Little Tim, Big Tim (7 page)

The next day, at the Old Man’s insistence, I join the Army Cadets at school. Last week he had announced,

‘On Monday the Cadets are taking names for enlistment, I want you to remain after school and enlist into the Cadets. It will make a man out of you,
’ he laughed his cynical laugh.

I thought at the time that they would teach me to use a gun and I was well aware of who I wanted to use it on.

I stick to my plan and wait for the afternoon to arrive. I remain cheerful and co-operative throughout the day. When night arrives, it’ll be my last. ‘
Must post the letter,
’ I remind myself as I move to what is called the Cadet Q store—where all the equipment allocated to the High School Cadet unit is stored. The new recruits are organised into a line and I am placed at the end of it.

My turn finally arrives to sign my enlistment papers. Everybody has left; it’s just Captain Waters and I. I stand at his desk and he asks me to close the big steel door used to ensure no Army equipment goes missing. I obey his order and, before I turn, I know I’m trapped again. Once again I’ve been set up by the Old Man to please sick men’s desires. The usual transition develops and I am flung into the
Dark
, defeated again.

Peter passes me to suffer the most brutal of attacks.

With my back to him, I, as Peter, am grabbed and flung across his desk; he is twice my weight, so this is an easy feat for him. I find myself in a new position over the desk. The buttons of my shirt rip off as the back of my shirt is bunched at the back of my neck, my pants and underpants are unceremoniously pressed down around my ankles. He digs his fingernails into my back and rips my flesh as he pierces my bottom.

The pain in my bottom is secondary to the damage that is done to my back. His fingernails repeatedly run down my back and my hollers are inaudible to anybody as we are in a steel and concrete room. His last grunt brings an explosion within me. Something has gone off inside me. This explosion has ten times more value than the self-gratifying one he’s now recovering from; Troy has arrived.

Troy picks up items off his desk and brands him as we have just been branded. His name plaque is the first to make contact; next, the glass pin holder lands fair on his head.

‘Stop that you
’
re hurting me,
’ he whines.

Troy speaks.

‘No shit Sherlock, you just hurt me. Now open the door,
’ he orders.

‘Don’t tell anyone. No one will believe you,
’ he pleads.

‘No shit Sherlock. Open the fucking door,
’ Troy screams.

Our first swear word to an adult in our entire existence. Another force joins me and we taunt the sick little man, threatening to throw a dummy grenade at his head if he doesn’t obey our command.

‘Open the fucking door,
’the new, older and more controlled voice commands.

The door is now open eighteen inches wide; we make our move, throwing the dummy grenade smack into his forehead. As he falls like a bag of shit away from the entrance, he pulls the steel door open enough for us to escape.

‘
Don’t tell anyone, they’ll never believe you,
’ Troy taunts.

I look back at the crumpled mess Troy has caused and for the first time see my attacker as weak and insignificant. As usual, no one will believe me. Nothing can change the fact that he did attack us, but this time we attacked back! Something changed when the explosion had occurred. That something is the arrival of Mark, who stops the marks being made.

‘Where did I come from? Did I come from inside? Where am I?
’ Mark asks.

As Little Big Tim, I don’t know. I have a voice talking to me; and another is saying
‘thanks for helping us.
’

‘
You have not seen anything yet.’ I assure the other, not understanding why.

‘What do we do now?’
Mark questions.

Then Peter answers.
‘We go home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘I’ll show you.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I
’
m Peter, the pain holder. Every time Little Big Tim gets attacked like that
,
I come out and suffer the pain. A long time ago Little Tim couldn’t handle the pain anymore so he created me. Meeting you makes me feel that there is a drastic change in our world.’

‘I know two things. I’m here to stop the marks and I’m to stay here until Little Big Tim stops thinking about trying to kill us.’

‘Well that’s why Troy helped us in the storeroom; he must be part of the plan to stop the attacks.’

‘Who’s Troy?’

‘Troy carries our anger and can be naughty
;
which gets us a hiding. Can you stop us getting a flogging?

‘Does a hiding or flogging mark you?’

‘Yes, always.’

‘Well, yes, that’s what I’m here for. I’m to stop our body getting marked.
’

The conversation ends when we are standing outside a house. Peter tells me this is our house and that I sleep in the small room on the verandah. He says that it will be smart to go straight through the house to the back, get out of our school clothes and have a shower. When finished, go to our bedroom, put on pyjamas and wait to be called for dinner. I think, ‘this is a simple plan, I can follow this.’

I open the door and go through the house only to be caught by their Mum who inspects the shirt with the ripped buttons.

‘How did that happen, Tim?’
she asks.

‘A man did it.’

‘
Why do you always lie to me?
’

Her fury rises as she jumps off her seat to grab an item from the kitchen, which I suspect is to be used for punishment.

‘Now, tell me how your shirt got ripped and no lies this time. You have been fighting. I warned you about fighting. I told you the next time you were fighting you would get the jug cord
.
’

So that is what she is holding, a jug cord. I assess that those who use such an item against children must be quite sadistic and barbaric. I think to myself that this must be what I’m here to stop. She doesn’t believe me about the man ripping my shirt and, because she thinks I’ve been fighting—which always leaves marks on you—she wants to punish me by putting
more
marks on me! I don’t understand. She is sick.

As she swings the cord through the air, I stand stationary. I am not feeling intimidated as we have been over this a thousand times before. Somehow this woman believes she has this God given right to punish with impunity. The first whack impacts; I don’t murmur, flinch or cry, I vow no more tears. I, Mark, feel the pain. Peter is jubilant within which signifies that he is having his first reprieve from being the only one who feels pain. The sting on my flesh makes me feel happy inside—I know what to do.

