Every night he lay awake waiting, praying for it to be over. In fact, the silences were the worst: lying in the dark, wondering if it was finished for this night, or whether it was merely an interval before it started again. Sometimes the men stayed all night, but as soon as they saw him in the morning, they scuttled off pretty sharpish, carrying an air of guilt with them. Some of them wore uniforms but they behaved no differently from the rest. In Peter’s eyes they were all animals. And so was his mother. He knew that God expected him to love his mother and he had tried to—but he couldn’t. He knew that mothers smacked their children when they were naughty but he was never deliberately naughty and yet she beat him. Especially when he wet the bed. ‘You can’t love someone who doesn’t love you back,’ he explained to his pillow, his eyes moist with frustration.
Then he heard his mother’s raised voice. ‘You’ll bloody pay me anyway. It’s not my fault you can’t get it up. You’ll bloody pay me for my time.’ Her words were slurred and delivered in a hysterical tirade.
‘Like hell I will,’ the man rasped back at her. ‘How d’you expect me to get aroused with an old tart like you? I’d rather shag a keyhole.’
‘You bastard,’ she screamed, and there was the sound of a scuffle. ‘Give me my bloody money.’
‘Don’t get clever with me, lady.’
There was the noise of something crashing to the floor.
Peter leapt out of bed, tiptoed across the cold linoleum and opened his door slightly so that he could see into the room.
The body of his mother, dressed only in her underclothes, lay on the rug before the fire. Her eyes were closed and she was not moving. Standing over her was a tall, dark-haired man who was pulling on a sweater over his head. His movements were awkward and slow. The man picked up his jacket from the settee and then turned once more to the boy’s mother.
‘You fucking old tart,’ he said, kicking her in the ribs. She did not respond but lay very still.
The man leaned down until his face was within inches of hers. ‘D’you hear me, you old tart? I’d rather fuck my mother than come anywhere near you.’
Somewhat unsteadily he crossed to the door and, slamming it heartily, he left.
Peter waited for some moments before he emerged from his bedroom. He wanted to be sure that the man had really gone. Crossing gingerly to his mother, he knelt down by her side. Already her bloated face was starting to bruise. As he leant his head towards hers, he could smell the stale alcohol on her breath.
‘Mam, Mam,’ he cried shaking her. ‘Mam, Mam, are you all right?’
There was no response.
‘She’s dead,’ he told himself in a terrified whisper. Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘Oh, Mam.’
He fell on her, his head buried in her bosom as he sobbed for the loss of the mother he didn’t really love.
Then suddenly, she stirred. The eyes opened lazily, the pupils rolling erratically.
‘What the bloody hell …?’ she muttered thickly. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing, you little bastard?’
Peter jumped up in shock, a mixture of relief and despair. ‘Mam, you’re alive.’
His mother raised her head slightly. ‘’Course I’m fucking alive. More’s the pity. What the hell to do you think you’re doing, crawling all over me? Get out of my sight, you little sod. God, I wish the midwife had drowned you at birth. You’re nothing but a fucking nuisance. Get out of my sight. Go on, get out of my sight, do you hear me? I never want to see you again.’ She slumped back, the outburst draining the last drops of energy from her, and she slipped once more into unconsciousness.
‘I never want to see you again.’
The words seemed to echo round the tawdry room. They thundered in his brain. Peter looked down at the pathetic creature sprawled on the rug in front of him. What had the man called her? An old tart? Suddenly a new emotion entered his consciousness, causing his young body to tremble. It was anger. It was hot-blooded resentment against the woman who had ill-treated him for so long. Now he hated her, really hated her, hated her with an overwhelming fervour. He kicked her just as the man had done. ‘You old tart,’ he cried, mimicking the man. ‘You’re not my mother,’ he added, his voice strong and devoid of emotion. ‘You’re not my mother.’
Yet again her words came back to him, ‘I never want to see you again.’
Peter turned and walked back to his own room. He knew what he had to do and he was fearless in his decision. He dressed quickly and then, wrapping up some underclothes and a couple of shirts in some newspaper, he placed them in a carrier bag. He came back into the living room on tiptoe. His mother was still unconscious, but now she was snoring, her mouth agape and her tongue lolling to the side. Peter searched for her handbag and found it on the floor by the settee. Tipping out the contents, he picked up his mother’s purse. There was little cash in there, but he took a ten-shilling note and five shillings in smaller coins and slipped them into his raincoat pocket.
Clutching the carrier bag, he made for the door, his heart beginning to pound. Now he was close to leaving, to making the big break, he prayed that his nerve wouldn’t fail. He turned back to look at his mother, his eyes moist and his hands clenched.
‘I never want to see you again,’ he said softly and then ran from the room, leaving the door ajar.
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The Darkness of Death Page 23
