The Streetwalker and the Odd Shoe

By Dr. Prem Kutowaroo

This book concerns a streetwalker whose life had been a challenging one. The person involved was forced to go onto the street because of the treatment he had received at the hands of his father. He spent his life mostly in London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546281276

Dr. Prem Kutowaroo

Prem, who comes from Mauritius, has lived in England for many years. He has studied and obtained BA Masters and is a doctor now. Prem has been writing books for some years and they concerned true stories about people from Mauritius.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Mark was being abused by his own father for reasons he had yet to find out. When he reached the age of fourteen and was still being abused, he thought enough was enough. He had no option but to leave home, though he had no specific destination.

As he left, he had two links to remind him of home. First, there was his half brother, who’d become attached to him. Yet he could not help Mark during his bad days, and neither was he able to keep in touch with him. The second link was an ornamental shoe, which played an important role in his life.

Mark was naive and immature. He became a streetwalker. In his own way, he made his plans to survive the hardships he encountered, mainly in the city of London. He was in search of love, and in the process, he became haggard with long, knotted hair and a beard. Despite continuous hardship, he kept his faith in God and hoped he would see the light at the end of the tunnel, although he was not sure whether that could ever happen. Did the light appear at all?

People prefer to be called streetwalker rather than the conventional tramp or vagrant, because it is more respectable than the other two terms, which are demeaning. They don’t want to be called gypsies. Mark certainly didn’t want to be called homeless either.

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I’m grateful to Ruby, who helped me with her typing expertise and with some amendments. Without her help, I wouldn’t have had enough time to complete this work. I’m also grateful to Mark, the main character, who supplied me this information. I wish him all the best in his future. I thank Steve, Mark’s half brother, for the other information he supplied.

CHAPTER 1

I had lived at my home address for fourteen years, and I’d known true happiness or true love only from Steve and Mum. Life had never been rosy and was full of miseries and sadness.

As I can remember, such unpleasantness started when I was still a child. The reason for such miseries was the way my father had treated me.

Apart from my teachers, the only people who were good to me and held proper conversations were some of my neighbours, and of course Steve. My neighbours had always liked to talk to me. For instance, when I was on my way to school on my own one special morning, one of my neighbours, Les, talked to me. It was still early, and so I stopped and listened to what he had to say, or else he might have reported me to my dad. That might cause more problems for me—although my dad didn’t like me to talk to anyone. I must have been seven years of age.

Eh, boy. You know, every time I see you, you remind me of your mother, Les said.

What do you mean, my mother? I cut him short and replied calmly and quietly. What’s wrong with my mum? She looks okay to me.

Promise that you’ll not say anything to anyone, because I shouldn’t be telling you this, but this one isn’t your real mother, lad. He saw me look surprised. Probably he realised that he shouldn’t have started something of that nature so early in the morning.

What do you mean, she isn’t my real mother? She’s my mother!

No, she isn’t your real mother, boy. Your mother, whose name was Sonya, died when she was giving birth to you during hard labour.

Obviously I was saddened by this news. I didn’t know what hard labour meant. I thought she was working really hard somewhere.

He seemed to notice anxiety in me and replied, Don’t worry. You’ll understand this when you get older.

In that case, you mean to say that I have never seen my real mother? I replied. I paused and then said, She must have been beautiful.

Of course you have not seen your real mother. Aye, she was beautiful, all right, and friendly too. You have a round face and blue eyes like her. She was of medium build, and I can say that she looked young for her age. Your mum had straight, long hair, whereas you have glossy, wavy, and dark hair like your dad. And you are slim and tall like him. Haven’t you seen any photos of her?

No, sir. Even if I saw a photo of her, I wouldn’t know who she was. But I promise I won’t tell anyone.

That’s a good boy. Go to school, or else you’ll be late.

That day, I kept on thinking on what Les had said. At the same time, I thought that Dad had probably abused me because Mum had told him to, because she was not my real mother. I didn’t let it worry me too much, in case people noticed something wrong.

