My So Called Mum: Child abuse, Love & My Great Britain

by Joseph Kane

  “You have an ulcer in your stomach from taking Co-proxamol. You must stop taking them immediately. Take this yellow tablet, and the pain will go away.”

  Already back to reality from the drink over my head, and being thrown into a wall, the magic pill stopped the pain. Having gone through thirty, I never touched another tablet. It came to a dramatic end when I walked across a field by the college and fell to my knees during a breakdown. My love followed me in tears as we held each other on the grass. How did it get this?

  Winter settled in signalling Christmas around the corner. The freezing cold weather brought Lou and me together again. Helping her deliver Avon catalogues, we cherished every moment from one extreme to another. Her crescent lit up with a white layer of snow. We laughed trying to prop each other up, slipping and sliding across ice landing on our ass. On Christmas day, I took advantage of two dinners at each house. It was the first Christmas without my gran. I felt selfish in love when my family was going through a bad time. If alive, the whole family would be sharing presents sat on chairs that went around the living room. I also wouldn’t have met Louise, so I was torn between the two aspects. Babysitting on New Year's Eve, we cuddled on the sofa in each other’s arm when the Big Ben clock tower struck midnight. Turning back towards me, we kissed well into the firework display on TV, with our favourite song playing on the kitchen stereo; Barthezz - on the move. 2002 brought a nervous feeling of “what’s in store for me this year.” Not wishing to continue with my dead-end college course, we both talked about dropping out. She found her art class difficult. I found it hard to believe because she was a great artist, even taking up photography. Her mum found it suspicious leaving at the same time. I wanted her to continue. Already feeling responsible for her decision, I knew her mum held me accountable. My ship was going down anyway, the last thing I wanted was for her to join me. She planned to find work instead. That was easy for her to say with the qualifications she had. The last thing I wanted to do was work. Life was terrifying enough. Working as a cleaner for £4 an hour was not worth getting out of bed, even if I wasn’t screwed up. Joining the Army seemed unlikely. I was underweight and had a criminal record with fines to pay for the next five years.

  Halfway through January relaxing with Louise after making love in her bed, knowing no one would walk in, I received a phone call. My mum phoned out of the blue. It must be important if she’s ringing. Giving a shit about me was not on her to-do list.

  “Joseph, it's mum. You need…. You need to… come here… quickly, something has happened.”

  She was sobbing like a baby. I couldn’t be bothered with her silly games, so I demanded she told me over the phone.

  “Just… get here as soon as you can.”

  “If I come all the way down in a taxi for no reason, I will never talk to you again.”

  I hung up to her snivelling down the phone. She was drunk as usual, but something was wrong. Around the time I usually left Lou’s to go home, she walked into her mum’s dark bedroom to ask if she could come with me for an hour. After agreeing, we both jumped in a taxi. Angry at what all the fuss was about, my response to her calling was half-hearted. We walked in to find her sobbing in the living room. Levi was nowhere to be seen.

  “I… I… can’t…”

  “If you don’t tell me in thirty seconds I’m walking out!”

  “The police… have been… your… your dad is dead.”

  “My real dad?”

  “Yeah…he’s..he’s….dead.”

  Louise and I looked dazed at each other. I sat on the stairs taking in what she just said. We didn’t hang around, so we left. My mum was no use to me after that. Not knowing where to go, we walked into town. A police van pulled up next to me with no intention to run like I once did.

  “Are you Joseph?”

  The policewoman knew who I was. I’d been stopped and searched by most of the police force for the last six years. The second she said my name I broke down, turning away in tears.

  “Look after him will you, make sure he gets home.”

  “I will, thanks, bye.”

  Needing to get back home, we both walked to the train station so Louise could jump in a black cab.

  Stood alone on the dark empty streets, I needed to get to my grandad’s to tell him his son was dead. My dad had the courtesy to put my mum down as his next of kin. The only person that needed to know if something happened to him was me. Walking so slow towards Fulwood, it took an hour. Entering through the back door, my grandad sat in his usual spot drinking beer and whiskey. Stood with tears in my eyes, I broke the news to him.

