It was unlikely his mother would come near the study, and even if she did she would know better than to enter while he was ‘having tuition’, but just in case the soppy cow decided to stroll around the garden, she would hear the sound and think he and Smiffy were engrossed in a lecture on aerodynamics.
Billy shrugged into his karategi, thrust all thoughts of her and his tutor from his mind, stretched his joints and jogged on the spot for a few minutes to warm up, then started his katas, his regular karate exercises, the choreographed martial arts movements, clearing his mind of any external thoughts as he honed his skills. For the next thirty minutes he grunted, pirouetted and kicked through every gruelling move that his body knew by heart, all delivered instinctively, perfectly controlled, yet swift and powerful.
As he towelled the sweat from his body, he thought about how his father’s obsession with the ancient fighting skill had come between them during his formative years. Billy had struggled to do anything right despite his best efforts to learn. He was clumsy and forgetful, weak and pathetic, incompetent, even at the most basic techniques, according to his karate instructor.
His father.
The criticism had been unrelenting, not a word of encouragement ever passed his old man’s lips, so much so, that it had turned him against both – he gave up even trying to learn karate much to the disgust of his expert father, a man who surrounded himself with trophies won in martial arts tournaments.
By Billy’s seventh birthday their relationship was almost non-existent. His dad’s cold shoulder offered no comfort, no love, just disdain for his inadequate offspring. Only Billy’s mother spent time with him, but that relationship also abruptly soured the night his uncle visited their home in Chelsea…
Billy tossed the towel to the floor and strode to the corner of the dojo where a circular wooden post stood, about the same diameter as a dinner plate, with a punch-ball of inflated vinyl fixed atop, the underside of it roughly in line with Billy’s eyes. He bowed before his father’s photograph – a frontal headshot, laser printed on to the ball – and started working with the three long pegs protruding from the post, two at chest height and one at the level of his belly button. White rope binding covered the entire section between the upper and lower pegs.
His father’s abdomen.
While controlling his breathing, he mentally recited ulnar high, radial low, over and over, as he slammed the respective bones of each forearm against the unyielding wood.
When he had first started learning wing chun, the Chinese martial art he was currently performing, he had been going through what he considered his transition phase – the three-year period when he had refused to talk. It was his purdah, his secret time of suffering. He had convinced himself he was a victim. The incessant nightmares, the bed-wetting, the bullying, the constant fear and sense of impending doom had all gnawed at his self-confidence, had chewed away his insides.
In truth, he had merely been asleep, hibernating.
Growing.
He thought of himself as a pupa during that painful, but thankfully brief, transformational phase of his life. A crawling, helpless, immature caterpillar beforehand, had bloomed into the powerful creature of beauty he now admired in the dojo mirror.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
The steady rhythm of his conditioning exercise, strengthening his bones, developing a tolerance for pain, and building his power, echoed around the room. Over the next ten minutes, he would strike the wooden pegs one thousand times, each blow delivered with a thrust of his chest and hips to supplement the power of his biceps.
He grinned to himself, revelling in his mastery of his body and his skill in the fighting arts. Such a difference from his early childhood. And the pathetic pupa.
Yes, he only really began to stretch himself when he had been introduced to Mr Mu Ren Zhuang. The formal name of the device he was now attacking.
Everything had changed so much after Uncle Peter’s visit…
Thinking about the man who had sent his life on this exciting new trajectory, forcing him to grow up, tearing away the comfort blanket of childhood even before he’d reached his ninth birthday, filled him with love.
Or what he thought of as love.
A warm, fuzzy glow that emanated from within his chest, his heart a furnace, generating an emotional heat that fired up his soul.
Billy had felt nothing like it for his mother, even before his uncle snuffed her beauty and crushed her will to live, turning her into the drug-addled harridan they both now detested. And by the time his father had met his maker, well, hatred was the only emotion Billy could muster for the pompous, arrogant, bullying bastard.
On that fateful night, when his uncle ripped away the curtain of lies that had obscured his life, delivering Billy from his parents’ clutches, unshackling his future – his destiny – he had been confused, terrified, racked with guilt, and facing an uncertain future…
Alone.
A final blow from his inner arm, the one thousandth strike, saw no respite for Billy. He automatically switched to working on his hand strength, slamming his palms up to the underside of the paired pegs, then back down on the top of them, his mental chant shifting to up, down-hook, up, down-hook as he did so, this time using his legs to augment the power of his arms.
After a thousand of these strikes, he set about his third exercise with Mr Mu, his wooden victim, this time conditioning both ulnar and radial bones together, just above the wrist. He brought his arms up inside the twin pegs, palms together, and then punched his fists outwards, thinking of Smiffy’s ineffectual threat.
For a good half minute, Billy’s laughter drowned out the thudding beat of his bones on wood as he imagined Mr Mu was his tutor, trying to throttle him. The simple exercise he was performing right now, part of a manoeuvre he repeated a couple of thousand times every week, was designed to break a choke-hold by delivering a powerful strike to the inner arms of the aggressor. The second part of this technique brought Billy’s inner forearms against the pegs with a resounding smack – Smiffy’s throat being pummelled – then he repeated the short sequence, each time with the subconscious chant of up in, out down, up in, out down.
