Homecoming Page 3

  ‘I’m home,’ he called out in a cheery voice.

  ‘Good day Davey? Learn anything new?’ came his mother’s voice, still flat and distracted.

  ‘Oh you know. The usual. Not too bad.’

  ‘Make sure you get your homework done before tea,’ that was his father, and it was in the same dull tone as his mother.

  ‘Ok will do.’ He kicked off his shoes and ran upstairs to his room. Although the door to the lounge was wide open, at no point in their brief conversation had either of his parents turned from the TV to look at him. Again they asked all the right questions, but Dave felt he could have told them he had raped and murdered all the girls in his class and they wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.

  He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. He had never seen his parents like this. Even after the funeral when the house was deathly quiet and no one had felt much like talking, they had still been attentive; especially his mother. But this…….this was different. Dave was no scholar in grief, but he was sure that two grown adults to go into a state of almost catatonia wasn’t usual practice.

  Dave must have laid that way for over an hour, when he heard his mother’s ghost like voice drift up from downstairs.

  ‘Dave. Dinners ready.’

  ‘Ok. Just coming.’ He got up and went into the bathroom for a quick wee. The evening had started to close in so he clicked on the light. POP! The light flicked off as soon as he pulled the switch.

  Shit! Bulbs gone, he thought.

  Not really thinking, he went back into his bedroom and took the bulb from his side lamp. He was only ten and had never changed a bulb before, but he had seen his father change bulbs many times; how hard could it be? And anyway, the way his parents were acting at the moment, Dave didn’t think that letting them change a light bulb was really the best idea.

  He jumped up on the side of the bath where he knew he could just about reach the light. He gently grabbed the blown bulb, pushed up and gave it a gentle twist. He was surprised at how easily the bulb came away. Getting the new bulb in however was nowhere near as easy. The bathroom was near dark now and just locating the bulb slot was problem enough. Every time he thought he had it in the right position it would not hold when he tried to let go. Thinking that perhaps more force was needed he gave the bulb a much harder push, but this time he heard a worrying crack come from the light fitting and felt something – presumably plastic from the fitting itself – fall on his cheek. Not really knowing the workings of a British light fitting he reached up to feel what damage had been done.

  The next few seconds are a blur to Dave, he remembers vividly his whole body ‘buzzing’ like a human pneumatic drill, but after that everything was a little vague. His next recollection is coming to on the floor of the bathroom and hearing his father’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

  ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’ his father said, the voice still not registering much above a 0.5 on the surprise scale.

  Dave didn’t - couldn’t - answer and just lay where he was.

  His father pushed into the bathroom and surveyed the scene.

  ‘What in god’s name have you been doing up here?’ he asked. His voice at least now registering an element of surprise.

  ‘The bulb had blown…………tried to change bulb,’ he croaked from where he lay.

  ‘You completely smashed the whole fitting. Are you stupid? You could have killed yourself! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!’ his father was now yelling. ‘YOU COULD HAVE KILLED YOURSELF!’

  ‘I…………I…………I was just trying to change the bulb – trying to help. …..that’s all.’ It wasn’t the fact that he had just electrocuted himself that he was having trouble with. It was his father’s reaction. Far from the loving, caring parent witnessing a horrifying accident and going from concern to anger. His father had waded in straight with the anger, and to Dave seemed to be boiling over into something much more sinister.

  He grabbed Dave by the hair and pulled him onto the landing. Bending down, faces almost touching, Dave got a whiff of stale coffee breath as his father bellowed at him.

  ‘TRYING TO HELP WERE YOU? DO YOU THINK I NEED ANY HELP DAVEY BOY? WELL DO YOU.’

  ‘N…N…No. I was just……..,’ he tried to answer, but was cut off.

  ‘NO. EXACTLY. HELP IS SOMETHING YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY GIVE ME DAVEY BOY!’ spittle was now flying from his father’s lips, smattering his face. ‘AND I THINK YOU NEED TO REMEMBER THAT!’

  ‘Dad……..I’m sorry……………I’m so sorry, I was really just trying to help. I really was.’ Dave was crying now. Long hard sobs that made it hard to breathe let alone talk.

  ‘Oh I BET you are truly sorry David. I BET you are,’ his father was now speaking through his teeth in an evil sneer that Dave liked even less than the bellowing. ‘But I don’t believe you are sorry enough David………. Not sorry enough at all.’

  David’s father had never before laid a finger on him. No smacking. No clips around the ear. Nothing. He had been disciplined in the past when he had stepped out of line; sent to his room; grounded or maybe given a severe dressing down. But nothing like this. A part of David felt relieved that he was still dazed from the electric shock because a lot of what happened over the next ten minutes was as much of a blur as the accident itself.

  His father had lost it, really lost it. In a manoeuvre that David would come to witness far too much over the next few years, he had whipped his belt from his trousers in one flick of his wrist and then had really gone to town. Buckle side down, he had whipped him like a man possessed.

  Dave must have passed out during the onslaught, because he awoke around 8pm face down and back in bed. He would like to think that soon after the whipping had started his mother had stepped in to stop. But by the stinging coming from his shoulders, back and upper legs he knew that it wasn’t that soon. Maybe his father had just got tired, or bored, or maybe he had actually realized what damage he was causing because at some stage he must have stopped and one of them must have carried him back to his bedroom.

