John McGahern - The Dark

“SAY WHAT YOU SAID BECAUSE I KNOW.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Out with it I tell you.”

“I don’t know I said anything.”

“F-U-C-K is what you said, isn’t it? That profane and ugly word. Now do you think you can bluff your way out of it?”

“I didn’t mean, it just came out.”

“The filth that’s in your head came out, you mean. And I’m going to teach you a lesson for once. You’d think there’d be some respect for your dead mother left in the house. And trying to sing dumb — as if butter wouldn’t melt. But I’ll teach you.”

He took the heavy leather strap he used for sharpening his razor from its nail on the side of the press.

“Come on with me. Upstairs. I’ll teach you a lesson for once. I’ll teach you a lesson for once,” he said with horrible measured passion through his teeth, the blood mounted to his face. “I’ll teach you a lesson this house won’t forget in a hurry.”

“I didn’t mean it, Daddy. I didn’t mean it, it just slipped out.”

“Up the stairs. March. I’m telling you. Up the stairs.”

By the shoulder Mahoney pushed him out the door into the hallway towards the stairs.

“March, march, march,” he kept grinding as they went. “Quickly. No, not in there,” when he turned for the room where they both slept together. “Into the girls’ room. This’ll have to be witnessed. I’ll teach a lesson this house won’t forget.”

The two large beds where all the girls slept faced the door, the little table between them, and above it on the wall the picture of the Ascension. A plywood wardrobe and a black leather armchair stood beside the empty fireplace. Mona rose out of the bedclothes in fright at their coming.

“I’m going to teach this gent a lesson. Your sister can be witness of this. Now off with your clothes. I’m going to teach you a lesson. Quick. Strip. Off with your clothes.”

Slowly, in a dazed horror, he got off his jacket and wept.

“No. I didn’t mean it, Daddy. It just slipped out.”

“Off with your jersey. Quick. We can’t stand here all day,” a white froth showed on his lips. The eyes stared out beyond the walls of the room. The belt twitched against his trousers, an animal’s tail.

“Off with the trousers. Off with trousers.”

“No, no.”

“Off with the trousers, I said.”

He just moved closer. He didn’t lift a hand, as if the stripping compelled by his will alone gave him pleasure.

“Off with the trousers,” and with frightened weeping the trousers were let slip down around the ankles on the floor.

“Off with the shirt,” he ground quietly, and when the shirt was off the boy stood completely naked. With the belt he pointed to the armchair.

“Into that chair with you. On your mouth and nose. I’ll give your arse something it won’t forget in a hurry.”

“No, Daddy, no. I didn’t mean,” he gave one last whimper but he had to lie in the chair, lie there and wait as a broken animal. Something in him snapped. He couldn’t control his water and it flowed from him over the leather of the seat. He’d never imagined horror such as this, waiting naked for the leather to come down on his flesh, would it ever come, it was impossible and yet nothing could be much worse than this waiting.

“I’ll teach you a lesson for once,” and then he cried out as the leather came, exploding with a shot on the leather of the armrest over his ear, his whole body stiff, sweat breaking, and it was impossible to realize he hadn’t actually been hit yet.

“No, no, no,” he cried as he tried to rise.

“Don’t move. Don’t move. Move and I’ll cut that arse off you. I’m only giving you a taste of what you’re going to get. I’m just showing you and shut that shouting,” and he was willed by fear back on his mouth and nose, not able to move, shivering fits beginning to come, and the anguish and squalor was impossible, but would the black leather cut across his flesh this time, it was horrible and worse than death to think.

It came as it came before, a rifle crack on the armrest, the same hysterical struggle, and he hadn’t been hit yet, it was unreal.

“Don’t move and shut that shouting,” and when he was reasonably still except for the shivering and weeping, the leather came for the third time exactly as before. He didn’t know anything or what he was doing or where the room was when the leather exploded on the black armrest beside where his ear was.

“Shut up that racket and get on your feet. Quick. And shut up. It’s on the bare skin you’ll get it the next time but that taste’ll do for this time. Get your clothes on you. You can count yourself lucky. Get up. Get up.”

It was such a struggle to realize it was over. He had to try to get on his feet out of the chair, it was a kind of tearing, and to stand naked on the floor. The shivering fits of crying came and went, but quieter. He was only aware of Mona’s frightened wailing in the bed when Mahoney shouted, “You in the bed shut up before you get cause. Shut up now. Let that be a lesson to you. I don’t know whether it’s sick you are or foxing in that bed these last days. And you — you get your clothes, and waste no time getting downstairs,” he turned to the naked boy before he left the room, his face still red and heated, the leather hanging dead in his hand.

It was a real struggle to get each piece of clothing on after he’d gone, the hands clumsy and shaking. The worst was the vapoury rush of thoughts, he couldn’t get any grip on what had happened to him, he’d never known such a pit of horror as he’d touched, nothing seemed to matter any more. His mother had gone away years before and left him to this. Day of sunshine he’d picked wild strawberries for her on the railway she was dying.

“Did he hit you at all?” Mona was asking from the bed.

“No.”

The word opened such a floodgate that he had to hurry out of the room with the last of his clothes in his hands, by the front door out to the old bolted refuge of the lavatory, with the breeze blowing in its one airhole. There they all rushed hours as these to sit in the comforting darkness and reek of Jeyes Fluid to weep and grope their way in hatred and self-pity back to some sort of calm.

THEY ALL GOT BEATINGS, OFTEN FOR NO REASON, BECAUSE THEY laughed when he was in foul humour, but they learned to make him suffer — to close their life against him and to leave him to himself.

“I’m told nothing in this house, never. I might as well be a leper but who’s bringing you up alone without help, who’s earning the bread,” he’d complain.

They’d listen silently, with grave faces: but once they’d turn to each other they’d smile cruelly. He couldn’t have it both ways. He’d put himself outside and outside they’d make him stay. Neither brutality nor complaining could force a way in but it was not so easy to keep him out when he changed and offered them an outing, to Duffy’s circus, or a day on the river.

“It’d be nice to make a day of it fishing tomorrow.”

They’d make no answer, they’d watch him and each other, they didn’t trust.

“Why can’t you speak out? We could go after first Mass and bring sandwiches and make a day of it.”

“It’d be nice,” they weren’t sure, they didn’t trust enough to want to go.

“We’d be able to get bottles of lemonade to drink with the sandwiches at Knockvicar. We might get a few pike too.”

And suddenly they trusted again because they wanted, he was their father, this time might be different and happy. They laughed. Tomorrow they’d go together in the tarred boat to Knockvicar.