Gypsy Boy

by Mikey Walsh

  It was an autumn day. I watched the blurred browns and reds as we roared along. I imagined being Evil Lyn, taking flight after being thrown out of the window. My cloak curling, snapping and whipping through the countryside, as I screamed in wicked delight at my freedom.

  I laughed out loud.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Caught out once again I slid back into my seat.

  Even though his eyes were on the road for the rest of the journey it felt as if they were boring right through me.

  He hated me.

  My granddad Noah ran the scrapyard, with Tory and Joseph. Tory’s sons, young Tory and Noah, worked there too, men before they were thirteen, with thoughts of school long abandoned.

  I always wondered why my father hadn’t joined his father and brothers, who all lived and worked together. Later I came to understand that his family didn’t trust him in the business and he didn’t want to be there – he was intent on going it alone and proving himself to his father.

  We pulled into the yard just behind Uncle Joseph. My father turned off the motor and jumped out. ‘How yer doing boyeee?’ he called to Uncle Joseph. Then he turned to me. ‘Get out.’ He sparked up a cigarette before slamming the door, adjusting his braces as he marched down to greet him.

  I jumped from the cab and followed them down through the yard and into the office. I hated it in there, with its stink of oil and testosterone, tatty posters of topless girls and random old car parts spread all over the rotting carpet.

  They were clearly expecting me.

  ‘Here’s the champ,’ smirked Uncle Tory.

  My grandfather widened a sapphire eye and focused it on me like the barrel of a loaded gun. ‘You feeling better, Mikey?’

  I didn’t open my mouth for fear of being mocked for my high voice.

  ‘He’s still a mute, then,’ cackled Uncle Tory. ‘What have you done to him, Frankie?’

  I felt awful for my father, who was being mocked in such a cruel way because of me.

  Tory and Noah were sitting on some upturned crates, leafing through old editions of the Daily Sport. I sat to one side of them, on a crate passed to me by Uncle Joseph, who gave me a sneaky wink and put his hand on the pit of my back. As they continued to mock, he rubbed my back as Mrs Kerr did when I was upset. Those rare moments of affection always made me tearful, but I swallowed my tears for the sake of my father’s pride.

  ‘What are we gonna do with the boy then, Frankie?’ said Tory.

  They discussed their plans for my week of boot camp hell as I sat quietly, determined I would win their respect and give my father some faith in me.

  I looked at Tory and Noah, both perfect specimens of what young Gypsy men should be: rugged, deep-voiced, loose-limbed and great in the ring. Everything I was not.

  Uncle Joseph left the office too as I was sent out to collect my father’s fags from the lorry. He heaved his bulky body into the cab of his own lorry and started the engine. Before driving off he leaned out of the window. ‘Just learn to switch off, Mikey. I do it all the time. You don’t have to listen to them. They don’t know nothing.’

  Grateful for his kindness, I gave him a smile. ‘I’ll see you later,’ I called out as he pulled away.

  Back inside I endured a couple of hours of fighting talk before I could bear it no longer and went to sit in the lorry. I had smuggled Skeletor under the passenger seat. After another hour, I was called back inside to hear my fate.

  I was going to travel with Uncle Tory in his lorry for the next week. Then after work each day I would be going to the boxing club, to be trained.

  I didn’t know which sounded worse, learning about the scrap-metal business, or training in the club. But I had no choice about either. The only thing I was looking forward to was watching the crusher in action. I wanted to see if it could really squish a car to the size of a shoebox.

  Before he left, my father took me to one side and spelled out the number one rule: I must always flatter Tory when driving with him to jobs. ‘Don’t sit like a mute, like you do with me, ask him questions. Make him feel cushti,’ he said.

  That afternoon Granddad Noah and Uncle Joseph headed off to the pink caravan, while I was driven back to Tory Manor with Uncle Tory and the two boys.

  I didn’t like the house at all. To me, the windows and curved front door resembled the features of a contorted demonic face, while inside the front hall the lamps were in the shape of bronze demons with horns which each held a candle. Everyone said the Manor was haunted, and I found it easy to believe. I had never stayed there before, and didn’t want to now.

