Gypsy Boy

by Mikey Walsh

  Stuffed inside were a pair of second-hand boxing gloves that reeked of sweat and a sickly yellow, neatly pressed pair of cousin Tory’s old shorts.

  Frankie pushed her chubby face up against the window as my father lit up a cigarette and started the engine. He leaned over his shoulder, pushing smoke through his nostrils as he started to reverse off the plot.

  ‘See you later,’ she mouthed. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. I was dreading this drive almost as much as what was waiting for me at the other end.

  ‘Your granddad Noah’s gonna be there. Your uncle Tory, young Tory and Noah, Nelson Collins, Uncle Joseph …’

  My father was in full flow, but with each new name my spirits sank lower. I stared hard at him as he spoke, nodding furiously and trying my best to look interested. But I was terrified. As we slowed down and turned into the entrance of the boxing club my stomach heaved.

  My father’s entourage clustered around him as soon as he stepped from the car. I slid the bag from the passenger seat and heaved it onto my shoulder. It was so big I’d have tripped over it any other way, but this way it covered my face, too.

  I trundled along next to him, like a bag boy with a local celebrity. Everyone we ran into stopped to talk to him.

  Inside we ran into Tyrone Donoghue. ‘You following your father’s footsteps then, boy?’ he grinned. He turned to my father. ‘I’ve had my Paddy in here for a year now.’

  Tyrone had two sons and, bizarrely, he had named them both Paddy. The older Paddy was thirteen and at secondary school age, although he had never been to one and couldn’t even write his name. I watched him carry his sports bag into the club. He looked a lot more dignified than I did. His kit was already on, his bag appeared as light as a pillowcase and his hair was brushed upward into thick yellow spikes.

  Someone dug his hand into my free shoulder. ‘Going to grow up a fighting man like your dad then?’ I turned around to see a man with a face like a rolled-up pair of socks, with an ear missing and an eye like a boiled onion. I tried not to stare.

  ‘You’re nothing but a cunt you is! Don’t you remember your Uncle Levoy?’ he laughed.

  I knew so many Levoys at this point in my life they all seemed to blend into one, but this monster of a man I could have never forgotten. He was notorious for the brutal ways he found of torturing his enemies.

  Uncle Tory met us at the main doors of the club. From inside I could hear thuds, punches and the snap of skipping ropes. The stench of what I know now was testosterone and sweat was so thick it stuck to my face like cling film.

  An eruption of panic was building up inside me and I started to tremble. The base of my throat started to fill with sick and I was afraid I would faint.

  ‘Right then, you ready?’ My father looked down at me expectantly.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s get you changed.’

  The disgusting smell of the club grew thicker as we stepped in, and the sounds of hisses and grunts bounced off the walls. I dragged my feet as we marched through the main hallway, which was so dark it was like an old ghost train, with sickly yellow walls and a carpet that was sticky and matted.

  As the changing-room door creaked open, I saw that Granddad Noah and Uncle Joseph were sitting inside on a bench, smoking cigars and holding cans of bitter, as if they were in the local pub.

  My father joined them as I stripped off reluctantly, wishing I could be anywhere but where I was. I turned to face them. The yellow shorts, with TORY WALSH stitched in gold letters across the front, came to just under my armpits.

  Joseph, a carbon copy of Granddad Noah, with the same electric blue eyes, grinned. ‘You look the part, Mikey. Don’t he look the part, Dad?’

  Old Noah turned to me. ‘He looks just like his dad did at his age, proper little fighting man. When you win this I’ll get you some shorts with your name on the front.’

  My father smiled at me and got down onto the floor to help me lace my boots. He was so anxious to impress his father. I could tell from the way he agreed with everything the old man said.

  ‘See you in the ring, Mikey,’ said Old Noah. Joseph smiled and mouthed ‘good luck’ as he left the room.

  ‘See,’ said my father. ‘They’re all here to watch you beat this feller tonight.’

  ‘What’s he like, Dad?’

  ‘A fool, just a little Irish cunt. One hit, my boy, and he’ll go down like a sack of potatoes, I promise you.’