  “My dad has died.”

  “Your dad has died? who told you that?”

  “The police and my mum. You need to ring the family.”

  “Do you know what time it is? It’s eleven thirty at night.”

  Am I going insane, or am I the only one that gave a shit about life? He didn’t bat an eyelid. Walking upstairs, I opened Mick's door turning his light on.

  “Mick, wake up. My dad’s dead.”

  He questioned how I knew, confirming adults don’t listen to what young people have to say. Walking downstairs with him, he confronted my grandad.

  “Right, get on the phone and find out what’s going on, don’t just sit there.”

  “Do you know what time it is.”

  “Who gives a shit about time. Your son has just died; do you not understand that.”

  They both argued, so I walked out. It became clear what my grandad thought about his own son. As well as being a drunk, he hated niggers and queers; his own words.

  Later that week, my uncles and I along with his shady wife drove to Bournemouth in a van to get his stuff. I don’t know why she came; my dad never had any money. I had to sit in the back of a windowless van for six hours on a chair like an immigrant. One of dads friends met us outside his flat to let us in. Not seeing many of his friends before, you could tell the bloke was gay. He was as camp as a row of tents. My dad's gay life that he hid so well revealed itself. He threw all my dad’s empty bottles, removing any gay porn before we arrived, and any other weird shit. None of us wanted any embarrassment. Presuming he had drunk himself to death, we had to wait for his autopsy report. Behind his door was a pile of letters piled up high. It was two weeks after his 40th birthday when he died; what a waste. I never bothered to send him a card. He was too selfish to care. Not being seen for days, one of the neighbours placed a ladder against his bedroom window. My dad was found dead on top of his bed with the window open. Entering his flat, the first thing that hit me was the stench of death. It was a smell I will never forget. In the microwave was half a bowl of beans. He sold everything to live off beans and cider until he died. The coroner sat in the living room with my family, discussing what happens next. Stood by the doorway, I broke down in tears. Mick took me for a walk to calm me down past a car garage that sold Porsche’s. Returning to the flat, I sat on his bed where he died. What have you gone and done now dad, I thought to myself. Then I went through all his clothes in the wardrobe, placing his jumpers to my face. His smell was still present in his clothing. Once the van was filled with his stuff, we took a good look around before returning to Preston. I was now the new owner of his motorbike leathers and his real tiger skin.

  Dad died from bronchopneumonia; pneumonia in his lungs that could have been treated with antibiotics, according to my doctor. Drinking would have killed him regardless. My prediction never to see him again came true. His funeral was held in Bournemouth a week later. Neither happy in Preston or Bournemouth, it didn’t matter where he was cremated. I didn’t decide to view his body in the morgue. Mick said he had a beard, and looked gaunt. Always clean shaven, it was hard to picture. There was no way I was about to have that image stuck in my head forever. I didn’t go to his funeral. He caused enough damage. I don’t see how I should suffer any more after the mess he left before running off. His ashes were returned to me, his only child. It weighed a ton as well.

  “W
hen I die, put me in a black bin bag, then throw me into the sea.”

  My dad sure did have a way with words, as my mum did. Not knowing what to do with them, he would have been happy for me to throw them in a bin. Mick and I went to our family grave. With around four relatives in the same spot, I dug a small hole with my hands. Pouring his ashes into the ground, a strong gust of wind blew his remains all over my face and in my mouth! Not only did he walk out on me, but now I had his ashes all over me.

  “Fuck sake…. Thanks, dad.”