  In the vast kitchen Aunt Maudie was frying. The smell of chip fat was everywhere; she would never cook anything unless she could lower it into the vat of fat she had constantly popping away in the kitchen.

  Next to her in the kitchen sat their ancient parrot. He was nearly bald, hunched like an old vulture and would imitate Maudie’s long-dead mother like a morbid tape recorder.

  On my first morning – which was also, as it turned out, my last – I was woken up bright and early by Aunt Maudie, who came to my room with tea, Jammy Dodgers and an omelette that looked like a large turd.

  Uncle Tory was already up, having taken the boys for a 6 a.m. jog. By the time I’d swallowed what I could of my breakfast he was already in the lorry, warming it up. There was no time to wash if I wanted to keep him happy. I was just thankful that I wasn’t dragged out of bed for the three-mile run. I splashed some water on my face from the outside tap that Old Noah used to use to rinse his shoes.

  ‘Morning, champ,’ said Tory as I swung open the door and climbed in.

  ‘Morning.’ My voice couldn’t have sounded any squeakier. Tory looked at me, narrow-eyed. I cleared my throat and repeated myself, this time in such a deep voice that it made me choke.

  The cab was huge. Looking out of the window was like standing upstairs in a two-storey house. The last time I’d been that high up was in Jamie-Leigh’s Dynasty Wendy house, which had two storeys and a balcony, where I would stand screaming, ‘Fly, my pretties, fly!’

  Five minutes into the journey I still hadn’t said a word. I cleared my throat again. ‘So, where are we going?’

  ‘To collect some scrap that I have to pick up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I remembered what father said. ‘Don’t be a mute. Make him feel cushti.’ I took a stab. ‘My dad says you’ve met Frank Bruno.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘A cunt.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I had often heard my father bragging about the celebrities that Uncle Tory had rubbed shoulders with in his time as a boxer. Most were the usual Walsh exaggerations, but I knew it was true that Muhammad Ali had been befriended by Tory at a boxing event and had accepted an invitation to come for dinner at Tory Manor because I had seen the album, the scrapbook and the framed pictures many times: Muhammad sparring up with young Tory, Muhammad sparring up with young Noah, Muhammad sitting in the lounge, Muhammad shaking hands with Old Noah, joined at the hip – thumbs in the air – with Uncle Tory himself and standing beside a very bemused Granny Ivy. At the time she had just failed her seventh driving test and couldn’t have cared less if the Pope himself had popped his head in.

  ‘Who else have you met then?’

  He paused and then started to rattle off a list of names, most of which I didn’t recognise. ‘So, you name a celebrity and I bet you I’ve met them … Mikey?’

  I had switched off as he ploughed through his list, and was bobbing my head from side to side, along with the dancing Christmas tree hanging from the driving mirror. Now Uncle Tory was peering at me, a puzzled look on his face.

  I searched my mind for any name that might impress Tory. As his stare lingered, my palms began to sweat. My father’s face appeared in my head, glaring at me and mouthing names of people I could not make out through the oversized imaginary fag hanging from his lip.

  The moment of truth: ‘
Come on then,’ Uncle Tory growled. This had become a sadistic game; a puzzle that I had to solve, or die. I was trying to think of people who weren’t cartoon characters or just random numbers, passing through my thoughts like pointless invaders. Then a surge of energy began to rise from my guts. One person who I would surely die to hear he had met. In my head my father began to shout, ‘Someone butch, SOMEONE BUTCH!’ My throat clogged with an excitement as, in the most frantic and completely deranged tone, I belted out, ‘Oh my God, have you met Madonna?’

  As I spoke the words I realised my mistake. I fell back into the seat and threw my hands over my mouth. But it was too late. The brakes jerked for a mere second, throwing me against the dashboard. Uncle Tory’s eyes had frosted over and he looked at me as if I was something he had trodden in.

  ‘No. I haven’t met’ – he almost gagged just saying it – ‘Madonna.’

