Nipper

by Mitchell, Charlie

  ‘No I promise, mister, you’ll never see me again.’

  ‘Right, get lost!’

  ‘Thanks, mister.’

  ‘Yeah, cheers mister,’ Calum pipes in.

  It’s funny you know, everybody had said for years that Big Ged the farmer was evil, but I’ve seen a different man than what I believed him to be. And even though I’ve been telling him what he wanted to hear so he wouldn’t fill the both of us with shotgun pellets, I never do go back near his field again. As for Big Ged, those thirty odd tatties he’s given us have bought him two less people stealing his livelihood.

  We walk back across the field towards the woods and Calum keeps looking back behind him, as he never believes we’re gonna get off that easy.

  ‘I’ll bet yi a tennar that nutter shoots us when wir at the fence.’

  ‘Just keep walkin’, Calum. Everything’s cool.’

  We climb the fence and walk through the woods back towards the reservoir.

  ‘Shit!’ Calum stops. ‘What aboot that guy that wiz fishin’ earlier, you go up and check if he’s there.’

  ‘He was only winding you up mate, he wisna really gonna do ya.’

  ‘Oh! Does he think he’s funny? I’d fuckin’ take him one on one anyway.’

  He never does learn. Just out of one situation and he wants to go and start another load of hassle.

  ‘You don’t have to prove to him, Calum. Eh ken you can do him, and you ken yi kid do him, so dinna worrie aboot it.’

  ‘Exactamungo, me old flower.’

  Where the hell does he get all these sayings?

  We head back through Clatto towards home, the lads that were fishing earlier have moved away round the other side and it’s getting a bit dark.

  ‘I’d better get home, Calum, I’m starvin’.’

  ‘Yeah me tae, I could eat a scabby horse.’

  I think he means he’s hungry. We head back into St Mary’s down towards my house, as he lives further down at the bottom of St Fillans Road. We reach my house, and Calum empties the contents of his jumper onto my next-door neighbour’s car boot.

  ‘I’ll see yi in the morin’, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll come doon fir yi when I get up. See yi, mate.’

  I run into the house through the side door leading into the kitchen to get a carrier bag for the spuds. I can’t wait to see what Dad will say. Just for once he’s going to be pleased with me. And now that we’ve moved to St Nicks, everything could be different between us.

  It really could be a new start.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Home Sweet Home

  ‘Is that you, Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah it’s me, Dad. I’ll just be a minute.’

  I run back out to the car, fill the bag and run back in, then close the side door.

  ‘What the fuck are yi dain?’

  I open the kitchen door into the living room. ‘Look, Dad, spuds.’

  ‘Where did yi git them?’

  ‘At the back o’ Clatto – Kerr’s Pinks!’

  I’m now standing with a massive smile on my face, waiting for an equally massive pat on the back.

  ‘What did I tell about thieving?’

  Nothing, I think. I’ve done it with you before.

  ‘I’ve got them with you before, Dad – at the back o’ Clatto.’

  ‘Did I say yi could nick tatties fae Clatto?’

  ‘No, Dad, but I thought—’

  ‘Oh, yi thought, did yi?’

  He doesn’t look that drunk, but he’s had a few.

  ‘Sit doon, geeze that fucking bag!’ He snatches it out of my hand. ‘Are yi awa ti start yir shit up here now?’ He means the new house and area in St Nicholas Place. ‘Next it’ll be the polis at the door.’

  You’ve got some neck, I think, you’re on first-name terms with every copper in Scotland.

  ‘And I just thought—’

  ‘Yeah, yi said that earlier.’

  Let me speak, you evil bastard. That’s what I feel like saying.

  ‘I tried to save you money.’ I’ve actually managed to rattle a sentence off without being interrupted.

  ‘Are yi tryin’ to say eh canna afford tatties like? Is that yir brilliant excuse, is it? Eh canna afford tatties!’ he shouts at me. ‘Well, OK yi better go and cook them then. Oh I forgot, yiv never peeled a fucking tattie in yir life.’

  I’ve been making stuff to eat for myself while you’ve been comatose since I was six, I think angrily to myself.

