They were accustomed to
his comings and goings. His abrupt and irregular, appearances and
disappearances. He would be here for hours going on days, then take flight for
weeks going on months. Thomas had observed enough to know that he only came
back when his deals had gone up in smoke. Such was his nature.
He was peculiar to say
the least and his tidings even more so. Thomas always wondered what sort of
human being would entrust his saving or any amount of money or valuables to his
father. But many men did, learning bitter lessons from the mistake. More often
than was necessary men came to claim their dues. Thomas hoped that this was not
the case again. Their visits preceded by his father’s depressed nature. He
didn’t trust him, not even as far as he could throw him. That said a lot coming
from a seven year old.
The battered and
bruised old man had staggered in to the living room. He was tittering on the
balls of his heels, the aftermath of another beating. He had more than likely
taken off again before paying up.
‘Hey, old boy, still
holding up,’ he mumbled rather than spoke.
Stumbling over to the
dining table, he fell heavily into a seat and gazed in to the distance. Thomas
noted that his split lip was still bleeding and the blue shirt was dirtied and blood-stained.
Thomas knew all too well what would come next. The hulking knock on the door. The
brutal beating and excess violence. The script had lost its allure. The boy
backed up to the wall drifting to his happy place. He hated his father’s ‘visitors’
as much as he did his father’s visits. All he wanted to do was to shut him out.
‘I am sorry, old boy but
this time, I did it. I really did it,’ he said dreamily. ‘I am sorry that it
has come to this.’
‘Momma asked to stop,
you said you would, Pa, you said that it was the end. Why?’ the seven-year old
moaned.
‘I am sorry, I know
I promised but this is different……’
‘You always say it is
different Pa, you always say that. Why don’t you just stay away?’ Thomas
shouted, his voice rising with every word. ‘ I hate you Pa, I hate you!’
Peter was so stunned by
the words that he fell silent. He had never quite understood how much hurt he
had caused the family till this moment. The countless times that his wife had
tried to get him to understand that had never sunk in. Thomas made him feel it,
and his words brought tears to his eyes.
He bit his lower lip and shut his eyes. Regret.
His heart ached as he
remembered all the many times he had late down the boy. Thomas had looked up to
him like any little boy would look up to a father. But promise after promise
being broken. Lie after lie being told. Hurt after hurt inflicted. His mother
hoped that they would leave soon. Save the boy before the grief tore him up or
the hate consumed him. Peter had delved in his bubble too long to notice the
boy’s pain. He was too busy being slick and sly. Now his sins were back to
haunt him.
There was a time when
all his scheming paid off. Everyone of them had been good. He gave his family
the life he thought the deserved. That was at a time when all that mattered was
the rush. He played fast and loose with everyone and that was exciting. It
didn’t matter how many times his wife asked him stop, he always needed one more
score. The fire that drove him to the brink of detraction. Now he was stuck,
always wanting more but never getting enough.
Peter was only jerked back to reality by the
sound of crunching gravel as a car pulled in to the drive way. He stood up and
braced his hand on the table, the pain in his rib taunted him. He stole a
glance at the little boy, and felt the guilt suffocate him. He heard the steps
on the porch and shifted his gaze to the door. Perhaps it was his wife, or the
debt collectors, he hoped it could be the former.
Elizabeth was halfway
in when she saw him and froze in her tracks
‘You good for nothing
on of a…..’ she started to seethe
‘I can explain, jut
listen to me for a minute, I swear. This time was different …’
‘Tell it to the choir,
I don’t care. I want you out of my life, I want you gone, you and all you
troubles,’ her voice was a steady rising crescendo. ‘We are tired of you, your
lies, your cheating and stealing. I can’t expose Thomas to anymore of your
troubles.’
‘I am sorry, I mean it
this time it’s over, I ……’
Elizabeth raised her
hand to silence him. She wanted to scream but she also wanted to keep her cool.
Her chest was heaving, as she shut her eyes and tried to clear her mind. She
wondered why he didn’t just stay away. Why the collectors didn’t just kill him?
Why he didn’t kill himself. She wanted him gone, gone and gone for good.
‘Leave, please, leave
now and never come back,’ she spoke finally and evenly, her eyes were still
shut. A silence hung between them for a long strained moment. Peter wanted to
argue, but he knew her well enough to know when to give in. He looked at her
and placed his hand on the table.
‘Pa, leave please, you
need to leave,’ Thomas whimpered.
Peter felt the
frustration build in him. He opened his mouth to speak then shut it. He did it
again then shut it. His eyes shifted from mother to child then back to mother. He bit his lower lip. Peter shook his head and
started to walk to the door. Elizabeth stepped aside, Thomas kept his face
buried between his knees and rocked gently. Peter was at the door, took a last
glance at the two, smirked then turned to step out, though he never did.
He was sent stumbling
backwards by blow, then two ghouls walked in. The collectors. Elizabeth
shrieked and rushed to her son, maternal instinct had taken over. Peter looked
up to see one assailant raise his boot. He shut his eyes, held his breath and
braced for the blow. The boy was screaming.
‘Nooo!!!!’ His wife
screamed….
The pain hit him hard
as the collectors boot made contact three times. Once with his head, twice with
his shoulder then at last with ribs, reigniting the flurry of pain. Peter was
in the foetal position, covering his head. Elizabeth shielded Thomas from the
brutality that went on at the door.
‘Go, get him and go. Don’t
do that here. No in front of the boy.’ Elizabeth pleaded.
The two men towered
over Peter but stopped the pummelling him. They studied the two by-standers. One
of them lifted Peter, apologised to his wife before they bundled him out of the
house. Elizabeth watched them go and noted that that might be the last time she
would see him alive. This she hoped both fervently. Thomas had his face buried in
her bossom.
‘Is this the end of it?’
he asked
Perhaps, just perhaps,
this might be the end of his comings and goings
