Little Tim, Big Tim

by Tim Roy

  The class-period will finish in ten minutes. I decide to wait where I am until the bell rings so I can mingle with the flowing current of children moving purposefully to their next class. My next class is mathematics. I reach into my bag and see that my class diary is written almost ineligibly; I know I haven’t put these details in this diary.

  It’s October of fourth form (year ten). I have mostly been absent since the attack in the Army Cadet Q store by Captain Waters. I wonder if that goddamn prick is still breathing. I am shocked I can call him such a derogatory term in my head. Blasphemy would be an accusation that my Mum and the Old

  Man would use to shame me, but I don’t even feel a twinge of guilt. I have a new understanding in my head. My world seems to be refreshing itself.

  I get to my maths class and realise that this is also the lowest class in the form system. The work in my book is not my writing and is almost, apart from some scribbles and some way-off calculations, non-existent. I need to do some serious catching up. It’s only four weeks to exams. No time to worry about my sudden entry into the real world. Time to study.

  The class begins and it’s work I knew from the higher classes last year; the advantage pays off for me. I complete the work quickly and hand it in for a grade. My teacher calls me to her desk. ‘That’s an ‘A’. You have finally woken up, I’m pleased to see.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I’m here to learn,’ I vow.

  ‘We’ll see. I wonder if it was a fluke.’

  ‘Try me, T look at her confidently.

  She gives me a new test and I quickly complete it and am about to return it to her when something within tells me to not be too cocky. A couple of correct answers crossed out will get the same overall result, although a lesser mark. I hand my work in and am once again called to her desk.

  ‘Eighteen out of twenty right and you had the two wrong answers correct, before you crossed them out. I’m sure you have been asleep all year. Keep it up,’ she encourages.

  She doesn’t realise how close to the truth she is. School finishes and I go home to lock myself in my room to study. Study is all I seem to do when I am in the Light. I take my meals to my little room on the verandah and continue to study.

  Mum has changed the way she treats me; in fact, I think that at times she may even be wary of me. I am four feet ten inches and lighter than nine stone, truly nothing to be scared of but the Old Man won’t even look at me. A lot has happened since I’ve been gone; the tables have definitely turned.

  I have to maintain this new shift of power by not letting them become aware of the fact that I am not the one that has put them onto the back foot.

  My study is my whole life. The next four weeks it’s ‘head down, arse up’. I steal my big sister’s textbooks to try and regain the level of education I had. At the end of the first four weeks that I am back in reality, I think I am ready.

  I sit the exams and freak at the maths paper. I really don’t understand half of it. Sure, the remedial maths class wouldn’t have covered most of the maths I am looking at on the paper, but my sister’s textbooks that I learnt from must be outdated as well. The result is not going to be good.

  The English exam is also complicated. Of the four book choices given, I have only read one. I devoured every book I thought could be used in the exam. I have knowledge of only one book but my essays and short questions are to be based on a choice of two books.

  The first two parts of the two-hour English exam are short answer questions pertaining to the content of the two books chosen. I choose the Catcher in the Rye, which I haven’t read, and The Summer of the Seventeenth Doll, which I have. With the first part completed in thirty minutes, I move onto the second part, which is to write an essay on each of the two books. I begin furiously. This essay will have to be a cracker.

  I pour every ounce of creativity and life into the essay on The Summer of the Seventeenth Doll. The pile of scrunched up paper on my desk and at my feet is a testimony to how committed I am to getting this right. With two minutes to go I finish what I think is the best essay of my life.

  Now I have to do the last part of the exam, an essay on The Catcher in the Rye. I write on the paper: ‘Did the catcher ever catch who, or what was in the rye?’ A joke that I hoped would be read last; a dismal effort due to lack of knowledge. I had done my best with what I had.

  The last week of school for fourth form has arrived, and in the last period we are given our results in a sealed envelope. The envelopes are addressed to our parents as most of us are still under sixteen and the school thinks we are not responsible enough. I rip mine open to look at the result.

  I start a chain reaction; all the other students rip their own envelope to read their results. I look at the certificate in front of me. The scale was 1—5, I being the highest. I received a 3 for English and a 4 for mathematics. That result meant that the work I did know and had attempted in the final exam would have been marked in the ninety’s out of a hundred.

  I had done my best, although a below average result, I am content. My teacher is wrapped; one of her students has risen above the dreaded double 5 result. She looks at me and says,

  ‘I knew you would get a good result. In all my years of teaching I have never seen such commitment over the last four weeks than you’ve displayed. Make sure you go on to your senior years.’

  ‘Sure, Miss, T yell at her as I run out the door to enjoy the beginning of my holidays.

  Day two of the school holidays and the Old Man tells me to be ready after tea; he wants me to do something for him. I am wary that he is pushing me into a set-up.

  We drive the short distance to Echo Point. The tourist site only has a waist high fence and, as we are looking at the Three Sisters, he moves behind me and presses my small body against it. He then grabs my pants and lifts me off the ground. While horizontal to the ground, I listen to the threats he makes to me.

