It was getting dark by the time Fidel stopped at a small park. He didn’t fancy going to some sort of doss house for street kids. From what he'd heard they were tough and took drugs and stuff. Perhaps there was a sheltered spot beneath a small stand of trees and shrubs. But they were thin and surrounded a statue of Robbie Burns where a dozen or so guys and girls were lounging on the grass, smoking, drinking, making a noise. A girl asked if he wanted a fuck, only eighty bucks. He smiled, shook his head and continued down to the Queen Street Mall where smart people were queuing for the cinema, eating in restaurants, laughing and enjoying themselves with friends. He hoped the ache in his chest was loneliness, not an incipient heart attack and asked the way to Roma Street.
Feeling conspicuous wearing a rucksack, he crossed to the bare area in front of the Town Hall where mainly white youths wandered aimlessly. Someone was playing a clarinet. He crossed a busy street to a grassy park in which young people were sitting near a pond bordered by trees and rocks down which water tumbled like a real waterfall. There was a path leading up the hill through the trees. Surely he could find somewhere up there to curl up and rest, if not sleep. But as he moved towards it three police cars drove up, officers leaped out and started hitting the young people.
Everyone was shouting, it was too dark to see clearly and before Fidel could escape he was knocked to the ground, handcuffed, dragged to a wagon, thrust inside with a dozen other young people and driven to a watch house, where names were taken.
A tall, slender young man complained that the cops were racist—no one had been doing anything wrong. He was told to shut the fuck up and had his head slammed against a wall for his insolence. He dropped to the ground and lay moaning, blood dripping. A cop prodded him with his shoe and told him to shut the fuck up. No one dared assist him. Unable to bear it, Fidel shouted that he shouldn’t be there because he'd just been walking past; he didn’t even know these guys. A backhanded swipe broke his nose and he crumpled onto the concrete floor. In shock, he could only stare wide eyed as a large hand pulled him up by the hair and an acne-scarred face peered into his and said, ‘You're not a fucking black cunt. Who the fuck brought his guy in?’
Fidel was bundled out, followed by his rucksack that he only just managed to prevent skidding across the pavement onto the road.
Having been told he’d be locked up for life if they saw him again, he ran for his life, nose a swelling bloody mess. With no idea where he was, he ran blindly, tripped, sprained his wrist trying to cushion the fall, gashed unprotected knees on the concrete and lay sprawled in silent agony, head hanging over the edge of the gutter, unable to think of anything except the pain, the hopelessness, the sadness of…of everything.
A group of drunks staggered past, stepping over him.
It began to rain softly. Cars flashed past spraying dirty water, headlights briefly raking the still body as they carried their happy occupants back to warm and cosy homes.
Fidel’s head cleared slightly. He knew he was wet, getting cold and lying on the footpath, but didn’t want to move. ‘I’ll stay here until I die,’ he thought without sadness. ‘ I hope it’s soon.’ And then he thought of Hylas and tears welled. But still he couldn’t move. His head and wrist and nose ached so much it was hard to think about problems. It seemed easier to just lie still and try to remember everything in the hope of working out where he had gone wrong.
His first five years hadn't been too bad. His father had been home so his mother hadn't belted him around much—just an occasional thrashing with a length of plastic-coated wire and a few bruises on his legs, and a broken arm when she threw him down the steps, and some burns on the back of his hand when he didn’t bring the ashtray quick enough. But then a baby arrived, so they needed more money and his father got a job as a fly-in-fly-out mine worker way out west, which meant he was away all week, sometimes longer, and so tired when he got home he had no time to listen to Fidel’s problems as well as his wife’s complaints.
Fidel adored his young brother, Hylas, and by the age of seven had taken over most duties usually performed by a mother. Not that this saved him. It seemed that the more he loved his brother and the more he did to help his mother, the angrier she became. Sometimes she was almost nice, then suddenly he’d be told he was a nasty, wicked little boy and be sent to his room without dinner. He never got used to feeling hungry; that was worse than being slapped around the head. If he accidentally banged the spoon on his teeth when eating he would be sent from the table, or denied dessert. After every meal he washed the dishes. If he made too much noise or she found a spot on a plate, he'd have his head plunged into the hot soapy water until he was sure he was going to drown. But the worst thing was when visitors came and she told them what a naughty, horrible boy he was. The shame almost overwhelmed him because he always tried so, so hard to be good.
Fidel’s mother considered herself an honest woman who called a spade a spade, demanding that everyone take her as they found her; she wasn’t going to pretend to be what she wasn’t for anyone. The truth of that was never tested as she managed to never be found less than well groomed, or with her house in less than pristine order—thanks to Fidel. Her honesty extended to profligate generosity in sharing her opinions about everything from the behaviour of acquaintances’ children to their hairstyles, figures, sloppy housekeeping or taste in clothing. The reluctance of others to return the favour was taken as approval. On the rare occasion when someone dared to point out one of her shortcomings, she would laugh contemptuously at their jealousy.
Well aware of her unpopularity, she insisted that popularity was proof of sycophantic bootlicking. This allowed her to despise those who were popular. ‘Huh,’ she would snort dismissively, ‘I’d rather be unpopular than a greasy, crawling, smarmy, toady.’ It was inevitable, therefore, that her son, a natural empathiser who made whoever he was with feel good about themselves, should bear the brunt of his mother’s disdain. The more he tried to please her, the more vicious her response, justified by insisting that the world’s a nasty place and her duty as his mother was to prepare him for the future, not mollycoddle him into a false sense of security. ‘To survive you have to be tough,’ she declared on more than one occasion, ‘and that’s what I'm determined he’ll be!’
