Nipper (20 page)

Then he shuts the door and the other teachers follow suit. The girls have gone off somewhere – they should be in class but they’re dodging teachers and skipping lessons.

I put my head down and doze off again, as I’ve hardly had any sleep at home with all the shit that’s going on. The next thing I know I’m inside a boxlike object and am soaked from head to foot – and I mean everywhere. It’s pitch black.

I stand up real quick and pull this wastepaper bin off my head.

The girls have gone and filled this massive plastic bin with water to the top and dragged it up to my desk. I don’t have a clue how they managed to get it up above my head as it’s huge. Then they’ve planted it over me and run off down the corridor. I’m now standing there like a drowned rat, and seriously pissed off because I’ve been woken up a second time.

The door of the classroom flies open.

‘
What are you doing now?
’

Well, that’s it. I explode.

‘
Do you think I’d put a bin o’ water over mi ane hade. Yi fuckin’ idiot?
’

Frenchy’s mouth opens and his jaw drops.

‘What did you just say?’

‘ARE YOU DEAF AS WELL AS FUCKIN’ THICK?’

‘Right boy, Mr Gleeson’s office.’

‘
I don’t give a shit
,’ I say, walking down the corridor to Gleeson’s office.

‘Sit there.’

‘
Shut up, you gimp
,’ I reply.

He knocks on the door and then goes into Gleeson’s office. While I’m waiting outside I’ve started to calm down and am now thinking of Dad and what he might do if I get suspended or, worse, expelled.

Frenchy comes back out and walks back towards his class, while I sit outside waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Through
the glass in the double doors from another corridor I see Natalie and Kelly being marched towards me by another teacher who has seen the girls running out of the corridor and stopped them to ask why they aren’t in class, then seen me soaking wet with the bin they launched over my head. He’s then put two and two together.

They come and sit beside me, laughing at the fact that I look like I’ve slipped in the swimming pool with all my clothes on.

‘Please don’t tell it was us.’

‘Dinna be daft. I never seen yiz anyway.’

‘I’m gonna get killed when I get home,’ Natalie butts in.

‘Not as bad as what I’m gonna get. Just tell them you were running because you needed a pee! It’s worth a go.’

Then the second teacher goes into Gleeson’s office and puts in his tuppence about the girls and comes back out.

‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at. He’s not in a good mood.’

‘I’m not laughing, sir, I’m nervous!’ Natalie says. She’s crapping herself but she uses the old laugh-and-it-might-go-away technique, like me.

Suddenly the door opens. Gleeson is standing there in his pinstriped suit, staring over his glasses that are perched on his big purple nose.

‘Charlie, you first.’

I stand up and walk in, closing the door behind me.

‘What’s happening with you, boy?’ His voice is very calm as he leans back in his chair.

‘Nothing, sir—’

‘Sit down.’ He points at a seat at the other side of his desk. ‘Sorry, carry on.’

‘I was outside Frenchy’s classroom—’

‘Let me stop you there – his name is
not
Frenchy.’

‘Sorry sir, I was outside Mr Henry’s classroom doing my work and someone put a bin full of water over my head.’

‘Was it the girls outside?’

‘I don’t know, sir, I never seen anyone as my head was in the bin.’

‘So you are telling me you never heard or saw anyone sneak up on you – two people with a massive bin.’

‘I was sleeping, sir.’

‘You don’t come to school to sleep, you come to learn.’

‘I know, sir, please dinna suspend me, my life winna be worth living if you do.’

‘What about the abusive language you directed at Mr Henry. No one in this school can talk to teachers like that.’

‘I know, sir, but he had already kicked me out the class for making one comment and then accused me of putting a bin of water on my own head. Are you gonna tell mi dad and suspend me sir?’

‘No Charlie, I’m not, but I can’t let you walk around in those clothes and catch a cold.’

‘Thanks sir, thanks a lot.’

‘Don’t thank me yet, son. I’ll be back in a second, wait there.’

He walks out of the office, leaving me confused as to what he meant, but it’s not long before I find out. Two minutes later he comes back into the office and hands me a box.

‘Put these on and leave your wet clothes over the chair,’ he says and goes out again.

What a good man, he’s given me clean clothes! Then I open the box and pull out some of the most old-fashioned, oversized clothes you could imagine.

There are brown flares with a 36-inch waist; a white and yellow flower patterned shirt with collars that nearly touch my waist; a pink and purple Paisley kipper tie four inches wide; and a pair of size-nine platform shoes. I have to tie the trousers with another school tie so they’ll stay up.