  He slowly got up from his bed, wincing at even the slightest movement and gingerly walked across the room to the mirror. It took great effort to lift his t-shirt off and when it was, he stood there frozen looking at the damage his father had inflicted. His whole back was covered with bright red buckle shaped whelks; some were bleeding, but most were just red and angry. The pain was excruciating and every inch of his back seemed to cry out.

  He stood there looking at his back for a long time. At one stage he began to cry and it took even longer for the tears to stop. He could hear the television downstairs, but couldn’t hear either of his parents. Gently he put his t-shirt back on and climbed back into bed. Despite his back hurting like nothing he had ever felt before, pretty soon he had drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

  He didn’t remember either his mother or father coming into his room, but one of them must have because the next morning he noticed a fresh glass of water beside his bed. He got up very slowly and went to the bathroom to relieve his bladder. He noticed that the light fitting had been replaced with a new socket; any signs of the one he had broken the night before had been removed.

  He walked back to his room and his mother called from downstairs.

  ‘David. Are you up?’ The dullness had gone from her voice and was replaced by something else, something more……………..fragile.

  ‘Yeah. I’m up,’ he sat back on his bed, wincing. His back and shoulders now throbbed rather than stung, but he still found it almost impossible to move.

  He heard footsteps coming up the stairs and shrunk back away from the door fearing another attack from his father. But it was his mother that appeared at the doorway with a glass of orange juice. She was pale; her eyes were red again from crying and the whole left side of her face was red and swollen.

  Couldn’t just leave it at me could you, he thought. You evil bastard.

  ‘Your father left early for work,’ she said, perhaps noticing him shrinking f
rom the door. ‘He seemed much better today.’

  Oh great, he thought. As long as he’s OK then that’s alright.

  He didn’t answer, but just kept staring at her.

  ‘He says you can skip school for a couple of days if you like. You know. Until…………..until you feel a little better,’ she hurried the last part and avoided his gaze.

  ‘Ok thanks,’ he finally managed, and rolled back over on his side.

  ‘He is truly sorry David. This has been a hard time for all of us and yesterday…………well yesterday being Katy’s birthday, was really hard for your father. This will never happen again. I………I am so sorry.’ She broke off, put the glass down and left the room.

  I don’t believe you are sorry enough, he thought. Not nearly sorry enough.

  Chapter 6

  The first sensation Dave had as he woke on the utility room floor was cold. The second was pain and the one thing Dave knew plenty about was pain. The beating he received after breaking the bathroom light (and nearly killing himself in the process) had been the first of many and would continue until he left home with Jenny at the age of eighteen.

  The beatings seemed to come around in monthly cycles (yes, werewolf’s had occurred to him), there would be four or five days of his parents talking in that otherworldly tone, then a savage beating. Sometimes with a shoe, or a wooden spoon, but mainly with the belt and usually over nothing at all (forgotten key; late home from school; not finishing his dinner). Then there would be a period of about a week where his father would be out a lot; apparently working overtime, but Dave didn’t think this was entirely true.

  After his wounds (and more often his mother’s) had virtually healed, there would be a couple of weeks of luxury. His father would be attentive, caring, would bring home gifts almost every night and two or three nights a week they would go out for meals or to the cinema and - Dave’s favourite - ten pin bowling. These were good family times; times that for most children would form a solid base for the future, but Dave learnt to dread these weeks as he began to learn they always preceded the change in his father’s behaviour.

  Not every month was exactly the same though. Sometimes the beating was as bad as the one on the landing that left him sore for weeks. Sometimes it might only be a smack on the back of the head or even a severe (normal, some might say) telling off and being sent to his room. He knew how bad the beating would be, by how ‘far away’ his father was the few days before. But even though some months were subtly different, the one certainty was that David’s father would always to some degree ‘change’.

  David had no idea how long he had been lying on the concrete floor, but presumed it wasn’t that long as the sun was still streaming through the window above him. He wasn’t surprised that these memories of his father’s beatings had come to him as his body screamed out in pain from about a dozen places.

  Firstly there was a sharp stinging coming from his midriff where the window latches had dug in – not serious but painful. Secondly his right knee cap was throbbing badly (he had no recollection of landing on it, but he guessed he must have), slightly more serious but he didn’t think anything was broken. Thirdly – and to him the most worrying – was a large bump forming on the side of his head from where he had knocked himself out. He knew concussion of any kind was serious and the tender area above his right ear felt more than just a bump.

  These injuries cried out the most as he came too, but as his head slowly cleared he also began to notice a sharp digging pain down his right side. He tried to move his head to have a closer look, but it throbbed so much, even the slightest movement brought a dose of dizziness with it.

