Little Tim, Big Tim (2 page)

‘Stop running in the house,’ Nasty Mum orders.

‘
Where’s Tina, Mum?’
I ask about our family pet.

‘Oh the dog got run over by a car, she died.
’

Her callous method of informing us that Tina is dead leaves me stunned. When our last dog was killed,
Nice Mum
sat me on the edge of her bed and gently told me that the family pet had gone to heaven and that we would all meet one day and be a family again. I sat on her bed and cried and she held me and hugged me until the tears subsided. I longed to be hugged right now, yet, she offers nothing. The sharp pain in my little heart overwhelms me and the place of many colours greets me. I glimpse
Peter
who moves into the sad place where Tim just can’t be. I call him Peter because Peter starts with ‘P’, as does Pain.

I’m
Peter
I deal with any pain, even pain from losing my pet.

I help Little Tim shelter himself from all types of pain, even emotional pain. I get into trouble a lot when I don’t answer to Little Tim’s name, for as Peter the pain holder, (as Little Tim decides to call me) I realise that the people around me in this family see my face and call me Tim. Now that there are two of us, Little Tim remains inside and I talk to him often, sometimes aloud. Family members comment that Tim is talking to his imaginary friend; we never tell them it’s the other way around or that it isn’t in our imagination; we are real.

Little Tim doesn’t remember that I arrived when he had the meeting with the angel. He forgets that someone had to be responsible for keeping us breathing. When the people in the hoods attacked us at that place, I was created. Created to take the pain of the attacks and hide the memory of what we suffered. Most of the time it works, however, sometimes I can’t hide all the pain from Little Tim. I now occupy the body full time but am not prepared for the next attack on our bottom.

Little Tim and I are talking to each other in the backyard. Our favourite spot is by the back fence. We pretend that we can walk through the fence like it’s a waterfall with a cave on the other side. In this cave we are safe and no one can find us. Our Dad calls our name.

Little Tim answers when I hesitate, being afraid of the pain that I am expecting. I’m always expecting pain. Little Tim runs inside to be greeted by
Nice Dad
, who gives us a hug; a sign that pain is around the comer for me. However, Little Tim believes it to be genuine. Dad is never really affectionate unless he wants us to co-operate. He’ll be all sugar and spice until he has us in the car and then suddenly he’ll turn nasty.

James and ‘Us’ (Little Tim and Peter) sit in the back of the new car and silently stare out the window, for now Dad is nasty and whatever the destination, there is surely to be pain. Within these situations the fear ultimately creates a battle of who is to be exposed to the disgusting acts that men want to do to us.

We are both aware of the entrance to the place; this one is to a church member’s house who has offered to teach us how to play the guitar. Apparently this is all the information that is required for our Mum to give approval for her sons to be molested.

The house is set back from the street with a lawn covering the area from the little fence bordering the footpath. The steps adjoin the side of the building and the open front door allows entry to a small alcove where a stand for a telephone is placed. Numerous piles of magazines abut the wall.

A bookcase lining the wall is overfull with Christian-related books. The Bible has been placed prominently on top of the bookcase, and a guitar rests against it. I hope that maybe we just might be taught how to play guitar. However, as usual, we are the playthings.

James is taken into another room and we hear his muffled screams. Little Tim practises his escape into his kaleidoscope of colours; I beg him to remain with me as long as possible before escaping into his special place. He promises he will and does his best until James sits down next to us and rubs his naked body against us. His rocking motion and whimpering, trembling form is enough for Little Tim to escape and leave me alone again to face the torment.

Dad takes me into the other room. He looks at the man sitting on the bed and then nonchalantly states that he is going to make a cup of tea. He leaves me there standing at the bottom of the two stairs that lead into the room. The bedspread is an orange colour, but still doesn’t hide the stain-a result of the recent injury to James’ bottom.

The sweaty man pats the bed next to him. I remain still as the overpowering smell of dirty socks fill my nostrils. He pulls me to the bed and lifts me onto it next to him. He grabs my little hand and puts it on himself. It gets bigger. He forces my head onto himself and makes me put it in my mouth. I gag; he doesn’t remove it.

My eyes begin to water and I feel sick, I want to vomit but I’m choking too much. He finally lifts my head and cradles me in his arms, pulls my pants down, and lowers me onto him. As I let out a yelp of pain, he quickly covers my mouth and bounces me violently up and down.

My mouth muffled, tears stream down my face. The attack finally stops when the fat sweaty man makes a loud grunt. He lifts me off and leaves me to lie on the bed that now reeks of his stink. I want to move out of this stench, but am comfortably numb.