Fair play, he would rather humiliate me than get me done in, I respect him for that. Even so, I look like a total plonker.

It’s right on the lunch bell as I put on my last item, and my hair is slapped over my forehead like George McFly from
Back to the Future
.

Mr Gleeson comes back in and tells me I can pick my clothes up later and to keep my temper under control. I think he means my language.

‘Thanks again, sir!’

‘Stay out of trouble.’ I can tell he’s dying to laugh. ‘Go on, have some lunch.’

I walk out the office past Natalie and Kelly and not surprisingly they break down in fits of laughter.

‘What have they done to you?’ Kelly is slapping the bench. Tears are running down her face.

The small square outside the Head’s office is getting busy with people going into the dinner hall. I wait until the lunch hall is packed and then pick my moment. Gleeson may have thought he would embarrass me into behaving, but what he doesn’t know is that this is an excellent opportunity for me to be the centre of attention.

I stroll into that dinner hall with a bounce and a swagger in my step – just like John Travolta as he walks along the street in the opening scene of
Saturday Night Fever
.

‘Alright ladies?’ I say as I walk past a couple of the older girls.

The whole dinner hall is laughing – there’s even some wolf whistling and shouts of ‘Wayhey!’ Other people look on in bemusement, as if they thought I actually dressed like that.

It’s hilarious. I’m just glad no one has a camera.

I’m now into my teens and starting to go through puberty. I’ve met loads of new friends from school that I hang around with at night – but I’m only allowed to do so by Dad under very strict conditions.

At home it’s getting more like being in the army than living with a parent. Dad seems to have turned into a sergeant major overnight. School finishes at 3.45 p.m. and I have to be home by 4 p.m. or 1600 hours on the dot, or before.

There’s usually a period between when I get home at four and when I have tea at 6.30 p.m. when he isn’t drinking. It’s
like a respite period for me, except that I’m always waiting for the drinking to start up, so I can never relax. If I’ve done something wrong and he’s still sober, he’ll have a verbal go at me and then say, ‘I’m going to the VG for eggs.’ The VG is the local food store.

I think,
Here it comes
, and try and get as much food in me as I can, because I know what will happen when he gets back. Sure enough, he’s bought the vodka and soon the beatings start.

And now even if I’m just one minute late after four, once he starts drinking that is all the trigger he needs to unleash frenzied attacks on me for hours and send me to bed at twelve o’clock starving. But if I manage to make it home before 4 p.m. he’ll allow me to go out again after supper and stay out until nine o’clock, but with the same rules as before.

That’s out of the question this evening, though. It’s 4.04 p.m. on Tuesday, 11 July 1989. I’ve arrived home from school four minutes late and Dad is waiting for me.

H
e’s sober but he’s got that look in his eyes – wary, watchful, the lids turned down at the corners, the finger pointing. He could be on the warpath but I’m not quite sure.

‘What have I told yi about being late? I worry if you’re no in at the right time.’

‘Sorry, Dad, I wiz talking to Calum.’

‘Is that it, yi wir talking to Calum?’

‘I just lost track o’ time, Dad.’

‘I’m goin’ to the shops fir stuff fir tea, go and get cheenged.’

‘OK.’

He leaves the house and I head upstairs to get changed. I’m relieved and not really worried as he seems quite calm compared to normal, even though he’s just split up with Shelly again. He normally flips after Shelly leaves, as I think he enjoys hitting her more than me.

He comes back with his usual VG bag with stuff for tea and his voddy and Coke. He used to just drink a bottle every night but he’s now getting through a whole litre every night. It beats me where he gets the money to fund his drinking habit. I suppose he’s still crawling around the roofs drunk. I’m sitting watching TV after doing some dishes and folding clothes up that have dried on the clothes horse thing. While tea is on he’s getting stuck into the voddy drinking.

It’s very quick – he’s drinking down one glass after another. Maybe it’s an excuse for what’s about to happen.

He’s finished in the kitchen and brings two plates through, one each, and I get some forks and knives and salt and sauce.

‘There’s fucking dog hairs awar, fucking mutt.’

‘I’ll hoover up after tea, Dad.’

‘Yi could have done it when eh wiz in the shops, but it’s arite, yi’re gonna dae it after tea.’

He’s starting to get very sarcastic, always a bad sign, but he still doesn’t have an excuse to start anything.