Fortunately for Fidel, the number of people who wanted to hit him for being too nice were outnumbered by those who liked—even loved his gentle determination to be decent at all costs. That he hadn't become a neurotic mess was due to his young brother, Hylas, who never tired of telling him he wasn’t naughty, it was their mother who was. Despite the risk of punishment, Hylas would always secretly take food to his adored brother when he was sent to bed hungry.
Fidel never cried.
It was Hylas who cried when his mother attached one end of a four-metre leash to his brother and the other to the clothesline, then proceeded to hit him with a heavy stick as he ran desperately around in circles in a vain attempt to escape the blows; his mother laughing, his brother screaming at her to stop. When her arm tired she wandered inside, still laughing while Hylas desperately struggled to untie the knot and comfort his brother who was too exhausted to do anything except squat on the ground, bleeding, bruised and shuddering. But not crying.
Over the last two years as he grew older and stronger, physical punishments were replaced by snide, carefully worded insults intended to undermine his self esteem and confidence. She was on the point of succeeding in both regards when that very morning she overreached herself and triggered the rebellion that saved him.
Sprawled uncomfortably on the pavement, getting wetter and colder, the realisation that at least he wasn’t at home caused Fidel to smile softly; his hurts temporarily forgotten. Perhaps he should just stay where he was. Uncomfortable, but happy—at least he’d never have to see his mother again. Happiness quickly turned to shame when he recalled his friend Tad, with whom he used to go to a private spot and with the innocent curiosity of youth, admire each other’s erections, compare sizes and jerk off. One day it rained and as Fidel’s mother would be at bingo, they went to his room. She returned early and caught them.
After slamming her fist into the side of her son’s head, she shoved the terrified Tad out the door, tossing his clothes and schoolbag after him. Then in silence she gathered up all her son’s clothes and meagre possessions, including his bed linen, carried it out to an aluminium garden shed and threw them in. ‘This is your room now you evil, nasty, wicked little boy! Filth like you will never sleep in my house. And if I see you speaking to, touching or even looking at your brother, you perverted creep, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life!’
Hylas—the only person Fidel loved in the world. The only thing that had made his life bearable. Fidel felt his life had ended. From then on he became an automaton, refusing to think, to feel, to question; kept going only by the thought that one day he would be old enough to run away. To this end he procured a small rucksack and kept it stocked with spare clothes and biscuits.
When his father came home he was permitted to have a mattress, but no light. Every morning he filled a basin with cold water from the garden tap, took it into the shed and washed himself thoroughly. Apart from banishment to the shed for sleeping, life continued much as before; he still had to clean the house and do the dishes. When he started high school he was allowed to sit at the dining room table to do his homework, and if his father was home, watch television. At school he learned to use computers, joined an Internet afterschool club, and usually managed to anticipate his mothers moods, escaping to the shed when danger loomed, where his father had finally rigged up electricity so he could read in an atmosphere that was almost cosy with pictures on the walls cut from magazines.
Imperceptibly, this life began to seem normal. It was cold sleeping in the shed, but he was young and fit and didn’t suffer unduly. His mother got a job, so after school he and Hylas secretly took up where they left off, making sure they were never together when their mother returned.
Unfortunately, she didn’t enjoy working in a factory, and when at home returned to taking out her frustrations on her son—muttering while he worked that he was a useless, ugly wretch, a perverted queer fit for the gallows, enumerating the dreadful things she would to do to him if she was certain of not getting caught. Despite the nightmares this triggered, Fidel refused to let her see how much he was affected, which was perhaps a pity. Like all torturers she needed a reaction and the lack only encouraged her to redouble her efforts. People like that don’t admire fortitude, bravery, decency, goodness…these are things they smash to prove their superiority.
Fidel turned fifteen and was halfway through Year Ten and doing reasonably well when one evening, instead of accepting his mother’s insults and vile innuendo, he told her to shut up because he was sick of her insane ranting. She had the problem, not him, and should go and get her head shrunk. She said nothing, merely looked at her son with half-closed eyes, a slight smile twitching at shiny lipsticked lips.
Fidel’s heart pounded. Now he’d done it. That smile was more frightening than a punch in the head. He took his fears to bed and slept badly.
Just before sunrise the following morning his mother let herself silently into his shed, ripped off his duvet and straddled the mattress. He woke with a start and stared up in horror as she lifted her nightgown and sprayed hot urine over his naked body. He scrambled away, cowering in a corner, sick from shock, nauseous from the stench. She laughed, lowered her skirt and, humming something tuneless, wandered out.
Fidel scrubbed and scrubbed himself under the tap as if trying to remove his skin, then returned to the shed, dressed, checked his rucksack, went quietly out, closing the shed door behind him, then tapped on his brother’s bedroom window.
Cold, wet and pain dragged him back to the present.
‘That was only this morning!’ he shouted into the blackness. ‘It wasn’t a dream! It happened and…and…If I fall asleep I will die,’ he whispered. ‘I must go to sleep!’ But he couldn’t. Instead, his body began to shiver to maintain warmth—determined to stay alive despite urgings from the brain, which in its turn refused to maintain the barrier he had so bravely constructed to contain his emotions. Like a dam bursting, fifteen years of tears he had refused to shed, flowed over his cheeks into his mouth, over his neck and into the gutter to join the rainwater on it’s way to the sea.
Traffic had slowed slightly to an occasional car and when the episode ended he decided he was being a bit stupid to just lie there, so tried to push himself up, but the pain in his wrist made him fall back and consider other options.
A vehicle slowed and almost stopped. Hope of rescue set his heart pounding, only to be dashed when it continued on its way. A few seconds later it backed up, the passenger door opened and a woman got out, took a look and called, ‘He’s not drunk, Sanjay, he’s hurt! Come and help.’