by Paris Lees
But then someone’s shoutin’, “Oi, leave ’im alone!” an’ I can see the woman wi’ the pram comin’ back. “Go on, pack it in ’fore I call the police!” They look at each other an’ just burst out laughin’, then Jamie gobs in ma face. Proper snot. I wanna throw up. Pork Chop grabs ma hat an’ puts it on ma ’ead. I just can’t believe this is happenin’, but more fool me, eh, coz I should be used to it by now. An’ I’m thinkin’, You bastards. I’m gonna be rich an’ famous one day, an’ I hope ya read about me in the paper an’ how fuckin’ fabulous ma life is. “What’s up?” he guz. “Ah thought ya liked shit!” Then Jamie’s like: “D’ya cry when yer bummin’ an’ get shit on ya bell-end? Oh sorry, Ah forgot, ya prefer bein’ bummed, don’t ya? D’ya cry when yer gerrin fucked up the arse?” Pork Chop guz, “Nah, bet he loves it!” An’ then they run off.
Caught Out There
I’m shakin’. The woman pulls up with ’er pram an’ asks me if I’m alright. I’ve gorra nosebleed. An’ dog shit in ma fuckin’ hair! An’ I’ve ripped ma jeans, or rather they’ve ripped ma jeans. Ma Gap jeans! So I can’t even keep this secret now. I’ll have to explain how I’ve gorra hole in ’em. I wanna disappear, I want the ground to just open up an’ swallow me. I’ve heard people say that on telly, “I just wanted the earth to swallow me whole.” Well, I know exactly what they fuckin’ mean now. I hate ma life, I hate livin’ here an’ I hate bein’ me.
All ma stuff’s come out ma bag so she bends down an’ helps me pick it up. She sez, “What they pickin’ on ya for?” So I tell ’er they’re callin’ me gay an’ she’s like, “Oh, whadda they know, eh?” but then she sees ma Vengaboys pencil case an’ guz, “And anyway, so what if y’are.” She’s dead nice. I wish I were grown up like ’er so I din’t have to deal with all this shit. Actual fuckin’ shit. Dog shit! In ma fuckin’ hair. I can’t walk all the way to Gaz’s like this, though, so I’m gonna have to go to me mam’s, but I can’t find ma fuckin’ key. Fuck’s sake.
I don’t wanna sit on the front where everyone can see me, so I go round the back, but Pop’s next door feedin’ ’is pigeons. I don’t wanna talk to ’im either, so I just stay by the side door an’ hope Amy don’t come out coz then I really would look fuckin’ stupid. An’ she’d tell everyone. That’d be fuckin’ perfect, eh? So anyway, then Mam comes back an’ starts gerrin dead upset. She’s on about callin’ the police so I’m like, “Please don’t, Mam, it’ll only make it worse.”
“Alright, I’m callin’ Gaz.”
“No! Please don’t, Mam!”
“Gaz or the police. Ya can’t let ’em get away with it, Byron – I’m not ’avin’ it!”
I’ve got blood on ma jumper an’ ma nose is throbbin’. I’m sick o’ this, sick of all of it. Is it not enough that I have to sit on ma own? Eat on ma own? Walk home on ma own? That everyone hates me? That I get laughed at an’ spat on an’ punched every fuckin’ day? Am I gonna be tormented like this for the rest of ma life? Coz I can’t stop bein’ who I am, canna? An’ anyway, what have I done wrong? Who am I hurtin’, eh? Why can’t people just fuck off an’ leave me alone?
Flat Beat
They split up when I worra baby. I don’t remember ’er bein’ with ’im. He used to come round for a bath sometimes an’ sit there in a towel till I went up to bed, but that were years ago. Weirdo. The only other time I used to see ’im were when he come to pick me up from Mammar Joe’s an’ take me to Mammar Rita’s for Sunday dinner. Aunty Ray sez I used to scream an’ grab ’er legs when I saw ’is car at the end o’ the road. She’d beg Mammar Joe to let me stay but she’d just say, “It’s not ma decision, Ray. He’s gorra go!”
I went to live with ’im when I were nine coz Mam cun’ control me any more. They’ve both got tempers on ’em. Mammar Joe sez I gerrit from them. It’s a pity they din’t have loadsa money for me to inherit too, innit? Mammar Joe sez it’s a wonder I turned out alright “wi’ Lisa for a mother an’ Gaz for a father”, but I reckon she might be callin’ it a bit too soon. Mr Smith sez he can see me goin’ either way – sez I’m either gonna do summat dead good wi’ ma life, or dead bad. He’s just not sure which. So that’s nice, innit? Mr Smith has long grey hair an’ loves Queen. He’s the only person I’ve heard say owt nice about Margaret Thatcher.
