Chapter Two
One time, when I was a boy, I went out camping with Da. There was no choice. If it had become known to my mother that I had never truly wanted to go, there'd be questions, plenty of them, because what son doesn't like spending time with their Da?He left once it was dark, scavenged to the end of the woods. The sun had bid farewell early evening and the fire had gone out. I remained by the site, solitary, told to tend the tent because one of the sides, my side, had collapsed. It didn't bother me but Da insisted. "Ye can't risk it," and Da's word was always final "getting smothered in yer sleep." It still is final. Deeply, it wouldn't have mattered what happened to me that night; if I were to suffocate, drown, catch on fire, be savaged by a bear but Da, pretending to care; that's the closest we will ever come to love.
I was terrified, and for a while I felt alone, trapped in a desolate world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was one thing, I couldn't trust Da. And for that reason alone, I had no choice but to disassemble the tent. And I was fine with that part, but when it came to the reassembling, the pegs, the string, the poles and the sky lacking in light, it was useless. So I gave in. He may slap me once or twice, I thought, but I can take it. But I was wrong to be so stubborn.
When Da returned, I remember him, waddling like a penguin, arms so full with dampened branches that he was struggling to set path. I should've helped him unload but I couldn't, even if I wanted to. I was far too focused, not only on the heavy pounding of my heart but the chilling run of shivers down my spine, the rattling of my weary bones and Da, the sinister glare in his eyes and how inside of them, I could see the moon; a shining silver.
When the inevitable came, there was no other way to put it. My life, in the hands of my dear old Da. And I let him. It should have never been that way but I was too hungry and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let him beat me I thought. Or better still; let me die right here in the cold. My punishment for being "bad"; which of course I couldn't help then nor can I help now because it runs in the blood. Crunch went my bones and then the world stood still. The noise still haunts me to this day.
And so it was left to me, yet again, to explain the reasoning behind the prints of angry hands that marked my body from head to toe, some so severe, I feared they may never heal. And yet I was willing to take it all, if it meant a single finger could be spared from ever lashing my sister's soul. I could never let that happen to her; not Cheryl. Sweet, little Cheryl… who sat on our father's knee as he skimmed the Irish Independent, got toffee lumps stuck in her hair and nursed her many ragdolls to sleep. Brendan she named one of them. Brendan; with the ginger woolen locks and a dodgy eye. True colours would crush her like a grape, steal her innocence, so I kept the predicament a secret and I fell out of the tree; a great justification for a fractured wrist.
Other times when Da was either too tired or too sober to care, he could settle with a simple slash to the stomach. He knew I hated it more than the usual beatings. His pity; it made me sick. And so the case of generosity, as he liked to put it, went like this; air would be forced out from my lungs, and I'd be semi-conscious and wanting to surrender but my body, blue, purple and black, would refuse to give in. And so my heart would still be beating and my blood would still be pumping. So I would just lie there, battered and alive; left to face his beatings for another day.
My breath cut short, that's how I feel right now, trying to remember how to get back up from a knock when somebody beats you down. Someone, Noah, is waving his hand in front of my face, trying to signal for me to blink because I haven't done that for several minutes. There must have been a mistake. I'm not usually this lucky; for me there was no luck o' the Irish. I must have been the unluckiest tyke in Dublin. I've never won anything in my entire life. Not even a game of monopoly.
There are many pretty fields in Dublin if you know where to find them. My mother knew and in the summer she taught me ways to indentify the flowers that grew there and sometimes, when Da wasn't there, she'd tell me what each of the flowers stood for. On most occasions, she'd make jam sandwiches; homemade strawberry jam. "Daisy," she'd say, "innocence. "Honeysuckle," I'd repeat "generosity". Inside the fields you can roam freely. My mother didn't live a very free life, (God bless her soul), so I like to picture her there. Da found her on the floor one night in late September; she had frothy yellow stuff coming out her mouth and she never woke up. We lay white lilacs at her funeral.