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My name is Mark Harding. I have lived in Welling, a small town in Kent, for fourteen years. I was born at Greenwich General Hospital, which I learned from Les was only a few miles away from the suburb of Welling. As I thought about my real mother, I thought Sonya was an adorable name. All this meant that I hadn’t seen—and never would see—what she looked like; there wasn’t even a photo to see her face. My dad, Timothy Harding, known as Tim, was slim and tall, well over six feet. He had thick, glossy, and wavy dark hair; a tough, muscular face; and brown eyes.

Another time, when I was about nine years old, a different neighbour, Helen, also told me how I resembled my mother. She had some time on her hands, and I was early for school, so she went on to tell me a bit more about my history. To do that, she took me to a bench by a small park nearby. If she had not done that and my father had seen me, I probably would have been killed for talking to someone, especially a female neighbour. She also asked I not to say anything to anyone about our conversation.

Do you know how you got the burn on your face, Mark? she asked.

No, Helen, but I would like to know. Dad hasn’t said anything to me.

After your mum died, your dad was saying to us that he didn’t have much time to look after you. His parents lived far away in Preston and could hardly come down to help him look after you. Probably they were getting old and couldn’t have travelled long distances. Your dad didn’t want to move up there because of his job. I don’t think he had ever taken you there, and so it seems that you don’t even know your grandparents, especially now that he’s got married again. I suppose you don’t know whether your grandfather and grandmother are still alive. I am also certain that your stepmother is from somewhere in Bedford, which is north of London. I suppose he keeps in touch more with your stepmother’s parents than his own.

I would’ve been surprised, if Les had not told me about my stepmother. I know the scar is there, but I don’t know how I got it, and I don’t think anyone will ever tell me about it.

I’m coming to it, Mark. As your dad was working full-time, he had employed a full-time nanny to look after you. The nanny, Molly, was a neighbour and was looking after you quite well, as your dad used to tell us—until on one occasion, she set fire to your cot.

How could she have set the fire? I asked.

Nobody could tell whether it was an accident or she did it deliberately. You see, she smoked. She might have thrown the matchstick she used to light her cigarette, or she could have dropped her cigarette in the cot. She herself couldn’t remember which. We don’t think she could have done this purposely, because she did not stop apologising for her mistake. For this reason, your dad didn’t do anything about it, and you have ended up with a nasty scar on your face. You were taken to hospital, where you received treatment for minor burns, and that was the end of the story. It’s a good job your eyes didn’t get burnt. I am sorry about the scar, though.

That’s all right. I don’t even think about it.

I’m glad. Despite this problem, your dad continued to employ Molly to look after you. Eventually, within the first year, your dad was having problems looking after you, especially when he had a full-time job to consider. He didn’t have the option then to get married to Monica, who worked at the same place, because he had vowed that he wouldn’t get married again. Molly was looking after you when your dad got married to Monica. One year later, Steve was born, and until Monica was on maternity leave, Molly continued to look after you. When Monica went back to work, Molly was employed again to look after both of you. She was there until you were eight years of age, and she stopped coming to see you regularly because you and Steve were old enough to manage on your own and walk to school together. She didn’t have to be here in the morning, you were at school during the day, and every evening your parents were at home. She came during some weekends and when you were on holiday. Eventually, she stopped coming altogether. Even though you know the truth, please continue addressing Monica as your mum, you’ve always done. I’m sorry I had to tell you all this, because I always see you quiet, as if you are sad.

I’m very glad that you told me all this. Otherwise, no one would have bothered to tell me how I got the scar on my face. Not even Molly has told me anything. Thank you. Could you please tell me what happened to Molly? She was a nice lady, as far as I know, and she was always telling us stories. I’ve not seen her around since she stopped coming to see us.

Oh! Molly lived alone, and she eventually moved away to live with her son in Brentford, in Essex. Later, I heard that she died.

I’m sad to hear that.

Helen had started confiding the information to me, but I still hadn’t told her how I was suffering thanks to my father.

