1979........ Rain....... Ruth..... Jerk.... A Joke.... Keys

Nineteen-seventy nine.

Noel loves his dad. Noel's dad loves Noel. Noel and Noel's dad have a loving, caring, sharing, father/son relationship. It's a rare thing.
Noel's dad, Giles, has never grown up. He has fathered three children but has remained infantile; maybe this is the reason he connects more easily with his son. Giles still lives in a world of Hornby, Tonka and Matchbox and on Christmas day, as the train sets are unwrapped, it is not always easy to identify whether the gift is for Noel or Giles.
Toys and games of childhood are generally relegated to the rubbish dump during adolescence, replaced by the more exciting prospect of porn mags, fags, teenage angst and pubic hair. A sensitive child may carefully pack up and box a more cherished toy, and then bury it in a dark, dank corner of the attic—the graveyard of youth.. teddy bears in shoe box coffins; toy boats taken out into a sea of dust and scuttled; cap guns, plastic knifes and swords taken into custody during a general amnesty. This tomb made up from a collection of cardboard coffins, is a place seldom visited and only stumbled upon by mistake when searching for Christmas decorations. Giles is a man unable to let go of his youth and he refuses to give up the shining symbols of his salad days, he cannot be parted from them and so he has buried himself with his toys in the attic. He has built a shrine and forced the loft through conversion at water-pistol point; floorboards were laid, electricity points placed and an enormous landscape constructed: hills, trees, farm animals, train tracks.. the model railway, the model village, the model fields, the model father.
Noel's dad is such a man. He is building in a corner of his attic, a scale model of a small town, complete with river, railway line, corn exchange and fire station. Giles is meticulous and spends many nights away from his family, sculpting the landscape alone. Up until this year, Noel had been deemed too young to assist his father and was only allowed upstairs to watch; now they work side by side while Noel's mother dances naked in the room below.
Two men with common interests and a shared goal, bond quickly and with passion and energy. A man, and a boy whose attention span and commitment waver with the prevailing wind, soon come to find that perhaps their goals are not entirely matched. And so after only a few months working with his father, Noel rarely finds himself racing home from school to add the finishing touches to the waiting room on the model town's model railway station, instead he finds himself infinitely more excited by the prospect of watching the young woman down the street take off her clothes—racing hormones require more stimulation than simulated village life.. the son grows away from the father as nature intended.
"Oh my God! I can see her nipples," cries Robert, his eyes pressed deep into a pair of binoculars. "Well, one of them."
"Give me that!" Noel snatches at the glasses but Robert holds on tightly, the lenses trained on the lighted window. "They're my dad's," insists Noel, "give it back." Robert concedes and releases his grip. Noel forces the eyepieces into his eye sockets. "It's all blurred. Ugh Rob! You've breathed all over the lenses you silly tosser." Noel tugs his T-shirt from his waist and rubs the lenses free of Robert's condensed breath. He lifts the binoculars back into position just as the curtains are pulled across the young woman's window. "Bollocks."
"You missed it Noel," sniggers Robert.
"Yeah, only cos I was wiping your gob off the glass. You breath too heavily fat boy."
"No I don't."
"I heard you Rob, and there was spit coming out your mouth."
Robert begins to laugh loudly. "Yeah I know!" Robert stands up straight and then doubles up with laughter, he slaps his leg. "My heart was banging, it was brilliant." Robert begins to walk around in a small circle giggling to himself. "I saw her tits and you didn't."
"That's the last time I let you borrow my binoculars." Noel walks away leaving Robert alone, his arms wrapped around his fat belly trying desperately to contain his amusement.
"I saw her naked," Robert whispers, "she was beautiful, a real woman.. and she was naked."
"Leave me alone," Noel calls back, "don't talk to me about it, I don't want to know."
"But the nipples Noel."
"Piss off!"
Noel disappears up the street and Robert's mirth melts away. He turns and heads for home.
"The nipples," he whispers again.
Today's the day young eyes are opened and home truths are uncovered. It's the day heroes fall and idols are shattered. Today is the day the teddy bears postpone the picnic in an unforeseeable future. The day has arrived when a tissue of lies is used to wipe clean a stained reputation. It is the day boys grow up and fathers simply become men..
Noel's ears are trained on the door that leads from the attic to the stairs, he knows he should not be alone in his father's world. It is the rule of the house, and if anyone should forget, there is a sign in mock military lettering on the attic door to remind you: NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. But sometimes it is necessary for rules to be broken, or at least fractured.
Noel has crossed the line from innocence to guilt to cover up an earlier crime—he has been alone in this space before, the last time he came up here to take, now he has come to return. Spying on naked girls with the naked eye is far less satisfying than when using lenses with fifty times magnification (a blurred, pink spot in the distance becomes a shining breast). Crime tends to have a snowball effect; liar, trespasser, thief, peeping Tom..
Carefully placing his father's binoculars into their case, Noel returns them to their rightful position. He then silently crosses the attic floor toward the door, the weight of sin steadily lifting from his shoulders with every step. Noel takes one last look over the scene of the crime, checking that all is how he found it, and then steps through the door. His foot finds the top step, it gives a little and creaks loudly, the sound bouncing down the stairs like a bowling ball. Noel winces, trying to deaden the sound with a feeble 'Sshhh!' He moves onto the second stair and freezes, there are voices coming from below. Noel's 'Sshhh' turns to "Sshhitt!" and he backs silently into the attic as his father and older sister Ruth, begin to climb the stairs. Noel searches the attic for a place to hide and then quickly moves to the model landscape. He scrambles underneath, carefully negotiating the maze of wiring that powers the railway and street lighting, and disappears into the shadows as Giles and Ruth reach the door.
"You haven't been up here for a while," Giles says. "We've done a lot of work."
Ruth is silent. She just shakes her head in agreement.
Giles closes the attic door and points the way to his construction. Ruth follows the line of his finger and moves in that direction.
Ruth does not want to be here, she has grown up into a young woman, she has no place amongst model trains and boys' games.. but her father wanted her to see his work and it is easier to comply with his wishes than to think of excuses. He is a very persistent man, childishly so, getting his way using a fine collection of sulks and silences; humour him for a while and grease the wheels of family life or suffer the consequences.
"Shall I turn the streetlights on Ruth? It looks wonderful when it's all lit up."
"If you like." Ruth looks across the model town with complete detachment as hundreds of tiny lights illuminate the room.
"The town's not finished yet. That line of lights will be the high street.. see the corn exchange?" Giles' face glows with joy and warmth from a hundred handmade streetlights. "What d'you think? D'you like it?" He looks over at Ruth, a wide grin across his face compensating for the straight line that is her mouth. "I know this isn't really girls' stuff but.. well I thought you might like it."
Ruth looks up at her father, realizing all at once how uninterested she must seem. She forces a smile. "Dad, it looks great. You've worked really hard."
"And Noel as well, he put a lot of hours into this."
"It's great dad," Ruth says again, trying to sound convincing.
Giles moves over to her, his eyes dancing from light to light to house to railway buffer to waiting room to the corn exchange. He puts an arm around her shoulders and looks her up and down. Ruth turns and smiles, but her arms remain at her side.
"You're quite the young woman now aren't you..?"
Ruth slowly closes her eyes. The model streetlights turn to star lights and are finally extinguished as her eyelids close over her clear, grey eyes. Her model father turns into an ordinary man with desires and weaknesses, and Ruth's mind flashes a distant memory across her darkness, of a shadow over a bed and her mother's tears.
Noel breathes quietly and slowly. From his position under the model railway he can see the legs of his father and sister, he can see how close they are to each other, he can see his sister's arms hanging stiffly at her side, he can see his father's hand move up the back of his sister's naked thigh, he can hear the words of his fat friend ringing in his ears as the blood races through his head—the nipples, the nipples..
Noel's heart bangs ferociously inside his chest, and his wide eyes cloud over as tears pump out across his cheek. His head begins to shake uncontrollably as he tells himself this is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening.
Noel can hear his father talking slowly and softly. He cannot make out the words above the ringing in his ears, but they are there to soothe and placate; to disguise a violent action. Noel stops breathing and holds his breath. He wipes the tears from his face and then remains still, paralysed, powerless. The heavy breathing continues, but the sound does not come from within.. it is his father.
