by Geoff Wolak
* * *
In the dungeon, Johno found Thomas cleaning the room. With a puzzled expression, he called the boy over, telling him to stop what he was doing. Noting the boy’s look, and wondering about the boy’s state of mind, Johno directed him towards the small firing range. Taking out his pistol, Johno released the magazine, and for ten minutes – talking both in German and English – went through the basics with Thomas, finally letting Thomas fire at a target, six rounds.
When he had finally secured a weak smile from Thomas he made the boy tea, sitting him down on the central sofa. With his own painful memories resurfacing Johno began, ‘When I was young, before about age twelve, I was happy - me and my mum were good together. I used to look out for her as much as I could, help around the house, do the garden. I quite liked being the man of the house. And I was good in school, top marks in a lot of stuff.
‘But then she met a man, who was great to start with – first year. He bought us stuff, took us out. Usual bollocks.’
‘Bollocks?’ Thomas quietly repeated.
‘Word means … rubbish.’
Thomas seemed to understand, sat attentively listening, sipping his tea.
‘But from my room I could hear them having sex, and I didn’t like that.’ He glanced at the wall. ‘Didn’t like that at all.’ He lowered his head, staring into his tea for a moment. ‘One day he came home drunk, hit her, so I got in the way. He hit me. And that … was the start of it all, my life took a left turn. Till I was thirteen he hit me and my mum when he was drunk. Then one day he went to prison suddenly, Beesely arranged it.’
‘Beesely?’ Thomas puzzled.
‘Mister Beesely is my real father, but he didn’t live with us.’
Thomas was surprised, but understood.
‘He found out that … this man was hitting us both, so he had him sent to jail for two years, probably three if I remember right. When he came out he was told to stay away, which he didn’t. He turned up drunk one day - his mistake - I hit him.
‘And I kept hitting him every time I saw him. Once hit him with a stick, once threw a stone and nearly blinded him. After that he gave up. But I never really recovered from that. Didn’t like going to school much after him, failed the exams. I left school at fifteen, no qualifications, got a job as a car mechanic - I was good with engines. Year later I joined the Army.’
Thomas cradled his tea. ‘My mother was very nice.’ Johno studied the boy as Thomas continued, ‘My father, he went away when I was four, but I can remember some things. Christmas was always very nice, sledging in the snow.’
‘I used to like Christmas,’ Johno said with a smile. ‘But you know what made me the happiest? When I earned my first pay packet. I took it home and gave it all to my mum.’
Thomas nodded slowly, deep in his own thoughts. ‘Yesterday, Mister Beesely was very sad, but he did not know my mother long.’
Johno considered his answer, taking a moment. ‘He was sad for two reasons. First, the people who sent the bomb, they may have done it to kill Beesely. So he blames himself for her death. Second, Jane was his daughter, my half-sister.’
Thomas was shocked. ‘She was a nice woman. We talked – but my English - not so good. You … are very sad?’
‘No, is the simple answer. I don’t get sad, I get angry.’ Thomas considered the words, looking perplexed. Johno added, ‘If you want to survive in this world, learn the difference. Quickly. I was your age when I started to learn that lesson, just wish it hadn’t taken so long.’