She said, No matter what you do, please don’t say any of this to anyone. You’d better get going, or else you’ll be late for school.

Thanks, Helen. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anything to anyone. I promise.

Whatever I had heard was like fairy tales to me. At first, I didn’t want to believe them, but it dawned on me afterwards that they were true.

As I had promised Helen and Les, I did not stop addressing my stepmother as Mum, and I would never let them know that I knew the truth. I didn’t dare tell Steve anything either, although I was very close to him. It was not because I didn’t trust him, but because this information was rather personal and intimate.

At another time, another neighbour, Tony, spoke to me and said that my father was only thirty-one when he got married to my mother, who was twenty-five. He was only thirty-three when Mum died, two years after they got married. It seemed that he must have loved my mother dearly, for him to be so devastated and promise that he would never get married again. Tony told me all this because he was friendly enough with Dad to have known these facts. I was surprised that my neighbours were always talking to me of their own accord and telling me things about myself. I was also wondering why I didn’t know about these things, and why I had to hear them from people other than my father. The only thing I heard from Dad was abuse after abuse.

We lived in a cul-de-sac, or a close as it is preferably known, which had about twenty-five terraced houses. Our house was a four-bedroom, semi-detached building in the middle of the terrace. The house itself was over thirty years old, and although the outside needed some repairs, the inside had been completely modernised. It was a one-storey building, with the bedrooms and a bathroom with en-suite toilet upstairs. We used the three bedrooms for ourselves, whereas we kept the fourth one as a spare room to accommodate guests whenever they dropped in. The fitted wardrobes in the bedroom had been recently done, and they looked magnificent, with mirrors on the doors, a round mirror in the middle, and a space for cosmetics. There was hardly any make-up except for few odd ones for Mum and Dad.

On the ground floor, the utility room has been converted into a shower room with en-suite toilet. The back boiler gas heaters had been removed to be replaced by electric radiators. The kitchen had been extended to contain a dining area on one side and the kitchen on the other side. The walls had conventional cupboards, which had now been replaced by newer style cupboards. There was also a whole unit from MFI that contained cookers, dishwasher, a combined gas and electric cooker, and a completely new sink unit. The ground floor also had a spacious lounge with some settees, and we used it to watch television and entertain people. There was nice pale blue carpet around the house that looked as if it had never been stepped on. The magnolia-coloured wall paint was unblemished. The curtains were beige and matched the wall.

We did not have a garage, and Dad used to park his car along the road of the close, like other residents. Sometimes he’d get annoyed when he couldn’t find a parking space and had to park along the main road. In the end, because the front garden was large, he separated it in two sections. He had the front part of the curb dropped and paved the front part of the garden so that he could park his car at ease. In fact, there was a space for three cars. At the other half of the garden on the back part, he had a path leading to the house, and on both sides he left lawn, as well as a strip on both sides where he could plant flowers such as camellia, magnolia, and hydrangeas. At the back garden, he had a small wooden shed, which he changed to a brick-walled shed that was larger so he would have ample space to store his tools and other things. The back garden was surrounded by a six-foot fence, and he also made strips all around where he had planted different types of vegetables. He had lawn in the middle part of the garden and a path that led to the shed.

My father worked as an accountant for a travel agency. Helen, my neighbour, had told me that my mother had been a part-time carer in a local hospital for people with learning disabilities. I never got to know what sort of relationship Dad had with Mum; even my neighbours who talked to me couldn’t tell me about it. Dad never exchanged information with me apart from abuse.

I thought Dad was Christian, yet it didn’t appear that he was sincere to the religion if he broke his promise and got married again so soon. Probably he thought that marriage had nothing to do with religion. Then I found out the reason from Les, our neighbour. I had never seen him going anywhere near a church, yet he didn’t stop us from attending church services. That made me a decent Christian, and I was able to learn so many facts about Christianity.