  That’s when I realised they had chosen Paddy Donoghue for me to fight. A boy more than twice my age, and size.

  ‘But he’s older than me, Dad.’

  My father tightened his grip on my forearm, which made the blood rush to my fingertips. He swung me towards him. I was so close I could see the burnt patches in his leathery skin, from his years of shovelling tarmac. His look was icy. ‘Makes no difference if he’s older than you, you’re going in that ring and beating that boy. Don’t you let me down or I’ll beat you all the way to Basingstoke.’

  ‘I won’t, Dad.’

  ‘Take an oath you won’t.’

  ‘On my life I won’t.’ I tried not to whine, as I promised him the impossible.

  There was a long pause. My father’s breath hung like a sleeping dragon’s in the putrid air and I could feel the heat from his body. He tucked in the laces of my gloves, then stood up and left the room, without looking at me again.

  This conversation was over. I was to get in the ring with Paddy Donoghue, and I had to win.

  The match lasted around fifteen seconds.

  Each second had counted another punch thrown by Paddy, and every one landed with a leather-clad thud on my head.

  I had been put into the ring with a much more experienced, older boy, who was at least a foot taller than me, and more than happy to beat the crap out of a young Walsh boy. By the time Uncle Tory bellowed ‘stop’ I had completely lost control. My ill-fitting gloves had been thrown off and I was wailing and clinging on to Paddy to stop him from throwing yet another humiliating punch at my head.

  We were prised apart. My body hurt, my head was throbbing and there was blood splashed across my face. I tried – and I failed – to hold back my tears as I made my way through the ropes and past the crowd and my father, who wouldn’t even look at me.

  I made my way back to the changing room, which was empty. I couldn’t stop crying and I started yelling at myself. ‘Shut up! Please shut up!’ I felt as if I were about to faint. I sat down and took a deep breath, then took my clothes out of the bag and slowly started to get dressed. Footsteps grew closer and I could hear my father outside saying his goodbyes, his voice quiet, no doubt shamed by my performance.

  I didn’t want to leave the changing room, but, after fifteen minutes of dawdling, my hope that my father would come in and reassure me faded.

  It was Joseph who came in to find me sitting on the bench. He walked over and sat by my side. He put his giant arm around me and squeezed. ‘Are you all right?’

  As soon as he said those words I burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mikey,’ he said, rubbing my back. ‘Don’t cry my boy. It’s going to be all right.’

  But I knew it wasn’t.

  My father opened the door and threw the car keys at me. I slipped out through the crowds, crept across the car park and got into the car to wait for him. I watched as he said his goodbyes and lit a cigarette, before climbing into the driver’s seat.

  I spent the first part of the journey home staring out of the window. I was so petrified my chest was pounding and my breathing was getting louder. Despite the voice in my head screaming at me to stay quiet, a huge whimper escaped.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ my father snarled. I shook my head to say that it was nothing.

  He drew back his enormous fist and punched me in the ear, as we swerved across the road.

  ‘I can’t (PUNCH!) believe (PUNCH) you showed (PUNCH) me up like that.’

  ‘Please don’t, Dad, I
really tried, please don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’ (PUNCH)

  He paused and watched as blood began to slide from my nose and into my mouth. My lip started to quiver uncontrollably.

  ‘Are you going to cry? Are you, my boy?’ He slapped me hard across the face. ‘Go on then.’ He slapped me again. The blood from my nose smeared into my eye and splattered across the window.

  I couldn’t stop the tears, but I made no sound. My father turned to face the road ahead. ‘Little poofy boy, that’s all you are, my son,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought I’d end up with one like you.’

  As we pulled into our plot, I opened the car door and ran for the trailer. I wanted to reach my mother before my father got there.

  She was lying on the floor, watching Dynasty, with Frankie brushing her hair.

  They both gasped when they saw me.

  ‘What the fuck happened to you?’ my mother screeched.

  My father came in and pushed me out of the way. ‘Your son has just been beaten by a boy half his size in front of everybody.’

  Had he just forgotten that he was the one who had done this to me? He was lying to her!