The big, bad wolf huffs and puffs, strains and struggles. The blood floods through his veins, packed with oxygen and adrenalin; a full-blooded, red-blooded male of the species. He is dizzy with power, dazzled by the image of himself; blinded by it—he does not see Ruth as Ruth, or Ruth as daughter, or Ruth as woman, he only sees his own reflection in her. His act is more masturbation than anything else, it is about his reactions, his responses. Ruth might as well not be there, but she is...
Giles opens the magazine and slowly fingers through the pages to the glossy-centre-spread-life-size-model; the male fantasy begins...
..the model is Ruth. She is seventeen and lives and works in Oslo. She is fond of animals and snowboarding. She has fuck me eyes. Her vital statistics are.. (whatever you want them to be, in a two-dimensional world, three-dimensional values mean nothing). Ruth is still wearing clothes in the first shot, a strap is loosened but that's all, so Giles turns the page, in his mind he encourages her to undress. The clothes fall in the second shot, although her false expression of childish innocence (carefully moulded by the photographer) says: Don't make me. Giles smiles a winning, reassuring smile and the model bends over for the third shot; knickers around her knees, fourth shot. Yes, yes, yes. Giles' legs begins to shake and his thighs tighten as the fifth and final shot is revealed: knickers off, legs apart, tongue out, eyes shining, Ruth loves you, Ruth loves it, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth. The flesh is given a name to authenticate the short, satisfying, synthetic experience. And then Ruth is folded up and hidden away. Goodnight my two-dimensional sweetheart.. Giles is such a wanker.
Ruth is real. She doesn't smell of glossy pages. There isn't a fold across her chest or a staple through her abdomen and she isn't practised in the four stock pornographic poses - 1) Don't make me, 2) You're so naughty, 3) Fuck me hard and 4) Oh baby you're so good to me. She is not flesh. Ruth is flesh and blood.
Giles has a hand in his pocket, it is not his own. His hands hold him upright as he hangs onto the edge of the model landscape, gripping the wooden base tightly. His daughter stands at his side. His son watches from the shadows unseen. Giles' eyes glaze over, and a line creases along his forehead as he focuses on the sensations tearing through his body. His knees begin to quiver violently as nerve endings throb, and with much control he calls out (Oh baby you're so good to me, oh baby you're so good to me, oh baby, oh baby)..
"Ugh..!" Six thousand years of the evolution of language for nothing; from the late twentieth century to year zero, civilised man to Neanderthal man with one ejaculation.
Noel is stirred by his father's grunt. He looks up from his hiding place as Giles regains his balance and Ruth silently leaves the room. Giles is alone, but for him it was never any other way; Ruth has been folded up and put back into the pants drawer until the next time—the deviant deals with his unreasonable behaviour by legitimising and justifying it in his own mind. Noel wipes his eyes and watches as his father stumbles backward into a chair, a dark stain appearing between his legs. Noel hisses to himself, "You fuckin bastard." The words drift from his lips to his ears and Noel flinches as he hears his own voice; this is happening, this is happening. Giles rises from the chair and approaches the model landscape. Noel holds his breath as his father leans over the wooden base, and is relieved when the streetlights in the model town flicker off and Giles leaves the room.
In the thick, heavy darkness, Noel's world alters irrevocably. Everything changes. There is a shift in his perspective and although he desperately tries to bury the haunting images in the depths of his mind, they will unconsciously affect his life.
Noel's mum still dances naked in her room. Noel's dad still spends countless nights in his model town. The family still eat separately. To the naked eye, all is as it ever was, but scratch beneath the surface, look beyond the manufactured public display and the cracks are clear.. one crack for Noel, and one crack for Ruth.
Noel releases himself from his family life sentence. The home is broken and beyond repair. In his mind, all that held him within the family structure, the love, the affection and the support, have crumbled. He has no obligations now, and no responsibilities. He is free.
Noel and Noel's dad don't speak anymore, not even about football.




Rain.

Martin does not notice the thick black cloud drifting slowly above him, as he crosses the waste ground that separates his house from Billy’s. When he reaches the far side and his feet touch the grey concrete, large spots of rain make a polka dot pattern on the pavement. There is dull flash and Martin looks up in time to see the trees shake to the thunderclap that cracks the sky. He stands still for a moment, willing his heart to go on beating; the sound of gases expanding rapidly in the atmosphere does not translate into the incredible noise that echoes between the houses backing onto the waste ground. It is at times like this that Martin appreciates the power of the planet on which he stands, and although he has no clear understanding of the mechanics of the Earth, he fears it with every ounce of his yellow soul.
And now he is stranded. The rain begins to batter down, and the droplets that fall are so big, they appear as if they have been poured from a jug. Martin sees his light blue T-shirt change to a darker shade as the raindrops soak into the material. He stares across the open waste ground to his house on the other side, and fears the bolt of lightening that must surely meet him in the middle. Martin turns and counts the few remaining steps to Billy’s house, but he knows Billy will not want to come out in the rain, and Martin is not brave enough to enter the house in case he meet’s Billy’s father. So left with little option, Martin runs back across the open ground to his home.
A fork of lightening arcs across the sky and Martin covers his head with his arms; cowering before the all powerful elements. Again there is a roll of thunder, quieter than before, but equally menacing. Martin shuts his eyes as water drips down his forehead, streams through his eyebrows and drowns his shuttered eyeballs. He reaches the road at the edge of the waste ground and stumbles off the kerb. By the time Martin has crossed the road and reached his front door, he is soaked to the skin.
The crack of thunder serves as a soundtrack to the argument that rages through Billy’s house. His dad is too pissed to stand and lash out at his family, but the muscle in his mouth more than makes up for the failings of his body. He roars at his wife from his position on the settee and she can clearly hear him through two walls. Billy and his two brothers sit with their mother in the kitchen looking out onto the downpour in the street, while a flood of abuse streams through the house like a dam bursting. The four of them try and converse, in a desperate attempt to ignore the drunk in the next room, but every expletive causes Mrs Allen to wince as if the words were physically impacting on her body.
"I hate it when it rains," she says. "I hate feeling like I’m stuck inside here. It‘s funny, but I didn‘t want to go out until I knew I couldn‘t."
Always the optimist, Billy says: "We can still go out if you want; it’s only rain."
In Britain, we have a strange fascination with the weather and an even more peculiar attitude to it. Sun is good, but heat is bad. Rain is always bad, especially drizzle, which is depressing, except when a soaking is good for the grass. Snow is good as long as it doesn’t stop traffic. Ice and sleet are bad. Clouds are okay, but too much cloud is bad. Fog is terrible. Wind is like a national emergency, especially if roof tiles are blown off. We spend so much time wondering what the weather will be like over the coming days and weeks, and are surprised when the forecast is always wrong. In a country where the conditions are always changeable, what is the point of a forecast? We never think that the best way of checking what the weather is like, is to look out of the window. Luckily though, the weather is always a good, yet banal topic of conversation and it doesn’t matter where you are, saying ‘It’s turned out nice’ or ‘That’s the summer over’ will always instigate a short but friendly exchange with almost anyone.
Noel is in his room wanking. He is oblivious to the rain beating against his window. Today he is going for the world record number of wanks in a 24 hour period. He doesn’t know what the record is, he will just wank until he either dries up, or his dick gets too sore to play with. It will be something to boast about tomorrow at school. He is already on his third when there is a knock at his door.
"Go away," he barks.
There is a moment’s silence and then another tap on the door, followed by the sound of his dad’s muffled voice: "I wondered if you wanted to come down to the toyshop with me, I’ve got to get some stuff for the village, and then you could help put on the new platform?"
"No, I’m busy."
"It’s looking good now, son."
"I’ve seen it.. I’m not interested."
There is a moment’s silence and then: "You’ve seen it? When? You know you‘re not allowed up there without me."
"You were there… and so was Ruth."
Noel has pulled up his trousers now and he walks to the bedroom door. He can feel the tension through the wood as if he had his dad by the throat. Noel puts his lips to the crack between the frame and the door and hisses: "Yes I saw you, you fuckin cunt and one day I will cut your saggy old bollocks off for what you have done."
There is silence. With his heart banging inside his chest, Noel waits for a response, but can only hear his own breath against the door. Then Noel hears the sound of a car pulling away from the house. He runs to the window to see his dad driving down the road; he had gone long before Noel had found the strength to stand up for his sister by finally speaking out. Tears of frustration leak from Noel’s eyes and mingle with the condensation on the window, as he knows he may never find the strength again to bring forth the image of his father’s abuse and act upon his hatred so distinctly.