Monica, who I learnt was about the same age as Dad, was at least one foot shorter than him. This made them look like an odd couple. She had a round face and was also of medium build, like my mum. She was attractive with long, fair hair and grey eyes. Most of the time, she wore black slacks and a blue blouse. That outfit suited her, and it seemed that she liked it because she wore it most of the time. She also wore very minimal make-up, especially when she went to work. When she was at home during weekends, she never wore any make-up at all.

Dad most likely got married to my stepmum because she had accepted him despite him having a child from his previous marriage. There was a possibility that he knew her intimately when he was still married to my real mum; maybe he was glad that my mum had passed away—something my neighbours were not able to tell me. After a year of marriage, a son was born to them at the same hospital where I was born. I was two years of age at the time. The boy was named Stephen (Steve) and given the surname Wilson, after Monica’s maiden name. No one knew why they gave a different surname as opposed to his surname. Was it because Monica wanted it, or was it because Dad liked the surname? This is one thing my neighbours were not able to find out either.

When Steve grew up, he took after his mother. He was five foot four inches as compared to my five foot five inches. He was medium built and was fair-haired, but he had unusual curls and had grey eyes like his mum.

My relationship with Dad had not been good. At the same time, Steve and I didn’t know whether his relationship with Monica was good or bad, although we had not heard any rows or bust-ups between them. They might be having arguments away from us. With Dad’s temper, we sometimes assumed that they were arguing away from us, just like I was being abused away from them. Monica tried to give me love as best as she could, but my father was the problem. Molly, our nanny, had given us some love, but she had also left. I was really sad for her to go. I was stranded. No one told me where Molly had gone until Helen told me.

The train station was not too far from our house. Mum and Dad could have commuted by train to go to work, but they preferred to take the car. I supposed they did this because they had parking facilities at the place where they worked. Either they preferred this, or they thought that it was too expensive for two persons to commute by train every day.

Our neighbours were quite friendly. There were some elderly people who would stop to talk to Steve and me every time they saw us. I used to walk with my head down, like Helen had mentioned, but I still greeted those guys. They always told me to cheer up. I was made to believe that no one in the close would interfere with our personal life. After my occasional chats with some of them, I had the idea that they knew some of our family life but not my abuse.

The primary school I used to go to was a pleasant-looking building that had beautiful grounds where most events were held, like football and other games. At school, I liked most of my women teachers because they were kind and gentle, and they probably recognised my learning ability. I was quiet but not withdrawn, despite the problem I had at home. In fact, I looked forward to attending one particular class, English. Susannah Reid, or Sue, was the teacher and was very inspirational. She was very good at communicating with her pupils, and she turned everything she taught into something interesting and funny. When I moved to a different class, I never had another teacher like her, although they were good in different ways. There was no one like her in the secondary school, which Steve joined when he turned thirteen.

Monica was at home looking after us, and when Steve was one year old, Mum went back to work. Molly, our carer, came back to look after us again. She used to come at seven in the morning, when Mum and Dad went to work, and stayed until about seven in the evening, when they came back from work. This was her pattern from Monday to Friday, and she finished at about two on Saturday. She was off on Sundays and on bank holidays, when Mum and Dad stayed at home.

CHAPTER 2

I had been raised without a natural mother, and my father had never given me the love and affection I needed as a child. I had not been able to find out why he had never seen eye to eye with me. He would pitilessly beat me when his rage took hold of him. If I did something wrong, he would not talk to me, advise me, or correct me where I had gone wrong. He would not even reprimand me. He would simply beat me. I don’t know when he started beating me, because I was too young to recall anything. However, the first incident I can remember was the time when I was about four years of age. It must have been a Sunday, because everyone was at home, and Molly was not there that day. It so happened that Mum had gone out for a short walk, taking Steve in a pushchair; Steve was only a year and a half at that time.

I was having my breakfast and accidentally spilt a bowl of cornflakes, complete with milk, on the floor. I apologised. Sorry, Dad. I won’t do that again.