His last set of hand exercises involved all three moves together, and as he reached nine hundred and fifty repetitions, he sped up until his final flurry of strikes became an indistinguishable blur.
Then he started on his legs, using the lower beam – a four-inch square section of wood that sloped down and out from the post at knee height before dropping vertically to the floor, as if Mr Mu had an out-thrust leg.
Twenty minutes later Billy rounded off his session with a thousand more of each of the upper and lower limb exercises he had practised, but now delivered in a rapid sequence. Finally, he executed a perfect leaping, spinning, hook kick, smashing his heel into the killing zone of his father’s temple while in mid-air. He landed with the grace of a ballerina, and, satisfied with his progress, rinsed off in the shower cubicle in the opposite corner of the dojo before changing back into his jeans and tee shirt.
As he strolled back to the house, hoping his mother had been sufficiently functional to prepare a decent lunch, he basked in the knowledge that his Uncle Peter would approve.
They had so much in common, and Billy often wished the man who had changed his life for the better had been his father. Instead, his uncle now filled the role of mentor, was his inspiration, his icon.
His confidant.
The only person he would ever take advice from.
Billy felt that familiar warmth radiating through his frame… Soon enough, he’d have another inspiring chat with his Uncle Peter.
Tonight, in fact.
***
After wrapping herself in a morphine induced cocoon for two hours, Suzie roused from her stupor and showered under cold, stinging needles of water to bring herself fully awake. Her son would be finishing his studies in less than an hour and she was determined to get lunch ready for them all, just as she had promised th
is morning.
Every day she struggled through her routine, often wondering why she bothered. As she soaped her ample belly and flabby boobs, self-loathing washed through her. When she first came out of hospital and saw the hatred in her son’s eyes, she had hoped they could both recover, but things had just spiralled out of control into the mess her life had become.
Billy had been a mummy’s boy. At age eight, going on nine, he still had his teddy bear, and craved hugs with his mother, more so in response to his father’s increasingly cold, uncaring demeanour. She had done her best to protect her son from Shaun’s constant criticism and disapproval but he had become introverted and fragile, a sensitive soul, easily brought to tears.
He had been a small boy too, and Suzie had worried that he would forever be a victim in life, that he might never toughen up. She could not have imagined how he’d eventually turn out…
She stepped from the shower and dried herself, then brushed her hair while staring out of the window, lost in thought. There were no mirrors in her room – none in the house except in the other three bathrooms, and certainly not in her en suite. For a second, her eyes focused on the glass and she turned away, shuddering at the indistinct image of the bloated gurning gargoyle she had become.
Instead of replacing the dressing on the fresh wounds on her cheek she smeared some ointment on them – a mixture of antibiotics, local anaesthetic and antiseptic cream supplied by the Caduceus Clinic in Harley Street to aid healing after her latest round of plastic surgery. She had lost count of the operations she had endured over the years, ongoing still despite her treatment plan predicting she would be near normal by now.
The problem was in her head, not with the surgeons.
Infections had ravaged the new flesh of her cheek, her carefully sculpted lips, her reconstructed nose. Bacteria regularly attacked the flaps of skin that had been nurtured, stretched and then transplanted from her forehead, upper chest and neck, leaving her with suppurating sores that led to yet more medical intervention – a vicious cycle that she caused by constantly scratching at the new tissue. Her latest round of surgery had been successful, but here she was, yet again, with the newly formed skin of her face raked by her own filthy, tattered fingernails.
Suzie had even tried wearing gloves, day and night, to prevent her self-inflicted torment, initially with some success, but would often wake in the morning with ungloved hands and blood on her pillow. The recollection made her fingers tremble as she buttoned her blouse.
What is wrong with me?
It had taken her almost two years to gather enough mental strength to have the first reconstructive surgery, long after the NHS doctors had recommended it. The thought of allowing a man with a scalpel, a blade, near her face again had been too much to bear. It was only Billy’s silent stare, his unspoken horror whenever he looked at her, that had driven her to seek out the best surgery money could buy. And even that had failed her.
Or, more accurately, she had failed the surgeons.
Before heading down the stairs, Suzie considered looking in on her mother, but her own state of mind was precarious enough and she could not bring herself to knock on the door. She stood immobile, her hand raised, ready to tap a request to enter, but instead, she turned and plodded her way down to the kitchen.
At least, she could still cook. It was the one thing that allowed her to escape the reality of life, and she became engrossed in creating a deep dish of lasagne – her speciality. The meat sauce had been prepared the day before, and now she layered it with pasta and creamy béchamel before popping the dish in the oven, then created a Waldorf salad – her son’s favourite.
‘Is Mr Smith staying for lunch, Billy?’
She tossed the question over her shoulder as she heard the back door open. Her son appeared at her elbow, seemingly simultaneously.
‘Course not. He never does. Why do you always ask the same stupid questions?’ Billy was red-faced as he fished a walnut from the salad bowl she was preparing.