  I had blown it.

  We didn’t go to the job, we headed straight to the yard, where Uncle Joseph, Tory and Noah were outside chucking some tyres into a skip fire. The whole place was thick with black smoke.

  Uncle Tory leaned across me and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Get out, Mikey.’ He signalled to young Tory and Noah. ‘I need you boys to come with me.’

  Joseph walked around to the driver’s window and spoke in a polite whisper. ‘Ain’t you meant to be taking Mikey out with you today?’

  As I clambered down the steps I watched Tory mouth the word ‘useless’. I jumped the last steps and crashed to the ground, tearing my T-shirt, grazing my stomach and knocking Noah over in the process.

  Uncle Tory told Joseph to phone my father and tell him to come and collect me.

  As Uncle Tory and the boys drove off, Uncle Joseph stared at the blood across my stomach. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.

  I looked down. ‘And I’ve ripped my T-shirt.’

  He took me inside and put on the heater. ‘Get that top off,’ he said.

  I hated my body, so I kept the T-shirt on. The bars on the heater crackled and started to glow and Uncle Joseph came back with a box of plasters and a damp piece of rag. ‘You’re bleeding, Mikey, take it off.’

  ‘Can I just keep it on, it’s cold.’

  ‘Mikey, there’s nothing left of the old thing now anyway.’ He grabbed at my shirt and lifted it over my head, tossing it to the floor. ‘Get yourself on this table.’

  I used an old car engine as a stepping-stone and stood shivering on the table as he slapped the wet rag onto the wound. Compared to others I’d had it was minor. My belly jiggled as Joseph moved the rag around. ‘I feel silly,’ I giggled.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve got a lot more than you have.’ And with that, he shoved an arm under his top and cradled his stomach like a monster sack of porridge.

  ‘Here, this’ll make it better.’ He lifted the old heater and placed it on the engine, aiming it at me. He manoeuvred me round in circles like a kebab on a spit, dabbing away at the excess blood.

  ‘Are you hurting anywhere else?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nowhere?’

  ‘No, I don’t hurt at all.’

  He put down the cloth and placed his hand just below the cut pushing his fingers into my stomach. ‘How about here?’

  ‘Nope,’ I smiled proudly.

  He lowered his hand and placed it behind my belt buckle. ‘Here?’

  I giggled. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Stop laughing,’ he chuckled. He placed his hand on the opposite side and wiggled his fingers. ‘Here?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed, pulling at his wrist.

  He smiled, and lowered his hand. ‘How about here?’

  He wiggled his fingers again; I felt the tips tickle my penis.

  I took his wrist with both hands and started to pull. ‘Get it out,’ I laughed.

  He tickled my penis again, laughing.

  ‘Why, Mikey? Does it make you feel funny?’

  ‘Yes!’ I screamed, pulling at his arm.

  His laughing mouth snapped shut as he pushed me against the wall. He buried his hand deeper and softly grasped my penis, massaging it like a piece of moulding clay. His eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of funny?’

  I loosened my grip on his arm. ‘I don’t know.’

  The crackle of the heater was the loudest thing in the room.

  I could feel him moving his fingers back and forth. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Why?’ I answered, beginning to feel very uncomfortable.

  ‘I want to see what it looks like.’

  I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. I pursed my lips and nodded.

  Uncle Joseph removed his hand and lifted my legs, slowly removing my shoes and socks, then everything else. I was naked on the table, trying to stay within the warmth of the heater’s beam.

  ‘Turn around,’ said Joseph, poking me in the arm.

  I did, five times or so, feeling more like a kebab than ever. He shouted me to stop as I faced the wall. I opened my eyes and stared into the cold blue paintwork resting my hands against the wall.

  He moved closer, and sighed. ‘Mikey, you are the prettiest boy amongst Gypsies.’ He stroked a finger across my buttocks. I was scared.

  ‘Am I?’ My high-pitched squeak had returned, and made him snigger.

