John Fenton - Please Don’t Make Me Go - How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood

How one boy’s courage

overcame a brutal childhood

JOHN FENTON

This book is based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, some names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

Harper NonFiction

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperElement 2008

© John Fenton 2008

John Fenton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007263769

Ebook Edition SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007283835

Version: 2017-04-28

For Shelley and Maggie

Your support and faith were inspirational to me

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Mum and I were sitting at the kitchen table, eating bread and jam and talking about what we would do if we won the football pools. The top prize, £75,000, was a fortune to us. We often discussed this and I never got bored of speculating about all the great things we could do together, such as buy a big new house, go on holiday to the seaside, and get a television set of our own. I loved those moments of closeness with my mother when I got home from school in the afternoon. It was just the two of us in our private little world.

I flung my arms out to indicate how big my new bedroom would be and my sleeve accidentally caught the edge of my plate. It toppled off the table then seemed to fall in slow motion to the floor, where it smashed into tiny pieces. My remaining slice of bread fell jam-side down on the wreckage.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said, slipping from my chair to pick up the pieces.

‘Not to worry. Accidents happen. Careful you don’t cut yourself.’

Suddenly we both froze as the floorboards of the room above creaked. My mother looked up at the ceiling fearfully. The sounds of my father moving around his bedroom always signalled the end of our little tête-à-têtes. She hurried into the scullery and lit the gas under the kettle, holding her finger to her lips to signal that I should be very quiet.

I quickly gathered the broken plate and dropped it in the bin, then hurried to the far side of the table, opened my English homework book and pretended I was engrossed in my studies. I could hear my father’s footsteps stamping down the stairs and all of a sudden I wanted to pee. I always got the urge to pee when trouble was imminent.

The scullery door burst open and my father rushed in. He scowled angrily at my mum and strode purposely over to where I was sitting.

‘You little bastard.’ His right hand shot out and slapped me hard around my ear. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to be quiet when you get in from school?’

My Dad worked nights as a bus cleaner, so he slept during the day.

‘Leave him alone,’ Mum screamed. ‘We were just talking quietly.’ Acknowledgement

‘This one doesn’t know the meaning of the word “quiet”.’ He clipped my ear again and Mum rushed over to try and grab his arm.

‘Stop it!’ she yelled. ‘You only pick on him because he’s too young to hit you back. You wouldn’t dare pick on someone your own size.’

Mum’s sharp tongue often got her into trouble with Dad. This time, he drew back his fist and punched her hard in the centre of her face. She stumbled backwards and held up her hands to protect herself as Dad let loose a flurry of punches. One of them hit her high on the head and she slid down and sat dazed on the floor. Her nose and mouth were bleeding and she was totally at his mercy.

I was screaming at him to stop and in desperation I kicked him on the shin. It was the first time I had dared to attack him. I was only nine years old and a skinny, wiry kid – definitely no match for him – but I had to do something to protect my mother. He turned and backhanded me across the room.

‘So you think you’re big enough to fight me, do you?’ He smiled as he picked me up by the scruff of my neck and one of my legs. ‘I’ll show you how big you are, you little bastard.’ He threw me with all his strength across the kitchen. I crashed onto the table and bounced into the chairs. They toppled over backwards and I landed on my back on the chair legs, hurt and winded.

Dad glanced round at Mum, who was slumped on the floor, then back at me, and he seemed satisfied with his handiwork. I’d seen that expression before. He got real pleasure from being violent, as if it released all his pent-up tension. Through the pain I heard the scullery door slam shut and the sound of his footsteps going back up the stairs.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t catch my breath. I just lay gasping. Suddenly my mother was beside me and her hands were desperately trying to disentangle me from the chair legs. She was sobbing bitterly. ‘Are you alright, darling? Oh, he’s a wicked man.’

She lifted me up by my waist and I saw that her nose and mouth were bleeding, dripping large drops of blood onto the floor.

‘Please tell me you’re alright.’ Once she had got me upright, Mum wrapped me in her arms and we clung to each other for ages, both trembling and crying.

I watched my mother as she rinsed her face under the cold tap in the scullery. I had seen her do this so many times before and it always broke my heart. I loved her so much but there was nothing I could do to stop the endless misery she was suffering at my father’s hands.

Later, after Dad had left for work, we listened to our favourite programme ‘Journey Into Space’ on the radio, and tried to pretend nothing had happened. We were big fans of Jet Morgan and his crew and I always imagined that one day Mum and I would blast off into space on a spaceship like the Luna : travelling far, far away, through countless galaxies, never returning and living a life full of happiness and amazing adventures.