Enemy of the Ants

By Stephan Valentin

Ants beware. When Jonas opens his box of matches, there’s nowhere to hide.

Not only is Jonas an enemy to ants, he hates cats, dogs, snails, cows … and his grandmother, too. The boy’s violent behaviour towards animals and other children is fuelled by frustration and anger. He worships his mother, but her undivided attention is hard to secure with all those “uncles” flitting in and out of their lives, not to mention the imminent new arrival whom Jonas has labelled the “football”.

When Jonas and his mother run away to grandmother’s farm following a violent incident at their home, the little boy’s world is turned on its head. His hateful grandmother spies on his every move from behind her bedroom curtains, his pregnant mother picks up a new man and the football is about to make its debut. Then Jonas gets involved with strange little Sarah, and a series of tragic events begins to unfold …

With literary finesse, Stephan Valentin examines the distress of a lonely child whose behaviour mirrors society’s indifference to his plight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9783980729864

Book preview

Andrew

PROLOGUE

I squeeze her thin little neck between my fingers, wring tighter and tighter, let go a bit, squeeze again, hard. Eyes wide-open. Shaped like almonds. Hair standing on end. Not a sound. No whining or whimpering. Wind blows in through the open window. The scratches on my hands are bleeding. My tummy’s rumbling. It’s night-time. Headlights. The car is waiting for me.

Mother (9.34 a.m.)

She sits there and looks at me. Watches me eat. Cornflakes and cold milk. The stupid red rooster’s staring at me too. There wasn’t even a toy in the box. The radio doodles away to itself. The orange stuff gets soggier. I squash it against my gums with my tongue and suck out all the liquid.

Don’t play with your food!

There’s nobody else sitting at the table. Grandmother, who doesn’t want to know me, is waiting for me to disappear. She’s in her room upstairs, two doors down from mine. With Mother in-between. Her room is now mine. Great fucking trade. This morning, for starters, I stuck a piece of snot on the drawer of the bedside table. Marked my territory. It was one of those long ones with a comet tail. I actually wanted to let it dry on my arm, but the drawer was too tempting. Now it’s hanging from the drawer-knob. After that I checked out the room. There was nothing in the wardrobe, obviously, because I haven’t unpacked my suitcase yet. There’s a wooden hanger in there dangling from a brass rod. The wardrobe door squeaks a bit. Right next to it there’s a bookcase with no books. The bed’s directly across, and when I lie there I can see the sky through the window. And a couple of green branches sporting midget pears. Last night they kept brushing backwards and forwards along the shutters. Like ghostly fingers with claws. You can still see the scratches on my hands. I’ll make something up no problem. There are no curtains on the windows. Nobody lives opposite anyway. Just a stupid field. And behind that mountains like the Toblerone in my suitcase. Not even a road where I could aim at people with my gun. Now that I think about it, there aren’t any houses around us at all. The shit-hole village is a ten-minute walk away. That’s what Mother said. No way would I walk there. There’s nothing to do in the village anyway, the kids there can screw themselves for the next four weeks for all I care. My suitcase is lying on the wonky desk. My jacket’s hanging over the back of the chair. And that’s it. No pictures. No photos. White walls. Almost like a hospital. Mother says the country air’ll do me good. But I know why we’re really here. Because of the fat tummy. And because of the man who punched her one last night. I’ve got scratches on my hand, and Mother’s got a great big bruise on her face. But she didn’t cry. Mother is just as strong as I am. I don’t really know the man. But I know his voice. He always came round very late. Then my door’d get locked from the outside, and Mother would smile in the morning while she was making the bed. She smiles at me too. Every single morning. Except that today she looks knackered. But I’m pretty tired as well, from the long drive. Mother said she’d phone and get me off school. There are only ten days left before the summer holidays anyway. If I lean out of the window, I can reach some of the pears. They’re really hard. The pipes are making a noise. Somebody was just on the toilet. I’ve never seen anything so strange. The bog’s right at the end of a long hallway. I’d say it’d take me five huge jumps, with a run-up, to get to it. And the hallway is dead narrow. Only one person at a time can fit through. There’s no window either. Maybe it was granny who weed just now? I wonder why she doesn’t want to see me. It’s not like I’ve done anything to her. Not yet anyway. Then Mother comes in to tell me breakfast is ready. She’s already eaten. My plate’s the only one on the table. There’s nobody else in the house. No man. No father. No grandfather to hold my hand on the way to the pond and sail sailboats with me. Just women. Mother goes into the kitchen. There’s a splashing noise. She’s doing the dishes. A line of ants wends its way from the patio, through the open door, across the worn-down, shit-brown carpet, vanishes along the way and then turns up again at the table leg, on its way to the target. The honey pot. I sit watching the creepy-crawlies. I don’t do a thing. And then, when they’re busy covering themselves in honey, getting stickier and stickier, that’s when I strike. I squash their armour-plated, hollow skulls, and watch as the news of death makes its way to the end of the line.

Aren’t you finished yet? Stop torturing those poor creatures!

My spoon falls into the bowl. The sugar has formed a sandbank at the bottom. I rock my chair against the table leg, using my foot as a stabiliser. Upstairs, above my head, there’s a thumping noise. Mother says grandmother walks on crutches. She’s broken the neck of her thigh, she said. I don’t believe it. Thighs don’t have necks.

Mummy, can I have scrambled eggs?

Mother looks happy.

See, didn’t I tell you? The fresh air will do you good.

I’m not hungry any more, but I have to cheer Mother up a bit, and her scrambled eggs really are the best in the world. The ants have gone now. There’s no honey pot and no beasties. Hmmm, I can smell the eggs. I like the dried-in bits in the pan best. I scratch them out with my fork.

Eeurgh, why are they so yellow?

They’re from Grandma’s hen house.

So?

Grandma’s hens are free-range. They’re not like super market hens that live all squashed-up in cages. They get proper grass and fresh grain to eat. And sometimes in May they even get May bugs.

And that’s why they’re yellower?

I’m never going to eat supermarket eggs again. Never mind the disgusting yellow colour. The bread tastes different as well. There’s more thumping going on upstairs. I’ve got egg on the collar of my pyjamas. Mother comes over and licks it off. And then she pretends to take a bite out of my neck. I laugh out loud, I get shivers down my spine. She puts her arms round me. I snuggle in.

Careful! My tummy!

Yes, I’m very careful. I stroke my fingers gently over her swollen face.

Does it hurt a lot?

Mother nods, but she says no. We look into each other’s eyes. I can see myself reflected in her pupils. I’m inside my mother. Deep down inside. I feel like a grownup.

Don’t worry, Mum, he won’t come back.

I clear the table because I’m trying to be good today. A pair of wet pink nostrils with a jet black hide snort at me.

Who are you, then?

A fat tongue sticks out at me. I stare at the cow’s head poking through the kitchen window. I’ve seen lots of cows before, on TV. But this one’s a lot huger and it stinks as well. Mother shoos it away.

Go upstairs and get ready. I really need to get to the bank.

Reluctantly I trot upstairs, past grandmother’s door. I stop for a bit, listen, but I don’t hear anything. And there’s a key in the lock on the inside. She’s not stupid. I bet she heard me stop. The floor creaks too much. You’d have to be as light as a feather. In the bathroom my blue toothbrush is

Reviews for Enemy of the Ants

[jkennedybalto · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Intense. Dramatic. Quite an accomplishment to get ta reader to sympathize with an ultimate juvenile delinquent point of view. (This reader did, though not ignoring the trail of victims left in his wake.) Mostly written in stream of consciousness style narration. I strongly recommend, though like me, you may only be able to read in short doses.