  He throws the bag of spuds in my direction, then takes a swig from his glass. ‘What else did yi git up ti the day? Rob any grannies, smash some phone boxes, did yi have a good time, while I’ve been lookin after yir dog!’

  ‘But Dad, you—’

  ‘But Dad, but Dad, but Dad…’ he mocks in a high-pitched voice. ‘If I had a pound for every time yi said “but Dad,” yi wouldna have to go and stale tatties. “But Dad this, but Dad I’m sorry, but Dad, it wasn’t my fault”…Fuck yi we yir “but dads”. I’m no yir dad.’

  He stands up and walks towards me, ‘Yir uncle’s yir dad and fae now on yi say, “But Mug,” my new name is Mug, no Dad, Mug.’

  I feel like going into the kitchen, grabbing a knife and driving it right through his pissed up, crooked, evil face. Even though I’m shit scared I’m getting angry and he detects it in my face.

  ‘Oh di yi no like Daddy saying that,’ he says, mock slapping me in the face and talking to me in a baby voice as if I were three years old. ‘Yi’ll never be big enough, yi little shit.’

  Then a punch comes out of nowhere, and rattles the side of my jaw. I’ve forgotten how hard his punch can be, as he has been legless for the past couple of years when he’s battered me, and he’s only tipsy now. I fall sideways onto the couch and the white flash I see is weird – it’s the same flash you see when you get electrocuted.

  He sits back down in his chair and takes another sip of his voddy. ‘See what yi’ve made me do now, yi little cunt.’

  Oh I’m sorry, did I hurt your hand with my jaw? I can taste the blood inside my mouth, as I’ve bitten my cheek on the inside when he smacked me, and I can feel one of my teeth has come loose and my jaw’s throbbing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say feebly.

  ‘I’m no yir dad, are yi deaf?’

  Another four inches higher with that punch and I would have been.

  ‘You call me “Mug” fae now on.’

  Yeah right, so you can do the Highland Fling on my nut again. No thanks, I think I’ll pass.

  He’s trying to get me to call him a mug. I’m sure he enjoys me calling him names or swearing, so he can get more wound up. Not that he needs any help in that department.

  Bonnie has taken off upstairs at the beginning, as even she knows that different levels of drunk mean different levels of memory the next day. If he’s falling about trying to batter one of us Bonnie will stick around, because he misses with a lot of shots and she wants to keep an eye on me. She also knows that he’ll forget the next day. But if he’s this kind of drunk, she knows that he’ll go back and forward from me to her, and the pain is sometimes too much for her to take.

  I just sit there for the next hour and a half saying nothing, watching him drink then refill his glass with voddy and Coke. He doesn’t speak to me either – it’s another one of his mental torture games. Then he’ll stand up really quick as if it’s all going to kick off, and then stretch and sit back down, smirking at the fact that I’ve just flinched.

  The twat enjoys it. It’s taken me a long time to realise it – the whole of six years since I was four years old. Now I’m ten I’m starting to see it: he’s trying to make me lose it. And it works. My mind is being overloaded with so many confusing things, I start thinking that I’m the one who’s crazy and not him.

  Around five hours have passed and I’m starving but I can’t talk until he talks or it might start him off. My stomach’s making rumbling noises, and I even try to muffle them with a cushion, as I don’t want him
to remember I’m still there.

  ‘What are yi fuckin’ sittin’ there for?’

  I don’t answer.

  He turns back towards the TV, swaying a bit now. ‘I said, what are yi fuckin’ lookin’ at me for?’

  What! He never said that a minute ago, did he? I think I must be losing the plot.

  ‘I’m just watchin’ TV, Dad.’

  ‘My TV, not yirs,’ he says in a deep, slurred voice. ‘That’s a’ yir good it, sitting there we yir miserable puss. Well what, what what do yi want me ti dae aboot it?’ He’s now talking in riddles. ‘Blame yir mum, dinna blame me, blame the neighbours. Dinna blame me.’

  What on earth are you talking about? I’m thinking.

  ‘Blame Maggie Thatcher,’ he shouts, swaying about in his chair. ‘It’s her fault we’ve no got a pot ti piss in.’ He stands up, turns towards me with his hands out by his sides, kind of like he’s on a cross. ‘That’s ma boy.’ Then he tries to kick me in the face. He misses as I move to the side, but he falls sideways, landing on top of me. ‘Oh good move, yi never seen that one coming, did yi?’

