Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

I remember mopping the boys up. At some point making them lunch — meat paste sandwiches as I recall — but having no real thoughts, which must’ve been the shock. Then I remember just being sat forward on the couch hoping my back would scab soon. When the stepfather came home he couldn’t believe the state of the place, or me — bite marks all down my arm and neck. Bloodstains from my back on the leatherette and no energy for pretending left. When he asked Where’re your brothers? I just pointed up. And he raced up the stairs, of course he did. There was a bit of consoling, then he went in to her and What the fuck did you do? You know, usually, if he put his foot down that was it. But not that night. She went for him — which must’ve been quite a surprise. He certainly looked pretty alarmed, coming back down, mumbling I don’t think your mother’s very well like that was fucking news. Anyway, she passed out again then he went out for fish and chips.

Luckily when she came round the next day she was calm. Spent it in bed. Darkened room, all that. The following day she materialised at breakfast, apologising Poor little boys. Mummy’s just had a bad turn. Promised to see the doctor about her nerves. But to me Go to your room. I’ll speak to you later young man.

She got him to take them to the pictures, to make it up. I had to stay in because well I couldn’t go out looking like that. And she waited until they had before coming up for me.

I listened to every step. I knew it would be bad. But it was still daylight so I kept hoping for a yelling at Of course it wasn’t that it was the other thing. And she took the blanket off so there’d be no mistake. The fucking fear of it. Lying there. Waiting. I didn’t want to but I was already half wrecked and she already knew how to make me go against myself. And she was so she had no knickers on when she got on me and I He dry retches into his hand but when I waves me back Will you let me? if you can? I’ve never told anyone and I I say Alright.

Breathe and watch him breathe.

I think she thought once she did that I’d never leave be able to or I’d be ruined at least. And in some ways I was. I was never the same again. But at the time I begged til I started to choke and I tried sitting up but my back and she kept pushing me down trying to get me to and my brain fucking jumping. Fucking gagging and panicking and then you know

it was too late and

all of a sudden, I was that became

a person who has done the worst thing

is that even a person any more?

If she’d left at that moment I would have gone out the window but she she didn’t. She kept going on so the pain it started to do something else

all those fucking bruises and cuts wouldn’t let out of myself.

And she hadn’t counted on that that there, in the fucked-up body getting fucked, was a person starting to come to life, starting to want to hurt her and do all the things to her body that she’d done to his. Do worse. Wanting to fucking fling her on the floor and stamp on her face and I could tell I was starting to go off my head. That if it wasn’t over soon I definitely would. So I went through to the end. Finished it, like she said. And when she got up to go clean He dry retches again. Are you alright? He nods but the grey eyes black and the wall they stare through into that past is gone so eerily thin I can almost see her too.

When she got up off me, I said If you ever fucking do that again I’m going to kill you and then I’ll kill myself and everyone will know you for what you are. It was the first time either of us had referred to it aloud. First time I ever saw her like that. Knocked off herself, you know? But, of course, the clever kicked in. Cogs going round. I could almost see it, her working out how to handle me, which trick might be best. She chose guilt. Falling down, crying I should never have let you do that but I love you so much. You’re all I have. But the shock at myself had me out of the bed. Getting my clothes. Dressing quick.Her following me, holding onto me and all the fucking talk. If only you could understand how lonely I am. All these years without your father but I love you son. Just shit pouring out but I’d gone completely beyond. I knew this was the only chance I’d get. If I didn’t go now, I’d never have the nerve and then she would have me for good. So I what was left of me prised her off and took her by the hair and I was just shouting it, I remember, repeating the same thing If you ever fucking lay a finger on me again I will kill you and then I will kill myself and everyone will know. And I dragged her to the door. Still fucking hanging on. Clawing into me screaming Don’t son! Don’t! Then I threw her out. And I slammed the fucking door on her hand and she fell. I heard her. On the stairs. Like fucking comedy bumping and I shouted through the door I hope you’re fucking dead. I hope you’ve broken your fucking neck. And she lay there screeching, pleading up for help. I just kept shouting I fucking hate you and I always have. Over and over. But she didn’t stop. So I ripped up the bedsheets, all covered in fucking stuff, and I took them out to the landing and just threw them over the banister. Then I watched them tumble down and land all over her. Go wash those fucking sheets, I said. And she stopped screaming then. Stopped crying. Everything went still. Then she got up. Picked the sheets up. Went on down to the kitchen and How fucking banal is that? Unworthy of her, I think, not to reappear with a knife. So maybe my father taught me something after all, because although I threw up with fear, it was sorted. That was the last time I ever saw her and, by the time the others were back, my whole life had changed.

The rest of the day I stayed in my room. At teatime I heard her tell one of the boys to fetch me down. Him running up the stairs saying Mum says come and eat. But I didn’t. Him trying to persuade me but I wouldn’t. So he went back down saying He won’t come. Poor little bastard sounded so nervous but she only said Never mind, eat your own.

Unsurprisingly I didn’t sleep. Just sat there trying to get myself together really. By the morning I’d turned sixteen and I’d made my plan — which involved lifting all the money and pills I could find. Once I’d done that, I left. Bought myself a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. Then I walked out of Sheffield and that was it. Happy Birthday to me! Fuck! My leg’s gone to sleep! And he stands up to limp. Twenty-three years ago tomorrow? And twenty-three years ago today. Oh God, I say. He nods but then goes on

I hitched down to London. Most of the way with this lorry driver who picked me up just outside Sheffield and asked if I’d been hit by a bus? But a fucking fortuitous meeting, that was. He gave me the address of some mate in Camberwell so I’d a floor to kip on that night. And that mate got me the first of many shitty jobs — Smithfield the first one was, I think, packing meat — the irony wasn’t lost on me but it really set me up. For the next few years I lived in lots of dives. Fucked up lots of other jobs and had a great fucking time. No one at me. No one entitled. The drug thing was already well under way but — compared to later on — pretty harmless, actually. In fact I’d say it helped. Helped with meeting people and making friends and getting over what had happened. It gave me a bit of space in my head which was exactly what I needed then. But now I need to take a leak.

Then he just walks out, leaving me in the midst of this half-unpacked life, letting me look at it and I what can I do but wait?

When he comes back he washes his hands and, on reflection, his face. So far so horrible, right? But not you, I say It. Well, he says Not yet. There’s so much I want to ask but I know to not. Let him. Let him say what he wants. But let me tell you something nice now, he says and sits back on the bed again.