The Ice Scream Man

by Salmon, J. F.

  Eamon entered the living room, unsure where to look. He noticed the empty bottle of gin on the side table and Mother with her arms folded with a sadistic grin on her face. Father had the belt in his hand.

  “Why do you upset your mother like this, time and time again? Are you ever going to learn, Eamon? Get your ass over here.”

  Eamon did not reply. He walked over to the couch. Father doubled the belt and squeezed the strap. The veins twisted like worms under skin on the back of his hand.

  “Pull them down, bend over, and take this like a man. This is for your own good. You know that, don’t you?”

  Eamon nodded his head, pulled down his pyjama bottoms and knelt up against the couch in the correct position, bracing for the inevitable.

  Mother looked on, her impatience for retribution clear. “Now you see what happens. Now you see what you make us do.” She pushed her hands into Eamon’s shoulder and pressed him into the couch while Father took his position.

  Whack, the leather belt bounced off Eamon’s backside. He winced in pain.

  Mother turned Eamon’s head toward her so she could see properly. “Again, again, hit him again. That’s not nearly enough.”

  Father slapped. Eamon winced.

  And Mother said, “Do it, make him pay for what he did to me. How is that supposed to teach him a lesson? Hit him again, harder.”

  Whack, whack, whack went the leather strap.

  Each slap was harder than the last. Eamon screamed with the pain, pleading with his sobs for Father to stop the beating.

  Whack, whack, whack went the leather strap.

  “Okay, that’s enough. Lesson learnt,” Father said as he stepped away and rubbed under his nose with the wrist that held the belt. He brushed his hand through his hair before walking toward the kitchen to tidy up.

  Mother kept hold of Eamon, pressing him into the sofa and staring at his tear-smeared, reddened face. Her hand fumbled down the couch between the cushion and the armrest. Within seconds, she found what she was looking for. She looked pleased as she manoeuvred around the backside of Eamon and leaned over him, showing her hand, waving it next to his face.

  “Look, Eamon. Look what Mommy has for you.”

  Eamon opened his eyes but wished he hadn’t.

  In Mother’s hand was a smooth, rounded stick a half foot long and half inch around. When she was sure he’d seen it, her hand disappeared somewhere behind his back.

  Mother was on her knees. “You fuck with me, little boy, and I sure as hell will fuck with you. Say hello to Mr. Lollipop Stick.”

  Panic and pain struck him with the sharpness of a lightning bolt. The word “lollypop” echoed in his skull as if yelled out in an empty cathedral and he fell quiet as his consciousness shut down, leaving his body to fend for its self.

  Lilith came back to Eamon’s face. Her mottled yellow tongue licked the tears like a cat licks cream. And she smiled as she spoke in her son’s ear, “Don’t ever forget this, Eamon. Don’t ever forget that you will always be mommy’s little lollipop. And that you, my boy, will always be my favorite flavor.”

  4:

  “School daze.”

  Like many such mornings after the night before, Eamon got himself up and ready for school, sometimes with little or no sleep. He liked school for the most part. It got him away from the house and away from Mother. The teachers were nice, too.

  He was a quiet kid, never disruptive in class and never spoke out of turn. For the most part, he was a loner. Teachers sometimes forgot about him tucked in beside the wall halfway down the class. Most thought him a strange but intelligent kid who always had an answer, much to the annoyance of some of his classmates. Countless hours in his room, away from Mother, afforded him time to read every book in his school bag.

  David Dunne, Eamon’s math teacher, had once set off an entire lunchtime discussion in the staffroom by questioning Eamon’s demeanour. “Don’t you find him a little odd?”

  “Who? Who are we talking about?” one of the other teachers asked in a sociable voice.

  “That Masterson lad,” David said, deep in thought.

  Sandra O’Hagen, Eamon’s English teacher, perked up when she heard the name. “What do you mean by odd?”