  With January down the sinkhole, the rest of the year had concerned me. Eleven more months of uncertainty would surely take shape. With my gran and dad dead within twelve months, it was a hard time. My break came when a flat near Chris became available. I’d not slept in a bed for nearly a year. Louise was as happy as I was; our own space. The first thing I did was try to get her to move in. Knowing how volatile the relationship had become, he mum refused and rightly so. Owning my dad's microwave and a small television, I didn’t have a penny to my name. The government gave me £300 to decorate and buy what I needed. By the time I had purchased everything for the kitchen, there was no money left. The flat had no carpets or curtains, so I decided to live in the bedroom with bed sheets against the window. My Uncle Kevin helped me take my bed from my grandad’s to the new flat. It was nice being alone for the first hour, then it feels like being on a desert island. No one visited apart from Louise. Even Chris couldn’t be bothered to look at my flat. Lou and I enjoyed having total privacy. My first official night, we both got naked while she laid on her belly as I massaged her back. The tension I was releasing was temporary. The real pressure was building from being in that flat without boundaries. Being in public or at her mum's had toned us both down during bad arguments. Now totally alone, we had no safeguard.

  With long days pacing up and down my flat, the situation was shit. I sat on my window ledge in the living room with nothing but wooden floorboards. The feeling of loneliness was scary. Now working, Louise went through life without speedbumps. It was good for some positivity to come out of the situation. Her mind was all over the place coming to see me. Three or four visits later, we ended up arguing again. Arguments turned into violence. Presuming she was still messed up over what I did in college, her punches rained down, while I slapped, wrestled, and gently punched her back. Stood in the kitchen on her own during a breather, she grabbed a large kitchen knife from out of the sink. There was so much drama; she left the flat crying with the knife. I kept ringing her to come back, while her emotions drove her mad. Within an hour, she had returned in the same state. Having the knife returned to the sink, we ended up wrestling on my bed. I had gotten on top of her, completely pinning her down. That was my first time overpowering her, but it didn’t work. Still going apeshit, there was a plate next to her head with a butter knife on it. Out of ideas, I grabbed the knife and put it to her neck thinking she would snap out of it, from how serious the situation was getting. That didn’t work, so I left her to do whatever she wanted. She ran out of my flat in a right state. Twenty minutes later she started texting me.

  “I’m sat on the train line; I don’t want to live anymore.”

  Immediately getting my shoes on, I ran to the local platform knowing she meant it. Unable to see her, I ran to the next platform close to her house. She was sat on the train line crying with her head in her hands. It killed me to see her so upset. I tried to drag her off the line, but she was too heavy for my weak arms, exhausted from all the wrestling we had just done.

  “I want to kill myself; get off me.”

  “No, you are not, get off the line now before a train comes.”

  With trains every half hour, there was bound to be one due. Pulling with all my strength, I managed to get her off. She stormed home in a complete wreck. I backed off hoping she would calm down before getting home. It reminded me of the time my mum tried to kill herself by jumping in a ditch. I had to drag her back in the car.

  Getting back to my flat, I fell asleep after all the madness. By tea time, someone was banging on the front door that woke me up. Ignoring it the first time, I crept around trying to figure out what was going on. With nowhere to escape living in an upstairs flat, I was trapped. Fifteen minutes later, my door was being banged and kicked.

  “Who is it?”

  “Open this door now, or I’ll break it down.”

  It was her biological father in a foul mood. Being known for a nut-case, me and Lou went to loads of pubs with him at the weekends, while he put on a karaoke. Always facing danger, I opened the door to him. The crazy bastard jumped on me, as I covered my head with my arms.

  “If you ever touch Louise again, I will fucking kill you. Don’t ever go near her again. I’m the hardest man in Leyland; I bite peoples noses off.”

  Shaking on my back against the stairs, all I could do was wait for it to be over. It was a relief when he left. I couldn’t believe the love of my life had turned it all against me. I could see where she got her anger. The following ten minutes concluded with my decision to go back to my mums. Louise was gone, Chris was a waste of time, and my flat had nothing inside it anyway. I’d rather suffer at my mums; at least I felt alive instead of being alone. Angry, I smashed her £300 phone up, then ripped all the photos we took together. We couldn’t accept that fact that we had ex-partners. We couldn’t stand anyone looking at each other. Leaving the keys, the flat sat empty until the council took over it again. Being so angry, I didn’t want to see her ever again. I took betrayal very serious, even if I was a hypocrite.

