I had a knife, a dagger that I had gotten for free when I was in the Scouts. Since I’d gotten so scared, I started carrying the knife with me when I went out of the house because it gave me a little security. I’d managed to borrow Mom’s sewing stuff and stitch the sheath of the knife safely into my jacket. I thought to myself that if Biggi ever managed to trap me so I couldn’t get away, I could threaten him so that he would run off. My sense of security increased day by day as I wore a knife hidden under my clothing. But I never told anyone about it. The knife was an absolute last resort.
After hanging around one night at Bústaðir with Siggi the Punk, I was returning home. Suddenly Brutal Biggi appeared. When he saw me he sped in my direction. I stopped.
“Where’s my booze?”
“What do you mean?” I muttered.
“You owe me booze!”
I stood frozen.
“I don’t owe you any booze,” I muttered.
He punched me in the shoulder.
“Of course you owe me booze. You owe me liquor!”
He grabbed me and slammed me up against the wall, struck me again and again up against the wall.
“Stop it. Stop it,” I implored him, on the verge of tears.
“Get me my booze then. I’ll stop when you get me my booze. You owe me liquor, dumbass!”
I was so scared, I started crying. I hoped he would put me down if he saw me cry, but he just got all the more worked up.
“Are you crying, you piece of shit?”
He grabbed me so hard around the neck that I could hardly breathe. I was out of my mind with fear, and without thinking about it, I reached inside my jacket, pulled the knife out, and shoved it menacingly towards Biggi. I fully hoped he would be so scared when he saw the knife that he’d run away. I wanted to say something but couldn’t get out a word, just kept shaking the knife in the air in front of him.
“You’ve got a knife, bonehead?”
He ripped the knife off me in a single motion but was so surprised that he let go of me. I seized the opportunity and ran away as fast as I could. He shouted after me:
“I’m going to beat you to shit, motherfucker!”
Terrified, I ran straight home. I sat totally alone inside my room through the rest of the evening and cried and trembled. My Sid Vicious T-shirt was sodden with tears and snot. This fucking life! Shithead and loser. Why was everything so miserable for me? Why didn’t things ever look up? Why couldn’t they just leave me alone? I hate them, hate them, hate them, I murmured to myself. I lay awake all night, trying to come up with a solution.
News immediately got around the whole neighborhood: it was on everyone’s lips that I’d had a knife.
“Did you have a knife?”
“What, were you gonna just stab Biggi, or what?”
I didn’t know how I should reply. I’d had no idea what I’d planned to do.
“Well no, I just had a knife, see.”
I was going to get beaten up. Biggi had already declared that he was going to beat the shit out of me. Everyone was talking about it, and all of my thoughts turned to avoiding Biggi. I’d heard stories about this and that kid he’d beaten up, and the stories had always sparked panic in my mind. Now it was my turn. Brutal Biggi was going to beat me up. I tried to stay at home as much as I possibly could. If I went out, I snuck along walls and darted between houses. I was absolutely terrified. Dóri and I talked yet again about what to do, but we were just as perplexed as before. I spoke to some boys I looked up to and asked them what I could possibly do in this hopeless situation. They said that there was nothing else to do but fight back.
“There’s no escape. You just have to face up to it. If you allow a pillock like him to bug you, it won’t ever stop.”
But how would I be able to beat up Brutal Biggi? I thought of all the possible ways. What could I do? Run up to him and beat him on the head with a lead pipe or something? I decided to talk to a boy who had been with me in the Scouts. He was an impressive fighter; he was known as Gaddi the Fists. He had a reputation for being mental. He was one of those who really threw punches. He was often in fights down at Hallærisplan and didn’t hesitate to take on older and stronger boys using his fists and his knees. But he had always been very nice to me, and we had always been on good terms. I told him all the sob stories about the kids who were constantly picking on me and about how Biggi was going to beat me up. Gaddi was no friend to Biggi. He well knew who he was, despised him totally, and said:
“This idiot deserves a good kicking.”
So Gaddi was quite willing to help me and not at all fazed. We three should just attack Biggi and beat his ass. We knew that Biggi played table tennis at Fossvogs School two nights a week. Biggi had a precious DBS 10-speed bike he always took when he went to table tennis practice. We knew where he lived and worked out the route he would take to practice. We decided to wait for him in a hidden spot right near the school. I stressed repeatedly that we shouldn’t let him know who we were, so we had to wear ski hats and clothes that we rarely wore otherwise. Gaddi was very excited about the whole thing and was looking forward to it. I was apprehensive in the days leading up to it. But it was the only way I felt I could do something to put an end to things. The thought of it made my hands continually shake and made me feel like I was trembling all over inside. My heart beat at double speed. But I couldn’t possibly turn down the chance; it was the only way. The plan was to sit on Biggi, attack him, hit him, then set fire to his bike and table tennis stuff. I had emptied containers of washing up liquid, rinsed them, and filled them with gasoline. We’d scare him so much that he’d never dare harm us.
Then came the frightful night. We hid ourselves and waited. I hoped with all my heart that Biggi wouldn’t come; I prayed to God. “Good God, please don’t let Biggi come,” I said over and over in my mind. But God didn’t hear me, and shortly after that, Biggi came up on his bicycle. When he was about upon us, we jumped in front of him with ski caps and nylon socks on our heads.
“Death to morons!” yelled Dóri.
As we rushed forward, Biggi lost his balance and fell off the bike. Gaddi threw himself at him and punched him in the face repeatedly while Dóri kicked him as he rolled around on the street. Meanwhile, hands trembling, I sprayed gasoline over Biggi’s bike and gym bag and lit it so that it flamed up. Gaddi and Dóri rained down blows on him. I also wanted to kick him, but I didn’t dare. Biggi held his arms around his head; his nose was bleeding, and his lip was cracked. I tossed the empty container and ran away. The boys also took to their heels and we dashed off, each in his own direction.
The next few days passed in a nightmare. I didn’t know if anyone else knew we had been there. I went to school and saw Biggi with his face all swollen and a black eye. It gave me a feeling of unparalleled satisfaction. He didn’t pay me any special attention, but I was sure he suspected me of being one of those who had attacked him. I was filled with confidence. We were the architects of this. We had beaten Biggi’s ass, and now he would leave us and everyone else alone. We had taught him a lesson. But then the story started going around that it had been me, Dóri, and Gaddi that attacked him. Gaddi had blabbed. He had enjoyed it and had boasted about it. Kids began to ask, “Did you take part in the attack on Biggi?”
I flatly denied it.
“No! Are you totally insane?!”
I thought that was an entirely believable answer, as there was really nothing that tied us to Gaddi. He was not a punk, not at Rétto, and, most of all, was just not the type of person I was associated with. Gaddi the unpredictable, the dissimulator, the fighter. He was notorious in the neighborhood, and it was even said that he had once beaten his mother when she had criticized him for something or other.