Then I look down on my plate and think, shit! There’s a plum tomato slap bang on top of my egg and chips – the juice is all over it. He knows that every time I’ve tried to eat a tomato in my life, I’ve heaved and puked. He even tried to force-feed me one a couple of years ago, and I took a beating rather than eat it, as I’m allergic to them and can’t stomach them.

I pick a couple of chips from around the side, the ones with no juice on them, trying to act normal, but he’s seen me eating around it and places his fork and knife down on his plate.

‘What’s up, Charlie?’ He looks pissed off.

‘Nothing.’

‘What the fuck’s up now?’

‘I can’t eat tomatoes, Dad, I’ll puke mi ringer.’

He stands up and walks towards me. ‘Geeze yir plate then,’ he says, putting his hand out.

I pass the plate to him. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘No problem, I’ll just cook yir tea, don’t eat it, I’m loaded wi money.’

More sarcasm! Great! He’s still standing beside me with the plate in his hand. Then he says, ‘Come in the kitchen and pick something else.’

I stand up and walk towards him as he turns his back on me to go into the kitchen. I normally kept an eye on him when he’s drinking just in case he flips as most of the time his personality will change in an instant, but on this occasion he’s a bit annoyed but doesn’t seem too aggressive.

I look down to avoid standing on the remote control that’s on the floor. And as I look back up, the plate I’ve handed him comes crashing into my face, all over the wall and onto the dog-hair-covered floor. The tomato in my face is the worst thing, though, as I hate them as much as I hate him.

‘Yi will fuckin’ eat every last bit o’ that dinner.’

I don’t know if the plate has cut me or it’s the tomato juice all over my top, but I’m panicking like mad. And he’s at that drunk stage when he’s still quite strong but totally mental. He grabs the back of my hair and pushes my face towards the wall.

‘Eat it, yi ungrateful bastard. Lick the fuckin’ wa, clean it, eat it!’ he shouts.

‘Dad, please, I can’t!’ The thought of going near that tomato is making me heave.

Smash into the wall with my face again, one hand on my hair and the other on the back of my neck.

‘FUCKING EAT IT!’

I started licking all this slop off the wall.

‘Get the whole lot, yi cunt!’

I am ready to blow chunks.

‘Dad, please, I’ve had enough! I’m gonna puke!’

‘Oh look, yir food’s on my carpet. Get down there, yi bastard.’

Dragging me down to the floor by the hair.

‘Dad stop it, I’m gonna spew.’

Grabbing crushed up tomato and egg and ramming it into my face, holding my nose so I’ll open my mouth. The tomato’s covered in Bonnie’s hair.

‘Chew it, yi cunt, go on swallow, that’s it, chew it, tomatoes are good for yi.’

‘Dad, please!’ I say, choking and puking on the carpet and onto his hand.

‘Maybe if yi hoovered, then yi wouldna be chewing on dog hair now would yi.’ He notices the sick on his hand. ‘Yi dirty little cunt, yi puke on my carpet, now yi eat it.’

‘Please stop, Dad!’

‘What’s up? Do yi no like eggs?’

‘
Arrggg, what are yi dain this fir?
’ I scream at the top of my lungs.

‘Oh are yi gitin’ a bit o’ a temper now yir gitin alder. Go on then, I’ll give yi a free shot. Go on tough guy.’

He has taken one step back and put his chin out towards me. I just stare at him and never say anything.

‘Go on then, yi ken yi want ti. Come on, BIG MAN! Have yi found a few hairs on yir balls? Come on, hit me! I’ll tell yi one thing, yi’ll have to kill me.’

He walks towards me with his arms by his side, fists clenched as I walk backwards towards the living-room door. He kicks the door closed as I try to escape, so I’m now stuck in the corner, trapped like a lightweight being mauled by a heavyweight.

The punches are coming from all angles; kicks and knees are then added, and a few toe punts in the balls nearly finish me off. He just keeps hitting and stamping as I slide down the door, blood splattered all over the white gloss door and cream curtains.

It’s the longest hiding I’ve ever had; it goes on and on and on, getting more painful as areas are hit for the seventh and eighth time. As if that isn’t bad enough, he’s poking my eyes,
nipping the backs of my legs with his massive hands and biting my hands, so I’d stop trying to block the punches. The weirdo is even actually trying to stamp my balls into oblivion. I think subconsciously he is hoping to stop another generation of people that might turn out like him.