  ‘You will do what I tell you and you will do it with whomever I tell you to. We all have to do our bit for the family and if you don’t, I will throw you off this cliff.’

  I don’t answer him as the fear has gripped my jaw shut. I don’t care anymore; ‘finish it’, I silently plead with him, ‘just finish it.’

  ‘Another thing, if you’re feeling like sacrificing yourself I promise you if you don’t do as I tell you, I will kill your mother. Then who will look after Dorothy and James?’

  I don’t say a word; I wish he had thrown me before that final threat. I am completely trapped and petrified; I know the Old Man is sick enough to carry out these threats. Now I have the responsibility to do exactly what I am told, and obviously who I am told to do it with. The nightmare is back.

  ‘Yes, Dad!’

  I am lowered back onto the ground under control of the Old Man. Every aspect of my life is under his control. We drive another short distance to the park near the Echo Point shops. I love this park; I love to ride my bike down to Echo Point, follow the bush tracks until I am exhausted and then come back to the park and lie on my back under the huge trees and recover from the exercise. I really love the feel and energy of this park. The Old Man is responsible for me feeling nauseated every time I am near that park after tonight though.

  I hate him more for tainting my sanctuaries than the open prostitution he is putting me through. He doesn’t even hide the cash exchange so, unlike before, I can’t even pretend that the rape was an unfortunate and unavoidable incident. Peter the pain holder takes the suffering and I slip into the Dark.

  PETER

  The place that I have been propelled into really stinks. It takes some time to realise that I am kneeling in effluent on the concrete floor of a darkened toilet. The stench singes my nose and repulses me more than the heat and pain I am feeling in my arse. My head is crushed against the cistern.

  The one responsible for the pain in my arse lifts my hips until my legs are straight. The fluid from the floor flows down my legs, distracting me briefly from the pain.

  The speed of the usual mo
tion increases as does the pain, until the sick prick has his fulfilment and empties himself into me. As he extracts, Shane takes the feeling the violator’s juice running down our legs. The stench of the toilets overpowers us.

  SHANE

  I am bundled into the back seat of the car and driven home. The Old Man goes inside first to check that he can get me to bed without bumping into any family members. Mum is working night shift and as soon as any family members hear the Old Man’s car they quickly get to bed to save any interaction with him.

  He comes back to the car and says,

  ‘Get out and get to bed, don’t tell anyone or I will kill Mum, do you understand?’

  LITTLE BIG TIM

  ‘Yes, Dad,’a defeated response is all I, as Little Big Tim, can utter.

  I put myself to bed, for this is the only way I can deal with the threats that the Old Man makes. The fear of the younger ones not having a Mum means that I will definitely tow the line. I feel nauseated, lying in bed not able to wash the scum off my body and feeling the ooze run out of my bottom, however, I know that if I spew on the floor I will draw unwanted attention, which I have been warned not to do. Feeling completely beaten again and disgusted by the state I am in, I cry myself to sleep.

  I wake the next morning and quickly get up and into the shower. As the cleansing water runs down my back, the temperature alternates between hot and cold due to the washing machine in which I have put my sheets. The evidence is removed from yet another rape. I am the only one up. I get dressed and run all the way to Katoomba Falls.

  My hiding spot is about ten metres down a steep incline. Once I’m in my favourite position I can see the amazing beauty of the Jameson Valley. The misty spray off the falls beckons me to mix my blood with its steam. James and Dorothy are the only reasons I don’t jump today.

  Every second night for the next two weeks I suffer the same degrading, disgusting brutality as the night in Echo Point; the only difference is the location of the toilet.

  I become aware that James isn’t home those evenings.

  Our parents have severed any normal brother-to-brother bond; however, they are unable to destroy the desire we have to protect each other in fearful situations.

  James and I have been playing soccer in the park during the so-called holidays. We need to go to the toilet so I go inside expecting my little brother to follow me—he doesn’t. I have finished what I need to do and as I am washing my hands, I hear a ruckus outside the door.

  ‘Stay away, I mean just stay away,’ James threatens.

  I exit the toilet block and am surprised that James is swinging his boots wildly in front of a man and proclaiming that this is our toilet and for him to stay away. I stand outside the toilet and protect him the same way as he protects me. I ask him why he is doing this as we snarl at the man who is totally confused by our antics.

  ‘I don’t have to put up with bad men doing what ever they like to me when the Old Man’s not here to force me,’ he defiantly states.

  I become aware that James has more insight into the attacks than I could ever possibly grasp. I want to tell him about Peter the pain holder, how I can’t feel the pain and don’t remember most of the details of the attacks.

  I decline to tell him my secret for two reasons. The first is that I don’t want him to think he is different because he doesn’t utilise others like Peter, Shane or Gary to carry some of the burden that is cracking him. The second reason is the mental state he finds himself in after asking the next question.

  ‘Tim, when is this going to stop? I can’tput up with this shit anymore. Poofter’s on one night, Mum on the others,’ he proclaims.

  Before he has finished the word ‘others’, his lip trembles and tears roll down his cheeks. We sit down in the middle of the soccer pitch and we both cry, hugging each other.

