Nipper

by Mitchell, Charlie

  Then one weekend Dad goes to pick me up from Mum’s and she keeps me upstairs.

  ‘Wait a minute, son,’ she says, ‘yir dad’s downstairs, but can yi give us a hand with this?’

  It’s a table by one of the beds she wants me to help her move and while I’m giving her a hand, Dale and Tommy go downstairs and Dale smashes Dad through the car window.

  ‘I know what you did to Charlie,’ he says and breaks his nose – and Tommy later tells me he’s joined in and slapped and punched Dad.

  Of course Dale doesn’t really know a fraction of what Dad’s been up to – and I haven’t said anything. At first Dad says nothing when I return to him from Mum’s. He’s still nursing his broken nose and is quieter than usual, grumpy and morose, but at least he seems to lay off me for a while.

  For a while…

  But then it starts up all over again and within a few weeks he’s beating me with a vengeance, along with more interrogations.

  ‘What did you tell them, yi little bastard?’

  ‘Nothing, Dad. I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘So what did that fucker mean by “know what you did?” I suppose he got it from the fairies…Or maybe it was Tommy, eh? Has he been telling lies about me?’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, you dirty little lying scumbag…’

  And on and on he goes.

  In years to come I wish I had told Mum everything as she would have killed him before he got me. But even after Dale and Tommy beat Dad up, I remain silent. I don’t want to have to tell her. Maybe she doesn’t really want to know the whole truth, I say to myself, and besides, it would break her heart if she discovered everything I’ve been through all this time. Yet I’m sure she must suspect it. After all, she of all people should know what Dad’s capable of, from the years of beatings she suffered at his hands.

  Even so, I always believe that, if I say anything, Dad will slither his way out of it and then…I will die.

  No beatings, no more hours and hours of taunts and torture.

  I will simply be killed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Big Geoff and Wee Geoff

  I think the thing that confuses me most about Dad is his two personalities. Sober, he’s Funny Jock, who can be warm, generous and caring; but drunk he can turn in a flash into Evil Jock, an animal that doesn’t even look like him.

  I do have some good times as a kid – it isn’t all blood and guts, even though beatings always seem to follow, just as night follows day. But there are a few times when they don’t – and one of them is when we go camping. I love being outdoors, out of the hellhole, and when we go camping most of the time we go with Dad’s friends, and he’ll never touch me when other people are around.

  Today I’m going camping with my good dad – Funny Jock. I am eleven years old and we’re going with one of the neighbours and his son – Big Geoff and Wee Geoff, who are a right pair of characters.

  Big Geoff is actually fairly short for a man – around five foot three in height – but he’s called Big Geoff because he weighs about sixteen stone and has quite a belly on him. He is hilarious, always laughing and joking and taking the piss out of Dad, which I love as he says things I’ve been dying to say for years.

  Wee Geoff, on the other hand, is a skinny little lad, a few years younger than me, and nothing like his dad looks-wise – he has blond hair while Big Geoff has dark hair. But hanging around with Big Geoff for years has turned him into one of the funniest kids I’ve ever met. He’ll stand fishing with his back to us and suddenly let out an almighty fart.

  ‘Get oot and walk to the fart.’

  Then Big Geoff will throw his bit in.

  ‘That wisna a fart, that was an accident waitin’ ti happen. You better check yir undies before yir cumin’ in that tent later.’

  I end up crying with laughter as they’re like a double act.

  We’ve arrived at a place called Crathy Bridge, not far from Aylyth at the foot of the Sidlaw Hills, which stretch from Perth to the north-east of Dundee, a distance of thirty miles. The bit we camp on is beside a river below the bridge. It’s kind of in a field surrounded by trees with a six-foot embankment running down the side of a twenty-foot wide flowing river.

  We always pitch a four-man tent a few metres back from the edge in case someone rolls out of the tent sleeping and has a midnight plunge, as the water is freezing. Everything is sorted and the adults are building a fire.

  ‘Can we git the rods oot, Dad?’ says Wee Geoff.