  The last word fell to Mr. Cassidy. He had sat at the end of the table silently noting the discussion. He was familiar with Eamon but was not one of his teachers. However, his opinion was highly respected among the group. “Well, from the sounds of things, as I see it, Eamon is certainly a bright kid, there’s no question about that. He rarely misses class and his grades are good. The models he sculpts in your class, Miss Johnson, are very unusual all right, but also very creative. Okay, he may show little in the way of emotion or social skills, and just because he comes to school in grubby fashion, doesn’t mean he is a victim of child abuse. Every kid gets bruises and his don’t appear any worse or more frequent than any other kid in the school.”

  The bell rang. Chairs were pushed back from the staffroom table. Some teachers nodded agreement as they made their way back to class. Others put the discussion to the back of their minds and began thinking about the next class.

  “No, it certainly doesn’t make it child abuse,” David said as he pushed the chair back, “but there is something strange about that kid, something wrong.”

  Miss Johnson, who was Eamon’s art teacher, had a good idea of what David meant. Something about him disturbed her, too.

  Clay sculpting was a particular favourite of Eamon’s, moulding weird and wonderful creatures out of modelling clay and painting them. One had an eye poking out of a fat stomach where the belly button should have been. Another had a skinny body with thinner arms and big knuckles that reached down to the ground. Others had large sets of teeth and nothing else in place of the head. Some had torn-off limbs in their mouths and sticks in their hands. Almost all had bits of flesh hanging around or in-between the teeth.

  It wasn’t just the graphic nature of Eamon’s creations that troubled Miss Johnson, it was more than that. It was the eerie concentration that consumed him, and the attention to detail that he portrayed while working on such creations. He was in his own little world then, often not hearing the bell to signal the end of class. Miss Johnson once commented to Eamon, without trying to discourage his artistic talents, that the models were . . . well, a little disturbing, to say the least, and that he should try something a little more down to earth . . . like a car, or a flower, perhaps.

  So, Eamon, to Miss Johnson’s surprise, modelled a perfectly formed plant—the Venus Fly Trap, the carnivorous plant that snaps shut faster than you can blink. Well, it was a step in the right direction until Miss Johnson watched him mould the flower to the backside of one of his previous, less formidable creatures: The only one without teeth.

  After the discussion in the staffroom, Miss Johnson decided to put Eamon’s creativity down to reading too many comics about aliens, monsters, and whatnot.

  Eamon didn’t connect well with the other kids in his class. He had too much to hide, conscious about what would happen if anyone found out about his dirty little secrets.

  He knew his classmates thought he was weird, and that he sometimes smelt of piss. They told him that sometimes, but he didn’t believe them. On those occasions after particularly bad bonding sessions with Mother, he always rubbed out the stains in his pants with soap and a wet towel and had them dry by morning. So he thought they might just be calling it piss, but it wasn’t, it was soap. Besides, he preferred it when the other kids kept their distance. He got all the teasing he could handle from home and wasn’t interested in inviting more from school.

  It was Jack Dalton who gave Eamon the most trouble. He knew his surname because he lived on the street behind his. Too close for comfort, as far as Eamon was concerned. Eamon always had to take a sneaky peek outside his house before leaving in
case Jack might be coming down the hill on his way to the corner shop or to the park.

  Jack had two friends in school, Aiden and Titch. Eamon didn’t know their surnames nor did he care to. Aiden was the gofer of the group. He was also the smallest and loudest. He wasn’t a strong lad but he was fearless and would do whatever he was told by the other two. Titch had the nickname because of his size; he was a big lad, but a bit simple-looking. His orange hair probably had something to do with it. They were classmates, two years ahead of Eamon and a couple of years older. A two-year age gap made a big difference in every way when you were Eamon’s age.

  They called him names like piss pants and dick head and tramp, and said his mother didn’t care about him (that bit was true), and that she looked like a skinny witch (well, maybe that was true, too). They accidentally on purpose bumped into him in the corridor and school yard at break times and often threatened to beat him up after school, if they ever did catch him. It was important to get out of the school grounds before they did.

