2. Family Trouble
“You’ve got a job? About bloody time. How much are they paying you?” Mum never even asked where I was working. “I’ll need fifty a week off you for your keep.”
“Fifty a week?” It was less than I’d expected her to ask for. Quickly I followed up. “Okay, I can manage that.”
“Good. How are they paying you? Cash? Weekly? Or direct to a bank?”
“Bank.” Hesitating I added, “They said I’d be paid fortnightly and I’m on probation for the first six months.” Gene had explained that this meant I’d get twenty-six paydays in a year, meaning near enough an extra month in the year.
“Sounds like a good deal.” Putting out the supper plates, she said, “See if your father’s coming to the table. I’m exhausted, bloody store was a madhouse today and I need to put my feet up.”
I woke my father slumped in his battered recliner, trying not to breathe the stale booze fumes that seemed to envelop him.
“Wha ..? Oh, it’s you. Whadayawan’?” He slurred. He looked worse than usual, grey in the face and his eyes bloodshot. He’d not shaved for a day or two and not washed either.
“Mum’s got supper on the table. She said to call you.”
“Tell ‘er I don’t want any.” He growled. “Bring me a beer out of the fridge.”
As usual that sparked a row. I ate my meal in silence while my mother angrily banged on about ingrates, wasting her life, and swopped insults with my father between rooms. Damn, I thought, I have to make this job work just so I can get my own place and get away from this near-on nightly row. At least I wasn’t the target this time. That changed the moment mother dear announced I had a job.
“At least your son has a job! He’s making an effort — more than anyone can say about you!” She screamed at him.
“Don’t make me fucking laugh! That fucking stupid piece of piss got a job?” He bawled from the living room. “Doing what useless? Cleaning toilets? That’d suit you — you could eye up all the real men as they take fucking piss!”
That was bellowed loud enough for the neighbours to bang on the wall.
“I’m going out.” Pushing my chair back I put my plate in the sink and headed for the back door. That way I needn’t go past the living room and risk getting stopped by my drunken father. “Leave the dishes, Mum, I’ll clean them for you when it’s safe to come back …” I had the back door open and was gone before she could reply.
I instantly regretted not having my jacket. Typically, it was raining, and our back fence backs onto the house behind. It’s landlocked. There was no way I was going back inside now, so I got into the garden shed, out of the rain, and sat it out. The arsehole was asleep and snoring in his recliner, the two empty vodka nip bottles telling their own story as I crept upstairs to me own bedroom — the small box room over the front entrance as Mum had the back bedroom and left the shithead to his own devices in the front bedroom — stripped and crawled into bed.
I was on my way to work before the bastard had his headache together enough to start again. It was a game of cat and mouse from there on for the next week. Then it went pear shaped.
My father was waiting for me as I came in from work. He’d had a few and obviously worked himself up for a confrontation.
“What’s this shit? You’re not just a fucking bum-boy, but into this fucking sex toy shit as well? You sick little fucker …” He bawled at me as I took my jacket off. Waving a catalogue I’d brought home and hidden in my room, he stepped close, and before I could react with my arms still half in my coat, lashed out with his fist. “You sick fucking nancy-boy!”
I dodged most of the punch, but it connected just below my left eye and it hurt. As I reeled back, he came in for another, but I managed to get my arms untangled and countered. Now I was really angry, and I hit back. I’ve never raised my fists to anyone — I don’t like fighting as it’s usually me that comes off worse for it — much less my own parent, but now I was angry and hurt.
He’s bigger than me, heavier and it’s not all fat. If he’d been sober I’d have been in deep shit. More by luck than any skill I land a fist to his jaw, and as he staggered back, he tripped, fell backward and hit his head as he hit the floor.
“You’ll fucking pay for that,” he screamed as he struggled to pick himself up.
“Don’t fucking try it, you fucking arsehole!” I shouted back. “You fucking going through my room now? Stealing my stuff so you can flog it to buy more booze? Stealing Mum’s stuff too I bet.”
He was on his feet now and came at me again. This time I dodged the haymaker he swung at me, caught his arm and twisted. Off balance, he stumbled, twisting his arm some more. There was a loud ‘pop’ and he screamed, collapsing in pain just as Mum arrived home.
“What have you done?” She screamed at me.