  ‘Eh, but watch what yir dain’ nixt ti that water,’ Big Geoff replies. ‘If yi fa’ in there yi’ll ken aboot it.’

  ‘How, is it cald?’

  ‘Dive in if yi want, and yi’ll find oot.’

  ‘I’ll dae it if yi dae it,’ says Wee Geoff.

  Then Big Geoff, right on cue: ‘Na yi winna yi fuckin’ halfwit. Di yi want yir toby ti end up like a cocktail stick?’

  ‘What, like yirs, Dad?’

  He runs away from Big Geoff, laughing his head off.

  ‘Awa yi go fishin’ yi half-wit and stop nippin’ mi hade.’

  Wee Geoff and me are now standing about three feet from the edge, fishing away and watching the trout and salmon leaping out of the water, then reeling the line back in to try and drag it over the spot where the last fish splashed back in. I have my back to everyone as I’m watching a fish in the clear water trying to put the worm in front of its nose, then suddenly there’s an almighty splash. I turn quickly as I think it’s a massive salmon.

  ‘Did you see the fish, Geoff?’

  Then Dad dives in fully clothed. It still never registers until I see Wee Geoff’s blond hair coming out of the water as Dad has got him back up. I reach my hand down to help the wee man, and there’s an even bigger splash – this time I got soaked as well, and Dad and Wee Geoff nearly get crushed by Big Geoff as he had noticed the wee man missing and has dived in to save him. He must have missed them by about an inch.

  Everyone is soaked. Wee Geoff looks like a drowned rat, standing shivering by the fire with his eyes wide open from the temperature of the cold plunge pool he fell in.

  After a while, once everyone’s dry and OK, I have to go for a walk alone pretending to need the loo as these things are popping into my head while we’re both being told off by them.

  ‘What did eh tell yiz aboot going near the edge, yi eediots!’

  I can see Wee Geoff trying not to laugh. But if I see someone trying to hold it in, it makes me worse and at this point I’m imagining the headlines in the paper the next day.

  MAN SAVING BOY FROM DROWNING IS KILLED BY BELLY FLOP FROM BOY’S FATHER!

  I always try to see the funny side of situations to keep myself sane. Times like these are brilliant for me, as I can have my own personality and go exploring on my own in the fresh air. Away from the smell of drink and smoke and free from the thought of a hiding hanging over my head. The air is so pure that if you stand at the top of a hill and breathe in, you can feel your lungs getting rid of the city smoke and being replaced with clean air in seconds. And the wildlife and places to explore are out of this world.

  I am a bit of an explorer as a kid. I’ll walk for miles sometimes alone into the hills looking for any kind of wildlife or old run-down shacks. The places I find are magical. I’ll be in the middle of the hills and stumble across old stone buildings with metal sheets on the roof.

  Inside them people have left can openers or matches for anyone that’s got lost in the hills. I have to sleep in one overnight once as the snow has turned into a blizzard, and there’s no chance of going back down. I don’t mind though as I’m on another adventure.

  At least I have a few precious times like these as a kid. And I’m growing up now and seeing that there’s more to life than the hellhole that I live in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Boy, the Dog and the Four Foot Woman

  For the last year Dad has been seeing a new woman – his second long-term girlfriend, Sh
elly, who has two children, one older than me called Claire and one younger called James.

  I feel so sorry for Shelly. Dad goes for potential victims and that’s Shelly all over. She’s a very nice woman, a tiny little thing – probably only about seven and a half stone – with dark hair. I get on brilliantly with her, although of course she’s never going to replace my mum who I’m spending more and more time with. Mum and I are becoming really close, even though I still never tell her what Dad’s been doing to me.

  As for Shelly, there’s something a bit sheepish about her, like life has already kicked her about and got the better of her. Dad goes for that like he did with Mandy. The situation is similar – a single woman with two or three kids who’s had a bit of a hard time when they were younger from shit husbands and he’s got in there, he’s coming to their rescue, the knight on the white charger, Mr Nice Guy…

  And then he fucking gives them ten times worse than anything they’ve had in their life, ever.