Somewhere far away, I can hear Cheryl playing happily away in the fields. My cape flurries through, brushing past still blades of grass. They're standing tall like little soldiers. And then I see him through the parade because apparently it's home time. But I can't go home. Because at home is my mother's ashes, my father's temper and the empty whisky bottles that litter the living room floor. I think ever so deeply of home. Above the fireplace there's a family photo; me and Mam and Da and Cheryl. In the room the lights are out but the fire is alight. And the flames are attacking the coal like hungry sharks. And then I finally spot it. His eyes, staring dead straight at me. It's just a photo I try to tell myself but it's more than that. It's the detail, the hatred in his eyes that brings me back to myself.
"Brendan!" I hear a strangled cry erupt from behind me. I don't need to look to locate its owner but I do so anyway because life is so unpredictable that sometimes you can never be too sure. And I was right. It is Foxy. I find him staring at me and our eyes latch for several seconds before I abruptly pull away. It's not an "I'm happy for you mate" stare. It's an "I'm begging you please don't leave me," kind of stare. I've never seen him like this before; the puppy eyes, the sadness. But I can't do sympathy. Not when it's 'every man for himself' in this world.
When I turn back to face the front, I'm met by another pair of eyes. Clare Devine, she must have clocked it. That I'm Brendan Brady. I'm gestured to make my way towards the front of the stage and the crowd, the juveniles who earlier this morning were banging their doors and thumping their walls for attention, are so silent you could hear a pin drop. I'm spared the obstacle of fat, lanky, bony legs. All feet are drawn back and tucked neatly under chairs immediately. All apart from Danny Houston's. He always was a cast ironed fucker at the best of times. Even now.
When I'm finished mounting the steps, I'm welcomed by Fraser black and pushed centre stage. And then it's all eyes on me as they try to encourage me to take a bow. I don't. Why rub this in their faces more than I already have to? I get to leave. And you don't. No, I think. I'd rather keep my dignity.
"Ladies…" says Grace Black. I watch the eyes of the crowd roll. She clears her throat and starts again. "Gentlemen… your chosen representative." Nobody claps, they don't even try. It says we don't agree, it's unfair, so she pushes me further to the forefront. The envy here is awkward but I can't blame them. Not when the whole process seems so cruel. Give them hope and then take it back before it even gets a chance to sink in. "Don't hate me" I want to say. Hate England, hate its law. Hate yourself for breaking them. I look back at Foxy. The shock is still registering on his face, he's struggling to remain impassive but the grey eyes of fear give away his game, for I can tell of his sorrow.
Sam Lomax, the longest serving member of staff here at Feltham enters the stage. She looks at me, nods and then begins to read a long, dull reading on the history of Feltham, its institution and its young offenders. I'm not listening to a word of it. It's his fault. I think. Then I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter but it's useless because he's always on my mind. He had this hold over me, he still does. I think of the many tools he tried to break me with and how I'm still standing here, still breathing.
I think of how it came to this. How he forced us to leave our home in Dublin, to start a better life in London and how our mother's grave still remains there, no white lilacs laid in front of it. I think of the countless beatings and how in the end, he drove me to the unthinkable… and then before I reach any conclusion my thoughts are cut short at the thumping of a broken microphone in an attempt to get it working again.
Fraser Black finishes the reading. Apparently it's required because the passage tells of past offenders, who have longed for rehabilitation and managed to turn their lives around for the better. It's plausible but why bother? We're not those people. Some will never change. He motions for me to shake his hand and I do so, look him in the eye whilst he gives me what feels like a strong, affirming squeeze. Maybe he's just heavy handed, maybe the intention is not for consolidation at all.
I turn back to face the stage as the British national anthem plays:
O Lord our God arise
Scatter her enemies
And make them fall
Confound their politics
Frustrate their knavish tricks
On Thee our hopes we fix
God save us all…
Authors note: Thank you for reading. To anyone who reviewed the previous chapter, particularly any guests who I was unable to thank in person, thank you all so very much. :-) Your kind words mean the world.