The following morning as I dressed I noticed a clear liquid weeping from the cut on my side. I tried to wipe it with tissue but it stung. I pulled on my school shirt and watched it darken as the liquid soaked into it. My back hurt, my body was stiff and it was an effort to walk up the lane to catch the bus. Every step I took made the shirt rub against my wounds.
I took my seat, quietly, next to Cara.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I just nodded. I was too embarrassed to say anything. We got through the morning, although I fidgeted on my chair and the Father was constantly yelling at me to sit still. At lunch time, Cara pulled at the back of my shirt. I winced, the shirt had stuck to my cuts and as it pulled away, one had started to bleed. She held the back of my shirt and just looked at me for a while.
“Come with me,” she said.
We snuck back into the school, into the toilet where she wet some tissue and wiped my side. The cold water was soothing. We didn’t speak but I knew she understood what had happened.
“It stops hurting after a while,” she said softly and we left for class.
I can’t say the beatings were a daily thing but it seemed that at least every other day there would be a problem and I would take the punishment for it. Sometimes she would come back from church and beat me for no reason. She started to make me sit at her feet and she would preach the bible at me, with one hand on my forehead. What she was doing, I had no idea.
“Submit yourself therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,” she would say.
She would close her eyes and rock back and forth, her hand never leaving my forehead as she seemed to be chanting. Sometimes I couldn’t hear, she would mumble and other times she would shout out loud. The same thing, repeatedly. I didn’t know what her words meant. She talked about the devil a lot.
My life consisted of going to school and coming back to the house, I would never refer to it as home, being beaten and if not beaten then being preached to. At one point Edith had grabbed me by the shoulders, forced me to my knees in front of her and announced that I was the devil. She wanted to help me, to get the devil out of me, make me pure. She told me that my parents were dead because of me, because I had the devil inside. When she said those things my hands would shake with fear. I wasn’t sure what I was scared of though, being the devil or her.
****
Cara and I became best friends. She would help me up from my chair when the bruises and the welts from the belt stung on the back of my legs and made me stiff. She would pick leaves from a prickly plant, slice them open and make me rub the sticky, smelly stuff inside, on my cuts. I would do the same for her. Every day that I went to school in pain, so did she. We only ever had one conversation about it.
“Who does this to you?” I had asked her one day.
She had a bruise on her cheek, the skin grazed and when she sat and her skirt raised, I could see bruising on her thighs. I wasn’t trying to look at her legs but the marks looked just like handprints. She had tried to pull her skirt down when she noticed me looking.
“My dad,” she whispered. “He does things to me but you mustn’t tell anyone, promise me.”
“What does he do?” I asked.
“He touches me, down there, and hits me if I cry.” She pointed between her thighs.
“He’s not allowed to do that though,” I said.
She just shrugged her shoulders.
“Don’t you tell your mum?” I asked.
“I did once, he told her I was a dirty little liar and then he killed my cat. He drowned her in the water butt, she had babies and I tried to help them but they needed their momma’s milk.”
Her eyes filled with tears at the memory. We linked our little fingers and made a promise to each other that we wouldn’t tell because, I guessed, we knew if we did, things would get worse.
It was at that time that I started to feel hatred. For Cara’s dad, for my aunt, for my parents, for my teacher, for everyone. The only time this boiling inside me ceased was when I was with Cara, she made me feel calm. Even at the age I was then I knew what was happening to her and I felt angry that I was too young and powerless to stop it.
****
I had been with Edith for just under a couple of years and I hated her, and where I was, with every fibre of my being. Every time I looked at her I would get a taste in my mouth, like after I had been sick, and I would have to swallow hard to get rid of it. I knew then that was what hatred tasted like.
“Are you the devil?” I would ask myself as I looked in the dirty, cracked mirror in the bathroom.
The face that stared back at me, the black eyes, for a while was unsure. If Edith was so sure she must be right. She was a church goer, so she must know what she was talking about. For a while I willingly sat at her feet, I didn’t want to be the devil. I would let her beat me, berate and cleanse me until I was pure again. However, there were times when I hoped she was right. If I was the devil I might have special powers to make it stop. I might have special powers to stop what was happening to Cara. Somewhere inside me I had this feeling of really wanting to hurt Edith, the way she hurt me, but I never did. I would dream of putting my hands around her scrawny neck and squeezing until she couldn’t breathe. I could picture her face, the fear in her bulging eyes. I could feel her hands on mine trying to pull them away, her dirty nails scraping my skin and I could smell death as she took her last breath.
I wanted her to feel how I did inside, the sadness, the pain and the confusion. I wanted her to feel the ache in my stomach that would never go away and I wanted her to feel the loneliness I felt. I began to hate school as well which did upset me. People kept their distance, but they whispered about me.
“Why don’t they talk to me?” I asked one time, looking around the lunch hall.
“Because they’re scared of you,” Cara said, quite matter of fact.
“You talk to me though.”
“Because, silly, you don’t scare me,” she replied.
“I don’t mean to scare people, what are they scared of?”
“Your eyes. You have the black eyes, that’s what scares them. You like, stare at people.”
