I sat without moving until I could no longer hear him, then I stood up and walked, trembling, out to one of the shower basins. I had to wash away all traces of that filthy discharge that was still clinging to my legs like a slug’s trail on a garden path. The water from the shower was only lukewarm but that didn’t bother me. Even the limited foam from the carbolic soap acted like a healing salve as it washed away that filth. When at last I stepped out of the shower I felt clean again but bitterly ashamed. I stood naked in front of a long mirror and watched the tears streaming down my cheeks and dripping off the end of my chin. My right cheekbone was red and swollen from being smashed against the tiled wall and there was a small graze on my nose. It took me all of me limited willpower not to scream out in torment at my misfortune.
You will pay for this, you bastard. No matter how long it takes; you will pay. I stood looking and talking to myself, imagining the pleasure I would have in seeing Wilkinson dead. I vowed to myself and to God that I would have my revenge on that filthy piece of shit. One day.
I dressed myself and crept along the corridor and back into bed. I buried myself under the bedclothes, trembling and starting at the slightest noise. The thoughts of the revenge I would have helped me cope with my fear and I eventually fell into a deep sleep.
I was wakened in the morning by the boy in the next bed shaking me gently.
I jumped up and snapped at him, ‘Don’t touch me like that.’ I swung my legs out of bed and onto the floor. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’
‘It’s time to get up.’ The boy looked surprised at my reaction. ‘Next time, I’ll leave you in bed, you wanker.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I whispered. The boy had been doing me a favour. I would have got booked for being in bed after the first call. ‘I didn’t mean it. I was half asleep.’
‘No damage done,’ the boy replied. Although he grinned, I knew he wouldn’t forget my rebuke. I shrugged my shoulders. I had bigger worries than some boy who’d had his feelings hurt; I had to face Wilkinson again. I had resolved the previous night that there would be no recurrence of that abuse, no matter what the consequences. I didn’t know how long the shame and humiliation would stay with me but I did know that I would rather be dead than allow it to happen again. I also knew that I would have my revenge, no matter how long it took.
I likened myself to Edmond Dantes in The Count of Monte Cristo, one of my favourite books, who seeks revenge on Raymond de Villefort and Fernand de Mondego for the injustices inflicted on him. Wilkinson was now both of these characters rolled into one and although his crime against me was different from the ones against Dantes, I felt equally as vindictive. Wilkinson didn’t know what was coming to him. He didn’t know what a bad enemy he had made and how much I now thirsted for evil to befall him. I stood up and grinned ruefully. Vincent’s was my Chateau d’If but, unlike Dantes, I didn’t want to escape. I had a reason to stay. I had my hatred for Wilkinson to see me through.
I had decided that everything that occurred that night would stay a secret. There was no need for Bernie to know; I was too embarrassed to tell him. When he asked me about the new bruising on my cheek I told him I had been punched in the face by one of the boys in the dormitory. He found nothing unusual in this as it was a normal occurrence. I had no reason to come in contact with Wilkinson so it was easy to avoid him, but I watched his every movement from afar. Everything he did I evaluated. I was getting to know him well. When my time came I would be ready. I had already started to formulate an unpleasant surprise for him and when the time was right I would act.
That June, the soporific chugging of the train wheels rattling along the track was the only noise in the carriage. I sat hunched in a corner seat staring unseeing at the landscape flashing past. Every puff of Golden Virginia tobacco I inhaled caressed my throat and relaxed me deeper into a state of euphoria. I was on my way home – only for a few hours, but I was on my way.
The horrors of Vincent’s were already fading from my mind; they seemed far away and distant. It was the first time in months that I had looked around me with a feeling of unbridled interest. I didn’t recognise the names of some of the railway stations we stopped at – Bexleyheath… Erith – but I knew that I was getting closer to London and home. When we stopped at London Bridge Station I was fascinated at how dirty the surrounding houses appeared to be. The brickwork was filthy from years of soot being dumped on them by passing trains and the net curtains hanging in windows were discoloured and grey. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the people who lived in these drab surroundings. Were they happy? Did they have problems? How many children lived there? So many thoughts were going through my mind that it wasn’t until the very last minute that I noticed we were pulling into my destination: Charing Cross Station.
It was an underground train ride to Ealing Broadway Station and then a ten-minute bus ride to West Ealing and my home. I let my eyes feast on familiar surroundings and even gave an old mailbox on the corner of my road an affectionate stroke as I walked past. I stopped and leant against one of the elm trees, spaced out symmetrically along my road, and expertly rolled myself a cigarette. I was intent on savouring every moment of my day at home. I puffed luxuriously on the cigarette, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke slowly drift out of my nostrils. I knew I had an uncertain future in front of me, but this was now, the future could wait.
I could just discern my house from where I was standing and wondered what sort of homecoming lay in front of me. I had heard from my mother every week since I’d been away but there had been no mention of my father in any of her letters. It was as though he didn’t exist, as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth. Could she possibly have got rid of him? I didn’t even dare to hope. It was time to walk the last few steps – time to see Mum and the girls.
As I came through the back gate and into the small garden, my heart sank as my father emerged scowling from the kitchen door. His blue eyes stared at me dispassionately. ‘I thought I’d seen the last of you.’ He turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Your little bastard is home,’ then brushed past me and went to the gate. ‘What time are you going back?’
I had only been in Vincent’s for four months but already my temperament was starting to change. I looked at him with contempt. He couldn’t hurt me with his nasty remarks; those days were gone. I didn’t give a rat’s arse if he didn’t want me home. I had come to see Mum and my sisters and he would just have to put up with it. ‘About five o’clock,’ I replied, ‘and, if you don’t like it – tough shit.’
He spun around to face me. I knew that he wanted to hit me, but he was wary of what I might do. He could still remember how menacingly I had held that vegetable knife and threatened to kill him. It was because of his fear of me that I had been put in Vincent’s.
‘Hit me, if you dare,’ I said quietly. ‘Your days of hurting me and Mum are gone. I just hope you’re dead by Christmas and I’m given the chance to piss on your grave.’
His face reddened and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. I felt sure he would have an apoplectic fit at any moment. He seemed to struggle as he lifted his arm and poked a bony finger in my direction and his whole body was shaking with rage.
‘You – you hope I’m dead by Christmas. Well, let me tell you something,’ he paused to draw breath. ‘I’ve wished you dead since you’ve been born. You’re not even my son. Your slut of a mother got pregnant by another man when I was in the army.’ He spat a large lump of mucous on the garden. ‘So how does that news make you feel? You’re a bastard,’ he sneered, ‘and your precious mother is a lousy slut.’
I looked at him in stunned silence. Thoughts raced through my mind as I slowly digested this. Was it true? The thought of not being his son didn’t bother me at all, but I didn’t like the way he delighted in calling my mother a slut. To me she was the most wonderful person in the world. No matter what he said, he could never bring her down from the pedestal I had her on in my mind.