  And she was taking it all in.

  She turned to me. ‘Go to bed, Mikey. Get out of my sight.’

  Frankie and I climbed into bed and pulled the curtain across the doorway. Not that it disguised any of what was being said. I could hear words like shameful, disgrace, poof and useless being repeated again and again.

  ‘What happened?’ whispered Frankie.

  I told Frankie about the fight with Paddy. In an instant, her eyes narrowed and in a voice like a foghorn she bellowed, ‘Paddy Donoghue is too big to be fighting Mikey, Mum!’

  Our father marched to the doorway and ripped back the curtain.

  We screamed and pulled the blankets over our heads.

  He grabbed me by the leg and ripped me out of the bed. I crashed to the floor and Frankie fell from the top bunk, trying to reach out and grab me by the arm. The carpet burned my back as he pulled me by the feet into the lounge. I kicked and screamed as Frankie held on to my arms, digging her heels into the ground to try to wrench me away from his grasp. Henry-Joe began to cry and mother walked toward the bedroom. I reached out and tried to grab her leg, but couldn’t.

  My father pointed towards the bedroom. ‘Frankie, get one of the nappies from the bag.’

  Not daring to disobey, she went to Henry-Joe’s baby bag, took out one of his nappies and handed it over.

  ‘Stand up.’

  I couldn’t. My body had started to convulse, I had lost all control of it.

  ‘Please let him go,’ screamed Frankie.

  ‘Take his pants off.’

  I kicked my legs and shouted and cried. Frankie hesitated, then took hold of my pants and slid them down my legs, as he lifted me onto his knee. I could barely breathe, my throat was so sore from crying. He pulled the nappy up my legs, then, lifting me by my arms, he threw me across the floor.

  ‘You act like a baby, then I’ll treat you like one. Get to bed. I don’t want to look at your fucking ugly face again.’

  Still weeping, I waddled into the bedroom, climbed into bed and covered myself completely with the covers. At least under there I could be alone.

  My parents started to argue and Henry-Joe began to cry again.

  ‘He’s only six years old, Frank, what were you thinking of, making him fight that Donoghue boy?’

  ‘I was five when I got in the ring. Your son is a fucking embarrassment.’

  ‘You’re a fucking embarrassment,’ she screamed.

  There was a loud thud and she fell to the floor. Frankie came in and shut the door behind her. ‘Bastard,’ she said quietly, climbing the ladder. ‘Fucking old bastard.’

  I awoke the next morning in a puddle. I’d been desperate to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t dare pass my father to go out to the toilet tent. I waited for him to fall asleep, but he sat in front of the TV late into the night, watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and, exhausted and aching, I had eventually fallen asleep.

  Now I was trapped in my room, desperate to hide my accident. But my father was halfway through a mound of bacon sandwiches and my mother had begun to lose her patience. ‘Mikey, if I’ve got to shout for you one more time …’

  A moment later my father swooped into the bedroom, yellow-eyed, a bacon sandwich in his fist. ‘You’ve got three seconds to get your arse out of that bed. One, two …’

  I leaped up, and the Paddy pad slipped down my leg. My father paused, shoved in the last bite of his sandwich, then grabbed my arm and began to drag me outside.

  I cried and wailed as he ordered me to strip. I looked around to see a small crowd of familiar faces, stopping in their tracks to see what was going on. My father had grabbed the pressure hose that was used to wash the trucks. He pointed it at me.

  The pressure of the jet against my skin was like being trampled on by a pack of horses. The ice-cold water punched me in the ears and face. Then he directed it at my stomach. I threw up, keeling over onto all fours.

  When he finally turned it off I crawled back into the trailer. My teeth were chattering violently and I had to stop to be sick again after swallowing so much of the water.

  I crawled back into the bedroom and got myself ready for school.

  9

  Boot Camp

  As I arrived at school that morning, Mrs Kerr said I looked unwell and asked if anything was wrong. My ears were blocked and I could still hear the sound of the water jet. My head and body ached, and I felt sick.

  ‘No,’ I told her.

  ‘You stay in here with me this morning, pet,’ she said gently.