I were dead naughty when I were little. I bit Old Mother ’ubbard in Safeways once. I feel bad about it now. She threatened to hit me with ’er belt when we got home, but she din’t. I don’t think she’d ever be ’orrible like that, she’s lovely to me. Mammar Joe’s more like me mam than me mam. She were dead young when she had me mam, an’ me mam were dead young when she had me.
Mam slept on a mattress in the livin’ room for six months when I were little an’ din’t wanna talk to anyone or do owt, so I had to wait for Mammar Joe to bring me ma tea after school. Mam sez Primula cheese is common but Mammar Joe would say, “Ma sandwiches, ma rules”, coz she knows they’re ma favourite. Gaz said, “Yer mam’s got some bleddy nerve”, an’ “Beggars can’t be choosers if she can’t be arsed ter feed ya ’ersen”, but I don’t remember ’im ever bringin’ owt round. I’d sit an’ look out ma bedroom window till I saw Mammar Joe comin’ across the field. Always wearin’ summat black an’ soup-stained, like the witch in Simon an’ the Witch. I’d go, “Don’t ya get tired walkin’ all that way?” She’d go, “Ner, ne’ mind. Kill the owd ’uns off first, eh?” Owd’s how Mammar Joe pronounces “old”. She’s forty-seven.
I love Old Mother ’ubbard. I stay with ’er every weekend. She gets ’er Giro on Thursdays so I go after school on Fridays an’ she does me a tray with a Pot Noodle an’ a Freddo an’ a tangerine. Well, Mam definitely don’t like Pot Noodle, but Mammar Joe sez what she don’t know won’t hurt ’er. She lets me stay up an’ watch Father Ted too. We love Mrs Doyle. She’s dead funny. Mammar Joe even lets me watch Graham Norton sometimes, but never Eurotrash. She sez I shun’t be watchin’ stuff like that. She sez they shun’t even be airin’ it.
Mammar Joe looked after me when me mam went to live in Turkey. She come back after three months coz it had all gone wrong. Tarkan turned out to be ’orrible like Gaz in the end, an’ took all ’er money off ’er. She had to save up secretly to buy a ticket back. Mammar Joe sez it’s a pity me mam’s superior taste don’t seem to apply to men, but me mam sez men all are the same no matter where ya go anyway. Gaz calls it doin’ a Shirley Valentine. He’s always goin’ on about it, how she’s such a bad mother an’ that. Like he’s father o’ the friggin’ century! He’s gorra point, though. I thought she’d left me for ever.
I don’t wanna tell ’em what’s happened, but how can I lie? I’ve bin beaten up. They want details. “Why din’t ya smack ’em one back?” he guz. “Ah’ve told ya ter stand up for yersen.” I can’t look ’im in the eye, so I just stare at the telly. Summat bad’s gone off in America so instead of kids TV, the news is on. They’re showin’ these two skyscrapers wi’ smoke comin’ out of ’em. I think a plane’s crashed into ’em or summat, but the sound’s down so I can’t hear what they’re sayin’. “Oi, Ah’m talkin’ to ya!” Hang on, why is he mad wi’ me? I’m the one who’s bin beaten up here. But that’s typical Gaz, innit? – of course it’s all ma fuckin’ fault.
Mam’s goin’, “He’s not like you, Gary!” An’ then he starts shoutin’, “Yeah, an’ why’s that? All ma other kids are normal – it’s your juices that’ve made ’im like this. Nowt wrong wi’ ma sperm.” ’Er juices! Fuckin’ hell. I’m like, “Aunty Ray sez ya can’t solve violence wi’ violence.” So he’s like, “Aunty Ray talks out ’er friggin’ arsehole!” which is a bit rich, comin’ from ’im. Talk about the pot callin’ the kettle black. “Yeah, but if someone punches me once, they might leave me alone then. But if I hit ’em back, they’re just gonna keep on smackin’ me.”
“Not if ya knock ’em out, they won’t. Not just stand there like a great big fuckin’ poof.” Here we go.
“But what if I don’t wanna get dragged down to their level?”
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I shun’t answer ’im back, but I can’t believe he’s mad at me. It’s just so unfair!
“Ah’ve told ya before an’ Ah’m tellin’ ya now, next time someone hits ya, ya hit ’em back – twice as ’ard. An’ stop actin’ like a fuckin’ gel.”
