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Prologue
Tyson
(Eight Years Old)
Demons
“Oh! My God. Your face. What happened?” my mother screams as she rushes towards me.
“Nothing,” I mutter, taking a step back.
She grasps my chin roughly in her hand and turns my face left then right while her eyes examine my face. It’s afternoon and I can already smell the reek of alcohol on her breath. “Who did this to you?” she demands.
I shrug. Even having her hand on my face is painful, but I don’t allow myself to flinch.
“Tell me,” she commands, her eyes flashing with fury.
“It’s nothing.”
“Tyson Friedman, if you don’t tell me right now, I swear, I’m going to ground you for a whole week.”
I stare into her eyes rebelliously. Let her. I don’t care if she does.
“Please, Ty, tell me,” she begs. She knows I can never resist her when she pleads for something.
“Johnny Matteson called you a whore, and said I was the son of a gyppo. I punched him and his gang jumped on me.”
She blinks in shock then draws a sharp breath. I see her throat work as she swallows hard. Releasing my chin, she straightens. Her eyes flick away from me as she sways unsteadily inside her dressing gown
. On TV the music for Countdown starts. It is one of her favorite shows. My mother is clever and often she has the answers before the clock stops ticking. Her hands shake as she flicks a lock of hair from her forehead.
“Mary Mayweather must have started that rumor. I’ll go to the school tomorrow and talk to the headmaster,” she says vaguely. We both know she’ll do no such thing. By tonight she’ll be so drunk she’ll have forgotten the entire incident.
I touch her arm. “Is it true? Is my father a gyppo?”
She drops to her knees, her eyes suddenly fierce. She still loves him. Desperately. “He’s not a … gyppo. He’s a traveler. A wild and beautiful gypsy.”
I stare at her face curiously. How transformed it is when she speaks of him. “Where is he now?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not important.”
“Tell me about my father, Mom. Please.” I look at her with begging eyes.
“When you grow up I’ll tell you.”
I shake my head in frustration. “Why should Mary Mayweather know more about my father than me? If you don’t tell me I’ll never be able to protect myself against the lies of Johnny Matteson and the other kids.”
For a long time she says nothing. Then she nods. “Come,” she says, and takes me to her room. It smells in mom’s room of stale sweat and alcohol. She sits on the bed and pats the place next to her. I position myself beside her. Taking a deep breath, she opens her drawer and pulls out an old Bible. From between the pages she pulls out a polaroid strip. One of those you get from photo booths. She strokes the length of it lovingly before she hands it to me. “That’s your father.”
I take it in my hand and stare at the picture. I cannot believe that young laughing girl who looks so full of life and vitality is my mom. She is unrecognizable. I stare at the man, drinking in his features. He has the same coloring as me, straight dark hair and bright blue eyes.
“Does he know about me?”
“He knew I was pregnant.”
“Where is he now?” I gasp. My voice is awed. All my life I’ve wondered about my father. My mother never wanted to speak of him. Every time I asked she would start crying so I stopped asking, even though the questions burned inside me.
She smiles sadly. “He lives in Chertsey.”
“Can we go and see him?”
Tears start rolling down her eyes. “No.”
I take her hand in mine. Already mine are almost as big as hers. “Don’t cry, Mom. Please, don’t cry.” I hate to see my mother cry, but I have to know about my father. I want my father to come and save us. I want him to make my mother stop drinking. I want her to go back to being the happy girl in the picture. “Does he not want us?”
She shakes her head.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because …” her voice trembles, “because … he already has another family.”
My eyes widen with astonishment. “Another family?” I echo.
“Yes, he has a wife and children,” she sobs.
“Children? He has other children.”
“Yes.” She closes her eyes and tries to compose herself.
“How many?”
“Three boys and a girl.”
“I have three half brothers and a half sister.”
“Yes,” she admits.
“Do they know about me?”
She shakes her head vigorously. “No. No one knows about us. And you must promise never to tell anyone about this.”
“What’s my father’s name?”
“It’s not important.”
“Tell me. I must know. I have a right, Mom.”