  The turbulent life we live has only allowed us to have few memories of tender moments; not the usual way brothers bond.

  We are proud of each other’s achievements and successes though. I, truly, am so proud of James’ survival, especially since he has no other personas to carry the burden and all of him is doing the suffering.

  Again, for another fortnight, we are forced on alternate nights into the evil darkness; each night feeling pain, shame and guilt. What makes it worse is that we are not only suffering at the hands of strangers, but also church members.

  FIGHT

  LITTLE BIG TIM

  Mum and the Old Man argue all day and into the night. They are having a serious argument in the hallway. Stewart is home after one of his frequent disappearing acts. ‘Whack, whack’: the quiet after the second whack forces James and I to investigate.

  ‘Don’t ever hit Mum again,’ Stewart has the Old Man up against the wall.

  The Old Man smiles back at him to show that at any time he can regain control of the situation.

  James and I see for the first time that the Old Man is in a semi-vulnerable situation; we take the initiative as flashes of the countless beatings I have suffered surround me. James is in front and we simultaneously strike blows; James to the body and I jump to contact one to his head, right into his eye.

  He seems to be enjoying the punishment. In silent defiance, the smile that creeps across his lips seems to be stating ‘c’mon, do your best Or is it something else? Blows keep connecting with his body and head as the three of us give some well-earned payback.

  An explosion of energy rebounds me off the wall where the Old Man had been cornered only a few seconds ago. It’s frightening the speed at which this overweight man can move.

  Stewart cops it first; three punches rapidly to the face. He is stumbling backwards from the velocity of the attack when I trip over and am solidly kicked in the rib area and collect Stewart as we are flung backwards to the end of the hall. Stewart and I lie crumpled against the front door. James ends up on top of us from an open-palmed shove to his chest.

  The Old Man stands over the top of us and surveys the damage he’s caused. A demonic laugh rises from within him and he brags that he has whipped us collectively. That laugh and that demonic look; I’d never been more scared of that man, or anyone, before or since.

  Mum screams at him to get out or she will call the cops.

  ‘Get out, get out, get out,’ she screams.

  ‘Stop being so neurotic,’ is his reply.

  My brothers and I don’t move in case we suffer another barrage of violence. He notices how we are fretting, wondering what his next move will be when he suddenly turns and walks out the door without a word. Although Mum has told Dad to leave, I believe it was our action that finally forced the change.

  Is this the end of my nightmare? Maybe for me, but I know James is still tormented with abuse from Mum. Stewart packs his bags and leaves through the front door.

  The dysfunctional family going separate ways will only create different ways of being dysfunctional. Dorothy, the youngest, suffers unrelenting physical abuse from Mum and from Nina, our eldest sister. James continues to be in his own personal nightmare and I suffer physical and emotional abuse from Mum and Nina.

  As Little Big Tim, I level out from the sudden disappearance of our father and the usual disappearance of Stewart. The sexual abuse seems to have finally stopped. The school holidays finish and I start to develop friendships. We decide to move again because the Old Man is living opposite the school and Mum is wary about us having to travel past his house everyday. This is refreshing, considering the decade that just passed where she couldn’t care what he did to us.

  IT STOPS

  LITTLE BIG TIM

  One day, I see James’ bike out the front of the Old Man’s place with the front door still open. I hear James and the Old Man talking down the hallway of the house. The usual belly of bile and dry throat accompanies me as I hear James yelp in pain.

  I freeze at the door that stands between us. I want to turn and run from the house to protect myself, however, I have failed my brother before and this time I cannot turn m
y back on him.

  I push open the door and bust the Old Man forcing himself onto James. James looks at me and proclaims that the Old Man has forced him.

  ‘I know mate, pull up your pants and go home,’ I say calmly.

  ‘Are you coming too?’ he pleads.

  ‘Yeah mate, I’m coming too,’I reassure him as I pick up a wooden walking stick and hold it out menacingly.

  ‘James, get dressed and get out of here,’ I tell him.

  ‘But you have to come too,’ he begs.

  ‘I will mate, just get out of here.’

  He pulls his pants up and moves past me. The Old Man sits on the bed with his pants down around his ankles. I think to myself that this is a favourable situation; his pants around his ankles means he can’t chase me. With my exit planned (out the door and down the hallway where James will be waiting), I raise the cane above my head and say,

  ‘I’d love to crack this over your head.’

  ‘Why don’t you have ago?’ he taunts.

  I move closer to be able to carry out my threat but I have no intention of striking him. My will for violence hasn’t reached a level where I feel justified striking him when he can’t protect himself. After all the pain and torment he has put us through, the one of us that holds the cane can’t bring it down.

  I turn to leave the room and the pathetic sight of the Old Man sitting on the bed half-naked. I think to leave the cane up against the wall. Suddenly my face is slammed viciously into the wall as the Old Man, with his pants around his ankles, flies into me. I rebound but can’t get onto my legs. I yell to James,

  ‘Run, James, run,’ I gasp as the wind leaves my chest.

  ‘James, come back here now,’ the Old Man orders.