I stopped and leant against one of the elm trees, spaced out symmetrically along my road, and expertly rolled myself a cigarette. I was intent on savouring every moment of my day at home. I puffed luxuriously on the cigarette, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke slowly drift out of my nostrils. I knew I had an uncertain future in front of me, but this was now, the future could wait.

  I could just discern my house from where I was standing and wondered what sort of homecoming lay in front of me. I had heard from my mother every week since I’d been away but there had been no mention of my father in any of her letters. It was as though he didn’t exist, as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth. Could she possibly have got rid of him? I didn’t even dare to hope. It was time to walk the last few steps – time to see Mum and the girls.

  As I came through the back gate and into the small garden, my heart sank as my father emerged scowling from the kitchen door. His blue eyes stared at me dispassionately. ‘I thought I’d seen the last of you.’ He turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Your little bastard is home,’ then brushed past me and went to the gate. ‘What time are you going back?’

  I had only been in Vincent’s for four months but already my temperament was starting to change. I looked at him with contempt. He couldn’t hurt me with his nasty remarks; those days were gone. I didn’t give a rat’s arse if he didn’t want me home. I had come to see Mum and my sisters and he would just have to put up with it. ‘About five o’clock,’ I replied, ‘and, if you don’t like it – tough shit.’

  He spun around to face me. I knew that he wanted to hit me, but he was wary of what I might do. He could still remember how menacingly I had held that vegetable knife and threatened to kill him. It was because of his fear of me that I had been put in Vincent’s.

  ‘Hit me, if you dare,’ I said quietly. ‘Your days of hurting me and Mum are gone. I just hope you’re dead by Christmas and I’m given the chance to piss on your grave.’

  His face reddened and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. I felt sure he would have an apoplectic fit at any moment. He seemed to struggle as he lifted his arm and poked a bony finger in my direction and his whole body was shaking with rage.

  ‘You – you hope I’m dead by Christmas. Well, let me tell you something,’ he paused to draw breath. ‘I’ve wished you dead since you’ve been born. You’re not even my son. Your slut of a mother got pregnant by another man when I was in the army.’ He spat a large lump of mucous on the garden. ‘So how does that news make you feel? You’re a bastard,’ he sneered, ‘and your precious mother is a lousy slut.’

  I looked at him in stunned silence. Thoughts raced through my mind as I slowly digested this. Was it true? The thought of not being his son didn’t bother me at all, but I didn’t like the way he delighted in calling my mother a slut. To me she was the most wonderful person in the world. No matter what he said, he could never bring her down from the pedestal I had her on in my mind.

  ‘I’m glad you’re not my father. I hate you and I hate the fucking Irish,’ I yelled at him. I remembered a term of abuse used by one of the boys at Vincent’s. ‘St Patrick was a cocksucking que
er who shagged sheep.’ I paused and laughed at the shocked expression on his face. ‘Just like you are.’

  This insult stretched him beyond any form of self-control. His right fist shot out and, although I jumped back, it still made contact with my lip, which immediately swelled and oozed blood from the corner of my mouth. The sight of blood seemed to spur him on. His whole body crashed into me and we fell in an untidy heap onto the grass. He straddled me, pinning my arms underneath his knees, and viciously backhanded me across the face.

  The pain brought tears to my eyes but I still managed to spit a mouthful of saliva and blood into his face, where it dripped off the side of his chin. He grinned and backhanded me again across the face. ‘Cocksucking queer, is it?’ he panted. ‘I’ll show you cocksucking queer.’ He swung back with his other hand, knocking my face sideways. ‘By the time I finish with you, you’ll never want to come home again.’

  The blows came in quick succession. Right to the head. Left to the head. My head was flipping from right to left in rhythm with his blows. I was rapidly losing consciousness but there was no let-up in the amount of hits. I heard a voice that seemed a long way away, screaming, pleading, ‘Stop it. You’re killing him,’ and then there was blackness.

  I awoke to the sensation of hot water being dabbed gently on my cheek. I kept my eyes shut and tried to push my battered face even deeper into my mother’s lap. I loved the smell and the warmth of her body as it always gave me a feeling of peace and safety. Nothing bad could happen to me when surrounded by such a beautiful aroma. I wanted to cry. I slowly opened my eyes and the tightness around my eyelids told me that they must be swollen. I reached up to touch them but her hand restrained me. I heard her say quietly, ‘Lie still, John.’ I was trying to focus on her face but everything seemed blurry.

  I shut my eyes again to get rid of the weird images. I must have passed out again as I remember nothing until I felt Mum trying to lift me off the floor. I reopened my eyes and slowly her face appeared. I could see she was crying. I struggled to break free from her and with an enormous effort managed to sit up.