  I obviously did, hence the fact you missed.

  ‘Oh this is comfy.’ He’s now sitting on my head, squashing it into the couch. ‘What aboot dead legs, do ya like them?’ He starts punching me in the legs and ribs. ‘Do ya like them, good, ald. Dead. Legs.’

  He’s punching me each time he says a word, and kind of singing as he does it. ‘Do you like dead legs, baby?’

  He then turns over and kneels on my face, crushing the side that he has smacked earlier. I am in agony, screaming, ‘Dad stop, stop Dad.’ But this only seems to make him more angry.

  ‘Shut yir puss,’ he says, taking his knee off my head and replacing it with his big nicotine-stained hand. He covers my mouth and nose and is now laying his full bodyweight on top of me. ‘Shut yir puss, shut yir puss,’ he whispers. It’s so that the neighbours won’t hear.

  I’m struggling because I can’t breathe and I feel like I’m going to pass out, but he just keeps moving his hand with my head from side to side. Then he lets go and starts laying into my face with both hands. One of my hands is stuck under my back and the other one is doing a crap job of blocking the blows. I can see the blood on his hands every time a punch comes and it’s starting to splatter on his top.

  He suddenly stops and pulls me onto the floor by the hair, dragging me around saying, ‘Yi’ll no stale tatties fae this hoose again.’

  That’s how messed up his head is – he’s now persuaded himself that I’ve stolen the spuds from him. That’s the last thing on my mind though. I just want to get away from him to catch a breath. He drags me over to the kitchen door and leans me against it. I’m covering my face as by now I can’t stand any more: I’ve taken enough. My head is throbbing where he’s pulled my hair out.

  ‘Let is see yir face.’ I keep my hands tight over my face.

  ‘I’m no gonna hit ya, let is see yir face.’

  He’s standing leaning over me. I can smell his putrid breath and I can see through my hands that he has one hand on the doorframe above me and the other with a clump of my blood-soaked hair in it.

  ‘Please dinna hit is again, Dad.’

  ‘I’ll no’, let is see.’

  I think he must be panicked with the sight of the blood so I move my hands away.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he says. ‘Was that me?’

  He crouches down beside me and puts one arm on his knee, leaning so he won’t fall over. He lifts his hand towards my face slowly, staring at me with the evil-looking squint in his eyes he gets when he’s drunk.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he says again as he touches my cheekbone. ‘What a fuckin’ mess, you’ll hae a shiner the mor’in.’

  Then out of the blue. Poke!

  Aghhhgg! Another one of them flashes again. He’s poked his index nicotine-stained finger straight into my eye.

  Ahhgg, aghhgg. Then it starts again for another three hours.

  He drags me from one side of the room to the other, stamping on my head and picking things up from the table to hit me with, stopping every ten minutes for another drink. I can safely say I’ve had a few close shaves in my life but this feels like the closest I have ever come to dying.

  He eventually falls asleep on the floor next to the fire as usual and I crawl upstairs to my bedroom, stopping at the bathroom to clean myself up.

  I hobble in and sit down on the toilet, pulling my sleeves up to check my arms as apart from my head they are the things that are aching the most. I can hardly see any of my skin colour for purple and blue bruises and there are lumps sticking out of my forearms and hands. I stand up and walk over to the sink to wash the blood from my hands and face as I can feel it still running off the end of my nose. I turn the tap on and then tilt a small square mirror down to have a look.

  Oh my God. My face is covered in blood, both my eyes are three-quarters closed, my cheeks and eyebrows have open cuts with a little blood still trickling out of them and my lips are massive with dried blood on the inside. All this is horrible but I’m mesmerised by the sight of my hair.

  I seem to have had an Eighties back comb, with a dark red Mohican up the middle. As I put my hands through it, clumps of hair fall out and my head looks like someone has lifted the scalp, inserted a load of golf balls and then sewed it back on. I give myself a quick once over with a wet cloth as I won’t risk turning the bath taps on in case he wakes up again.