Robert needs a shit badly. He had planned to go outside to relieve himself, but when the rain came flooding out of the sky, he had no choice but to remain indoors, desperately clutching his arse cheeks together in an attempt to keep the turtle’s head in his pants from coming out of its shell. Robert can’t remember when he first stopped using his own toilet, but he is sure that little by little over the last few years he has come to learn that it is easier to shit in a bush than to see his mother standing over the defiled porcelain, scrubbing moments after the flush has washed his shit away, perhaps only to have to do it again later the same day. Robert became sick with worry each time he approached the bathroom, when his mother’s voice would call out, ‘You can’t be going again already?’ But he would find himself never being able to fully unload, while his mum waited by the door, and inevitably within hours, he would have to go again. Until finally, he made sure that if he was out of the house he would relieve himself, no matter where that was. Today however, as a prisoner of the elements, he must clutch for dear life, praying his bowels will not let him down.
Martin has dried himself off and has settled by the window with a hot mug of tea. It’s raining in England, on the most depressing of days: Sunday. Martin hates Sundays; everything is closed, there‘s nothing good on the tele, and school looms ever closer with each wasted minute… but to be stuck indoors as well is the final insult. With time on his hands, Martin casts his mind back to his brief time with Rachel. He doesn’t like to think about it and tries to fill his mind with countless other bits of crap to stop the shame from surfacing too often. But now, imprisoned by this grey afternoon, Martin relives the wasted opportunity. He hasn’t spoken to Rachel since their short episode in the wood, realising too late that if he hadn’t have been such a bollock-less baby he may have been able to share in her company again and again. Regardless of the joy of touching a girl, he really had just craved a little bit of good company… and all the better if that company lets you touch her breasts. Luckily his closest friends did not make much of deal of the incident or his subsequent exaggeration of the truth, because if they had, he feels that he would have had to emulate his television hero Reginald Perrin and fake his own death by leaving his clothes on the beach. It is something that he has considered from time to time anyway, and there is something beautiful and tragic about leaving a life behind and beginning anew with no associations or ties at all.
As Martin pictures himself wading into the icy cold sea, with his clothes left in a pile on the pebbly beach, he fails to see that outside the grey is making way for blue. Suddenly there is a crack in the clouds and a blinding light bursts across the estate, sending a clear rainbow over the houses. It is not surprising that rainbows made it into the bible, they are a wondrous site and without knowing the science behind how the white light from the sun is refracted by the rain into its multiple colours, and how the circular raindrops cause the arc, who would not think that god himself did not put it there.
As quickly as Martin was out of his wet clothes, he is in fresh ones. His mug of tea is left to go cold on the window sill and he races from the house like a prisoner released.
Moments later the four friends meet at the centre of the wasteland that separates the two roads, as if some psychic connection had brought them altogether there.
"I hate this country," Billy says, "it’s like living under a grey blanket for most of the year. It’s not surprising we are all so grey, we never see the fuckin sun."
Roberts nods seriously and then says, "Listen, I’ve got to go and take a dump; will you wait for me here."
The three of them nod their heads, but as soon as Robert runs to the cover of some nearby bushes, they walk away. When Robert reaches the bushes he sees his friends disappearing and calls after them: "Oi! You said you’d wait." His friends are laughing and waving away his appeals. "Okay go then, I’ll catch you up later," and to himself, "you miserable pricks."
As Noel, Billy and Martin are walking through the estate, Noel notices that Martin has a string tied around his neck. He looks puzzled and asks Martin what it is.
"I’ve got the key to my house tied to it."
Noel looks confused.
"It’s in case my mum and dad go out," Martin continues, "so I can let myself back in."
Noel shakes his head as if Martin is describing some alien ritual. At last he says, "I don’t need a key, my mum always lets me back in; she never goes out."
"Sometimes I feel as if my family deliberately go out without me knowing," Martin grumbles.
"Poor old farty Marty," Billy sings, "nobody likes him."
"It’s not that, it’s just that I just seem to get ignored by them a lot."
Noel and Billy pretend to look away, not listening. Martin looks around and raises his eyebrows. His friends turn back around to face him, giggling and throwing playful punches at his body.
"We’re only joking," Billy laughs, "we’re listening… even though you’re boring the farts out of my anus."
"You’re all right Billy," Martin says, "at least your dad doesn’t ignore you."
"No, he does actually, but only while he’s pummelling my mum."
Martin is silent.
For Billy, today had been the final straw in a large bale of final straws. When the rain had stopped, Billy like his friends, had fled from the house to get away from overbearing feeling of being smothered by a family that he feels he has outgrown and cannot help anymore. Watching his mum watch the rain from the kitchen window, Billy felt that now would be the perfect time for her to be proactive. She wanted to go out and feel cool rain run down her face and onto her neck and shoulders, she could have easily gone, even if it had have been just a foot out of the door, just a small indication of a motion to get away… but no, she preferred to listen to insult after insult fly through the house at her. Billy is beginning to hate how his mum endures the abuse, when it clearly is ruining her life and the lives of her sons.
A seed is growing in Billy; a desire.. something that will overpower everything else in his life. It is the wish to leave home in search of something better, something worthwhile. But for now he will find contentment in asking his friend to pull his index finger to enable him to let out a long fart. Billy is still a boy (like most grown men), however, he is maturing very quickly.




Ruth.

She can’t remember when it started. There are times when she is sure that it has always been this way; because she cannot remember a time when her father did not lavish his undivided attentions upon her. To begin with she had been happy, because for years she had been ignored while her younger brother and sister monopolized the time and love of the parents and family, as babies are known to do. However, as she grew older she became acutely aware that something was not as it should be.
Since the age of twelve, Ruth has locked her bedroom door when she is there. Now she locks the door when she is in, and locks it again when she leaves (one evening she returned home to find her underwear soiled, although it had been clean before she left). Ruth no longer trusts her father, but still feels mentally paralysed by the promises she made to him years before, and unconsciously troubled by the threats he had made to guarantee her silence.
It is easy for those in positions of authority or trust to abuse their power; Ruth’s dad Giles has built his life betraying those that trust and love him. Although Ruth has buried many of the early encounters with her dad, she does remember a feeling that he impressed on her long ago, that if she were to reveal any of their secrets to anyone, it would break apart the family and she would be taken away to a home. As a young eight year old, the worst possible thing that could happen, would be for her family, the very foundation of her life, to be taken away. Giles made it very clear that if that were to happen, the responsibility would fall squarely on her shoulders. And so every time Giles came to her in the darkest hour of the night, she would play his games, feeling more than anything that this was keeping the family together.
Giles began his history of abuse by intimidation, making Ruth know beyond any doubt, that he was in control. She would feel that although he would be cruel to her, that eventually he would save her; she could not help but love him still, because he was the only one that would bring an end to her pain. When Ruth was only six years old he told her to wait for him in her room. He locked the door from the outside leaving her on her own. An hour later, he came back and told her to wait just a little longer for him. He locked the door again. Two hours later he returned, this time Ruth begged him to use the toilet, he told her to wait and locked the door again. Shortly after, with her bladder at bursting point, she used all her nerve and began banging on the door, begging her dad to let her get to the toilet, but there was no response. In the silence that followed her outburst, Giles could hear weeping from inside the room. He opened the door to find Ruth standing in the centre of the room with piss soaking her pants and skirt. He shook his head and told her how she had let him down, but that she could be forgiven if she made her dad happy. He took her to the bathroom to clean the urine from her soiled uniform, and Giles joined the ranks of the scum of the earth forever.
Ruth still remembers this scene with great shame; still, after so many years, she cannot escape the feeling that it was her wrongdoing— when a lie is learned by one so young, it is nearly impossible to unlearn. But today, a decade later, Ruth is beginning to fight back. She has saved her birthday and pocket money over the last two years, and the wages from her Saturday job at the local supermarket, and she has packed a small suitcase with only the essentials. As much as she will hate to leave her mother, brother and younger sister, she could not bear to burden them with her pain and she cannot bear to stay any longer than she needs to. She is waiting for the right moment and then she will be gone forever.




Jerk.

The earth spins through space, revolving on its axis and simultaneously circling the sun; a fact embedded in every child’s mind across the developed world.. it is inconceivable to think that it is only within the last five hundred years, the truth about our place in the solar system has been revealed. The knowledge Copernicus, Galileo and Kepler sacrificed so much for, is now only taken for granted.
