Scum

Paul Williams

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9780367101800
• eBook ISBN: 9780429918780
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Mental Health in Psychology
• Index: Psychology

'Scum is a masterfully written book in which the author, by means of a particularly effective form of fragmentation of language, captures the disjunctive experience of a terrified boy. The life of the boy and the life of the sentences are lived entirely in the collision of the will to survive and the impossible demands of an incomprehensible, utterly senseless reality. There are no happy endings in Williams' books, but far more valuable is the vitality that is generated in his deft and original use of language.' - Thomas Ogden

CHAPTER ONE
Onward and upward

Summer came went as it does what was left of it spent in The Woods no longer alone boys turned up some to play others to shoot sparrows blue tits heat frogs in milk bottles until they swelled up and burst scanned them all talked to no-one hid in bushes avoid the ones who killed the animals protest against cruelty rose in his throat finding no voice turned away feelings quashed. Hated a small refined cat the woman called mother bought dismissed it tormented frightened it it hated back didn’t feel like a sick dance he did to it what she did to him what boys did to animals what he did to himself.

Birthday eleven unnoticed grammar school signalled the end of The Woods eight years refuge no sadness dampness settled into him as if left out in the rain though the summer sun still shone couldn’t move didn’t want to sit for long periods cast down less vigilant not noticing not caring. A ghost can prevent detection but the energy to keep the security camera running ran out paid the price.

“Gerrout yer fuckin’ l’il wanker.”

Animal killers kicked beat drove him out of The Woods requiring he check before entering something not done before retraced at dawn trails hideouts before the summer melted the main pond the fallen log dugout Europe South America darkest Asia China bulrush pond ditch imprinted branded on his body if he could pacing back forth touch each in turn. The most intense memories save the violence are of The Woods colours textures smells heat cold sunshine stillness dignity of ancient trees alive in him today groups of tall peaceful adults not complaining of comings and goings creaking their familiar welcome standing by him whispering contentment with any game, any time, including when tired eyes closed their rustling goodbye never harsh a reminder they would be there waiting. Things went wrong in The Woods but not enough to destroy the tie not even at the final goodbye he had to leave they knew.

Years later in the area for the aftermath fear the house where it had happened nothing. Familiar no feature marker of the past small grey box mass of small grey boxes drab grey street at one point glanced at the window upstairs bare bedroom he’d slept quiver down back cold feeling moved on. Seeing The Woods altogether different they had vanished submerged beneath a sea of cheap houses as far as the eye could see The Woods pond cornfield swept away smeared with packing cases strewn either side of pinched liquorice streets writhing nowhere body blow.

“Vandals … vandals!”

Shouted silently dumbstruck heaving goulash of rubble palmed off as improvement belief beggared row upon row of hutches spattered like shit from a dung spreader in the name of prosperity home ownership for all identical houses cars people shrunk handkerchief gardens you couldn’t swing a cat nothing alive maybe indoors like the grey box. Shock anger gave way to grief salvage something a mental ordnance survey map no landmark hill undulation woods tree remained everything uprooted flattened give up in disgust keep The Woods alive inside if nowhere else.

Autumn came went as it does old double decker bus from the corner of the street to the grammar school packed rowdy children eleven to eighteen a few sitting silently followed their example recognised no-one.

“Worra you lookin’ a’ new boy, eh?”

“Nothing.”

“Ope so, gobshite.”

The air of a pariah beaten-down children are quick to spot. No seat safe.

“Eh! New boy. Gizz ya dinner money.”

“No. I haven’t got any.”

“You want yer bag to go out da window, den? Gizz yer fuckin’ money, shit face.”

“Haven’t got any.”

“Wha’?! Show us yer pockets, yer lyin’ bastard.”

“See?”

“Pathetic l’il fucker. When yer get money, we wann it.

Gorrit, creep?”

Stand next to the conductor safe the exit fresh air rushing scene calmed him made him more not less conspicuous taking the bus an ordeal often skipped in favour of walking the streets. The idea of retaliating against bullying did not occur then nor during six years of grammar school the fact of gangs terror like the woman called mother’s random attacks one trait made them deadly never knowing when where the next would come from. Surprise artefact a different logic uncanny sixth sense for when he was off-guard calmer consoled elsewhere away from her the grey box triggered the least expected explosion for no reason a hail of abuse everything upside down whatever was experienced wasn’t never had been. Thought he expected it thinking himself ready for it wasn’t shell-shocked hoped for end invited end implored end from the age of three four as little to do with her violence rejected laudable no doubt unbeknown to him feelings of injustice fury disconnect such that when bullied each battering unprecedented happened for the first time it wasn’t it was. To retaliate an impossible blunder to be avoided at any cost like dying exception one protest only ever forced change he did not plan could not have foreseen. The man called father not the woman called mother not the school bullies after starting grammar school the man’s derision seeped deep in him mocked dismissed anything said done melodramatic hot air empty boasting puffed-up exhibitionist mummy’s boy. Cleaning shoes mud washed off old tin polish spread the man called father seized them with the assurance of an expert sat back in his chair here’s how it is done.

“You don’t know how to do this! I’ve been doin’ it for years. Let me show you how it’s done properly … give ‘em ‘ere.”

Asked for shoes back ignored performance underway the man called father drunk? Unaccountably trying to help? Asked again swatted away one too many humiliating taunts of uselessness.

“Watch and learn, sunshine. Kids don’t know anything … and mummy’s boys definitely don’t.”

Rage lava boiled head toe drew back fist exploded one punch on the jaw “Fuck Off!” man chair flew backwards dazed wide-eyed speechless floor chin corner of mouth announced with preposterous formality.