The Van pulls up outside. Pete’s Mobile Van. Five o’clock he comes, just as Ready Steady Cook’s startin’ an’ everyone’s home from school. Mam usually lets me get a Kinder Egg if I’ve bin good. Amy next door always gets a Freddo. She makes out it’s ’er favourite, but really it’s coz they’re dead poor an’ Freddos are only fifteen p. Sometimes she just gets a ten-p mix. “I can’t, I’m not strong like you!” He jumps up an’ throws me on the settee, fists up. “What ya gonna do if someone hits ya?”
“Nuffin!” I go.
So he whacks me!
“What ya gonna do if someone hits ya?”
“Nuffin!”
Whack!
Looks like I’ll be missin’ the Fresh Prince today.
Scream If You Wanna Go Faster
He clouts me round the ear again an’ I can’t help but flinch, which just makes ’im even worse. He don’t like weakness. He grabs ma hair an’ me mam’s screamin’, “Gaz, leave ’im alone, he’s just bin beaten up, for God’s sake!” But is he fuck gonna leave me alone now. “Stay out o’ it, yo’,” he guz, an’ I wonder if she’s next. She knows there’s no point arguin’, but she’s goin’ on about callin’ the police an’ how she wishes she’d never rung ’im an’ wants ’im out o’ ’er house. But ya did ring ’im, din’t ya? Hate to say I told ya so, Lisa, but I did fuckin’ beg ya not to.
“What ya gonna do if someone hits ya?”
He’s hurtin’ ma hair so much I’m scared he’s gonna pull it out.
‘Nuffin. I’d rather be punched by someone than punch someone else.’
Whack!
“What ya gonna do if someone hits ya?”
An’ then, all of a sudden – an’ I can’t explain it – I just start laughin’. An’ I’m calm. Alert, but calm. It’s like summat’s shifted inside me, an’ I don’t care any more. Like I’m floatin’, an’ lookin’ down at the room. An’ it all just seems just so ridiculous. Ma ’ead’s pulled back an’ ma arms are up out of instinct an’ I’m thinkin’, D’ya know what, maybe yer on to summat. Maybe I should start standin’ up for mysen. Coz what’s there to be scared of, really? What could possibly be worse than this? Ma father’s a bastard, ma mother’s an idiot, an’ everyone hates me. What’s to lose? So I look ’im straight in the eye, an’ I tell ’im, “Smash ma ’ead in if ya like. Kill me! But I’d rather die than be like you!”
He lets go of me instantly an’ drops back into the armchair. I don’t know what’s just gone off. Mam’s speechless. I’ve never known ’er to be this quiet in ma entire life. I realize how much noise we must’ve bin makin’ an’ wonder if Pop next door can hear us, coz I reckon she’s wonderin’ it too. All she fuckin’ cares about is what the neighbours think, so that’s backfired today. I look around the room an’ everythin’ looks different. It’s like the air’s changed. Gaz is cryin’. “Why can’t ya be normal?” he guz. “There’s summat wrong wi’ ya. Yer a problem child.”
Oh I’m a problem child, am I? I’ve heard it all before – from ’im, from people at school – but it’s like I’m really hearin’ it this time. Like I’m finally gerrin the message everyone’s bin tryna tell me ma whole life. There’s summat wrong wi’ me. I an’t gorra problem. I am the problem. Me. The way I talk. The way I walk. Everythin’ about me’s wrong. I am wrong. Just for existin’. But this is great news! Coz if there’s summat wrong wi’ me, why should I even try to be good? Coz if I’m not normal, I can be – an’ do – whatever I want. An’ what I want – what I really, really want – is to get out o’ this fuckin’ hell-hole. An’ everyone else can go fuck ’emselves.
Sing It Back
Mammar Rita brought me a blanket the other day. I told ’er the radiator weren’t ma fault. I think she believes me but she started goin’ on about how all teenagers fall out wi’ their parents an’ “At the end o’ the day, he is yer dad!” as if I’m not already fully aware o’ that. Then she’s on to ’er all-time favourite: “He does love ya, ya know? He’s just gorra funny way of showin’ it.” Well no, I don’t know that, actually, Mammar Rita, but if he does it’s a very funny way indeed, almost like the complete opposite. If this is ’is love, God know’s what ’is hate must feel like.