“He fucking attacked me,” I shouted back. “He’s been going through my things and found a catalogue from my work.”
That stopped her for a second and she took in my now swelling eye and the livid mark on my cheek. For a moment she said nothing.
“Why?” She demanded. “Why did you hit him?”
“Because he’s a sick little fucker! Look at that.” He kicked at the catalogue where it had fallen, wincing in pain as he did so. “He had it hidden under his pillow …”
His face was grey with pain, but the look he focussed on me was so full of hatred I should have died on the spot.
My mother retrieved it and glanced at the cover.
“GearFet?” She read. “Where’d you get this?”
“I work for them.”
“You work … This is your job?”
“Look all I do there is pick and pack orders. It’s a catalogue and online business. That’s all …” I could see from her look that she was shocked, or maybe something else. She thrust it into my hands. “Go to your room and check. If there’s anything missing …” The expression she turned on my father was pure contempt. “And stay there. Don’t come down until I tell you … and put a cold compress on that eye and cheek.”
He’d gone through my room alright. He didn’t seem to care that I’d notice either. A thief would have left it tidy, but my father had made no effort to hide the fact he’d gone through my stuff — not that I had much anyway. He’d obviously also tried to get into my tablet, but that was password protected and he’d not got in. So, in anger, he’d obviously thrown it at the wall or the floor and damaged it.
Having washed my face and applied a wet cloth soaked in cold water to my face, I tidied my stuff and tried to calm down. From below I could hear the raised voices and tried not to listen, and eventually saw the flashing blue light outside. Expecting the police, I was relieved to see it was a paramedic and not the cops. He stayed a while and this time I eavesdropped, learning the old bastard had a dislocated shoulder which the paramedic managed to put back, gave him painkillers and told my Mum how to care for it.
Half an hour later I heard my father stumble up the stairs and slam his bedroom door. I stayed quiet in mine until I heard him slump onto his bed. Five minutes later there was a quiet knock on my door.
“Come down to the kitchen, Alexander,” my Mum said quietly when I opened the door. Her face was streaked with tears. “I’ve some supper for you, and we need to talk.”
She’d found the catalogue, and handed it to me as I sat at the table.
“Is this who you’re working for?”
“Yes, Mum.” I felt my cheeks burn. “And I’ve the money for my rent with me. I got paid today.” I put the envelope with the money on the table.
“Thanks.” Placing a plate of maccaroni cheese in front of me, she sat opposite me with her own food in front of her. “How did you get a job with them? What sort of job is it?”
“I pick orders and pack them for them.” I began. “There was a notice on the door of the premises. I saw it, rang the bell and they offered me the job after checking how old I am and asking a lot of questions. The pay’s good, they’re nice guys to work for, they don’t … try any funny stuff with me.” Apart from teasing me a lot, I thought. “I’m on probation with them for six months.”
“I see.” She was silent for a few minutes eating, then asked, “Have you tried any of this stuff?”
“No. At least, not yet.” Finishing my meal — mac-cheese is a favourite — I decided to go for it. “Look, Mum, there’s no use pretending. I’m a homo, a Gay. Dad was right, I’m attracted to men, not girls. I can’t change it.”
To my surprise she reached across the table, to touch my hand.
“I know, Alex.” She sighed. “I’ve always hoped I was wrong, or that you’d grow out of it — but …” Wiping a tear from her face, she gave me a smile. “You’ll always be my son.”
“I’m sorry, Mum.” Walking round the table I hugged her. “I’ll move out if you want me too. It’ll probably be best since I doubt Dad will ever accept me now …”
“You’re right.” She gave a small shudder as she suppressed a sob, her hand holding one of mine as I held her. “Don’t be upset, Alex. This has been coming for a while. Is there somewhere you can go tonight? It won’t be a good idea for you to be here in the morning.”
“Yeah, I can call my boss — he said if I needed …” I stopped. “But what about you? He’ll go bloody mental when he finds out I’m gone.”
“Yes, he will. But I’ll have the help I need, don’t you worry.” She pushed the envelope back to me. “Keep that, you’ll need it yourself. Think you can get all your things packed and out tonight?”
“All the things I really want to take, yes.” The envelope in my hand, I asked, “You really don’t want this?”
“No, I don’t. Phone your friend and get going.”