Even blessed with this information, for what is half a millennium, there are many who still hang onto a belief that the earth is the centre of the universe and everything revolves around it; that there is a heaven above and a hell below. Thanks to mathematics and the common sense of people like Charles Darwin, a new reality based on reason and actual proof is presented to the human race. But for some this is considered blasphemous as it points out the flaws in their argument that god created the earth and man… he obviously didn’t create the dinosaurs as the religious texts from 2000 years ago and beyond, make no mention of these creatures that we continue to dig out of the ground. You would have thought though that god would have noticed making a Diplodocus and made damned sure that it was noted and mentioned right at the beginning of his book.. but no, just birds and cattle; oh and ‘creeping things and beasts’, but definitely cattle and the birds of course. There is a mention of ‘sea monsters’ in the Old Testament, but not a Tyrannosaurus Rex or Triceratops in sight… there is of course an argument that states that god deliberately placed fossils in the earth so as to ensure people’s true faith, as faith can only truly exist when, even though all facts point to the opposite, you still wholly believe.
And as the sun disappears in the evening sky, the world turns scarlet and the blood in the cheeks of four young boys rises to the surface; not due to the universe in motion or the fact that their closest genetic match on earth is a chimpanzee, that's nothing new.. their excitement is based on the small flap of skin and veins in their hands, and the images of naked women flashing across their minds.
Charles Darwin believed that the opposable thumb, that is the ability to touch thumb and each finger together to produce an O with which to grasp things like tools, was man’s evolutionary step forward beyond our bestial roots. It doesn’t take an enormous stretch of the imagination to think that the opposable thumb evolved out of man’s desire to satisfy himself. Masturbation is something that is learned early on, normally with no training. It may not be an intellectual leap forward from animal to acumen, but it unarguably had a remarkable affect on the rest of future history.
"It can cause a strain on the optic nerve you know?" explains Robert earnestly. He stands a few feet away from his friends, all of whom are hunched over, their arms shaking comically.
"That's an old wives' tale you moron," Noel laughs.
"It's a scientific fact actually," Robert continues, "I read it in Pears."
"That's crap!" Billy interrupts Robert again. "The Catholics invented it in the Middle Ages to stop boys playing with themselves, I read that in Penthouse."
"Stop them enjoying themselves more like," Martin adds and then smiles, trying to look cool.
"So you couldn't have read it in your stupid book, you prick." Noel stamps a full-stop at the end of the discussion once and for all.
"I don't know what the fuss is about anyway," Robert says, changing the focus of the subject. He then walks away from his friends and disappears into the house.
"That's cos you don't know how to do it," Billy shouts.
Robert pokes his head out of the back door and says, "It's not that.. I'm just not into communal masturbation, thanks all the same."
"You're a snob fatso!" Noel grunts.
"Anyway, it’s a milk race," Billy explains, "and as you have decided to withdraw Robert; you are therefore crowned the ultimate loser."
Robert ducks back into the house shaking his head. He is a sensitive soul and the thought of getting his cock out in public sickens him to the very core of his being. He even feels distinctly uncomfortable standing in line at the urinal, and finds himself unable to piss with a male presence close at his side. He will stand holding his willy, ready to burst, only to be thwarted at the last moment by the sight of another man’s yellow stream of urine, and a glimpse of his wrinkled foreskin.
"You think you're better than us, but you're just the same." Noel adds.
"You wish I was," Robert whispers.
"Y'got any more booze?" Billy steps into the house and zips up his fly. Robert looks up, startled.
"You were bloody quick."
"I have total control over my knob and can pretty much spurt at will," Billy explains. "Booze?"
"I don't want us to have too much or mum'll notice."
Billy puts an arm around Robert's shoulder and says, "We'll just fill the bottles back up with water. She'll never know."
"I don't know," Robert says, but Billy has already gone. He walks through the kitchen into the lounge and kneels in front of a small, white plastic circular drinks cabinet. It is set into a revolving platform so each bottle is equally accessible at a twist of the handle. Billy spins the cabinet, checking out the labels.
"Bacardi, Martini, ugh, gin.. advocaat, hmm festive.. let's see, vodka, Baileys. Nice selection."
All are drinks bought in the weeks leading up to the last Christmas period in anticipation of the parties to come; parties that never took place because Robert's mum never really wanted anyone to come into her house and upset the order of things.. if dust were allowed to settle in the house at all, the drinks cabinet would be caked in it.
"Quite a collection Robbo."
"Yeah."
"Some of these aren't even open," Billy whispers in wonder. "They wouldn't last a minute in my house."
"Leave the full ones then," pleads Robert. "She'll definitely know if they're opened."
Billy lifts the whole cabinet through into the kitchen. "You worry too much," he says. "What does she do, mark the bottles with a pencil?"
"You'd be surprised," Robert replies. "Billy don't."
But Billy has disappeared.
"Well okay then," Robert concedes under some duress. "Just don't leave a mess.. and don't take too much, please!" Robert shakes his head and says under his breath: "Me and my big mouth."
Robert thinks about the day before when he had talked excitedly to his friends about having the house to himself tonight, and how eagerly they expressed the desire to enlighten his dark and lonely evening; there's nothing like the freedom of another man's party, especially when his mum won't be back until midnight.
Robert is feeling sicker by the second. He has to continually sniff the air to make sure that levels of smoke are not noticeably higher than normal. He keeps checking the settee and carpets for cigarette burns and stains from the bottoms of glasses and small boys. He knows that anything out of place or slightly marked will be noticed in seconds by the highly critical eye of his mother. Robert hears the chink of glasses in the kitchen.
"Not too much now Bill?" Robert's eyelids close painfully over his bulging eyeballs as Billy stands before four tall glasses. "Bill, no." Robert almost sounds convincing but one 'What's the matter?' look from Billy reduces Robert to a nonentity. "Shit Bill not so much." Robert's plea is drowned out by the glug-glug of a vodka bottle slowly emptying.
"These tall glasses were the only ones I could find mate," Billy begins. "Anyway, don't worry Bobby, vodka's clear yeah? So when I fill it up with water, no one will ever tell."
"Until they drink it."
"This was one of the unopened bottles; obviously not a popular drink."
"Oh Bill!" Robert cries. "I told you not to use the full bottles.. bloody hell!"
Billy places the half-empty vodka bottle near the sink and spins the cabinet to find his next ingredient. Robert cradles the violated bottle in his arms and then begins to top the level up from the tap. He laughs nervously knowing full well his attempt to cover up the crime is futile.
"What's so funny?" asks Billy.
"You lot never listen to a word I say."
"Huh?" Billy says concentrating on pouring the Bacardi.
"Nothing."
There is a high-pitched yelp from the garden and the two boys are joined by Noel who steps into the bright kitchen from the shadows outside.
"Where can I put this?" Noel's hand is open before him and in the centre of his palm is a small grey glob of bodily fluid. Robert and Billy look around simultaneously and both cry out in horror,
"Bloody hell!"
Noel grins playfully. "I didn't want to get spunk all over your lawn." Robert stares, speechless. "I thought your mum might smell it or something."
"You're an animal," Billy says and turns back to his cocktails, not really that interested.
Robert spins the top back on the now full bottle of diluted vodka and steps away from the sink, and more significantly Noel. "Clean your hands in here, and make sure you wash all that shit away."
"Shit!" shouts Noel. "Shit? You're talking about my future children in this handful."
"You're not actually gonna reproduce are you? God help us."
"Too right fatman." Noel stands over the sink and looks into his palm. "It's amazing though isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Just think, there's five hundred million little tadpoles in my hand."
"Yeah, half a billion potential you's.. wash them away quickly before you infect the whole planet."
Noel pokes at the glutinous blob with his forefinger trying to see any single sperms. "Huh, it's still warm," he says to himself and then turns on the tap, clearing his hand completely.
"Where's Martin?" asks Robert.
"Still trying," snorts Noel. "The loser."
"And the Milk Race bronze medal goes to..." Robert says dryly, carefully placing the bottle of vodka back into the cabinet.
Martin is sitting alone in the darkness of Robert's garden. He is trying to get a firm grip on his flaccid cock, but it is so small and soft he cannot get it to stay within the O of his thumb and forefinger. The erection he began with twenty minutes before, has long since faded away and Martin now begins to worry about impotence. He searches through his experience, as limited as it may be, attempting to stimulate his inert member with half-remembered pages of the women’s underwear section, and images of the nipples of Kate Bush, the mouth and nostrils of Carrie Fisher, and the eyes of Lee Remick. He tries to recreate the feeling of Rachel's tiny breast with his left hand, while tugging on his knob with the other, but he can still only recall the embarrassment and her kiss goodbye.