“I never expected to hear such foul language in THIS house.”

The child called son’s turn to be speechless guilt halted in its tracks even the woman called mother in the door to catch the action lost for words a first? The man filled the house with foul language every day for as long as anyone remembered how could holier-than-thou double standards like these be lost on him? “Fuck off” foul language after day after day after month after month after year after year.

“Bastard” “hewer” “tart” “filth”, “cow” “idiot” “windbag” “retard.”

Self-righteousness might have been funny smashing cant from a vain coward brought no pleasure a vague feeling of doing the right thing never understood until years later why the man’s derision stopped from that moment never to return.

Getting off the bus a relief on the first day of grammar school what lay ahead wasn’t an enormous stone building biggest in the world stretched for miles hordes of insect children in black jacket casings swarmed through doorways a trail down a wood-lined corridor into a quadrangle crammed with insects running shouting shoving anxiety fear dread no escape the commotion penned him in a packed courtyard anything could happen any moment no capacity to resist after the bus bullying body mind in pieces nothing new recourse stillness hid behind corner pillar back against cold concrete eyes shut nothing. Seemed hours probably minutes a whistle blast cut the racket old bald wiry man black gown ordered insects into lines smallest tallest to the back of smallest line head down one eye on tall insects filed into large wood glass doors hundreds of insects seething row upon row of wood chairs flanked by teachers in black gowns crows and insects on a far stage crow squawking clung to seat convinced the wrong one head down invisible took in nothing agonised over shoelace undone not undone surely seen by a crow worm for a crow reached to check signal to get him don’t do it. What if the wormlace were seen? Punished thrown out worse? Was this a wish? He was the black spot untouchable wrong everything should never have been there was a wish to be anywhere else here was a truth that takes a lifetime to unearth.

Infestation of hall ended the way it began trailing insects poured into the quadrangle again supervising staring stalking crows latched onto a small colony tried to conceal wormlace under other foot corralled into “houses” a “house” the colour of your tie clusters of ties marched off to classroom blur escalating confusion desks registration books lessons timetables on top of the crow commotion splintered disarray what passed for a mind snapped to attention snapped snapped again ricocheted around the room appearing to be in attendance eyes rattled burnt out ached motionless.

Within days rat pack of bullies some from his class some from the class above identified fresh quarry lumbering numbskull leader Malcolm Hanton moose-like bellowed brayed spat toothy menace to wrench submission from prey.

“’Allo, li’l fucker, wos dis den?”

“Wos yer name, arsehole?”

“Cum on yer fuckin’ shitbag, say it den or you know wha’.”

Rats joined the chant pinned the victim in a corner at which point Hanton loses interest a gambit scratched moose brain knee him crying fresh wheeze.

“Worrabout dis den shitbag … Wibbler, fuckin’ Wibbler!”

Inspired a further variation

“WibblAAAH, WibblAAAH fuckin’ li’l PiddlAAAH.”

Bullying six years no one intervened even in full view of teachers hid in copse wasn’t missed small wood on the edge of school playing field relieved at first smaller than The Woods less protection. What had happened to him? Where were The Woods?

Brawn no brain Hanton’s scheming toadying hitman Iago reptile Smith took advantage of prey when the moose had his fill of a pale neglected wisp of a boy called Riley albino eyes the reptile’s favourite reacted ghost-like spoke to no one couldn’t be hurt already killed. He is ashamed he looked down on Riley to make himself feel superior smelly stupid rotten unwanted avoid contamination today the similarity of their circumstances only too obvious. Riley didn’t run from warped attackers the way he did but confronted them with the defiance of the damned no rise bad sport turned their attention to a new target fresh with panic great entertainment no fight back fight back made him into her impossible never her they were her not him. Did not know under attack he felt noticed better than a lifetime of indifference retaliation suicidal avoid threats obvious isn’t it except it isn’t obvious you can’t avoid everything especially when you don’t know you don’t want to avoid everything. Moose toad took him “by surprise” he “forgot” to go to school do classwork homework steered clear others are hostile not him as an adult wondered whether this is what psychiatrists call paranoia perhaps it is and he was and is paranoid. Attacks from twelve months until leaving the greyboxschoolcountry at seventeen terrified him take this this THIS and THIS! “get off” “leave me alone” couldn’t say didn’t say why not? The mother father attacked him not he them surely it was this way round wasn’t it? It was wasn’t it? Shame isolation meant he thought it wasn’t it was him recoiled from himself not trusting anyone terrified of attacks whose attacks theirs his? His. Theirs. Terrified of terror can you imagine? Dread of her expert timing over and over again dying not once twice repeatedly attackers powerful surely it was this way round wasn’t it? Sooner not later attacks came no matter what disgrace inside outside no hope consolation despair save life limb self-slaughter as only the timing of the final moment left no consorting with people stay alive have the story verified by a reliable witness over time who comes within spitting distance of this? Who says witness is reliable?

Two grammar school events changed him one unbeknown for the worse one unbeknown for the better fell in love with Mr Carragher geography teacher complicated love how he looked young fit Welshman from the valleys thick accent army officer authority...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• CHAPTER ONE Onward and upward
• CHAPTER TWO Out cold
• CHAPTER THREE Jackinboxghost
• CHAPTER FOUR Parentheses
• CHAPTER FIVE All very modest dentists must not eat spinach after portions of rhubarb tart
• CHAPTER SIX Night fall
• CHAPTER SEVEN Halcyon days
• CHAPTER EIGHT Social conscience
• CHAPTER NINE Worlds apart
• CHAPTER TEN Nursing home
• CHAPTER ELEVEN End for no end