Breathe and watch him breathe.
I think she thought once she did that I’d never leave be able to or I’d be ruined at least. And in some ways I was. I was never the same again. But at the time I begged til I started to choke and I tried sitting up but my back and she kept pushing me down trying to get me to and my brain fucking jumping. Fucking gagging and panicking and then you know
it was too late and
all of a sudden, I was that became
a person who has done the worst thing
is that even a person any more?
If she’d left at that moment I would have gone out the window but she she didn’t. She kept going on so the pain it started to do something else
all those fucking bruises and cuts wouldn’t let out of myself.
And she hadn’t counted on that that there, in the fucked-up body getting fucked, was a person starting to come to life, starting to want to hurt her and do all the things to her body that she’d done to his. Do worse. Wanting to fucking fling her on the floor and stamp on her face and I could tell I was starting to go off my head. That if it wasn’t over soon I definitely would. So I went through to the end. Finished it, like she said. And when she got up to go clean He dry retches again. Are you alright? He nods but the grey eyes black and the wall they stare through into that past is gone so eerily thin I can almost see her too.
When she got up off me, I said If you ever fucking do that again I’m going to kill you and then I’ll kill myself and everyone will know you for what you are. It was the first time either of us had referred to it aloud. First time I ever saw her like that. Knocked off herself, you know? But, of course, the clever kicked in. Cogs going round. I could almost see it, her working out how to handle me, which trick might be best. She chose guilt. Falling down, crying I should never have let you do that but I love you so much. You’re all I have. But the shock at myself had me out of the bed. Getting my clothes. Dressing quick.Her following me, holding onto me and all the fucking talk. If only you could understand how lonely I am. All these years without your father but I love you son. Just shit pouring out but I’d gone completely beyond. I knew this was the only chance I’d get. If I didn’t go now, I’d never have the nerve and then she would have me for good. So I what was left of me prised her off and took her by the hair and I was just shouting it, I remember, repeating the same thing If you ever fucking lay a finger on me again I will kill you and then I will kill myself and everyone will know. And I dragged her to the door. Still fucking hanging on. Clawing into me screaming Don’t son! Don’t! Then I threw her out. And I slammed the fucking door on her hand and she fell. I heard her. On the stairs. Like fucking comedy bumping and I shouted through the door I hope you’re fucking dead. I hope you’ve broken your fucking neck. And she lay there screeching, pleading up for help. I just kept shouting I fucking hate you and I always have. Over and over. But she didn’t stop. So I ripped up the bedsheets, all covered in fucking stuff, and I took them out to the landing and just threw them over the banister. Then I watched them tumble down and land all over her. Go wash those fucking sheets, I said. And she stopped screaming then. Stopped crying. Everything went still. Then she got up. Picked the sheets up. Went on down to the kitchen and How fucking banal is that? Unworthy of her, I think, not to reappear with a knife. So maybe my father taught me something after all, because although I threw up with fear, it was sorted. That was the last time I ever saw her and, by the time the others were back, my whole life had changed.
The rest of the day I stayed in my room. At teatime I heard her tell one of the boys to fetch me down. Him running up the stairs saying Mum says come and eat. But I didn’t. Him trying to persuade me but I wouldn’t. So he went back down saying He won’t come. Poor little bastard sounded so nervous but she only said Never mind, eat your own.
Unsurprisingly I didn’t sleep. Just sat there trying to get myself together really. By the morning I’d turned sixteen and I’d made my plan — which involved lifting all the money and pills I could find. Once I’d done that, I left. Bought myself a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. Then I walked out of Sheffield and that was it. Happy Birthday to me! Fuck! My leg’s gone to sleep! And he stands up to limp. Twenty-three years ago tomorrow? And twenty-three years ago today. Oh God, I say. He nods but then goes on
I hitched down to London. Most of the way with this lorry driver who picked me up just outside Sheffield and asked if I’d been hit by a bus? But a fucking fortuitous meeting, that was. He gave me the address of some mate in Camberwell so I’d a floor to kip on that night. And that mate got me the first of many shitty jobs — Smithfield the first one was, I think, packing meat — the irony wasn’t lost on me but it really set me up. For the next few years I lived in lots of dives. Fucked up lots of other jobs and had a great fucking time. No one at me. No one entitled. The drug thing was already well under way but — compared to later on — pretty harmless, actually. In fact I’d say it helped. Helped with meeting people and making friends and getting over what had happened. It gave me a bit of space in my head which was exactly what I needed then. But now I need to take a leak.