  I stumble into my room and sit on the end of the bed, with Bonnie sitting between my legs, licking one of the cuts on the inside of my arm. I’m just sitting there tickling behind Bonnie’s ears, thinking of what’s just happened. I can see in her eyes that she’s upset at the fact that she didn’t come down to help me, but I’m glad it wasn’t her.

  The next morning I wake up with the bed sheet stuck to my face where all the blood from my open cuts has soaked into it. It’s nine o’clock and I can see the sunlight shining through a gap in the curtains. My eyes are now almost fully closed and my top lip is pressing against the underside of my nose. The worst thing though is my head: the areas that have had hair pulled out feel like a vice’s being tightened on them. Every part of me is swollen, bruised or cut, but I’m just thankful that Bonnie never got touched. I always feel worse the next day if she’s the one that gets hurt.

  Dad has made some excuse to Mum why Tommy can’t come over next weekend and that gives him a couple of weeks for me to recover; he cannot risk Mum finding out. She’s already a bit suspicious after the time Dad took Tommy and me to watch Dundee United at Tannadice. Tommy was jumping around and Dad kept telling him to keep still and had his arms around him. I find out years later that when Tommy got back to Mum’s that weekend she found bruises all over him and asked him where they came from.

  ‘I was jumping around cheering and Dad was nipping me.’

  Mum went ballistic. The following week social services came up to see if I was OK but I think they caught me on a day when Dad had just bought me some trainers or something. And the fact that I didn’t want to die that young made me keep my mouth shut about what he was doing.

  Tommy tries to take his revenge on Dad over the next couple of years though. They’re more equally matched in strength and Tommy has always had much less fear of Dad than I’ve had. He hasn’t been terrorised by him all these years and as far as he’s concerned, Dad’s just a nasty cunt who deserves a good hiding and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll get it, Tommy says.

  The first time he fights back is when Dad’s drunk and is trying to hit us both at the same time and Tommy manages to push Dad over the couch. Dad drags himself up from the floor and lurches around, trying to land a punch, but Tommy darts away and Dad’s just too pissed to retaliate.

  After another fight with him Dad whacks Tommy in the face with a Pod sandal and is about to start on me. Tommy jumps up in rage and pushes him over the couch and as Dad lands on the floor Tommy runs out of the house. Dad’s trying to struggle bac
k up to his feet, but he’s so full of alcohol he can’t make it.

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ we can hear him shouting. ‘He’s full of shit like his mum.’

  ‘Come on, Charlie,’ Tommy calls out to me outside in the street as I stand in the front doorway. ‘Yi don’t want to stay here with that fuckin’ bastard. He’s crazy! Let’s go home to Mum’s.’

  But although Dad’s too drunk to follow us, I’m now torn between following Tommy and my fear of Dad sobering up the next day and coming to get me. I can see a look that’s between sadness and anger on Tommy’s face and in the end I don’t dare leave the house. And when Tommy sees the look in my eyes – of pure fear – he starts to realise what kind of reign of terror Dad’s been subjecting me to all these years.

  It hits him hard. In fact, he’s mad as hell about it and it makes me realise something. Dad sometimes tells me that Granddad used to beat up his brother, Uncle Danny, as well as beating up Dad. It made Dad really mad to see his little brother getting hurt and when I see how wound up Tommy is about Dad beating me up I get a kind of new insight into why Tommy reacts that way. It’s really a case of history repeating itself – except I still can’t imagine Granddad ever subjected either of his boys to the vicious physical barrages and mental torture Dad has inflicted on me over the years.

  If Mum knew even a fraction of what had gone on over the last six years, I can’t imagine the consequences. But after years of keeping silent about my extended torture, it’s become second nature to keep quiet – and, now that we’re reunited, to keep it from Mum.

  I’m too scared to say anything to her about it when I stay weekends, and she never asks me – not directly at least. But every time I see her, she says, ‘Is everything OK at your dad’s?’

  ‘Yeah it’s fine, Mum,’ I always reply.

  But I don’t really need to say anything because ever since the night when Tommy tried to get me to leave with him, he’s been telling Mum and Dale what he’s guessed has been going on – he’s worked it all out from Dad’s habitual drunken, violent behaviour and from that scared look on my face. He only tells me about all this later and I still assume that Mum and Dale know nothing about how Dad treats me.