Well, I couldn’t help the colour of my eyes, could I. I can’t help if I stare at people, I am only trying to see if I can work out if they mean me harm, that’s all.
****
As fall turned into winter, the beatings got worse. It seemed to be my fault the plumbing froze or the stove didn’t work, I had cursed this house she would scream at me. It was my fault the newly painted porch made the rest of the house look shabby. It was my fault the logs were too big and they didn’t stack well enough. However, as she, and I, got older, I got wiser. I managed to hide from her for a while, I had my camp in the woods, somewhere she couldn’t find me.
I would come home from school, quickly do my chores and head out to the woods. I liked being outdoors, if I could I would live there forever. It was peaceful, it was clean and it was exactly as it should be. I had spent the whole summer making my camp. I nailed wood to the trees to make a frame and covered it with an old tarpaulin I had found. It was quiet and peaceful. If Cara managed to get out after school, she would meet me there. We would sit and plan our escape. We would talk about imaginary places where we would live together. I told her how we would stow away on a plane and I would take her back to Sarah’s. I told her all about Benny and that we could take him for walks in the park, we could throw his ball and wait for him to bring it back. She would love being at Sarah’s. I would even let her bring that box of dolls out from under the bed.
“Do you speak to Sarah?” Cara had asked me one time.
“No, I don’t know if she knows where I am. I would like to though, I miss her.”
I would have loved to have asked my aunt if I could call Sarah but, somehow, I knew she wouldn’t allow it. She had a telephone in the house but it was never used. There was never any mention of my life in England, it was as if it hadn’t existed.
/> Time after time Cara and I talked about running away. I knew we could do it but she was too scared to try. I would spend hours trying to convince her that I would take care of her. I would never beat her, I would hunt to make sure we had food and we could live in the woods forever. I made bows and arrows, I sharpened stones until they could prick my skin, like a knife. I made a pillow for her out of leaves and dried grass that, when she was really sad, she would lay her head on and close her eyes. As she rested her body, I carved our initials into a tree trunk, a symbol that we would be friends forever. I would watch her, that anger boiling away under the surface at what had happened to her. I was only nine years old.
I would sleep outdoors some nights, wrapped up in a blanket I had stolen from the house and watch the night sky, the stars, cursing my parents for being dead and leaving me in his hell hole. Sometimes my chest would hurt with the intensity of it all. I wanted to feel something else, anything, and even when I punched the tree trunk over and over and watched my knuckles bleed, I felt no pain, nothing but this emptiness inside. It was like I was hollow and if I beat my chest it echoed.
What I liked most about being outdoors was that it was constant. The leaves fell at the same time of the year, the flowers opened when they should. I had a sense of time, of purpose when I stayed outside. Inside the house it was too unpredictable, outside I knew exactly what was going to happen and when.
Some days I would pack my school back pack with food I had stolen. I knew Cara and I could hide away in the woods for however long it took for people to stop looking for us, or so I thought, but we never did. Cara would get upset and cry when I tried to persuade her to run away. I hated to make her cry. Later in life I would often wonder why I stayed for as long as I had, why I endured what I did. But in my heart I knew, I only stayed because of Cara, she needed me and I needed her.
I turned ten with no notice from anyone that it was my birthday. It was pure luck that I had found out. I’d found some papers when I was tidying the lounge, they mentioned the house my mother had owned, the fact that it had been sold a long time ago. I wondered what had happened to the money. However, there was my name and my date of birth. No one had celebrated my birthday for years, so it was good to read that day was special. I was good at math, I added up the years I was born and realised I was ten years old. Wow, double figures already.
That morning I boarded the bus and took my usual seat next to Cara. She didn’t greet me with the smile she usually did. Instead her head was turned to the window.
“It’s my birthday today, I’m ten,” I told her.
When she did turn to me, her eye was black and closed, her lip split. Tears rolled down her cheeks, yet she smiled.
“Happy birthday, Robert,” she said.
I just sat and stared. She shook her head gently, a silent ask for me not to talk about it before she turned her face back to the window. I picked up her hand and held it in mine, I didn’t care who saw, who sniggered. She was my best friend and I didn’t know how to help her.
Cara was quiet for most of the day but at lunchtime we sat together and she shared her lunch with me. After we had eaten she took my hand and we wandered to the prickly plants by the small copse at the back of the school. I knew those plants to be Aloe Vera and, not that it ever worked, the sticky stuff inside was meant to heal our cuts. Cara turned to me and raised her skirt. Not only were her legs covered in bruises but her white panties were stained red. I stared, open mouthed, not sure if I was to say anything or not. The blood had smeared down her thighs. I watched her body start to shake, she wrapped her arms around herself and for the first time she cried, really cried. I wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but as I moved towards her she backed away.
“My tummy hurts,” she whispered.
“Did he do that?” I asked, my voice cracking on every word.
She didn’t answer, she didn’t need to. Her lip had started to bleed a little, a small trickle of blood ran down to her chin. As she wiped at it, she smeared it across her face. The tears that were rolling down her cheeks left a clean line through the blood. I was horrified, the sight of her blood stained body stayed with me for many years after.
“I’m going to kill him,” I shouted, and I turned and ran.
