Ping's Book. Extract 1

I am writing a book and for the next few days I am going to publish a few extracts from various chapters. There are eleven chapters so far with four more to write. The story is about three brothers who grow up in the poorest part of the midlands in England. Their father has left to make way for a new man and their mother works her socks off to feed the kids. This second extract takes place in a front-room early one morning in 1983. Brian is the new violent step-father

- Keep your thieving ******* fingers off, you little poofta, screamed Brian, as he sank his teeth into my right hand.
I felt the tip of my thumb brush the back of his tongue as his dentures ripped through my skin. He pulled his bloody mouth away, revealing three deep wounds on the back of my palm. I remained silent as he continued screaming in my face.
- I'll ******* teach you to mind your own ******* business, you worthless ****.
The trick was to remain quiet. If you looked into his eyes and said nothing then the punishment usually finished sooner. If you cried, or gave him backchat, you were guaranteed a harder pasting. He always went for the face when he saw tears. Tears made him wild. He couldn't stand the sight of them and it wasn't always easy hiding them; I was pretty good at it, but Blondie, who was often the target for Brian's bad temper, could never hold them back. He was a natural born crier. Brian only had to give him that small evil stare and Blondie's eyes would water. I tried to teach Blondie not to cry, but if he hadn't learnt after nearly seven years he never would.
- They're his ******* birthday cards, you little bastard, yelled Brian.
I looked him in the eye and took my punishment. I didn't show fear, and I certainly didn't let him see that he had hurt me. Showing weakness and pain seemed to encourage him further.
- Get to your ******* room, you little Nancy bastard.
He often called me Nancy. I thought it meant that he thought I was a girl, but I wasn't sure why. He called me Poofta too. Poofta was his preferred nickname for me. He said that I was a gay bastard. Why did he have a problem with somebody being happy? My mate Jay Saga from school said that gay meant that you had sex with men. I didn't have sex with men. I didn't have sex with anybody. Jay told me that being gay meant that you fancied men and not women. I only fancied girls. I didn't fancy men or women.
- And you can bloody stay up there for the rest of the day. ****!
I wiped the blood from my hand onto my trousers and contemplated the way out. Leaving the room was always hard, because if you put your head down and tried to stick to the walls, it would irritate him further. But if you walked off pretending that you didn't care he would think that his beating had had no effect on you, and then he would often start again. The only safe way of leaving the scene was to apologies for whatever it was that you had done, and then leave the room with your head high. That way he knew that his punishment was not delivered for nothing and he didn't smell weakness. I tried my best to make a punch free escape.
- I'm sorry Brian I didn't mean it.
I hadn't noticed, but thinking about it later, I realized that I didn't look him in the eye when I delivered my apology. I felt his fist hammer into my face, knocking me over. I banged my head on the threshold between the front room and the passage. I felt giddy as he followed me out of the room, in a frenzy of kicking and punching.
- You lying little bastard.
- I'm sorry, I screamed, as the world span.
- Don't insult my ******* intelligence.
- I really am sorry.
I crawled up the stairs with him looming over me, kicking and punching and screaming. I finally made it to my bedroom, and with one final punch, I was knocked onto my bed. He slammed the door and I heard him bounce back down the stairs and into the front room where his precious baby son Rob was waiting with the rest of the birthday cards. When I knew I was safe, and he could not hear me, I put my head into my hands and let out a useless whimper that was as silent as my grave. I hate school holidays.


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