Then he just walks out, leaving me in the midst of this half-unpacked life, letting me look at it and I what can I do but wait?
When he comes back he washes his hands and, on reflection, his face. So far so horrible, right? But not you, I say It. Well, he says Not yet. There’s so much I want to ask but I know to not. Let him. Let him say what he wants. But let me tell you something nice now, he says and sits back on the bed again.
Obviously I never had a girlfriend or anything when I was at home. I was pretty sure everyone could see I wasn’t normal and wherever I went it was like she was watching me, which was a bit of a turnoff too. So coming to London got rid of that and, much sooner than you’d have thought, all this sexual feeling started to reappear. Nothing unusual I suppose for a sixteen-year-old boy but completely new to me — noticing girls, fancying them. Even recognising it came as a shock and the first time something happened I couldn’t believe I was so up for it. I mean I was still bruised but there was this girl at the hostel I’d moved to — she worked in the kitchen there. Older than me. Eighteen, nineteen. Curly hair. Big brown eyes and a fucking tongue you wouldn’t believe. Everyone was scared of her but for me she was It. I couldn’t think about anything else. I was always hanging around where she was, all lanky and shy, holding open doors, offering to carry the mop. I was no good at coy so whenever I saw her I ticced. Badly. And she’d take the piss but then feed me scraps, which was further than most men got. I’m sure she knew I’d never make a move and if she hadn’t I’d probably still be a virgin now. Anyway, one night she took pity on me. Towed me into the women’s dorm and said Do you want to kiss me? I went bright red but managed to indicate that I did. Well, tonight’s your lucky night, she laughed then kissed me and Fuck it was good. I remember trying to work out what I should do with my hands and just putting them on her shoulders. She must’ve thought This is a right one, but all she said was Come lie on the bed, and, when I did, she put my hand on her breast and fffffffff. We kissed some more. Then she told me open her top and I got that hard I thought I was going to pass out. It was the first time I’d ever felt properly turned on, from the inside of myself, you know? But, just as suddenly, she sat back up and said That’s enough, off you go!
The next morning I couldn’t stop smiling at her. The whole canteen must have seen. She kept saying Stop giving me those puppy eyes, you! but most nights that week we did the same. Each time a little further, always at her behest. First time she put her hand in my pants I freaked out a bit but Don’t you want me to? she asked and soon as I said I did I could let her and it was great. I still felt strange about coming though and coughed a lot to cover it up. She wasn’t fooled but she was good about it and just put my hand up her skirt. I didn’t want to get naked because I was ashamed of my scars. She had a way with her though and, a few days later, it only took Want me to put it in my mouth? to get my pants on the floor. And I saw her see them but she never asked, which I was grateful for. Harder was returning the favour. I’d always found it particularly you know not great but the next night I took a couple of pills and Jesus, the reaction from her. Suddenly all I could think about was making her come and what it would feel like to put it in, which meant — by the time she suggested it — I was sort of prepared, in my head. The body though wasn’t much help. Couldn’t get it in, didn’t know what to do once I had. She was instructive, thankfully, and patient. Let me keep trying until I got it right — she probably thought I’d better come or he’ll never get off. But the memory of that first time — real time — and after it, both of us sleeping in her bed with the smell of her hair and the smell of the sex. It was like starting the clock again but, this time, right way round. Like getting clean for the first time in my life. She was the very best thing that could have happened and I knew that, even then.