He could have reprimanded me for this mishap, but he didn’t. I didn’t know what came over him, but he started beating me so intensely and carefully so that there wouldn’t be any visible bruises. I could see red fluid coming from my mouth. I had no idea what it was but found out later that it was blood. I wouldn’t cry because I was scared that he might hit me again. I eventually quietened down but couldn’t stop sobbing, with tears rolling down my cheeks. At the same time, I tried to wipe my nose with the back of my right hand. I was sure he noticed this fluid because he wiped it off before Mum and Steve came back. He didn’t comfort me or even felt sorry for me, yet he cleaned the spillage off the floor.

The next day, my mouth was slightly swollen, and I had a light bruise on my lip. He didn’t bother to take me to hospital; he took it for granted that the bruise would heal by itself. God knows what he had told Mum. Probably he told her that I fell down or something. I could not take hot drinks, yet he forced me to take them. Molly came to look after Steve and me on Monday morning when Mum and Dad had to go to work. I was sure that Dad had told Molly that I had fallen down to account for the bruise. Other times, Dad would not say anything, but the look on his muscular face was bad enough to make me scared of him.

Abuse from my dad was usually before he left for work and after he came back from work. There were times when I would think he bashed me for something really silly. For instance, if he saw me talking to someone, he would call me to my room and start bashing me. It seemed to me that he was jealous of someone or something. If I were a girl, I would have understood that, but it seemed ridiculous when I was a boy. Unless he thought that I could be abducted? In that case, he could have advised me not to talk to strangers or something to that effect, but beating me was ridiculous. Sometimes I wondered if he was equally aggressive towards my real mum, because he was jealous whenever she talked to someone. She was a nurse, and when I found out about her and how she was bound to talk to people, I reflected on that. In that case, he couldn’t have been with her for twenty-four hours because she was working at one place, and he was working somewhere else. Did that mean that he could be keeping an eye on Monica because they were working at the same place?

When I used to go to school, I had to make sure that I left home at a certain time, and sometimes Molly would accompany me there. When he had already gone to work, and when Molly had stopped coming to look after us, I would leave a bit early so that I could have the chance to talk to people. After school, I had to rush back home, believing that he might have come back from work early. If I were late, he wouldn’t ask me where I was or what I was up to, but if I didn’t have a good explanation, he would start hitting me.

I recall another reason for that sort of behaviour to be prevalent. For instance, when I was in my room doing something, he would either come to my room or thump me, saying that I should know it was dinner time. Sometimes he would not bother to call me when everyone was sitting at the table for dinner in the evenings.

Why don’t you call Mark for dinner? Steve would usually ask.

He should know that it’s dinner time, Dad would answer. You don’t get called, do you?

Steve would think that I was not psychic to know that dinner was ready, or that it wouldn’t cost Dad anything to simply call me. Steve couldn’t say anything to him in case he got scolded. Besides, Dad daren’t say anything to Steve, because Mum would jump down his throat.

When I came downstairs, Dad would say, Here you are. Come and have your dinner. The dinner was already dished out for me, whether I liked it or not. I should have known it was dinner time, but sometimes I would have get so busy with my school work that I would forget the time had moved so fast. If I didn’t come downstairs, I would be ignored, and the food would go to waste. Would Mother bring the food to my room? I wouldn’t know, because I didn’t let it go that far. It was frustrating, but I couldn’t say anything about it. I had to sit down and eat what was dished out for me. It did hurt, but I often got the feeling that I was not wanted.

It seemed to me that Dad was two-faced. He was all smiley in front of people but would give me a bashing when no one was around. One evening, I was in my room doing some schoolwork. He came in, and voila—he started giving me thumps on my head. With the first hit, I nearly hit my head on the table. The pen that I was holding made a long scrawl on my notebook. It was a good job I wasn’t using an ink pen, or else ink would have been everywhere.

When I grew older, Dad had a new way of implying that I was in trouble. He started saying, I want words with you, Mark.