  He’s very sneaky and cunning like that – he’s psychotic but in a clever way, like when a hawk or eagle hovers above something and watches and watches, waiting to swoop down and devour its prey. He has those predatory instincts. He lulls them into a false sense of security and then attacks. It must have made him good on the football field too as he’s a good tactician. But to get into someone’s head and try and drive them crazy is just sick. I’m aged eleven and luckily have a strong head by now, but I can’t imagine what it does to these women.

  I have very little idea what her children Claire and James’s attitude to him is as I can’t ever take my eyes off him. I don’t really ever look at anyone else. If he’s in the room I focus all my attention on him. I have to. I just have to watch everything he’s going to say and do next because I’ve been programmed to do that – and also because my survival depends on it. If I look away for a moment I’ll get something in the side of my face.

  They’re really quiet, simple, normal kids, one has reddish hair, one black hair. They support Dundee United like I do and like everyone does. Claire never had a boyfriend at this time nor even when she was older. Maybe Dad’s put her off men for life.

  Claire and James sometimes cry when he’s beating up Shelly but that doesn’t mean much to me. My priority is to watch him, to be on my guard against him. And there’s one consolation for me: while he’s seeing Shelly and drinking more heavily I can sometimes be out playing football in the park. Instead of being stuck just with him as I was, I have more friends and can get away from the house. And for a while me and Bonnie can be out there playing and living a normal life.

  Shelly lives in another tenement block at the end of St Nicholas Place, so it’s not too far from the house we’ve moved to. I want to warn her what Dad’s like as I’ve seen first hand what he did to his last long-term girlfriend Mandy, and also of course have distant memories about what he did to Mum, but I’m afraid that she might tell him, and I know only too well what will happen if she upsets him.

  Shelly and Dad are always at our house rather than hers, as James and Claire might find it a bit weird having a new man in the house, whereas I’m just glad it isn’t only me and him any more. I’m glad of the company.

  Well, at first I’m glad. When Shelly is around, my beatings probably halve as Dad’s now getting his fix by abusing us both – though fortunately Bonnie is a distant memory in his mind. She’s safe, at least for the time being, except on the odd occasion when she pees in the kitchen if she hasn’t been out all day and night when I’m at Mum’s.

  If Dad’s beating up Shelly and I come in at ten o’clock at night she’ll be sitting there with her lips burst and he’s slouched on the chair saying, ‘Hi son, where have yi been?’

  I just look at him and I’m thinking, You evil bastard, but I can’t say anything, so I just say, ‘I’ve been at the park.’

  ‘Go and get ready for bed.’

  And then I hear him say, ‘Yi shut yir fucking mouth,’ to Shelly, as if I didn’t know what he was doing.

  I go upstairs, make sure Bonnie’s all right – she’ll be cowering under the bed and she’ll crawl across the floor like a snake, really scared. Then I think, Should I go back down, should I go back down?

  I leave it for a bit and then I’ll say, ‘I’m just going to get some toast,’ and I slip downstairs in my pyjamas and walk past him.

  ‘So where were yi?’ he’ll say again, as if he hadn’t asked me already and I hadn’t already answered him.

  ‘I was at the park, Dad.’

  Then he starts staring at me as I’m making toast.

  ‘Fucking hurry up. Get to yir bed.’

  And I think, right, get out of here quick, because he’s now directing all his attention towards me. So I get my toast, go back upstairs and then I hear him beating her again.

  Once or twice I’ve actually come down and opened the door again because Shelly’s screaming, like he’s going to kill her. He puts his hands over her mouth to stop the screams and they go all muffled – ‘Lmmggwww!’ – and I think he must be killing her and he just turns and punches me in the mouth and knocks me on the couch. Now he’s smacking me and she’s pleading with him, ‘Jock, just leave him, leave him—’ and then he boots her in the chin and she goes quiet for a bit.

