Read Online Perfectly Pure and Good by Frances Fyfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frances Fyfield
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littered the house with equipment and the pantry floor with buckets of soft-shelled crabs and lugworms for whiting.
The silence of the night increased the rattling in his mind. Julian felt responsibility without strength or confidence. He had killed his own self-respect, found himself left with nothing but impotent knowledge.
From a great distance, he thought he heard a scream.
Worms beneath this mud: good for bait.
`You don't know nothing, boy. Nothing. You don't know your arse from your elbow, or where to put that big dick of yours, or even where you want to put it. Dirt all over the van. You want to put dirt up her fanny? That what you want? I bet you bloody do.'
The sound which followed was a soft grunt, the noise of the boot into the ribs almost inaudible in itself, except for the air dispelled in the effort and the boy's biting back of pain. Both of them were covered in mud. The boy curled away on the bank, his left shoulder embedded in mud.
Black mud bubbled where his elbow sank below the surface. There was blood inside his mouth, tasting of iron, salt and slime. Rick thought of the ragworms below the surface, imagined something slithering down his throat, struggled to sit, spat, coughed.
Ì could have killed you, Dad.'
He was spitting out weary words, fielding another blow to his ribs, thanking heaven for his father's boots being so heavy with mud he could scarcely lift them. It could have been worse, had often been much worse. No blow had connected with his groin; he had turned on his back, wishing he had learned the trick when younger, before the damage was done and before he had realized the whole ritual of violence was far quicker if he did not resist. Lie there, let the boot go in, never mind about the shame.
`Kill me, you little fucker? Kill me! You could scarce kill a fly. You let that little runt look after the till while you're out running after that tart? You need to be towing the line. With a hook. I'd stick it through your mouth. Or up your bum.'
The boy allowed himself to be lifted out of the mud, shaken like a rat, dropped back. He could have taken his father then, knocked the old man's teeth through the back of his head, but he lay like a puppet and listened to the breath in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, lights from the outside of the closed arcade shimmered on the water, blurred by mist. He could hear the tide running swift and deep through his head and his skin, vibrating through each portion of his body.
Dad raised his wet face and sniffed like a dog.
`Best move,' he muttered. `Water's coming on.' He was suddenly cold, shivery, adrenalin gone, replaced by a sensation which was the nearest he could get to shame. No more punching, rolling and snarling at the east end of the quay. The boy was right. He was strong. He could take his old dad any time, better watch it.
`Come on home, boy,' said his father, almost humbly, the way he was when it was far too late.
'You'll catch your death.'
`Bugger you. I got my own place.'
`You could do with a wash. You and me both.'
Ì could do with a new set of balls after what you've done to me over the years. That's enough, Dad, do you hear me?'
Weird, to be speaking like a pair of blokes who had gone for a drunken stroll to look at the stars.
They struggled up the bank. Past midnight, everything as silent as the grave. The apologies, oblique and humble, were the feature of Dad's drunken violence which Rick found worst.
Ì thought you were taking that bit of Pardoe stuff out. You mustn't touch her. You know what that poxy little bastard told you, leave his sister alone. Otherwise no job, no arcade, no nothing.
We're doing all right, boy. Don't rock the boat.'
Rick adjusted his trousers, tried to manage a laugh.
`Dad, I do leave her alone, but for my own reasons. I might have gone to the boat by myself, when I could still walk straight.'
`Don't give me that. Leave her alone? You've been up that house twice today, bashing the van over
The silence of the night increased the rattling in his mind. Julian felt responsibility without strength or confidence. He had killed his own self-respect, found himself left with nothing but impotent knowledge.
From a great distance, he thought he heard a scream.
Worms beneath this mud: good for bait.
`You don't know nothing, boy. Nothing. You don't know your arse from your elbow, or where to put that big dick of yours, or even where you want to put it. Dirt all over the van. You want to put dirt up her fanny? That what you want? I bet you bloody do.'
The sound which followed was a soft grunt, the noise of the boot into the ribs almost inaudible in itself, except for the air dispelled in the effort and the boy's biting back of pain. Both of them were covered in mud. The boy curled away on the bank, his left shoulder embedded in mud.
Black mud bubbled where his elbow sank below the surface. There was blood inside his mouth, tasting of iron, salt and slime. Rick thought of the ragworms below the surface, imagined something slithering down his throat, struggled to sit, spat, coughed.
Ì could have killed you, Dad.'
He was spitting out weary words, fielding another blow to his ribs, thanking heaven for his father's boots being so heavy with mud he could scarcely lift them. It could have been worse, had often been much worse. No blow had connected with his groin; he had turned on his back, wishing he had learned the trick when younger, before the damage was done and before he had realized the whole ritual of violence was far quicker if he did not resist. Lie there, let the boot go in, never mind about the shame.
`Kill me, you little fucker? Kill me! You could scarce kill a fly. You let that little runt look after the till while you're out running after that tart? You need to be towing the line. With a hook. I'd stick it through your mouth. Or up your bum.'
The boy allowed himself to be lifted out of the mud, shaken like a rat, dropped back. He could have taken his father then, knocked the old man's teeth through the back of his head, but he lay like a puppet and listened to the breath in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, lights from the outside of the closed arcade shimmered on the water, blurred by mist. He could hear the tide running swift and deep through his head and his skin, vibrating through each portion of his body.
Dad raised his wet face and sniffed like a dog.
`Best move,' he muttered. `Water's coming on.' He was suddenly cold, shivery, adrenalin gone, replaced by a sensation which was the nearest he could get to shame. No more punching, rolling and snarling at the east end of the quay. The boy was right. He was strong. He could take his old dad any time, better watch it.
`Come on home, boy,' said his father, almost humbly, the way he was when it was far too late.
'You'll catch your death.'
`Bugger you. I got my own place.'
`You could do with a wash. You and me both.'
Ì could do with a new set of balls after what you've done to me over the years. That's enough, Dad, do you hear me?'
Weird, to be speaking like a pair of blokes who had gone for a drunken stroll to look at the stars.
They struggled up the bank. Past midnight, everything as silent as the grave. The apologies, oblique and humble, were the feature of Dad's drunken violence which Rick found worst.
Ì thought you were taking that bit of Pardoe stuff out. You mustn't touch her. You know what that poxy little bastard told you, leave his sister alone. Otherwise no job, no arcade, no nothing.
We're doing all right, boy. Don't rock the boat.'
Rick adjusted his trousers, tried to manage a laugh.
`Dad, I do leave her alone, but for my own reasons. I might have gone to the boat by myself, when I could still walk straight.'
`Don't give me that. Leave her alone? You've been up that house twice today, bashing the van over
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