Martin looks around at the back door to see if his friends are watching, places his willy back inside his Y fronts, zips up his fly and adopting the correct facial expression he steps into the house.. and the deception begins again.
"You look pleased with yourself," says Noel.
"I am," replies Martin looking from face to face to see whether his friends can spot the formation of a lie—he quickly changes the subject before he is put under any major pressure. "So what's in the drinks Bill?"
Billy is carefully adding a generous topping of cream sherry to his concoction, trying to form a head on the cocktail, but the thick liquid is too heavy to float and it drifts downward, settling on the glass bottom. "I'm trying to get the Irish coffee effect."
"It's not working is it?" offers Robert.
"No," says Noel. "It looks more like my arse."
"So what's in it?" Martin asks again.
"At the moment, a great big turd and I can just feel a fart coming out!" Noel bursts out laughing.
"I wasn't talking to you Noel," says Martin.
"You child," Robert spits out severely.
"Up yours," says Noel.
Billy looks over at Martin, pleased at last that someone has taken an interest in his handiwork. "I started with an inch or two of vodka, mixed it with Bacardi, a couple of splashes of advocaat, a capful of gin, I'm not mad about gin, and then a fat lump of Baileys to top it off."
"It sounds bloody horrible," Noel says sticking his tongue out and retching.
"I wanted the creamy stuff to sit on the top but it’s curdled."
"It looks bonus," Martin smiles. "Are we gonna drink it?"
Billy shakes his head. "You are such a sad wanker Martin."
"You'd better all drink it," says Robert. "You're certainly not gonna waste it! My bollocks are on the chopping block because of this."
"Well you won't miss them will you?" Noel says and Robert pulls a face.
"Sshh now girls," says Billy handing out the drinks. He holds his own glass in the air and cries, "Cheers!"
Martin and Robert sniff at the monstrous concoction timidly. Noel pictures steam rising from it like a cartoon scientist's test tubes. Billy raises the rim of the glass to his lips and drinks. His friends watch, their eyes wide and mouths open expecting Billy to drop to the floor, stone dead. Billy looks up and stops drinking.
"Well drink it then, don't just look at it."
"Is it all right?" asks Martin nervously. The kitchen is silent and Martin looks around to see he is the only one not drinking.
Peer pressure is a powerful and persuasive influence. It drags a world of people into painful situations and forces them to keep up with the trend-setters and the go-getters with images of rejection and scorn. Martin can't wank, can't kiss, can't smoke, but by God he will the show the world he can drink. Martin takes in a lungful of air and raises the glass to his dry lips. Taking one last glance at his friends, he gulps down half of the cocktail. He stops for a second, feeling the burn of spirits on his throat and then drinks again. The cream sherry slides off the bottom of the glass, and oozes downhill towards Martin's open mouth. He opens his eyes and watches it cling to the side of the glass before landing on his tongue. After the harsh sting of straight vodka, the sherry feels like a mixture of medicine and snot.
This is horrible, Martin thinks, feeling the cocktail begin to bubble inside.. I should've chucked it down the sink when no-one was looking.
Billy slams the glass down as a sign of victory. "Finished," he shouts. Robert and Noel are half way down theirs. "Come on girls, get it down your necks." He looks over at Martin who is standing holding his empty glass and yells: "Slam it down Martin. Slam it!"
Martin looks up and his eyes glaze over. He takes short, staccato breaths, taking in air through his mouth and then snorting it out through his nose.
"You all right mate?"
Martin's face loses all of its colour and he reaches out to place his glass down, he completely misses the side and the glass smashes onto the floor as he falls over the sink.
"Bllluurrgg!" echoes around the room, bouncing off the stainless steel sink and the kitchen tiles.
Blurg. As involuntary spasms go, puking ranks amongst the worst of them. From the initial muscle contractions along the oesophagus and in the stomach, to the painful ejection of burning bile and vomit. It is a glorious reminder that the body for all intents and purposes is running on auto-pilot; fill it with shit and the body discharges it in one violent reflex action, with no thought for the boy, just the basic desire to stay alive. The body's defence mechanism is so finely tuned it forgets to party and always ends up hunched over a sink or toilet at the end of the night, blurging for all its worth.
Billy places a comforting hand on his friend's back. "That's it mate, get it out of your system." Noel finishes his drink and is forced to suppress his giggles by Billy who holds an upright forefinger against his lips. Robert is frozen to the floor as he stares at the sea of puke over the kitchen.
"Mum's gonna go fuckin mad," Robert splutters.
Martin spits out the last traces of sick from his mouth and lifts his head gingerly from the depths of the sink. He looks at Robert. "Sorry."
"What a baby," sniggers Noel.
"Shit! Look at the state of me," cries Martin. "I can't go home looking like this." He gazes down at his T-shirt and points at the multi-coloured stain living on his chest; a dramatic mixture of viridian, magenta and brown.
"What did you have for tea?" Billy laughs at last.
"Corned beef hash.."
"Ugh!"
"And mushy peas," continues Martin.
"No?!"
"With instant whip for pudding.. butterscotch flavour."
"Fuckin hell Martin," roars Billy. "Don't your family ever eat anything normal?"
"Baby food," mutters Noel, "that's what it is.. but what the hell is.. ‘cornbeefhash’ anyway?"
"I don't know," Martin replies, puzzled now.
Robert grabs a bucket from under the sink and fills it with boiling water. His senses, dulled by the alcohol now, are still sharp enough to know not to use bleach, as its potent stench would quickly alert his mother.
Billy moves toward the back door and says, "It bloody stinks in here, I'm getting some air." He steps out into the garden, closely followed by Noel and then Martin. "You stay there halfwit; it's you that smells!"
"Piss off!" Martin shouts, jumping out of the kitchen and leaving Robert alone.
"Yeah that's right everyone," calls Robert. "Leave me to do the shitty work. You just all wander off, don't mind me." Robert is crouching on the floor before the steaming bucket of water, scrubbing the lino below the sink where stray pieces of vomit have collected.
"It's your house," Noel laughs, "you wash it."
"That's the last party I invite you lot to."
"It was crap anyway."
"Yeah," adds Billy. "Where were all the girls Rob? There were no girls."
"Oh sod off the lot of you."
"Okay.. see ya!" And the three boys disappear into the night.
"Shit," Robert says, gagging as the stench of sick drifts into his nose. He looks at his watch and counts down the remaining hour and a half until midnight, mentally ticking off his checklist of things to clean and inspect before his mum returns. He hears the back gate bang shut and is momentarily startled until he remembers it is the sound of his friends leaving, not his mother returning early. "Tossers."
Martin stumbles along the street aided by his two friends who prop him up from time to time to offset his natural list. On each occasion Martin brushes them away with an arrogant contempt. "I'm all right.. I can walk on my own," he says and then rocks heavily from side to side like a metronome.
"You'd better come back to mine if you're not going home," says Billy.
Martin gabbles a reply in a nervous stream of consciousness; "I can't go home.. dad'll kill me.. he'll kill me if he sees me like this.. he will.. he'll kill me."
"Will he?"
"Yeah.. yeah."
"That's okay then, my dad won't," Billy explains. "He might give you a black eye, but he won't kill you." Billy laughs but Martin is too drunk to understand, he is just relieved now because he will not have to face his father tonight, he has the next few hours to recover.
"Won't your mum and dad notice you're not there?" asks Noel innocently. Martin shrugs his shoulders blankly and staggers onward. For the first time Martin finds himself living and focusing on the present; with his conscious self inadvertently disconnected, along with his conscience and his common sense, and with terror ripping through his numb body undetected, Martin is finally enjoying himself; enjoying the moment at long last...
The stench of beer, piss, cigarette smoke and saturated fat hits you as enter the house. It hangs in the air like mustard gas, catching the eyes and throat, producing an almost Jovian atmosphere of ammonia and methane. Gradually over time, the smell has seeped into the very core of all it touches; permeating the fibres in the wallpaper, the curtains, the carpets, the furniture and fittings and the skin of those that live here.
Billy's house has a permanent light brown tint like a sepia-toned photograph—the very foundations of the building have been reduced in a poisonous solution of potassium ferricyanide, and then brought back to their former stinking glory with a strong covering of sodium sulphide.. in truth, the walls are discoloured by the burning tobacco from a thousand packets of Embassy and decades of fried fish and chip suppers. The family, like their home, have become tarred and nicotine-stained, they are poisoned by their own gaseous emissions of carbon monoxide and flatus, and their oily complexions are unwashed and deep-fried.