With the second swing, I grab the cord and hold it firm. A tug of war with the cord begins; she pulls and I pull back. Although short, she is a large woman, and threatens me with more punishment if I don’t relinquish my right not to be belted. I win; the cord hangs in my hand. I grip it tightly, ensuring that it can’t be used against me.

Mum looks at me with a look you would give to a rabid dog that is out of control. But I am well in control of my actions; I am now taking control for all of us.

Our Mum is furious at this defiance and moves to strike me across the head with her hand. I protect myself with speed and agility that is only seen in Bruce Lee movies. My first words of defiance to my Mum are ‘
No! No! No! No! No!
’ I keep repeating that one word until she takes a step back and is now not invading our personal space.

‘It stops here; I will fight you every time you are going to belt me. I will fight you! It stops here today
;
tomorrow, forever
,
’
I decree.

‘Just wait ‘til your father comes home,’
she threatens.

She looks me in the eye for our usual reaction. There is none. No fear. I have no knowledge of what the statement ‘
wait ’til you father comes home’
means.

I don’t even know who our father is. Knowledge, yes, that he is evil and sadistic and the rest of us have been in a living hell with him, but no true understanding of the repercussions of Mum’s threat.

I assume that what our Mum can’t achieve, the Old Man will finish. If that threat means I am going to be punished, it won’t be happening this time.

I leave Mum standing in the kitchen, furious that I have won the battle. Repeatedly chanting the word ‘
no
’ over and over, I move to the backyard to echo my new understanding that
‘no’
finally means
‘no’.

The Old Man comes home and I sit on my bed in readiness for Mum’s threat to be carried out. But it isn’t me at the end of his wrath—it’s Mum. They are arguing into the wee hours of the morning. I curl up on my mattress, still in my clothes, and fall asleep.

The Old Man starts working nights and sleeping through the day. Apprehension is building inside me due to this pattern of behaviour. I sense, but have no memory of the different situations that can arise to create different forms of stress and discomfort. That night I find out. Our Mum approaches me and asks me to sleep in her bed tonight. I query the directive.

‘Aren’t I too big to be sleeping with you?
’

‘I don’t think so,’
is her short reply.

‘None of the boys at school sleep with their Mum.’

‘You’re not like the boys at school, you’re special.’

Alarm bells go off inside my head. ‘She said special, don’t let her manipulate you,’ is the clear warning from inside. I am fourteen, and that should be enough for the fact that I have outgrown Mum’s additional affection.

‘No, No, No. I’m too old to sleep with you,’
I take control.

Mum’s face displays devastation. She tries to shame me into retracting my firm refusal. Her ploys don’t work and I feel another energy join me. It’s Shane and he appreciates that I am controlling Mum’s attempt at shaming us.

‘Who’s been there for you and loved you all your life?
’ is one of the comments Mum tries out.

‘Who brought you into this world and nurtured you and nursed you when you have been sick?’

Another ploy.

‘Where would you be if it wasn’t for me?
’

A common tactic.

None of them work. After each attempt to present an argument, we answer with one word:
‘No!’
She gives up and leaves me in my room.

About thirty minutes pass and I’m trying to understand how to do this schoolwork, having no school background or learning experience. Shane helps me because he says that it’s extremely important to know the work. No time to be idle; times tables first, writing and spelling next. It’s hard work just learning, but harder still to accept that I am learning stuff that a five-year-old can master.

Mum returns to our bedroom and, in a very arrogant fashion, she announces,

‘I don’t need you for cuddles, James will cuddle me anytime I like
.
’

She slams my bedroom door and another energy joins Shane and I. Shane explains that it’s Gary the guilt holder. The guilt is that James is suffering what we refuse to endure. Could we have stopped his suffering, maybe? This is the only way Mum can show love, as so called ‘cuddles’.

At this point, my understanding of love can only be explained as abuse. So the more abuse, the more misconception we form as to what love feels like. Jealousy moves through our energies. I’m jealous that Mum chooses to love James more than me.

The last fragment of a bond with James is cut. She manipulates the situation to turn us against each other. One blessing does come out of it; when I said
‘no’
to Mum about being belted, she stopped belting James too. However, her assaults on my younger sister become more ferocious and severe.

The Army Cadet Camp is on but I don’t know that I am meant to attend. Although there is Army gear in the comer of my bedroom, I have no idea that the Old Man has signed us up and collected the gear and equipment from the officer who raped Little Big Tim.

The Old Man tells me to be ready tomorrow morning to go to Army camp. He has gotten to the stage that he doesn’t look at me when speaking to me. This is a form of intimidation he uses since I stood up to Mum. I think it is bizarre that he behaves this way but I can’t be complacent because I know he is still pulling strings behind the scenes.

The camp is held in Megalong Valley; the set up takes all evening to complete. I just begin eating out of my first ration pack and am enjoying the experience when the corporal in charge approaches.

‘When you finish, the boss wants to see you.
’

I front the Cadet Officer and immediately recognise him as the one who attacked us. He starts intimidating me by telling me that no one will believe me, and he can choose to do anything to me whenever he wants.

‘Try it. I will eventually fuck you up,’
I promise.

He is shocked. I assume that the Old Man has portrayed me to him as an easy hit, but I am that no longer.

‘Return to your sleeping spot. I’ll guarantee that I will be the one that fucks you up,’
he threatens.

This threat seems idle in comparison to what our body has suffered. I suspect that this man will not place himself in a personal battle with me; I am right. The next morning I become the brunt of bastardisation that is extremely minor; others might think the torment I am enduring is severe, but they haven’t experienced what I have undergone since the age of five.