When Dad said that, I expected the trouble to mean pain. I had to go to my room, and he would follow me with his belt in his hand. I had to ready myself by dropping my trousers so that he could whack me on my bare bottom. The beating was often so hard that I was often left bloodied. I could often see blood in my trousers, and I would clean off the blood so that it wouldn’t be detected when Mum was doing the washing. Did he have any remorse or feelings? I often asked myself. Probably he would do that so that no one could see marks on me. Tears would roll down my cheeks. As usual, I could not scream. I had to bite my lips so hard that sometimes I could taste blood in my mouth. The pain was so strong that I would quietly pray someone would see him or beat him in return, so he could see how he felt and might stop beating me. I prayed that my own mum, wherever she was, would come over and make him stop the beatings.

When he stopped bashing, I could do nothing but whimper in pain and rage, cursing him to suffer from most terrible disease. The way he acted, it seemed to me that a cold brutality would come over him. I honestly didn’t know what led to commit such action, and I didn’t know why Steve didn’t get any of these treatments. When I grew older, I would always struggle to control my temper, and I often felt frustrated and worthless. I could never retaliate at my age. If I did so, I wondered what could have happened to me. I would probably have been killed.

Sometimes I didn’t know what to do or where to put myself. Apart from being abused, anything I did was wrong in the eyes of my father. If I tried to be helpful with a view to be praised, I was told off for being in his way. It wasn’t simply his anger I was scared of. I was scared that he might strike me with anything he had in his hand anytime and without any reason. In other words, Dad and I never got along too well. One might say that we lived separate lives, although we lived under the same roof.

It would always play in my mind why Steve had never received any of the ill treatment I received. If it had happened, Steve would have told me, unless he was also suffering in silence. I often tried to work out why he was acting like he did for his actions. At first, I thought that Dad’s violent temper might be related to frustration at work or his relationship with my stepmother. Was he always like this, and I had become a scapegoat? Why did he take it on his own son? Was it because he bore a grudge against my real mother?

Above all, I thought that he might have been alcoholic. He was never seen taking alcoholic drinks at home, unless (oblivious to me) he went out to pubs for his drinks. This made me wonder whether alcohol was a reason why Dad abused me. When he was about to explode in anger, his appearance changed. He became like a wolf, baring his teeth before attacking me without mercy. I was like a frightened lamb, cowering out of sight and hoping he wouldn’t see me. If he did find me, I was sure the beating was harsher. This happened mostly when he knew there was no one around.

When I reached ten years of age, I didn’t think that Dad had realised I was that old. To him, probably I was still four years of age. I would still try not to retaliate for the abuse because I was scared that I might be beaten even more. Most of the time, I would sob and make myself go to sleep, sometimes on an empty stomach, thinking about what I could do to escape such miseries. In that case, I believe that either Mum was scared to bring me food, or she assumed that I’d already had something to eat. It was always at the back of my mind that Dad wouldn’t raise a finger in front of my stepmother or Steve. If he couldn’t hit me when they were around, his dirty look was enough for me to understand that he had something against me. I came to believe that if he did something in front of them, my stepmother might hit him back. She looked to be that type of woman, but I could never tell. In the end, I developed a phobia about approaching my own father. Even then, he would accuse me of avoiding him. I could never win.

My father would often yell at me when no one was around, saying that I was bad and no one would love me. As a result, inwardly I tried to make myself feel that I was not a bad person and that others would like me. I felt very low, searching for the love I never got from him.

My stepmother and Steve put two and two together, and they knew that I was being bashed. Yet I couldn’t tell them anything, and neither could they say or do anything about it because they didn’t have any proof. When they found bruises on me, I would lie to them, saying that I’d fallen down or giving them other excuses. If I had told them the truth, I wouldn’t know what the consequences would be. Would Mum confront him? If she did, would Dad pounce on me more? As a cry for help, I didn’t know to whom to complain.

When I was a child, I thought Dad knew that I would tell people about the way he treated me. He had warned me not to tell anyone, or else I would receive more beating. That was at the back of my mind, when my neighbours had occasional chats with me. In the end, I didn’t know anyone whom I could trust and confide my problem, for fear that Dad might find out and punish me for it. I implored to God, Why don’t you send someone to stop these miseries? Why don’t you take him or me away? At this age, I still didn’t know anyone in whom to confide.