  Frankie and Jamie-Leigh left for Mrs McAndrew’s room. ‘I know you love to draw,’ Mrs Kerr said, ‘and I could do with a young man of your talents today. I need you to design me a poster for the class. How does that grab you?’

  I made my way over to the desk she was pointing at, where she had put some sheets of paper and a pack of coloured pens. I tried not to knock the back of anyone’s chair, or catch anyone’s eye. I hated being looked at and I could feel the other children staring at me as if they all knew just how disgusting I was.

  I sat, trying to draw, but unable to concentrate. I needed the toilet, but I was terrified to pass the other children again, or draw Mrs Kerr’s attention. Paralysed, I wet myself and started to cry.

  Mrs Kerr took me to the boys’ toilet herself and said that she would be right back with some clean underwear from lost property. When she returned she knelt in front of me to unlace my shoes, then pulled each trainer from my feet. My fingers were too limp to undo my fly. As she went to take my trousers off, I tried to stop her.

  ‘Now, Mikey,’ said Mrs Kerr, ‘there’s no shame in having an accident, we’ve all had them.’

  She undid the zip and tugged at my trousers, revealing the red-frilled knickers – a pair of my mother’s – which my father had forced me to wear.

  ‘Mikey, my pet, why are you wearing those?’

  ‘My dad made me wear them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wet the bed last night.’

  She spotted the bruises on my legs, and lifted my jumper to follow the trail. Her expression was grim. ‘Step into these trousers, pet,’ she said.

  When I was changed she held my hand and led me out of the toilets and round towards the school office.

  ‘Mikey, I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’ve already phoned your parents to come and collect you. I thought you were unwell and needed to go home.’

  My mother came for me. She didn’t look at me once, as she led me towards the car. Mrs Kerr followed, trying to explain that the accident had been her fault, as she hadn’t noticed I needed to be excused. My mother ignored her.

  She said nothing all the way home, and neither did I. I was sitting in the trailer, eating a bowl of cereal, when my father arrived home from work.

  ‘What’s he doing home so early?’
>
  I prayed my mother would say nothing.

  ‘He pissed himself again.’

  Before I could pull the spoon from my lips my father took two steps forward, raised his arm and punched me hard and square in the mouth, sending both me and the chair hurtling across the floor.

  After that I began wetting the bed every night. And every morning, depending on my father’s mood, I was publicly stripped and hosed down, or a given a good beating inside the tool shed. His weapons of choice ranged from a belt to a bamboo stick or the heel of his boot. But his bare fists were by far the most painful of all. Sometimes, if he had the time, I was put through both ordeals, being dragged off to the shed and beaten while naked and soaking wet. If it was the weekend his anger would continue throughout the day. He would hit me with whatever happened to be in his hand at the time, a shovel, a broom, or even scalding shovels of tarmac if he’d taken me to work with him.

  One Monday he ordered that I stay home from school.

  ‘You’re spending too much time with women,’ he growled. ‘Pampered, that’s what you’ve been, my boy. Too much time around your mother and her lot. There’s only one way to get you straightened out. Your granddad’s said to leave you with him and Tory for a while.’

  We climbed into the truck. ‘Every time I see you you’re playing with them girls, or with those fucking men of yours,’ he said. ‘It’s time you stopped.’

  He meant my modest, but proud collection of He-Man action figures that my mother had bought. From today, he said, they would all be given away. I had to start becoming a man.

  A month earlier he had hurled one of them out of the lorry window after noticing it had boobs. ‘It’s a boy’s one, Dad,’ I had shrieked. ‘It’s Evil Lyn!’ I had pestered my mother to get me Skeletor’s evil wife for a very long time.

  ‘All right, Mikey,’ she had said. ‘But let your dad see her and she’s pissed on her chips.’

  She was right. The moment he set eyes on Evil Lyn she was doomed. After he had lobbed her through the window I stared after her, heartbroken.

  Now I was staring out of the window again as he ranted at me, ripping me apart and saying cruel things about my mother. I hoped he would soon run out of steam, or at least pause for breath.