Billy's two younger brothers Gavin and Alastair were weaned on chips, fish fingers and raw Oxo cubes. As babies they sucked on their mother's nipple while their mother sucked on the butt of her nipple substitute, the nicotine passing directly from one bloodstream to the other—the air, choked with cigarette smoke, was inhaled unfiltered into tiny lungs with every wailing bawl.. so now the boys don't play football or run around the streets, they can't suck in enough oxygen to support strenuous physical exercise; they just sit inside all day watching TV.. the first sign of the asthma generation.
Billy and Martin fail to notice the noxious air of the house as they step in from the road; Billy has become acclimatized over long years of residence, and Martin is simply too pissed. The two boys creep through the kitchen, Billy sh-shh-ing uneasily as Martin brushes against plates and cutlery stacked around the place. The room is dark except for the light from the street and a TV flickering through the far doorway where Billy's dad sits and smokes and drinks himself into a stupor.
"Sshh! He'll hear us."
"I can't see," whispers Martin.
"There's nothing to see."
Martin begins to snigger drunkenly, he holds his hand over his mouth to smother the sound.
"What's so funny?"
"I was just thinking," Martin begins.
"What?"
"You know that saying.. you know, when it's dark.. the one about not being able to see your hand in front of you face?" Martin's laugh breaks through his lips now, spraying Billy with specks of spit. "Sorry mate."
"Well?" Billy says softly and firmly, turning to make sure his dad is still motionless.
"I was just thinking.."
"Yeah I heard that much."
"Well.. who wants to see their hand in front of their face anyway?"
Billy raises an eyebrow and says dryly, "Yeah good one mate; now let's get upstairs before dad wakes up."
"I'm hungry now," says Martin wearily. "Got any crisps?"
"What d'you think this is, a bloody hotel?" Billy hears his dad stirring in the living room. "Shit! Quick, move it." Billy pushes Martin square in the back, directing him towards the staircase. "Up the stairs now."
"What about my crisps?"
"Shut up."
The two boys scramble up the stairs as Billy's dad rises from his chair and stumbles into the kitchen, their legs disappear into shadows as he reaches the staircase.
"Billy?" he says but the house is still. "Ah, you little fucker."
#
The earth takes just over twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes to rotate.. so what happens to all the spare four minutes, where do they end up? At the end of every week there are twenty-eight minutes floating in space.. at the end of a year that adds up to a whole day.. we do get one day given back every fourth year, but between the middle ages and the late twentieth century we have misplaced an entire year; it's no surprise how quickly time flies when our precious minutes are abused to such a degree.
#
Martin wakes, the night has passed too quickly. His mouth is dry, his head aches, his nose fills with smell too pungent to imagine; he is not home. Martin stretches out a leg, relieving an ache that has spread along his thigh, and finds a cold damp patch on the sheet. Terror takes a hold of the young boy and shakes him, it removes every trace of sleep and momentarily wipes the events of the previous night from his mind. Martin can't be sure whether the wet patch is his own puke, shit, piss or spunk.. and then he remembers; he is resting in a stranger's bed—he has defecated, ejaculated or emptied his bladder in the holiest of places. An Englishman's home is his castle not a public convenience. Martin lifts the sheets slowly, careful not to waft the stale smell into the room. He then stares in disbelief as he counts the number of legs gathered at the centre of the mattress.. one, two, three, four, five, six.
"He hasn't pissed the bed again has he?"
Martin jerks his head from under the covers innocently. Billy is standing over the bed, a towel around his neck and a toothbrush in his mouth, toothpaste bubbles out from his lips making him look rabid. He grabs hold of the towel and with a single movement brings it down on the lumps in the bed. Martin winces feeling all of a sudden like a target of derision.
"Oi Alastair!" Billy calls out, smacking the bed again. "Sorry about this Mart, he hasn't done it for about a month."
Martin smiles and sits up as the covers at the other end of the bed are pulled down to reveal two small boys, both resembling the ever somnolent dormouse. Gavin, the older of the two is fully awake now, and without a word he slips from the bed and out of the room.
"That's Gavin," laughs Billy. "He doesn't say much, and this wee-bag is Alastair." Billy pokes him hard in the stomach with his toothbrush. "Nervous little fucker he is," Billy continues. "You could dry him out all through the day, not give him a thing to drink, but he can still fill a barrel with piss by morning. The springs in this mattress are rusted to bollocks now." Billy smacks his brother again and Alastair opens an eye. "Come on wake up weebag."
"I wasn't asleep," Alastair says drowsily, "I heard every word you said."
"Get into the bathroom you little shit before dad sees this mess," Billy says sharply.
Alastair's bottom lip begins to quiver and tears break through into his eyes. "It's not my fault," he says feebly. "I can't help it." Alastair begins to cry quietly. Billy sits down on the bed and hugs his brother tenderly, he kisses his hair.
"I don't mean it Al," Billy says. "Don't worry about it, just get cleaned up; you know what dad's like?"
Alastair chokes out a stifled yes and then leaves the room, his head hanging down. Billy looks across at his friend. "See what I've gotta put up with?" he says. Martin nods gravely. "I hope you didn't mind sharing with the boys."
"No," Martin says. "I was just a bit confused when I woke up."
"I didn't think you'd remember where you were this morning," laughs Billy. "Anyway get dressed and I'll get you some breakfast."
"Cheers, I'm starving."
Martin steps into the kitchen gingerly. Only the three brothers are awake and Martin is a little relieved, he is anxious not to meet Billy's dad after hearing so many stories of abuse and violence.
"Come in mate," Billy calls. "What d'you want, toast or cereal?"
Martin scans the table and spies a shining box of Rice Crispies; Martin has been raised on porridge, fancy cereal only finds its way onto his breakfast table during full-board summer holidays at Pontins. Rice Crispies are the Champagne of cereals, and Martin is only used to sparkling wine.
"Cereal is good." Martin grins wildly and sits at the table next to Alastair.
"Help yourself," Billy says and then stands up from the table. "What're you gonna say to your mum and dad?" he asks and approaches the sink, trying to find an inch of space that is not covered by unwashed dishes.
Martin fills a bowl with Rice Crispies and grabs a bottle of milk from the centre of the table. "I dunno yet," he answers. Alastair raises a spoonful of cereal to his lips and proceeds to suck the contents into his mouth noisily as Martin pours his milk. "I'll think of something," Martin adds. Alastair smiles and shows Martin the contents of his mouth; Martin shudders.
"Stop it Al!" Billy shouts. Alastair's mouth snaps shut like a clam. "You're disgusting." Martin smiles and begins to eat his food. "It looked like your puke actually Mart," Billy says laughing out loud. "Don't you think?" Martin nods solemnly and places the spoon in his mouth.
Alastair parts his lips again, dribbling milk and chewed up cereal down onto his chin and Martin is compelled to look away altogether. Suddenly Martin feels warning lights flash across every nerve ending on his tongue and in his nose.. something isn't right, there is an unpleasant sensation burning in his mouth that makes the digestive juices in his stomach boil. The milk is off. Martin looks over at the half-empty bottle on the table before him and silently curses it. The warm milk already in his mouth oozes through his teeth and dances on his taste buds, stamping hard on each tiny receptor until the brain recognises the bitter taste of sour milk soaking his soft palate. Martin wants to retch, he wishes he could spit out every trace of the wretched fucking crispy rice cereal once and for all, the way he vomited out last night's cocktail.. he quickly glances around the table and clears his mouth the only way possible; by biting the bullet and swallowing hard.
Yuk, Martin thinks, sucking saliva into his mouth in an attempt to disguise the acrid taste, scanning the table for orange juice, or tea, or coffee.. anything to revitalise his tainted taste buds, but there is only milk—warm, stale milk. There is no escape. Martin is forced into the very un-English position of holding his hands up and saying, This is awful, I can't eat it, when his upbringing teaches him to say, Yum-yum, delicious, and carry on eating regardless of the nausea.
And as Martin lowers his spoon and lays it in his bowl as a sign of resignation, all thoughts of excuses and apologies for not being able to finish his meal that have flooded into his head, fade as the sound of raised voices in the room above fills the kitchen. Martin looks across at his friend and sees Billy closing his eyes slowly, and almost imperceptibly shaking his head. Gavin and Alastair look up at the ceiling and then over at their older brother. Billy remains rooted to the spot; not from terror, but from a sense of powerlessness—he can take the few blows meant for his mother today, and that would help her, but only for today.. and there is always tomorrow and the day after that.