  Dave lay that way for some time going over the last few hours. Yes, leaving the keys in the kitchen had been a stupid mistake and yes trying his old schoolboy trick and actually trying to break into his parent’s house was a really bad idea, but at the time it felt like the perfect solution. In fact if anyone was to ask him what the hell he was thinking he would honestly answer that the idea of climbing through the small window had given him the biggest thrill he’d had for years. Anyone watching him clamber (and then fall) in the window would have noticed a huge Cheshire cat grin spread right across his face. Giddy as a schoolboy he had felt, and as he lay half-conscious on the cold floor (perhaps with a little sense knocked backed into him) he did wonder what the hell he had been thinking.

  He tried to move again and again a shooting pain shot along the side of his head. He groaned out loud to the empty room, but at least this time he had managed to move his head just enough to get a look at his side. What he saw there sent a new wave of dizziness through him. Somehow - and Dave really couldn’t for the life of him work out how - he had fallen onto a tiny hand sized garden rake. The rake was covered in dried mud and its four lovely manicured prongs were sticking into the lower part of his rib cage. He couldn’t see much blood, but with each short breath he took, the wound rattled like a kite in a high wind and Dave knew it was serious. Maybe even punctured lung serious.

  His mind raced with panic. He thought back to all those medical programmes he used to watch with Jenny when she first fell pregnant.

  Seal the wound, he thought. That’s what they would do first. Seal the wound.

  But how?

  Not only was he still coming in and out of consciousness with a nasty head injury, the biggest problem that faced him was the fork itself. He knew he couldn’t remove it (first rule of TV doctoring) because he had no idea what he had ruptured or how long it would be until help came. The last thing he wanted to do was allow himself to bleed to death whilst he was locked in this room with no phone lines to the outside world.

  No, seal the wound first, try to get breathing properly and then get the hell out of here.

  All thoughts of avoiding his parent’s neighbours had now evaporated as he saw them as his only lifeline. His breathing was now coming in ever shorter breaths, and he knew if he left it any longer he would pass out; and that would not be good at all. He could just imagine his parents coming home from their lovely break to find the body of their only remaining child crumpled in a heap on their utility room floor.

  He also knew that now was the time to move. His head and knee where going to be a problem, but leave it any longer and he wouldn’t have the strength to move.

  Bin bags, he thought. They must have some bin bags somewhere in here.

  Biting through the pain, he lifted his head to look around the utility room. There was a washing machine and a large chest freezer along one wall and his mother’s potting table along the other. Beneath the table was a selection of gardening tools, a full bag of compost and a few empty flower pots. Apart from the compost bag (which he knew he couldn’t move in his present condition) there was no bags or plastic of any kind.

  Shit.

  There was no door from the utility room to the garage so very slowly he began to drag himself towards the darkness that lay beyond. Progress was slow, painfully slow (in more ways than one) as he slid across the floor. The actual physical effort to drag himself was energy sapping by itself, but he also had to keep his right side off the floor to stop from falling on the rake. Twice he slipped and the rake sent its sharp, burning blades searing up into his rib cage. The second time a massive bout of nausea and dizziness swept through him and he was sure he would pass out. But gradually he made his way, inch by inch into the garage. Where he was going to look when he got there and how he was going to see anything he didn’t know, but like an elephant making it back through miles of jungle to its graveyard, he kept pulling himself along to what his mind thought was salvation.

  Thirty minutes later he was lying beside the shelf unit that ran along one side of the garage wall. The crawl had been exhausting for him, sapping his energy with every pull. He lay where he was trying to catch his breath which was now coming in short, rasping gasps that burnt with every intake. He knew he had to look or feel for some kind of bag or plastic to put over the wound, but the cold garage floor was start
ing to feel very comfortable and a delirious sleep was beginning to overtake him.

  ‘Now, now boy. I don’t think it is quite the time for you to fall asleep is it?’ Dave’s mind was snapped back by a booming voice.

  He tried to look around, but all he could manage was to lift his head an inch from the floor.

  ‘Oh dear boy, please don’t get up on my account.’ The voice came again, not entirely unfamiliar with a laugh bubbling just below the surface. ‘I’m not sure we are quite ready to meet face to face right now’.

  He could sense that someone was in the garage with him, hovering just out of sight. But he didn’t have the energy to turn his head to see.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he managed with a soft croak. ‘Can you help me…….please?’

  ‘Of course I can help you, boy,’ the voice said. ‘I have been helping you all day. In fact you could say I have been helping you in some small way your entire life.’ This time there was a definite chuckle; one that sent a shiver down Dave’s spine.

  ‘Who…are…you?’ talking was becoming extremely hard now. He had to catch his breath after every word.

  ‘Oh we’ll come to that, all in good time boy. All in good time. But first we need to make you a little more comfortable, or I am sorry to say you are going to be of no use to me at all.’

  Dave felt movement around him. Although the light was dim (but not totally dark) and his position was awkward, he still could not make out anyone. He sensed that someone was kneeling down beside him and jumped as the voice came right in his ear.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the voice chuckled. ‘This doesn’t look very pleasant.’ The figure shifted position and Dave felt a light pressure on his side. ‘I’m afraid to say that this is going to hurt you a great deal. Never mind. I’m sure you can TAKE IT LIKE A MAN.’ The last part was hissed in his ear and before he could form a reply in his mind, he felt a searing pain as the fork was ripped from his side, and for the second time in just over an hour, David passed out.