My father yells at me,

‘Stop being disgusting and get dressed and wait with your brother’

The two men laugh at my predicament as I try to find my clothes that have been thrown around by the sweaty man. A screech of brakes outside the house hastens my effort.

Little Tim, after he has returned from the space of many colours, is concerned about James. I adjust to the pain and run to the place where James had been left. He is investigating the screech of brakes. He has used a chair and opened the front door and is now nursing a dead dog by the side of the road. The dog belongs to the house where we had just been used as sex toys.

As I reach my brother and sit next to him with my arm around him, a police car pulls up beside us. The nearest police officer gets out of his car and checks the dog. He realises the dog’s neck is broken and gently informs us that the dog is dead. He asks us if we own the dog. James just replies that the bad man owns the dead dog and points to the house of the man who has just raped us.

‘That’s the bad man’s house
,
’
James squeezes out between sobs.

The police officer returns to his car and the driver parks their car and steps onto the footpath. Dad and the bad man are moving towards us. Little Tim warns me that we are in trouble now. I don’t care; I am hoping that James’ comment is going to be investigated. The police officers question our Dad and the bad man.

‘What do you think these boys mean when they call you bad?’
the police officer queries.

A short pause and the bad man being questioned answers with,

‘They probably feel I’m bad for not looking after the dog better and letting him out to get run over’

The police officers look at the men and at each other and accept the explanation.

I am hoping they will investigate further and enter the house where they would see our blood on the bedspread, and just maybe we would be removed from such a sadistic, sick father. Instead we get sore bottoms on the inside and the outside. Dad flogs us with the jug cord because of James’ attempt to get us saved and in a safe place.

‘Dad you’re bad, I’m going to tell the next big person that comes to the door that you’re a bad daddy,
’ Little Tim threatens.

‘Alright, I will lock you in a cupboard when other people are around if you’re going to be bad,
’ Dad conveniently twists the threat.

‘Don’t tell people I’m bad, I’m not bad. Bad people hurt people. I don’t hurt people, do I Dad?’
Little Tim pleads for absolution.

‘Sometimes.’

It is pointless to try and understand the mind and dialogue of Dad, who has the capacity to be nice or nasty whenever the whim reverses his character. Little Tim quickly retreats, expecting some repercussion for back-chatting our Dad. I am propelled to the surface; however, I too refuse to be known or capable of being bad. Bad is sick; and I want nothing to do with being sick and bad like the men that hurt me. We are aware of the difference between good and bad; we live with Nice Mum and Nice Dad; they’re good and the nasty ones are bad. Maybe when Mum and Dad call us bad, they’re talking about someone else.

The repercussion from the backchat presents itself. The blank stare that is etched on Dad’s face turns into an apparition that represents a demon incarnate. His grip on my arm severely smashes the muscle to the bone. The bruises that are forming from his fingertips digging in are leaving an impression that will last for weeks. I will have to wear long sleeves so he doesn’t confuse me by asking how the bruises appeared. On his return, Little Tim will see them but will have no memory of how they arrived. He will disregard them and give them no credence, hence the need to cover up-a strategy utilised to protect us from Dad’s irritation when we tell him he has inflicted the damage he’s enquiring about. He will never accept that he has caused the bruising. His irritation always overloads, leading to him turning into Nasty Dad. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t—hide the evidence and learn to forget.

My face is pressed into the backboard of the punishment cupboard. Strangely the new source of pain is welcomed as my limp arm is released and the blood starts to flow to the extremities.

The punishment cupboard is a solid piece of furniture; it stands five feet tall with two sides. One side’s usual purpose is for hanging up clothes and the other side has drawers. Two full-length wooden doors secure it; both of which are locked. To kick the doors just damages the toes, (another prerequisite on entering the dark space is to violently have my shoes removed). I sit at the bottom of the cupboard and try to look at our Dad’s face, wondering who has taken over our Dad’s body. He never looks back at me.

I’m angry but Little Tim begs me to stop being angry. Unusual! Little Tim is never in the cupboard with me. His presence starts to soothe me.

‘Peter stop being angry, we will get in trouble.
’

‘I don’t care, we are always in trouble.
’

‘Maybe we can change that. Go to sleep Peter, it’s always better after a sleep,’
Little Tim suggests.

On the bottom of the cupboard floor, with my knees pressed into my chest, my lower limbs have been numb for hours when I’m awakened and startled to hear another little voice in the cupboard that doesn’t belong to either Little Tim or me.

‘My name is Troy—I’m the bad boy!’

‘You two are a sorry sight. Little Tim, you’re too scared to get into trouble and Peter the pain holder, you’re too scared of the pain if we do. Okay, so we are angry and it’s my job to be angry.’