I heard her calling me, begging me to come back and as I ran Father Peters stepped from the church into my path.
“Where do you think you are going?” he asked.
“Look at her,” I screamed. “Look at what he did to her.”
“It’s not your business, Robert,” he said.
“She’s my friend and she’s hurt.”
He reached out and grabbed my arms. I fought, shouting and screaming at him. I was way stronger than he was and I managed to push him away. He stumbled and fell, landing on the dirt path. As I turned to continue my journey I caught sight of Cara, she was bent over holding her stomach and calling my name. It pulled me up short and I walked back to her. My chest hurt with the anger, my breathing was rapid and I clenched my fists as tight as I could.
“Please, Robert, don’t go. He’ll kill me if you do. You promised me you wouldn’t tell, you promised,” she said between her sobs.
“I’m not going anywhere, Cara. Not without you, anyway,” I said. “Please, let’s run, now. I’ll look after you, I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever again,” I begged.
She just shook her head, resigned to her fate, I guessed. We knelt together on the dusty, dried grass and I held her. By now a crowd had formed, the other kids stood around us. No one spoke and when I looked at them, the hatred must have blazed from my eyes as they backed away. Some time later I heard a man’s voice, calling Cara. Before she stood, she placed her hand on my cheek wiping away a tear and then she got up and walked away. I stayed kneeling where I was, crying for the first time ever and finally broken.
****
I never saw Cara again. She didn’t get on the bus the following morning, or the one after and I missed her. I walked to where she lived night after night, to see if I could find her. There was no sign of her anywhere. She had been the only friend I’d ever had. The only person that had been kind to me, that played with me, that talked to me even. I knew she hadn’t moved away, I still saw her parents sometimes, but never Cara. I asked my aunt once, I wanted to know what had happened to her. I don’t know why I asked, because I knew, deep down I knew what had happened. I received the worst beating ever that day and was told not to ask questions. I couldn’t walk without being hunched over, the scratchy material of my school shirt constantly rubbed at the welts which bled and wept for days. At night I would look up at the stars and wonder if she was looking down at me.
In one way I was envious of Cara, she had escaped her misery, her pain. She was free from it all and I wished I was with her. In my ten year old mind it was better to be dead than alive and beaten.
Chapter Two
For a few weeks after Cara’s disappearance, the kids, the teachers, Father Peters, all kept their distance from me. If I walked towards a crowd it parted and silence fell. Eyes followed me wherever I went. Kids whispered about me but everyone left me alone. Finally I began to understand their fear of me and I used that to my advantage. I remember someone wanted to take my lunch, it was the only meal I was likely to get that day. My aunt had stopped cooking and I was never allowed to help myself. The kid came and stood beside me while I sat at the table in the lunch hall, taunting and calling me names.
“Hey, dumb ass, weirdo,” he said, the other kids laughed, nervously.
“Are you listening to me, Child of Satan?” he taunted, turning towards his friends with a cocky grin.
Child of Satan, oh come on, you can do better than that, I’d thought. So I stood, I was taller, broader, way stronger and the strange thing was, all I had to do was to look into his eyes. I saw all I needed to know. He was a coward, a bully, a beaten kid just like me. I saw him shake, I saw him wet his pants and I hadn’t said a word. No one ever bothered me again after that.
&nbs
p; I barely spoke, other than to answer a question the teacher had asked with a one word answer. I had nothing to say to anyone. I was scared. If I opened my mouth, I was scared what would come out. The vile words that swam constantly around my head would spew out like lava from a volcano and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. If I voiced how I felt, well, all hell would be let loose.
****
One afternoon I arrived home on the bus. As I climbed the steps of the porch I heard voices. We had a visitor and we never had visitors. It was Father Peters, he had come to speak with Edith. They sat and chatted in the lounge for a long time before calling me into the room.
“Robert, Father Peters wants to have a chat with you,” Edith had said.
I sat, quietly looking at him. He might be a priest but I had the measure of him. He was not a good man, not a man of God, by any means.
“Robert, people are concerned about you. You seemed to have scared a few of your classmates,” he said.
No shit, Sherlock, I thought, remembering a phrase I had heard on TV once, many years ago.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, and I noticed a shake to his hands.
“I don’t know why people are scared of me, Cara wasn’t,” I said, deliberately mentioning her name.
“I don’t think we should be speaking about Cara and I also think it might be good if you come to church more often,” he replied.
I was already dragged there at the weekends, sitting on a hard cold bench, listening to tons of drivel for what seemed like hours.
“Why would I do that?” I asked. I didn’t know where the question had come from really.
“Well, you might find it a comfort,” he said.
I leant forward on the sofa, looking at him, unblinking. “A comfort? From what Father?” I asked, my voice surprisingly steady and low despite the rage I felt inside.
Did he know? Did he know how regularly I was beaten with that fucking belt, preached to from that fucking bible by that fucking mad, old woman? Did he know Cara had been raped then later, beaten to death by her father? Did he know most of the kids in the school came every day with fresh bruises to their faces, to their arms? Of course he fucking knew. And he knew that I knew, too.
Robert (Fallen Angel Series Book 1) Page 3
