Читать книгу Heathcliffs I Have Known: A Story from the collection, I Am Heathcliff - Louisa Young - Страница 7

FIRST ONE WAS THE bloke who hung about in the Woolworths car park opposite the gates of the Juniors. Yes, he had a heavy coat on and his collar up and his stupid willy hanging out, and he looked at me and said, broodingly, meaningfully, ‘You’re mine.’

I said, ‘No I’m not, I’m my mum and dad’s,’ and walked on home, wondering if I’d got the possessives right. My mum’s and dad’s? My mum’s and my dad’s? Anyway I wasn’t bloody his. I was theirs, and when I grew up I’d be my own.

I’m not going to get them in order.

Generally, I gave them short shrift and got off lightly. I never had a weakness for them, thank God. Not like some girls. But I’ll only speak of what I know.

There was – Christ, I can’t give him his real name, he’s real, but by giving him a fake name I’m protecting him, to which I profoundly object. You can’t win.

He was younger, we both rode motorbikes. He looked a bit cherubic, not my type, fat mouth and soft hair, big mean eyes, excitable. Once I was riding my Guzzi up the Wandsworth Road and I saw him coming towards me on the other side. I pulled towards the white line and so did he, and we were both in open-face helmets and that was the first time he kissed me, which I thought was well romantic. I went around to his a couple of times, and one time I stayed over because we’d had a bit to drink, but we didn’t do anything. He wanted to, but he was being funny about it, starting and stopping, and I didn’t really want to anyway. After a few weeks I wasn’t very interested in him: he kept ringing up saying ‘What are you doing tonight?’ and I’d say ‘I’m seeing my friends,’ and he’d say, ‘But what about me? What am I supposed to do?’ and I wouldn’t say, ‘I have no idea; do what you bloody like,’ but I would think – twat alert.

Then one night he drove his Honda 750 through the closed front door of the place I was living, right into the hallway, came into my room, called me a fat-titted witch, took my hair in his hands and banged my head on the wall, put his hands around my neck, and he was saying ‘You’re mine’ – ‘I’m fucking not’, I couldn’t say, because he was strangling me. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’m in love with you.’ My flatmate came barrelling down the stairs, the creep ran up to get hold of him and threw him at the banisters, broke his rib, it turned out.

The police came around, said, ‘Oh it’s domestic,’ and went away. It was a long time ago. I rang them the next day and said, ‘Oi.’

They picked him up in a dawn raid, and the DI said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a coloured boy?’ – because he wasn’t, is why. He was half French or something, and a bit sallow.

Took it to court, he got off. The reason being, I felt bad for him, and didn’t tell the truth. I was up as a witness – you weren’t the victim then, you were a witness to what had been done to you. They said, ‘You’re his girlfriend.’ I said ‘No I’m not, I’ve only known him a few weeks and we’ve never had sex. That’s not girlfriend to me.’ I didn’t say what he had told me: there was a thing in his family where the men’s foreskins are too tight. His dad had it and his uncle; they got circumcised; it’s fine. But he hadn’t been circumcised. So every time he got a stiffy, he also got excruciating pain. So that had an effect on how he felt about women he fancied. So I became the reason for him getting severe sex-related dick-agony, and that’s why he did what he did. But I was young and in court and didn’t feel able to tell everyone in their wigs about his dick issues. I was sorry for him! Plus I thought my flatmate’s broken rib and the busted-down door etc., etc., would tell the story without me having to go into details. More fool me. The lesson being, when you’re up against the men, whatever kind of woman you are, use everything you’ve got.