Troy starts kicking his feet into the floor of the cupboard; it hurts our heels. I join in and we both giggle with glee at the loud sound we are making. Little Tim slips away again. Finally exhausted, I start to slip into the safe space and I don’t return until later, when I hear Troy banging saucepans.

I’m Troy. I’ve collected the saucepans and lids, from Mum’s cupboard and I’m outside the back door when Little Tim and Peter arrive to have some fun. Mum yells to stop but I convince the other two to keep going and tease her.

‘Okay, you bad boy, wait ’til your father gets home,’
she threatens.

I don’t understand the gravity of the threat. The other two stop and beg me to do the same. I continue to make a racket and enjoy the sounds I am making. Suddenly I’m ripped up from my seated position and the others are pleading with our Mum.

‘No Mummy, no Mummy, no Mummy, I will be good,’
they hysterically cry.

Mum pushes us headfirst into the cupboard that stores the saucepans. She kicks us in until we realise that we can’t escape this confinement. We push the pots to either side of the cupboard, but still have some resting on us, in order to fit into this cramped space. Mum kicks our feet once more so that she can close the door and leaves us to be in darkness. I am bloody angry.

Little Tim and Peter the pain holder plead with me not to create any more trouble. I agree and whisper what I would like to do to her. I saw on a cartoon how Tom and Jerry had a fight in their kitchen. Jerry the mouse grabs the fry pan and clobbers Tom the cat in the face. The impact stops Tom dead, until his body starts vibrating from the top down to eventually bounce on his heels. Finally, Tom comes to a stop and then he starts chasing Jerry again. I explain my memory to Little Tim and Peter. We all giggle.

Hours pass and Little Tim escapes into the space of colours. Peter and I whisper quietly to each other how we want to hurt our parents for being so cruel, but that it will never eventuate because we are too small and too young. Then suddenly something strange happens. We are suddenly awakened from our uncomfortable sleep in the cupboard.

Our Mum is calling out Little Tim’s name as if she doesn’t know where we are. Peter tells me,

‘Don’t be bad or we will have to stay here longer.
’

The cupboard door opens and our Mum announces,

‘
Oh, there you are! Have you been hiding from Mummy? Out you come.
’

We move slowly out of the cupboard and hurry quickly towards our bedroom. On the way to the bedroom, Mum warns us not to tell Dad that we spent the afternoon in the saucepan cupboard. This is the last thought I have for some time.

Our parents have leased a delicatessen/milk bar. The deli has a meat slicer that sits prominently on top of the stainless steel counter. The shiny steel implement gives me the chills as it too is added to the dimension of torment.

I decide to attempt to steal some lollies out of the shop but as soon as we have the lollies in our pocket I find my hand being forced onto the cutter by my father. As the blade spins to full rotation I think I should leave the bad stuff to Troy to do because I’m always getting caught. Dad freaks me as a hysterical laugh escapes his chest; fear switches Peter and Troy to the surface.

Troy and I push away hard from the rotating cutter to be flung down the hallway and dragged into a broom cupboard. This isn’t the first time we have visited the broom cupboard, so we are quite aware that if we sit down, the door will open. So we stand up rigid to ensure the door doesn’t unintentionally open because if it does, a flogging will ensue. Today’s nightmare is yet to climax.

We spend the whole day standing rigid and wishing the cramps away. Little Tim is still in the space of many colours. The door creaks open and suddenly we are being dragged to the front of the shop. Wrapped and unwrapped lollies are being forced violently into our face. Whilst shovelling the handfuls into our mouth, bruising our lips, our Dad is commanding us to never steal lollies again and to repeat back that we wouldn’t touch the lollies.

I’m too petrified to open my mouth and Troy is rightly pissed off and refuses to answer. This insolence infuriates Dad who grabs our little hand and presses it onto the hot flat griller. I screech out in pain as the flesh of my palm emits an odour that I have never experienced. Troy has disappeared as he realises his bad behaviour has got us damaged again.

I slam my foot down onto Dad’s foot and kick his shin repeatedly, as Troy has taught me. I finally rip my hand away from Dad’s grip and race out into the street. My whole palm is a solid blister.

Troy convinces me to go to the end of the street and speak to the lady that is nice to us. We were playing down the street outside her house a couple of weeks ago and were talking to ourselves. She invited us in for a drink and some biscuits. She surprised us by looking us in the eye and saying, ‘
bringyour friend
’. Maybe she is like us and has other friends inside her that she speaks to. She isn’t surprised about our peculiarities and we are surprised that she isn’t, and this makes us feel safe.