  He could take the pushing. He could even take the slaps and the kicks. It was nothing compared to what he got at home. Only once did Jack actually hurt Eamon, and they seemed to leave him alone after that. Either that, or Eamon’s skills of avoidance were getting better. The incident happened one morning before the start of school while the three of them stood at the entrance to the school gates.

  “Look, Jack, there’s that weirdo what’s-his-name.” Aiden pointed a finger in Eamon’s general direction.

  Eamon made his way up toward them at a slow pace, hoping they’d be gone by the time he got there. His hands were in his pockets with the straps of his school bag over each shoulder. He was looking down at the leaves on the footpath. Dark shades of grey stained his jumper and flannel trousers.

  “So it is,” Jack said with the end of a cigarette butt hanging off his lip. “Bang on time for school, as if that’s going to save him.”

  The three of them took to their places, leaning up against the wall as if about to carry out a general inspection. Two other kids were entering the school gates ahead of Eamon.

  “Yep, you two are okay, on you go,” Aiden said and gave them permission to enter with the swing of his arm.

  Jack and Titch ignored Aiden’s antics, too preoccupied with who was coming.

  “Look at the state of him, the dirty little fucker,” Jack said with repellent contempt and picked something out of his nose.

  Eamon kept his head down and tried to pass. Jack flicked the cigarette butt, hitting him on the chest. Sparks flew.

  He rubbed his jumper down and put his hand back in his pocket.

  “Are you related to Norman Bates?” Jack asked. “You know, that psycho who dressed up as his mother and went around killing people. Your mother looks like her.”

  “I have to get to class,” Eamon said with his head still down.

  “The bell hasn’t gone yet. What’s the rush?” Aiden asked as the three of them left the wall and stood in front to block his path.

  Eamon stopped.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to ya,” Jack said.

  Eamon straightened up and ran his thumbs underneath the straps on his shoulders to relieve the weight of the bag on his back. He reluctantly looked at Jack for the first time.

  There was no visible sign of emotion on Eamon’s face. He didn’t look scared. He didn’t look anything. Jack was suitably frustrated by Eamon’s lack of enthusiasm for harassment and decided to crank it up a notch.

  “What, has the cat caught your tongue? I bet you like to dress up in your mothers clothes, don’t you, psycho Masterson?” Jack looked at the other two for approval. Both were smiling. Jack was satisfied. “Say yes, Jack. ‘I dress up in my mother’s clothes and dance around the room like a little feckin fairy.’”

  Eamon’s expression remained unaffected.

  “You better say it, if you know what’s good for you,” Titch said. “Ain’t that right, Jack?”

  “That’s right, Titch,” Jack confirmed. “Say it and we’ll let you go.”

  “Yes, Jack, I dress up in my mother’s clothes and dance around the room like a little feckin fairy.”

  Jack thumped Eamon’s right shoulder. “Are you trying to be smart, you fucking weirdo? Have you any sense at all, you zombie fucker?”

  Eamon stumbled back a few steps trying to maintain his balance; the weight of the bag almost toppled him backward. A small gap opened between the three of them.

  “Go on, then, if you’re going,” Jack said and Eamon went to pass.

  Jack reached forward and pulled the side of Eamon’s bag, turning him back around. Eamon looked at Jack for the second time, hands down by his sides. Jack still didn’t see the sentiment he was expecting and without deliberation he slammed his head down and struck Eamon square on the forehead.

  Eamon’s head snapped backward and his legs went from under him. He toppled effortlessly to the ground, head falling short of hitting the pavement, courtesy of the school bag.

  Aiden and Titch were visibly taken aback by Jack’s sudden attack.

  “Jaesus, Jack, you mad bastard. You really whacked him. Damn near knocked him out,” Aiden said, looking down at Eamon on the ground.

