marra.”
The Barn had grown quiet now, as most of the onlookers had been moved outside. They would be inside the house by now, quaffing Best’s champagne and talking about how close they’d been to real violence, true bloodshed. There would be a lot of fucking going on afterwards, and Marty hoped they felt satisfied with his performance.
Marty watched in silence as Doc jabbed him with a needle, then, after what seemed like hours, the man began to apply the sutures. He was still smoking his cigarette — or had he lit up another? — and the entire process had taken on a surreal air.
“You did good,” said Erik Best, leaning down close to speak. “You gave them what they wanted. You entertained those fuckers.” Marty felt a soft, hot gust of breath against his cheek. He smelled Erik Best’s halitosis. “And that’s what it’s all about — entertainment.”
Best was grinning.
Marty nodded. He felt high, as if he were on heroin.
“And don’t worry about those Polish fucks. We’ve taken them away, and they won’t be coming back.”
Marty nodded again. “Humpty Dumpty,” he whispered.
“What?” Best’s face loomed large in his vision, like yet another monstrous image from his butchered past. But, thank God, it was not oversized and egg-shaped; thank fuck it did not belong to a monster.
TWENTY YEARS AGO, BEFORE THE MONSTERS WERE REAL
MARTY SITS IN his room, listening to music. The volume is set low so that his father won’t hear what he calls ‘that stupid crap’ and come in with his fists swinging. The tape is a recording of a Simple Minds album. Marty can’t remember who gave him the cassette, but he likes the tunes… there’s something about them that suggests the kind of freedom he yearns for but will probably never achieve.
Marty gets off the bed and walks to the window. He looks out over the estate, watching the slow movement of clouds above the Needle and the way the stars seem so far away, yet at the same time close enough that if he reaches out he could grab one. It’s a feeling that echoes the way he feels inside: that weird distance that isn’t really a distance, not a physical one. He struggles with the notion, and then puts it out of his mind.
He checks himself out in the mirror on the wardrobe door. He is wearing a pair of stretch Geordie Jeans and a thin woollen sweater. It was his birthday outfit, and already he is outgrowing the garments. He pulls a bodybuilder pose, bending his arms and tensing his biceps. Even at ten years old, he is aware of the changes taking place in his body. His father has not been as quick with his fists lately; he watches Marty with a new kind of awareness, especially when he is wearing just a T-shirt or wandering around in his skivvies.
Before long, Marty thinks he’ll be strong enough to take on his old man. He has already begun to condition his body, like the fighters in the martial arts magazines he buys with his pocket money and smuggles into the house. But he has gone further than those guys; he causes himself real pain, genuine damage. He has a sharp penknife he uses to cut the flesh of his forearms, and he holds his fingers against the flame of a lit match.
It’s not so much that his father hits him, but more about the way the bastard treats Marty’s mother. He knows that his father beats her at least once every two weeks — sometimes more often, if he’s been drinking a lot. He rarely leaves marks, but there was that time last summer when they had to tell everyone that his mother had fallen down the stairs. She had two black eyes and her top lip was split and swollen. The skin around her jaw was red and tender to the touch.
If his father does that again, he thinks that he might kill him. He could use the penknife. It would be hard work, because the blade is so small, but it’s sharp, and Marty has taught himself how to use it.
Outside, someone lets off a firework. Marty turns back to the window, drawn by the sound, and he watches the brief flaring of red and blue lights in the sky. The lights splutter and die as they fall back to the ground. Their flight is over before it has even begun.
“I hate you,” he whispers, not even knowing if he means his father, the estate where he feels so trapped, or even himself. Sometimes he even despises his mother for being so weak, for not running away from the man who so casually and regularly abuses her.
He thinks about the silly tree house he and his friends are building. The Three Amigos — the name was Simon’s idea, after some film he read about in a magazine, a comedy about rubbish cowboys that’s supposed to be coming out next year. Marty isn’t really into funny films, but Simon said that Steve Martin is in this one, and Marty laughed himself ill at the one the American made about the mad brain surgeon, even though he only understood something like half of the jokes. He remembers they watched it on video one Sunday afternoon at Simon’s place, when his parents were out at the pub. Simon likes movies; he knows an older kid who works on the local video van and gets him all the latest ones pirated for free.
Marty is more of a reader than a watcher. He loves his books. His father, of course, hates books. He thinks that only poofs read. So Marty keeps all of his novels and short story collections stashed away at the back of the cupboard, covered by some old blankets his mother was going to throw out. He loves fantasy —
He likes Strider. He wants to be Strider, even though he knows that it’s just a book and none of it is real. But inside his head, it’s all real: in there, where nobody else can see him, he fights orcs and dragons and kicks the crap out of his dad on a regular basis.
He opens the wardrobe and takes out a light jacket, just in case it gets cold outside later on, during their all-night vigil. He doesn’t really believe that anyone — bigger kids or roaming adults — is going to wreck what they’ve built, but that isn’t the point, not really. The reason they’re all meeting up when their parents have gone to bed is because they need to be with each other. There’s a connection between the boys that goes deeper than friendship. They are like brothers, linked by blood. Their parents don’t give a damn, so they each give a damn about the other. Together, as part of the gang, they are strong. No one can hurt them.
He sits back down on the bed and waits for his parents to stumble up to bed. They won’t be late tonight because they’ve been drinking all day. His mother uses vodka to block out the pain and pointlessness of her life, and his father chugs down gallons of beer because he wants to drown what he is.
Marty is untroubled by these insights; he has them all the time. He’s a bright boy — much more intelligent than the teachers at school are willing to believe, and probably as well-read as anyone five years older than him. But it isn’t wise to put his brains on display, so he keeps them covered by an illusion show of brute force and disinterest. He plays the game, makes sure he never gets above average marks for his schoolwork, while all the time he is reading ahead, and filling his notebooks at home with the work he does on his own.
Marty knows that this won’t get him anywhere. He is trapped here, in the Grove, just like his parents and their parents before them, but there is no reason why his mind cannot be allowed to roam free, exploring the boundaries of the world written down in books.
Before long he hears his parents climbing the stairs. His mother is giggling and his father is whispering too loudly. They’re talking about sex — or, more specifically, his father is telling his mother that tonight he’s going to ‘take her up the shitter and make her squeal’. Marty feels like crying. He barely knows these people, and has nothing in common with them apart from that they all share a house together. He’s a prisoner, like the Count of Monte Cristo. He is trapped here, in this hell, and outside the window is yet another, much larger hell. All he can see for miles and miles is variations on the same theme. Somewhere out there, the devil is waiting, and by reading and learning he is keeping him at bay.
His parents’ bedroom door shuts softly, and then he hears the clicking of the lock as they shut themselves in for the night. He closes his eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears, and then opens them again. They feel wet, prickly. He grits his teeth and grinds them together, then bites the side of his cheek. The pain takes it all away,