Troy and I enter the nice Greek lady’s house and smell the strange scents in the kitchen that belong to the European cuisine that this family get to enjoy. It isn’t biscuits of the Australian type, but thick sticky pastries that are neatly arranged in front of us on the kitchen bench. She smiles at us as we perch ourselves on the stool at the end of the bench. Our hand is tucked away in our pocket—the pain is excruciating. Mustn’t let her see our hand, or we will get into trouble.

‘Tim, have a biscuit,’
the nice Greek lady offers.

Little Tim surfaces and is disorientated and goes to pick up a biscuit with our burnt hand. He freaks and starts howling as he stares at our damaged hand like he is seeing it for the first time. He screams at the blistered flesh.

The Greek lady places her large gentle hand under ours and proclaims that she should call our parents.

‘Your Mum’s a nurse isn’t she? She needs to look at it.
’

Our world crumbles in again as she speaks to our Mum about our injured hand. She hangs up the phone.

‘Your Mum is on her way. How did it happen?
’ she enquires.

Troy quickly tells her that Dad has done the damage. She looks shocked and says nothing. Shortly, there is a knock at the door.

We sit on a stool at the bench where the foreign food is displayed, the stool closest to the open back door. Mum is following the Greek lady into the kitchen. The lady asks Mum if her husband was capable of inflicting such damage. Mum quickly goes to Dad’s defence and tells the lady that I have damaged my hand with firecrackers.

Our little heart sinks again as another opportunity to escape fades away. We walk behind our Mum up the street, well aware of the flogging that is coming our way. Little Tim escapes again; we get the jug cord for our lie against their reality. The pain becomes excruciating. Troy is ‘in the cupboard’, which is his retreat space, and Little Tim is in the space of many colours.

Later in the evening, Mum starts to bandage the hand. Once finished, she allows us to snuggle into her and be cuddled. Her warmth assists the pain level, but it is short-lived; as our Dad enters the room she quickly kicks me to the other end of the couch, so as not to meet his disapproval.

We leave Mum appeasing Dad’s wishes and sob in the boys’ bedroom until we exhaust ourself to sleep. We awake later in the night to watch James start a fire in a KFC bucket. He is using shoes to try and suffocate the flames as they grow larger and out of control. He stops and all three brothers watch the fire making. No attempt is made to put it out. It has just started licking the curtains and as the fire is about to gather momentum, Dad rushes in and rips the curtains down, opens the window and throws the KFC bucket and curtains out the window. He looks at us, stunned and accepting that the only defiance we have is to allow the fire to be our ‘fait accompli’. The numb expressions Dad faces brings fear to his eyes as he is forced to acknowledge that we are willing to die instead of being on this earth, as his toys. A small victory for us with a huge result—tonight there will be no flogging.

A week later we find Dad attempting to drown James in the bathtub. Troy runs to attack Dad and save James, only to receive a back-hander across the room. Dazed in our crumpled position, we are picked up and flung through the air to be dumped into the bathtub.

We don’t even struggle after the first few moments of realising he has complete control over our tiny body. Once again, the fact that we don’t struggle and accept an early death confuses our Dad into ceasing the attack. In the past, Troy would bite Dad’s hand and we would end up battered and bruised, also raped; and this act proves that Dad can do anything to us whenever he chooses.

The more we have control over Troy and his anger, the better off we are when it comes to survival. Ironically, the less we fight back and the more we accept death as an escape, the less amount of damage we suffer. This strategy works for some time.

On our seventh birthday Little Tim refrains from recognising our birthday again, for on his fifth he was raped by a stranger and prefers not to be involved in birthdays; so inadvertently he remains five years old. At this period Troy also stops growing.

This doesn’t mean that they aren’t with me from time to time. They are, it’s just that from this recognisable point, they don’t age. They gather snippets of memory, but never long strains. I collect most of the memories of the sexual or brutal attacks. It’s a lonely period.

Our brother Stewart gets very sick and ends up in hospital with Hepatitis B. This eventually also presents another condition. He now suffers epileptic fits. This curse is a blessing, for now he isn’t taken for the horror drives to strange men’s houses. At the first indication that an attack is looming, the fear sends him into a seizure. His mind has found a way for his body to escape the nightmare.

The family is organising to move up into the Blue Mountains where it’s really cold. I hate the cold. However, at these times all family members are around each other to pack for the new destination. Troy, Little Tim and I try hard to have fun with our brothers and sisters. These strained relationships are difficult to maintain for as soon as we feel that we are bonding, the experience is destroyed by an inevitable forced isolation.