  ‘Yes. Those two boys can fight, but that’s because it’s what they’ve been bred to do. What you’ve got cannot be learned; you’ve been born with what you have. One day, when you grow into it, you will make them all sick as pigs. Remember that.’

  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant.

  ‘I will, Uncle Joseph.’

  ‘How clean are you, Mikey?’

  ‘I got shot with the hosepipe yesterday.’

  For the next hour he raped me, with every part of his body that would fit into mine.

  When it was over, as I pulled my clothes back on, he pointed a finger into my face. ‘Listen, Mikey, what you got me to do today, if he finds out, he will kill you.’

  ‘But I didn’t …’

  He gave me a soft clip up the side of the head. ‘If I tell him what happened, when he gets through this door …’

  Through the window, behind Joseph’s shoulder, my father stepped from the truck, lighting a cigarette and adjusting his braces.

  ‘Please don’t tell him!’

  ‘I won’t if you don’t. Take an oath you won’t talk to him about it, and I’ll make up something that will make you look cushti.’

  ‘All right!’

  ‘Good.’ He turned in his chair as my father stepped through the doorway. ‘How yer doin boyeeee?’

  ‘How are ya, Mush, all right?’ my father replied with a half smile.

  ‘Cushti, bruv, cushti.’

  ‘I can see that.’ He turned to me. ‘Why ain’t you out workin’?’

  Joseph leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers and stretching out his arms. ‘Stop talking like that to the boy, Frankie. He’s been out there working with me all day.’

  ‘Have you?’ my father said, almost shocked at Joseph’s positive comment.

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes he has.’ Joseph repeated.

  ‘Why didn’t he go with Tory?’

  ‘Because he was needed here! Fucking hell, Frankie, you said you wanted the boy to come here and work and that’s what he’s been doing.’

  I stiffened, waiting to see if he would buy the story.

  ‘And he did all right?’

  ‘Better than all right, Frank.’

  ‘I’ll bring him back to you next week, then.’

  ‘Yeah. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mikey?’

  I slipped down from the chair, holding on to the overalls. They both stared, waiting for my reply. I managed a smile.

  ‘Yeah.’

  10

  That Evil Bowers Girl

  For the next few years, I was sent to the scrapyard one day a week.

  Joseph had offered to ‘train’ me, and Uncle Tory and my father wer
e only too happy to leave me to him. Uncle Tory would take off in the lorry, with young Tory and Noah, and I would be left to the mercies of my uncle for hours at a time.

  Every week he would take me into the back room, make me take my clothes off, and repeat the nightmare all over again. He would lift me across old Noah’s desk, where I would lie on my back as he stuffed a clenched fist into my mouth while he masturbated. Just as I felt my jaw was about to break, he would pull out and fill my mouth with the sticky mess that squirted from him.

  As the weeks went by he would try different experiments, painful acts that left me unable to swallow or sit or even breathe too deeply. Sometimes he would kick and punch and scratch me during these sessions. If Tory or my grandfather were in the office that day then he would take me out in the lorry; making me either strip and play with myself or go down on him as we drove to our next scrap pick up. There was no escape.

  I couldn’t say no. Not just because he was triple my size, but also because he had all the power. If I didn’t do what he wanted he would tell my father, and we both knew that one word about me having ‘played up’ would get me a beating.

  I did try, once, to tell my father what was happening. It was the same day that I had tried to refuse Joseph’s advances. He had got his revenge by telling my father that I had been lazy and answered him back.

  In the car on the way home my father lashed out at me.

  ‘Answering Joseph back! (Thud) Being lazy! (Wham).’

  I decided to tell my father everything about Joseph, and what he had done. But as I told him, falteringly, about what was happening, his eyes exploded with rage at my gruesome ‘lie’. He began to shout above my pleas, then, not being able to quieten me, he slammed his fist into my mouth, splattering my lips through the gaps of my teeth. He did not want to hear it, and it only made my punishment worse. I knew then that I could never tell anyone. I was utterly alone.

  I was still wetting the bed every night and being taken out to the beating shed every morning. If I had extra scratches and bruises, my father didn’t notice or care.