‘Leave that, and go and wash your hands. Food is almost ready.’
‘I’ve just had a shower. I keep myself clean, unlike some people.’ His sulking voice grated her nerves as he sniffed at her, his nose close to her ruined cheek before adding, ‘At least you finally cleaned yourself up. Mind you, that latest botch job on your face looks like it’s gonna fall off soon. I bet that bloody Maddox bloke’s rubbing his hands with glee. He’s ripping you off, you know? Bastard.’
‘Enough, son, and I keep telling you to mind your language. My treatment is my business and you really don’t know what you’re talking about. Now sit down and I’ll serve.’
‘Alright then, I’m starving. But he’s been taking you for an idiot.’ He scoffed. ‘He ain’t wrong though, is he?’
Suzie felt the tears welling again. Why was he so mean to her?
When he had first begun talking after his years of muteness, he had verbally attacked her, his first words to her yelled in her face:
‘I hate you! You liar!’
The hatred had never abated, the virulent attacks on her had been constant ever since. Even with numerous sessions of psychotherapy, he had resisted every attempt to smooth things between them, or to shed any light on the underlying problem.
For a while he had been close to his grandparents. Until her father’s suicide.
That had just made him worse.
Poor lad.
Suzie had no idea what to do to help him, and was having a hard enough time keeping her own head above water. She watched as he gobbled his food, a fork in his right fist shovelling lasagne into his mouth, his other hand flying over the screen of his smartphone, as if absorbing the contents, downloading the pages directly into his brain.
Billy had always been a bright lad, although shy and deferential around his father. Then his three mute years had interrupted his education, and it had been increasingly difficult to gauge how he was doing. His teachers were frustrated too, and despite their best efforts, concluded that he was falling behind the others in his class, and suggested he might drop back a year. That became a moot point when he was expelled, and as a consequence, became almost impossible to place with any other school.
‘How’s it going with Mr Smith? You seem to be getting on really well.’ Which was a relief – Billy had gone through tutors at a rate of knots, she thought, then asked, ‘Do you not miss school? I’m sure we could get you a placement now, having passed your GCSEs a year earlier than most children, and with such good grades. Or how about sixth form college? Bradfield has some great facilities and they’re just down the road, and they’ll help you decide which is the best university for you.’
She wasn’t sure Billy had heard her, as he carried on chomping on his food and swiping his screen, so she sat at the table opposite him, with a plate of food for herself. The rolls of fat on her thighs, boobs and belly were not a consequence of overeating – she merely picked at her small portion of pasta and salad, thinking she would much prefer a freshly shaken Martini right now, could almost feel the silky burn of gin, vodka and vermouth on her throat.
‘Bradfield’s for thickos.’
‘What about Reading College, then? It would do you good to mix with more people of your own age.’
Her son gave the impression of being older and wiser than his tender years. Suzie put his advanced maturity down to his four years of home-schooling, with one to one tuition from some exceptional teachers. Most of the time, he talked like a young adult, and sneered at the local lads with their teenage expressions and mannerisms.
‘Yeah, right oh, send me to Reading to mix with those peasants. Sod that. I like being at home and it’s done me no harm – I’ve learnt far more across a wider range of subjects than a school would ever teach me.’ The last of his food disappeared into his mouth, and then he glared at her, disdain and condescension lacing his words. ‘Why would I want to travel into town every day? You just want me out the house so you can get pissed.’
Suzie dropped
her head so that he couldn’t read the truth of his statement in her eyes, and forked some lettuce into her mouth instead of firing an angry response back at him. She sat in silence for a few minutes before he stood and started preparing a tray for her mother.
There was obviously still some good in the lad.
Billy often raged about his Nana, but Suzie had never heard him utter a bad thought about her in her mother’s presence. He too had seen her fall from a healthy head of household to the frail old dear she had become, and showed a modicum of compassion despite his youthful impatience. He always took his grandmother her meals, milk and snacks, and generally looked out for her. She’d hear him in Nana’s room at times, their voices low and indistinct through the door, but her mother never complained about anything he said and was always pleased to see the lad.
At least their relationship hasn’t been ruined.
Her son’s thoughtfulness took a load off her shoulders too, so Suzie was happy about that small mercy.
‘Any further thoughts about your birthday celebration? If you want to invite some friends round, that would be fine, and I can cook a nice meal for everyone too.’
It was a forlorn hope. Billy had no friends, at least, not of his own age. She’d seen him with older lads, some of the local farm boys in their late teens or early twenties, and often wondered what they got up to. Once or twice, she’d spotted them together during one of their frequent shopping trips in Reading. Suzie’s role was to chauffeur Billy to the mall and then they’d separate for several hours, before meeting at the car to return home. Her son always clammed up when she asked what he’d been doing, as if his private life should remain just that.
He was ashamed of her too. She was certain of it. Even though she wore her ‘disguise’ when mixing with the public – a headscarf and dark glasses covering her disfigurement – Billy had never willingly introduced her to anyone, let alone his mates, or any potential girlfriends.
Gaslighting: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 3) Page 4
