Somewhere Behind

Angelica Part III

Later as I trailed up the stairs to my apartment, I kept seeing Uncle John lying on the floor of the pub, blood streaming from his chest onto the linoleum floor mixing with the dust and grime of the pub's dirty floor. Then I pictured Chris tears streaming from his eyes as he clutched Uncle John's lifeless body in the ambulance.

I still couldn't believe that all of this had happened, it almost seemed like a bad dream. Lost in thought of all these happenings, I opened the door and stepped inside the apartment. It's kind of small, two bedrooms a single bathroom and a long living room with a kitchen at one end. But it's close to the beach with a great view of the dunes.

My dad sat on the couch flipping through channels on the TV. "Perfect timing." He said as I came in.

"Get me a beer from the fridge will ya and could you empty this ashtray while you're at it."

"Great, just what I needed more work." I thought to myself. Dropping my bag I kicked off my flip-flops and padded towards the couch, picked up the ashtray then went towards the kitchen to get something to drink.

"This thing is practically empty," I complained as I stared into the refrigerator. "Aren't you gonna buy any food?"

He mumbled something that sounded like "Next week" and went back to flipping through the channels.

He'd become worse since mom left, before that he was only drinking, now he would go through two packs of cigarettes a day as well.

He was a short and stocky man with a strong build. He worked as a railway engineer, maintaining the tracks, one of those gang men you sometimes see through train windows, out in all weathers in their luminous jackets.

He had jet black hair and unlike my mother was naturally withdrawn. A life spent wandering the tracks, never having to deal with the public, must have suited him well.

The passion of his life was the music of Elvis Presley. He was a desperately shy man, working every moment he could, sometimes out in the rain and snow or all through the night.

But no matter how many hours put in, he could never make enough money for us to afford anything decent.

The moment he got home he would either shut himself in the bedroom with his tape machine just playing Elvis songs over and over again while he sat on the bed silently drinking or he would sit on the couch flipping through channels with a cigarette smoldering at the corner of his mouth.

The music must have provided him with an escape from reality, but it certainly didn't give him any joy. It never made him smile or sing along except when he'd had too much to drink.

Then again sometimes the drink would be way too much and the anger pent up inside of him would boil over and his abusive side emerge.

He used to hit my mother and me whenever he got into this state, which was quite often. There didn't have to be a particular reason, just the existence of us was enough. Anyone close by was in constant danger of getting injured.

I remember when I was small how he used to drag me by the hair and lock me up in the bathroom. The reason was usually me wetting the bed, in my small age I would call out to him. This usually ended up in me getting dragged to the bathroom by my hair. Whenever this happened I learned to cling onto his hands when he had hold of my hair. There were always tricks that usually occur instinctively to help out in any situation.

The more I screamed and pleaded for mercy the more furious he would become, so I learned not to cry, to keep as quiet as possible. I thought that if I took the punishment that way it would all be over quicker but sometimes the silent acceptance of the punishment only fueled his fury. I would stand there flinching, my lip trembling and silent tears running down my face.

He would see it as some sort of dumb insolence and keep on attacking me until I was unable to stop myself from crying out in pain. I think he needed to hear the screams to prove that he was in control.

His anger always and immediately erupted into violence, sometimes he'd lash out with his hands and feet, sometimes he'd grab a stick, belt or anything else that came into hand in order to make the beatings more effective.

There were moments when my mother would get involved and try to stop him. In his rage he would hit out at her, leaving both of us in pain.

When he had decided the punishment was enough, he would then head back to his room and continue drinking till morning came.

This continued for a couple of years and then one morning I wake up to find my mother missing, because of my naïve nature at that age I expected her to return in a couple of hours. Thinking that she had probably gone out to get something to eat as she usually went.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, weeks into months but she never came back and I never heard from her again.

As the years went by his drinking became worse. He moved from beer to gin, coming home every night with half bottles tucked into his pocket and staying in his bedroom until the small hours, drinking and listening to the music.

The harder he drank the angrier and more depressed he became, withdrawing further into himself. There was nothing in the house except anger and unhappiness. There were no moments of laughter or forgiveness.