Billy lifts a knife from the dirty water in the sink and prays for strength; although he is unsure whether the strength he needs is the strength to endure the shit thrown at him or the strength to end the family's misery once and for all and cut the black heart out of his father's chest. Billy lets the knife slip from his hand and it sinks into the greasy, grey water. He curses his youth and looks forward to the day when he is old enough, and big and ugly enough to knock his dad to the floor.. for now he can act as a shield and this he does almost instinctively. There is a dull thud from upstairs followed by a stream of verbal abuse. Martin, Gavin and Alastair watch silently as Billy leaves the room without a word or gesture, and climbs the stairs.
A blank expression spreads over Martin's face, he feels uncomfortable, distressed and yet completely awkward, not knowing what to do or where to look. He can picture the scene upstairs but cannot interfere, he can only sympathize; after all he is a guest, a spectator, a boy.
"I'd better go I suppose," Martin says finally, to himself more than anyone else, and excuses himself feeling a little ridiculous—following a set of conventions picked up in a more civilised world seems wholly inappropriate here. Martin leaves the house quickly, the taste of sour milk still in his mouth, the smell of stale urine in his nostrils and the faint sound of Gavin and Alastair crying playing softly in his ears.
Martin walks home deep in thought. At one time, not so long ago, he envied Billy and wanted the freedom he had always been denied; but not today. Today he will not trade his own distant and regulated family for the hell suffered daily by his friend. Today he will count his blessings and take his own mild punishment bravely.
Martin approaches his house. He walks with his head down, trying desperately to blend in with the pavement and the line of parked cars, attempting to camouflage himself until the very last moment in case his mum and dad are watching the street for his late return, with heads full of cliches.. there are times when Martin wishes his dad would spare him the long drawn out lecture and just give him a short sharp crack around the head.
Martin sighs heavily as he steps into the house, and withdrawing his key from the lock, he awaits his reprimand expecting to be pounced upon before the door clicks shut. But the house is still. Martin hears voices coming from upstairs and they are calm and composed, hardly the sound of distressed parents. Martin kicks off his shoes and begins to climb the stairs. The voices trail off and Martin prepares himself; he pictures his father at the top of the staircase wagging his finger and shaking his head, his mother at his side, wearing a look of disappointment on her face. But still there is nothing. Martin reaches the top step and the conversation begins again, his parents are talking about work, his dad mentions a possible promotion and transfer to another town. Martin presses his ear against their bedroom door listening for his own name, but he is far from their thoughts. He stands up straight and heads for his own room, peeling off his puke stained T-shirt and tossing it onto the pile of dirty washing in the corner.
Martin sits down on his bed astonished. He finds himself in the odd position of craving some kind of punishment as a recognition of his own existence..
They didn't even miss me, he thinks and begins to change his clothes.
Like a young Larkin, Martin curses his cold family, despises their indifference; he hates the punishments but also hates the lack of them, because in a twisted way a punishment is a form of attention and Martin begins to feel more and more unnoticed. He lifts his forearm and pinches the soft white skin between forefinger and thumb until it hurts.
"Ow!" he says. And then softly, "I am still here then."




A Joke.

"..and then the Irishman says," Noel pauses before delivering the punch-line: "I don't like fish."
Robert erupts with laughter. He doubles up and hops about frantically, unaware that his friends are watching straight faced. "What?" he says, controlling himself at last. "What's the matter?"
"It's not funny," says Noel. "So why are you laughing?"
Robert looks at his three friends, confused. "What?" he says again. "I don't understand."
Billy and Noel look at one another and snigger cruelly like conspirators. Martin looks away embarrassed, he has already been subjected to their cruel joke, and he laughed just as Robert did.
"You idiot Rob," Noel says. "You're such an idiot."
"You're a real creep," Billy adds. "Why'd you laugh, when it wasn't even funny?"
Robert is speechless. He is still unsure what is going on, unaware that once again he is the brunt of his friends' intolerance.
"It's a trick," Martin says softly.
"And you fell for it like the tosspot you are Rob."
"A trick..?"
"The joke wasn't funny," Billy explains, "but you laughed anyway.. fool."
And finally Robert understands, he has been set up, and a complex practical joke played out, resulting in confirmation, if any were needed, of his innate inadequacies and his place in the world as a social misfit; a position that is enforced by those around him and strengthened in his own mind.
Robert is so lacking in self-confidence and desperate for acceptance, he will sacrifice the good sense granted him and choose the more obvious and easy route to good social interaction—he is polite and courteous in conversation, stopping to listen carefully and considerately, and is generous enough not to want to hurt his friends' feelings. On hearing a punch-line to any joke, Robert is programmed to laugh, clutch his sides, breath in deeply and then say 'Ah dear'. Robert never expects his generosity to be challenged. But Billy, and particularly Noel feel the only way to validate their own lives is to undermine those around them.
"Why are you always picking on me?"
"They did it to me as well Rob," Martin says, attempting to defend his friends but also to disassociate himself from the crime itself. When Martin heard the joke, he laughed, but he laughed for a very different reason; Martin is afraid to look stupid and naive. When he heard the punch-line, he didn't understand it, but he imagined some crude double entendre at work, and did not want to appear unfamiliar with sex, and the limitless list of words and expressions used to discuss sex—so he laughed in a kind of 'Yeah, fish, I get it.. fish.. funny' kind of way.
"You're both a pair of puffs," Noel announces, in a tone that suggests he is offering an objective truth not an insult. "Big girl's blouses," he adds in case his feelings are in any doubt.
"You're a hateful person Noel," Robert says, visibly shaking with emotion. "What happened to you?"
Noel begins to laugh and says in a sing-song voice, mocking Robert's effeminate and polished accent: "Oh I'm a hateful person, well excuse me. Oh Billy, I'm hateful you know."
Billy smiles, "It's nothing personal Robbo, we're just having a laugh."
"Yeah," replies Robert, "at my expense."
"Oh stop crying, you baby," Noel says. "You always make a big thing out of every little thing."
"Let's just forget about it," advises Martin.
"Yeah," Billy agrees. "Who gives a shit anyway? It's only Robbo!"
"Thanks for your support everyone," Robert says gravely.
Noel begins to walk away alone. He calls back, "I'm sick of hanging around with you losers."
"Cheeky little sod," Billy whispers under his breath, and then launches himself at Noel, pulling his friend to the ground easily with the force of his weight. With Noel under his body Billy shouts out: "Pile on!"
Robert looks at Martin, a little confused, "Did he say, pylon?"
"No," Martin replies, running at his two friends on the floor. "He said, PILE ON!" Martin throws himself onto Billy and Noel, and their thin boyish arms swing playfully as they punch and push each other away on the ground.
Robert sees the writhing pile of bodies and understands. " Ah, pile," he says, and trundles over towards them.
Billy looks up from the mass of twisted arms and legs and calls out, "Watch out; fatman incoming. Get ready for impact!"
Robert jumps as gracefully as he can possibly manage and lands in the middle of his friends, laughing as their fists jab softly at his belly. "Stop it," he cries, "you're tickling me." And suddenly, unconsciously, Robert begins to fight back, pushing away the fists and punching out for himself. Billy falls back in an exaggerated manner as Robert's fist impacts against his side, as does Martin, and finally Noel, who has warmed to the idea of having fun. And the four boys' short memories quickly forget any arguments that may hamper their enjoyment; living moment to moment, bearing no grudges, desperately trying to keep their emotional baggage to a minimum.
"Hey Robbo," says Billy, "that's quite a right hook you've got there."
Robert laughs.
"We'd better watch ourselves," Martin agrees, and then with Noel and Billy, they all jump on Robert, tickling him and messing his hair. Robert is laughing uncontrollably.
"Stop tickling!" yells Robert. "I'm gonna piss my pants."
Robert hangs at the edge of hysteria, his bladder is swollen and ready to burst. His tiny penis is the last line of defence, it withdraws and closes up tightly as Robert wills his body to control itself. A scream tears itself from Robert's lips and echoes off the surrounding houses.
"Uh oh," says Martin, backing away from Robert.
"I think we're too late," adds Billy.
"Are you all right?" asks Martin.
As Robert holds his aching sides, a dark stain spreads from the crotch of his trousers across to the top of his thigh. His body is still tingling from the fit of laughter, and Robert is blissfully unaware of the creeping flow of his own urine. "I am now," he says at last, and suddenly he feels the warm patch on his leg. He sits upright, his eyes staring wildly at his piss-soaked pants. "No!"