They had it much worse when Mammar Rita were young, though. There were no central heatin’ so I should count mysen lucky, really, apparently. She had to put ’er fur coat on the bed in winter! Oh, but also, at the same time, everythin’ were so much better back then. People din’t lock their doors coz there were no crime, accordin’ to ’er, an’ if ya saw a stranger walkin’ down the street, well, ya just invited ’em in for a brew! I have a feelin’ folk wun’t have bin flingin’ their doors open an’ pourin’ tea down yer neck if ya happened to be gay, or black or even just a single mam, but if Mammar Rita sez it were better back then, it must have bin. She were there an’ I weren’t. People kept their net curtains white in them days. Din’t matter if yer kids were bein’ abused in the back room an’ yer ’usband knocked ya about a bit, so long as yer front porch were scrubbed clean everythin’ were perfect.
Mammar Rita’s right about one thing, though. He is ma dad. But that don’t make any o’ this better. If anythin’, it makes it worse. Coz if ya love someone, ya shun’t be ’orrible to ’em. Gaz is always goin’ on about how, “Yer’ve gorra be cruel ter be kind”, but aren’t ya also supposed be kind to be kind? Ya know, even just every now an’ then? Mammar Rita sez I should respect ’im an’ it just makes me so mad. So what, coz he got Mam pregnant thirteen years ago, that means I’ve gorra look up to ’im for the rest of ma life? No matter what he does to me? No matter what he sez to me? Sorry Mammar Rita, but I really don’t think so.
I’m movin’ out as soon as I’m sixteen an’ then no one’ll be able to tell me what to do. I’ll go to London an’ have loadsa men after me like Samantha from Sex an’ the City. An’ if Gaz comes anywhere near me, I’ll kill ’im. Literally. I’ll get a baseball bat an’ batter the old bastard. An’ I’m takin’ the dog wi’ me too. Poor old Benji, he’s in a really bad state. Covered in cuts. Gaz took ’im fox huntin’, or maybe it were badger baitin’ coz I’ve never seen ’im this bad. It’s horrendous. I don’t know how anyone could take pleasure from makin’ animals fight to death. I went to see ’im earlier an’ he were just stood there, shakin’. Gaz won’t let ’im inside, not even while he gets better, coz he shat in the back room last Christmas. So he’s in the doghouse – guess that makes two of us. I ought to call the RSPCA but I can’t, canna? He’d know. I mean who else’d call ’em? Next door wun’t dare.
I wish Benji would just run off. I let ’im off the lead when I take ’im up the hill but he always comes back, daft bogger. Just as well I s’pose coz then I’d be in even more trouble, although I wun’t mind if I knew he’d found some nice people to look after ’im an’ give ’im cuddles an’ that. I wish he could talk. I’d tell ’im he don’t have to stay here, that he could just like … run away.
Don’t Call Me Baby
You’ll never guess worrav had for ma birthday. I din’t wanna go home after school, so I went to the toilets on ’ucknall Market an’ locked mysen in a cubicle. I just wanted to be somewhere quiet. D’ya know worra I mean? I do that at school sometimes, find an empty room or the loos no one uses, an’ just go an’ sit there. I like bein’ somewhere ya can hide. I’d bin in there for about half an hour readin’ the graffiti – there’s loadsa pictures of nobs an’ all this stuff about a girl called Stacey Parker who’s a right old slag by the sounds of it – but when I come out, the same bloke that had bin there when I went in were still stood at the urinal. He looked like he were up to no good, so I went an’ sat on the wall outside an’ waited for ’im to come out. But he never did. I were sat there ten minu
tes coz I watched the church clock get to five an’ I thought, Am I goin’ crazy? So I went back in an’ he were just stood in the same place. I din’t know what to do, so I ran into the cubicle an’ locked the door.
I sat there thinkin’, What the fuck am I gonna do now? I felt embarrassed coz he’d seen me come an’ go, an’ I thought, I bet he thinks I’ve got diarrhoea. But then I thought, Why should I feel stupid? An’ what the bleddy hell is he up to? Then he tries the friggin’ door! When there were two other cubicles free! I thought, Oh my God, I’ve gorra right weirdo here, an’ right as I’m thinkin’ it he puts ’is hand under the door. Ma heart were thumpin’. I thought, What if he’s a murderer? But then I thought, Fuck it, so I undid the latch an’ he pushed it open. I were thinkin’, Oh God, please don’t let me die in ’ucknall Market bogs.
He must have bin about forty. He wore denim ’ead to toe an’ had a bottle of whisky in ’is back pocket – he stank o’ fags an’ booze. Blond, an’ scruffy-lookin’, bit of a hippy type. But quite good-lookin’. He reminded me of a cowboy. He din’t look gay. Not like how ya see on the telly an’ that. An’ he din’t say owt either, he just gorrit out an’ … well. He wanted me to pull ma trousers down too, but I were too embarrassed. He put ’is hands down there, though.