Steve and I had been going to school and were together most of the time. I tried my utmost to not tell him anything. Molly had stopped coming to our place, and this meant that I couldn’t have soft talk from her in order to soothe my ailing memory. This meant that I was left barren, without having someone to tell me stories or give me moral support. This meant that I was suffering in silence. I was morose and sad, but I bore a false smile in front of people.

In the end, I felt I couldn’t trust anyone. It seemed as if I were lost, shouting for someone to help me. But there was no one who could listen to my agony, no one who could pull me out to safety. Later, when I was talking to Steve, he coaxed me into telling him the truth about Dad abusing me. I was surprised to find that he knew of my sufferings.

I asked, How did you find out about my problems?

Sometimes it’s very hard to detect things but not say anything. You can talk to me, Mark.

Does Mum know about me?

Um, I don’t know.

You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?

I don’t know.

Steve promised that he would keep it a secret. He felt frustrated on my behalf, and we often had arguments. When he cooled down, he would sympathize with me. Why, God? If I were bashed by someone else, I would have understood and wouldn’t feel too bad. But it was awful to think that I was abused by my own father. There must have been two of me: one outside and one inside. The outside bit was bashed and bruised; the inside bit was hurt and bleeding, which my dad could not see. I decided that I had to secure the inside bit.

When I was in the primary school, sometimes I would miss school due to aches and pains. Although teachers would send messages, my dad wouldn’t care in the least. He would reply by saying that I had not been well or gave some other excuses. I couldn’t tell my teachers the true reason for my absence because I was scared that Dad might find out and hit me more. At other times, he would still force me to go to school. I didn’t have much hassle at school apart from being absent on odd occasions. I wondered what he had been telling people about the odd bruises I’d sustained. Had I fallen down awkwardly? If so, how often had he been telling such lies? When he started belting me on my behind, I had problems sitting down. I used to wriggle in order to ease the pain from my backside. I was surprised that no one noticed what agony I was going through. When I was in secondary school, things had not changed much. I was surprised that he would bash me in such a way that most of the bruises wouldn’t show up.

Schooling was the same routine for Steve and me. Most of the time, we went to school together. I enjoyed the company of Steve, and our company kept my mind off my father’s abusive moments.

I knew that Steve was my half brother, but I didn’t know whether Mum or Dad had told him that. As for me, I had to do my bit to tell him the truth. Despite such information, we became good brothers and considered ourselves the best of friends. We used to go for occasional strolls. Our house was on the northern part of Welling, and we would often take a ball and walk through Lodge Hill or as far as the Clamfield Recreation Grounds, next to Borstall Woods, which was about three-quarters of a mile north of home. We used to play football there for as long as we could. Sometimes I had problems running due to some pains. Steve understood it, and he used to ask me to have a rest, yet at times I braved it and continued playing. At other times, youngsters from the neighbourhood would join us, and we would play with five or six players to a side in match-type games. It was the only time when we got the chance to mix with other youngsters, apart from the odd ones at school. It was fun as we laughed and ran, and I had the chance to forget the miseries I endured at home.

At other times, especially in the summer, we used to go round to the woods to pick and eat juicy blackberries. We admired the beauty of colourful bluebells and daffodils, and sometimes we picked some flowers and put them in a vase, which we kept on a round table in the middle of our lounge. Despite such closeness, I never asked Steve, and neither did he say, whether he too was abused. I presumed he was not, or else he would have told me.

Steve and I had become so close that we thought we would be inseparable. We used to crack jokes and talk about general matters. We always found something to talk about, although we were still boys. Most of the time, I found that Steve talked about people’s illnesses and how he would have liked to take care of them in terms of eliminating illnesses.

You can’t get rid of illnesses, I recall telling him. There are too many of them.

You can at least try, Mark. I know I am too young, but I have to try well to succeed in anything.

We were strong believers in Christianity, and Steve and I usually went to Sunday school at the local church. That was the only privilege upon which