  Two weeks later, her brother David knocked on my mum's door.

  “Louise is sat on the park; she needs to see you.”

  “I don’t want to see her, tell her to go home.”

  Her family stopped us being together. The relationship was doomed. Ten minutes later, he knocked again.

  “She really wants to see you; she’s stood over there by that ally.”

  Walking over with him, I could see she was crying. Leaving us to talk, I listened to what she had to say.

  “I’m so sorry Joseph; I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s killing me not being able to see you.”

  “You should have thought about that before telling your dad.”

  It all unfolded when I left her to go home from the train station. Collapsing on the floor, she had phoned her dad's girlfriend, where she went on to tell her dad. Siding with his daughter, there was no way my story mattered. Not caring what she did wrong, my love for her was written in stone. I placed my arms around her as she wept.

  “I just need you to tell me that everything is going to be OK Joseph.”

  “It will don’t worry. I’m right here. Calm down.”

  We knew it was damaged. No one could come between what we had. Pulled together by the power of love, we let an unseeable force move us like puppets. Coming to Preston to work, we used that to be able to meet up. Some of her relatives worked in town as well, so we had to be careful. At midnight twice a week, I walked over four miles to meet her outside her house. Once we met up, we walked back to my mums. Leaving her house every day before her mum woke up, her absence was never noticed. We spent the night together in my bed before she left for work. The plan was sweet. Making love was that extra bit special. Her family gave her an ultimatum; them or me. She wanted me but needed them. We held on before inevitably being torn apart. With pressure from every angle, my mum was back to being a dick, kicking me out for smoking weed, or having my girlfriend around. Like she was any better than me. I applied for a hostel straight away. Getting my flat was fortunate, but it's not what I needed. Surviving on and off the streets, only God could help me now. To my amazement, he answered my prayer. The council phoned me with an interview at a hostel, right next to the town centre. It was amongst all the smack-head-hotels, but that didn’t matter. My best friend from high school lived around the corner in a pub. After my interview, the support worker that did the night shift instantly knew I needed help. Before finishing my stor
y of what kind of life I had, they cut it short, showing me to my new room. Now impossible to spend time with Lou, we drifted apart. The hostel declined any visitors. We met a few times, finding public places to have sex, but it wasn’t the same. She deserved Better. I was never in her league to start with.

  Chapter 8 - Hostels Galore

  Following the staff member, we walked upstairs to the third floor. Because I was new, I had to take the small room up in the heavens. If someone moved out, eventually I could work my way down to bigger rooms. It was tiny. Just enough space for a bed and a wardrobe. With no money or food, the staff gave me two cheap loaves of bread, and three bottles of Lipton ice tea to last me for two weeks. I don’t even know how I survived before next payday. Sipping on that disgusting drink I’d never heard of, I used it to wash the dry bread down. Needing it to last, I rationed each day. Being at mum's didn’t get me much more than what I had in that room, so surviving off bread and liquids was nothing new. My tolerance for ignoring hunger was second nature. Every tenant in that place was vulnerable like me. The word “vulnerable” made me laugh. I was vulnerable as a child; now I’m used, abused and flushed down the toilet. Mixing with the rest of the idiots in that place, I soon lost all hope on life. All of them sneaked cannabis, tablets and alcohol inside the hostel, to get smashed every day. I was trying to avoid the path our parents lead us down, while they embraced it. Not seeing a way forward with a heavy heart, I started to drink vodka. I met a new friend that lived on my floor, a Muslim lad who escaped a dangerous situation of his own. He called me “Bunty” for some reason whenever he saw me with a smile. I wasn’t old enough to buy alcohol, but he was. He went a few times before it turned into a daily habit. I only bought quarter sized bottles, but it was enough to get around my thin body fast enough. There was nothing else to do. My family did the same, maybe I was the missing link that needed to follow suit. I didn’t want to live anymore, wishing I was dead.