  If I manage to get to bed again I can still hear her sobbing or whimpering downstairs and I can’t just lie there and listen to him battering her – I’d rather he was giving it to me than her.

  Me and Shelly, we’re both of us too weak and defenceless. She’s too small to try and intervene when he’s hitting me – she can’t defend me any more than I can defend her.

  What’s weird, though, is that when she’s in her own house she’ll wait for her kids to get to bed, have a drink, and then come around to our house. It’s almost like she comes over to get beaten up, because she knows he’s been drinking. It’s just stupid.

  I think, Why don’t you run – get out of here!

  This thing he has over women is something I can’t begin to understand. For someone to be such a psycho and for people not to pick up on it, or else to pick up on it but not do anything about it, is just plain bizarre and the older I get the more confused I am.

  But these couple of years, between the ages of ten and twelve, are probably the most disturbing times of my already disturbed young life. As I approach my teenage years I’m becoming much more aware of what goes on in other kids’ lives at home and I’m getting to realise that the nightmare that I’m living in is not the norm as I used to think it was.

  Added to this, my frustration and rage at Dad’s behaviour is building up and I’m getting more and more humiliated by having to sprint home from school when all my friends are free to stand around and socialise afterwards. At night I can never bring any of my friends home to sleep over. When I was younger I didn’t know any better but now I feel that I have no life, that he’s trying to crush the life out of me. Don’t torture me, I often think, just finish me off.

  Most of the time I just want to stop breathing after he beats me. I want him to kill me, hit me in the throat, choke me. One time I stand with a knife at my own wrists but I don’t go through with it. I think, no I won’t kill myself, I’ll kill him. It’s me or him, and it tips the balance in my mind over to killing him.

  I don’t know if you have ever lain in bed listening to a fully grown man interrogate and demolish a four-foot-tall woman. The only word I can ever come up with is sick! I actually look forward to him beating me as what he’s doing to her makes me feel worse than if I’d been the victim. I’d rather take a beating than listen to her scream and plead.

  Some nights I whisper to her, ‘Stop talking, Shelly, that’s what he enjoys.’

  In the mornings Shelly sits in the living room with black eyes and bruised arms.

  ‘Do yi want a cup of tea and some toast, Charlie?’

  ‘No thanks, Shelly.’ I’m dying to tell her to run while I distract him.

  ‘He’s quite capable of making his
own breakfast.’

  You heartless bastard, you’re not even sorry.

  I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you one day.

  I’m glad he isn’t a mind reader.

  I stand in the kitchen listening to her apologising for nothing. I’m actually physically sick one morning, when I see what he’s just done to her. The white bits of her eyes are totally red and it reminds me of a horror film I saw on telly. Pictures are now popping into my head of what it must have been like for Mum, the pain she must have gone through. I really want to kill him now. There’s no two ways about it – he has to die.

  I nearly do it once. I nearly kill him. That’s about a month and a half after I change my mind about killing myself and decide to kill him instead.

  It’s a few weeks after my twelfth birthday and he’s left me in a horrible mess one night and fallen asleep on the floor. I can hear him snoring from my bedroom so I walk downstairs into the kitchen and take a ten-inch knife from the drawer.

  My body is shaking with fear and the adrenaline is making me whisper things to myself.

  ‘Put it in the middle, it’ll go right through.’ As he’s on his side with his back to me, I’m trying to calculate if the blade is long enough to go through his back, and burst his heart.

  I promise you now, with my hand on my heart, if he had been facing towards me that night he would be dead. That’s the only thing that saved him.

  But after this night, after I don’t kill him, I get more angry and more frustrated with myself for not having gone through with it. What kind of a wimp am I?

  As the months roll on, Dad and Shelly split up, get back together, split up again, and on and on it goes. I can never understand why she keeps coming back for more; it’s like he has some weird control over other people as he does me. Sober he’s funny, generous, always laughing, and has a lot of friends, but everyone must know what he is doing, and what he’s like with a drink. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. So why does nobody blank him or get him done, report him, anything? Why doesn’t anyone see what he’s done to me – and now to Shelly?