  “Shut up, Aiden,” Jack said. A swell of guilt washed over him having realised what he’d just done. He hadn’t meant to smack him with his head that hard. It just happened. He was usually quite controlled when he bullied kids, but this one was just such an annoying little shit, not playing their games the way he had intended.

  The pain was next to nothing compared to what Eamon had experienced in the past. It wasn’t like the whipping of a belt across the backside; that sort of pain was intense and concentrated, it really hurt. This was no worse than a bad headache and a bump on the forehead. It was his tongue that hurt most of all. Eamon raised the back of his hand to his mouth. A streak of blood assigned itself along the knuckle of his index finger. He placed his mouth over the knuckle and sucked the blood clean. Cautiously, he got to his feet without protest from his harassers and made his way toward the school entrance, rubbing his head as he walked.

  Jack discreetly checked his own forehead for signs of blood by pretending to brush back his hair with the palm of his hand and bringing it back into view. No blood. But it still bloody hurt and he wished he was alone so he could give it a good rub and soothe the pain. He wondered if Eamon might tell on him but didn’t think so. Eamon didn’t talk to anyone. He decided he was going to go easy on Eamon from now on. Partly because he knew he had over-reacted and was feeling guilty about it, and partly because even if the guilt hadn’t bothered him, he couldn’t better what he had just done without putting him in the hospital. And if nearly cracking Eamon’s skull open didn’t daunt him, nothing would. In the future, Jack was going to ignore him like everyone else.

  “It’s your own fault, Masterson,” Jack called after him as Eamon turned the corner and disappeared from view. “Don’t be such a feckin’ weirdo next time.”

  The school bell rang.

  5:

  “Breakfast at Masterson’s.”

  Liam was up and dressed for work the morning after beating his son with the belt. He was sitting at the breakfast table when Eamon entered. A half-eaten slice of toast with strawberry jam was on a plate, his appetite gone. A cup of tea was beside him with a newspaper spread out in front.

  “Morning, son. How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” Eamon said. He wasn’t, but he could think of nothing else to say.

  His eyes were red and tired. It had taken a moment last night when the pain from his backside woke him to realise he was in his bed, lying naked on his stomach. He had had to slither backward off the bed and soak a towel in cold water from the bathroom to drape over his backside to take some of the sting out. It was momentary relief before t
he towel heated up. He made the trip to the bathroom several times. Sleep last night was hard to come by.

  His hands and face were clean but the school uniform looked grubby. There were several wet patches where he had attempted to remove an array of stains with a toothbrush, soap, and some warm water. It would look better once the stains dried out. It was another day of smelling like soap. Not piss.

  He had heard Father get up a half hour earlier, while lying on his side to keep the pressure off. The pain was still there but he’d stopped crying and was thinking about the previous day’s events. Especially the feelings he’d gotten when he’d swallowed the piece of Mother’s arm. It was totally worth her retribution. Electricity flowed through his body. He felt stronger, definitely stronger, and was convinced it was because he’d digested Mother’s potency when he ate her flesh. He even allowed himself a smile as he played the event over and over in his mind. He wished he could have eaten all of her, bones and all. The very thought made him feel a whole lot better.

  “That’s a good boy,” Father said.

  There was something noticeably different about Father this morning, sitting at the table in his policeman’s uniform, the jacket hung over the back of the chair with the shiny silver buttons and hardly a crease in the fabric. Even his tie looked perfectly placed under the blue collar. Father always presented himself well for work. A bit like a soldier, Eamon supposed.

  Today Father looked tired, like he didn’t get much sleep, either, and he sounded odd. Maybe that’s why he kept rubbing his chest. Normally he didn’t say much at the table. He certainly never asked how he was after a beating. Eamon was supposed to take it like a man. It was for his own good. It could have been the effects of the drink, but he didn’t think so. He’d seen him a lot worse on a night and he didn’t look as bad as he did now.