“What difference would it make?”
“I want to know. I deserve to know.”
She bites her lip.
“Please, Mom. I’ll never tell.”
She hesitates.
“I promise I’ll never tell anyone.”
“You must never tell anyone,” she cries.
“I’ll swear I’ll never tell.”
“Your father’s name is Patrick Eden.”
(One Week Later)
“What d’ya want with Patrick Eden?” the man growls. His eyes are black and full of suspicion.
I look up at him without flinching. “I’m a friend of his son.”
He narrows his eyes. “Which son?”
“Jake. Jake Eden.”
“It’s the house with the blue curtains.” He points a dirty finger down the road.
“Thanks Mister,” I say and set off down the road. The house is opposite a field and beyond woods. There are caravans at the end of it. I walk past the house and make for the trees bordering the field. It has been raining. I cross the rain soaked grass and lie down on my stomach in a hollow in the ground. The smell of the wet earth fills my nostrils. The scent of the leaves is fresh and good. This is a good part of the world. Not like Kilburn. Where it smells of traffic and smoke and despair. The grass is cold on my bare legs.
Lying on my belly, I wait.
The sun comes out and the blue door of the house opens and out runs a little girl. My sister! She is wearing a yellow dress. She stands just inside the gate and jumps up and down with impatience. From inside the house a woman shouts.
“Shane, go outside and watch your sister.”
A boy with dark hair emerges He opens the wooden gate and immediately the girl rushes through. She is holding a kite. He is taller than me. I watch them fly the kite. Then an even older boy comes out. There is no doubt that he is my brother. He looks a lot like me. In fact, he just looks like an older version of me.
“Jake!” the girl screams. “Look at me. Look how high my kite is.”
He laughs and starts walking towards them. Another boy, he is smaller than Jake, but bigger than Shane and the girl, appears at the doorway.
“Dom, come and see me,” the girl screams delightedly.
The oldest boy turns and waits for Dom. As I stare at my half brothers and sister in fascinated astonishment, a car pulls out and my breath catches. A tall man walks out. Instantly, the girl lets go of her kite and it flies off into the clouds. She runs towards him with arms outstretched and screams, “Daddy.”
My father!
I see him pick her up and swing her around while she squeals and howls with laughter. I watch the family gather around their father, my father. I watch him open the boot of his car and take out presents for them all. I hear their excited voices. I see the woman that comes out of the house and how she smiles proudly at her happy family.
I feel a sting of hatred for her. What about my mom?
I feel the hot tears slide down my cheek. A long time after, they go into their home and close the door. I lie on the cold, damp ground. It’s not fair. They’ve got everything and mom and me have nothing.
(Nine Years Old)
I pour the hot coffee into the flask and press the stopper lip on its mouth then screw on the cap. I put it on the breakfast tray next to the buttered toast, pop out two headache tablets into a small plastic cup, and carry the tray to my mother’s bedroom. This is my ritual every day before I go to school. By the time mom wakes up the toast will be cold, but she says she doesn’t mind. The most important things are the two headache tablets and the hot coffee.
I open her door and set the tray on her bedside table. The smell in my mother’s room is intolerable. Especially now in winter when the windows cannot be opened much and the stench is all pervasive. As a rule I never linger. I turn away, but something catches my attention.
Mom’s hand.
Hanging over the edge of the bed. Even in that fleeting glance my brain instinctively notes the stillness, the blue of the fingernails. Slowly, I turn back and look at her face. It is buried in the pillow. I touch her shoulder and jerk back.
Her body is as cold as ice.
Terror grips my body. “Mom,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse with fear.
I stare at the still body.
“Mom.”
The body doesn’t move.
“MOM.”
Nothing.
I grasp her shoulders and shake her. Her body is stiff. I turn her around. There is vomit around her mouth and down her chin, neck, clothes. Her eyes are closed. I stare at her dead face for the longest time. Then I put her back on the pillow and go to the living room. I call the police. Calmly, I tell them my mother is dead and give them my address. Then I go back to my mother’s room and open the windows. Cold air rushes in.