"Well at least you didn't shit yourself this time," Noel remarks in a monotone, disguising his sarcasm.
"Yes," barks Robert. "Aren't I lucky only pissing myself!"
"You said it," replies Noel dryly.
"You really are a sad individual Robert," says Billy. "D'you know that?"
"No I didn't as a matter of fact," Robert is beginning to boil inside now. "Thanks for pointing that out Billy, it'll make me feel better as I walk home stinking like a public toilet. I'll be able to sleep tonight knowing what a waste of fucking space I am." Robert stands up and walks away, shaking his damp leg and pulling the soaked material off his skin. "Look everyone," Robert shouts at the top of his lungs. "Here I am; Mr Bloody Nobody!"
Billy, Noel and Martin watch silently as Robert limps into the distance and disappears. Martin shakes his head.
"I think he's losing it," Billy says.
"Lost it more like," Martin adds.
Noel sniffs the air. "I can smell piss in my nostrils, for Christ's sake," he says. "That fat bastard is disgusting, I hate him. I'm going, I'll see you lads."
Noel stamps away, his face like thunder. Billy looks across at Martin and says, "What's up with them two?" Martin shrugs his shoulders. "Everyone's gone bloody potty," Billy adds.
"I'm all right," Martin states, feeling a little insulted.
"Yeah?" Billy asks. "Are you sure?"
Both boys look at the space where Noel had just been walking and say nothing. They share a feeling, something they could never express in words—it is just a feeling; a feeling that their world is changing.. that their relationships with each other are beginning to alter as they grow up and apart. They cannot tell whether it is something within themselves that has shifted, or if it is the world around them that is different, so they remain silent for fear of saying something stupid.
Noel arrives home, his nerves on edge. He can still hear Robert's voice scratching at his ear, gnawing away at his brain like an irritation or a buzzing insect: 'What happened to you? what happened to you..?' it drones incessantly.
Noel knows Robert is right; something has happened, but Noel cannot pinpoint precisely what it is within himself that has become twisted. He had begun to notice a gradual change in his attitude, like the first cruel lines around the mouth of Dorian Gray's portrait, and he had chosen to disregard them—but now he is painfully aware how clearly scarred he appears to others.
"Who gives a shit?" he spits out softly to himself. "I'm all right.."
Everyone always thinks they are all right—that they're an okay type of person; that they're acceptable, decent and cool, in their own right and also in the eyes of others. Even when they're not, they're not okay in a good way—if, like Noel they're always angry, then that's fine, anger is a powerful force; an energy. If they're an idle and apathetic dreamer like Martin, that's good too, they'll say it's not laziness, it's being meditative or introspective or waiting for the right moment, or some other rubbish. It's only when they grow up and look back at themselves and think what they were like, that they realise they were wrong—and inevitably, they will always think; ‘But I'm okay now‘..
Noel thinks he's okay. He fails to recognise the deep resentment bursting through his body, and more importantly he cannot tell its source. He has buried the images and emotions felt as he witnessed his father's violating actions in the attic, as deeply as he can, without ever consciously considering his true feelings. Noel has changed; his relationships with his father and sister and friends have altered, as he desperately tries to cope with the terrible truth that taints his family, and his memory.
Noel should be actively confronting his fears, but then he would have to admit the one thing he cannot, that his father is a rapist and a paedophile.. so instead of confronting him, Noel blocks him out altogether. He can't pretend that the events did not happen (although that is his deepest wish), but he tries unsuccessfully to blur his recollections and turn it into a dream, a nightmare, rather than the reality it plainly is.
Noel is powerless and voiceless, and this more than anything else builds his fury and adds to his sense of worthlessness. The only way Noel can detract from his own feelings of futility is to focus his anger on the closest and most convenient of targets—his friend, Robert. And this he does now at every opportunity, like a conditioned reflex action.
Noel is losing his childhood; his world is spinning into adulthood—his eyes have seen too much, too much for a boy to handle. Noel moves on emotionally, without trying to resolve or repair the holes in his personality. He is growing up too quickly, and being forcibly rushed through the essential chapters of boyhood on having fun and enjoying life, before the pre-teen years turn into the angst-ridden monster that is adolescence. His adult life is being constructed upon this very unstable foundation, and it will sway and tremble like the scared boy it tries to conceal. Noel needs to turn to his friends for support, but he is becoming more and more detached from them, and feels to reach out for help would be a sign of weakness, and he is already weak enough.




Keys.

Martin is sitting on the step outside his front door, he is poking at the ground with a stick. He has accidentally disturbed a colony of ants that have built a nest in the broken concrete path, which runs up to the house. Hundreds of black ants scurry around Martin's shoes protecting the main entrance to their nest. Martin pokes his stick into the crumbling concrete to look deeper into the hole and releases a mass of winged male ants onto the path.
"Shit sorry, I didn't mean to do that," Martin whispers into the floor. 'Too late now you bastard!' Martin answers to himself on behalf of the silent insects. He begins to move the pieces of concrete back over the entrance , trying to make amends for his one destructive moment. 'Get that big stick out of my face,' Martin whispers. Suddenly a shadow falls across the scene and Martin's words trail off to nothing.
"What are you up to Mart?"
Martin jumps and looks up embarrassed. Noel is standing over him and Martin hopes his friend did not hear him talking to himself. Noel looks down at the black mass moving at his feet.
"Brilliant; ants!" Noel says. "Get some of that ant powder stuff and pour it in the hole; we can watch them all shrivel up and die."
"NO!" cries Martin. He looks up at Noel and catches his expression which loosely interpreted means: ‘What's the matter you girl, they're only ants.’ Martin clears his throat and tries to look tough. "Besides, I can't get in the house."
Noel stamps on the ground, crushing a few ants into the dust and Martin winces. Noel says, "I wondered why you were sitting out here."
"I haven't got a key," Martin explains.
"Won't your mum and dad let you have one?" inquires Noel, puzzled.
"No they think I'll lose it."
Noel shakes his head and hawks loudly, forcing spit and phlegm from the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue. He leans his head over the ant hole and slowly releases the sticky, slimy string of saliva out over his lips. Martin gags inwardly and turns his face away. The long line of dribble hangs in the air while the weighty phlegm slides to the bottom, collecting in a sickly green ball and then gravity works its wonder and the lump of fluid falls silently earthward.
Ants have a highly developed sense of community; they are the ultimate Marxists. Each and every member of the organisation works towards a single goal—the survival of the species. Blind worker ants, neither male or female, sacrifice themselves under a hideous tyranny to support a grand circle of life; an existence beyond the enjoyment of any single insect involved. It is a civilisation that has been present for millions of years and has evolved into the perfect regime; completely self-obsessed, it lives only to carry on living.. no sleep, no sex, no fun, no love, no freedom; just pure existence.
One should have respect for so complex a social order, for such efficiency, for their total single-mindedness and the absolute harmony in which they exist, but no, the human race gobs on the ant, they tread them underfoot and understand nothing.
Noel smiles to himself as his saliva hits the floor and engulfs a small group of ants, drowning them in snot.
"You used to have a key," he says hawking again "I remember."
The terrible fate of the ants has no impact on the young boy. The ball of mucus, now heavy with tiny corpses, oozes softly and slowly along the path, and like lava it devours the busy insects on its journey downhill.
Martin rolls his eyes desperately at the tragic sight and catches sight of Noel awaiting an answer.
"You did have a key didn't you?" he repeats.
"Yes," Martin answers at last, "mum tied it on a piece of string for me and I wore it around my neck."
Noel nods and looks back down at the ground. The trail of spit has reached his shoe where it begins to collect against the sole. Noel withdraws his foot and scrapes it along the path.
"What happened to that key then?"
Martin stands up as he sees his mother approaching the house.
"Hiya boys!" she says cheerfully.
Martin and Noel grunt their hellos, still looking at the floor. Martin's mum walks up to the door, unlocks it and steps inside smiling to herself. Martin stands at the doorway.
"Well what happened?" Noel repeats impatiently.
"Huh?"
"What happened to the key?"
"Oh right, yeah... I lost it," Martin says and shrugs, embarrassed now. "I'll see you later then yeah?"
"Yeah I suppose."
Martin disappears inside the house and shuts the door. Noel shakes his head, walking away.
"Silly tosser," he says and turns for home.

Keys symbolise dishonesty; their presence indicates a lack of trust—we would be better off without them. If only we could be trusted...