now and were a qualified mechanic and plumber respectively. That's what most of they boys did around here.
His father had told him he could leave if he had a job to go to, if not he could either leave home or stay at school. Michael had chosen to stay on. He had a plan. A plan which no-one but he and his art teacher and the school principal knew about. The principal only knew because he had questioned Michael on his decision to continue and warned him that he would have to settle down.
'The first sign of bullying or fighting and you are out'. He had been warned.
Michael had agreed to settle. Quietly wanting to punch the old bastard in the face. Everyone had the wrong impression of him. True, in his first two years he had earned a reputation as a bully and probably deserved it. Always the ringleader and instigator of the never ending school yard tormenting that was an expected and customary practice. As he grew older and his reputation became cemented he had backed away from this as much as he could, which wasn't easy when his three best mates had continued picking on any boy that was deemed 'different'. He didn't have much choice but to pretend to go along with it.
In the last two years he had been more in trouble for fighting than bullying. What nobody bothered, or wanted, to notice was that the fights had mostly been with older boys and that more often than not Michael got into fights with other known bullies. He never told anyone why he was regularly fighting other boys. He singled out the habitual sadists and sickos who constantly preyed on the most defenseless boys and challenged them. Giving them 'some-one their own size' to have a go at. He rarely lost a fight.
People never saw that. They only saw the school trouble maker with the drunken father involved in another fight. He was used to being condemned without trial.
Only his art teacher had seen his talent and potential. Encouraging him to do what he was good at. Telling him he had a really good chance of getting accepted into Art School if only he would stay on and graduate. He enjoyed art and he knew he was good at it. He enjoyed having someone believe in him for the first time in his life.
He had known it would be difficult but then most of his life had been difficult. He was going to show them all. Show the 'up themselves' parents and doubting teachers that he was a lot better than they thought he was. Show his father and brothers that he was smarter and tougher than they could ever be. Show himself that he was worth something after all. He would do whatever it took to prove himself.
Twelve
'Put the fucking kettle on and make us a brew'. Michael's dad yelled from his bedroom startling Michael back to the real world. Fuck! His dad was still here. Last night's good mood had quickly vanished as his father woke up hungover and thirsty.
Michael flicked the switch on the electric kettle and got the teapot and teabags out. He quickly rinsed the leftover cups and wiped the crumbs away from around the toaster. He wondered why he didn't just go in while the old man was still in bed and smash him over the head with the teapot. Why didn't he have to guts to stand up to him like his brothers did?
He did know. He'd known for a while now. Now that he was almost as tall as his old man, now that he was seventeen and thinking like a man. He wasn't as big as him but he knew that he was a lot faster. He knew that he could put in three or four good punches before his old man could even react. He knew also that once he started he wouldn't stop.
He thought back to the afternoon two, or was it three weeks ago? He couldn't remember. Didn't want to remember. He had blanked most of it out but he could remember how it started.
His father and brother had been having an enormous argument. He couldn't remember over what but it had ended in his brother telling his dad to 'get fucked' and slamming the door as he left. Leaving Michael alone with his drunken father.
He remembered how he had stayed in the kitchen while his father had continued to drunkenly argue with himself in the lounge room. Swearing and thumping his fists on the coffee table. He remembered hearing his father's heavy footsteps coming towards him.
'I'll teach you fucking ungrateful kids a fucking lesson. I've fucking done everything for youse cunts since that bitch mother of yours left....'
He remembered how his father had walked in and grabbed him by the hair, twisting it painfully. When Michael had yelled and tried to pull away his father had slammed his head sideways onto the kitchen counter top. He remembered waking up on the floor dazed and with blood caked to the side of his face.
He had washed his face and scraped the dried blood from his hair and gone as silently as he could into the room he still shared with his brother. He could hear his father in the next door bedroom snoring loudly, drunk and out to the world.
He remembered going through his brother's drawer and finding his 'stash'. He had mulled up and smoked enough cones to numb the pain but not enough to numb the hate. He remembered hearing his father grunt loudly in his sleep and then fart. He remembered going into the kitchen and coming back with the large knife. He remembered holding it against his father's throat and willing himself to push it in. Push it hard. Push it good.
He remembered his art teachers words.
'Don't let them upset you. Don't let them win'.
He had left a small cut across his father's throat. He drew blood but he hadn't cut any arteries. He didn't remember what he did after that until the following morning when he had woken up. His arms covered in scratches and mosquito bites and his head bruised and throbbing.
He took the freshly made tea into his father's room. Placing the tray on the bedside table.
'There's enough there for two cups. I've got to go down to town and get some books from the library for school. I'll be back later this afternoon'.
It wasn't true. He didn't need any books. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he needed to get out. Needed to get away from this stinking old man that was his father. He wished Billy was still here.
Billy and his mother had moved in to a house just along the highway about halfway through last year. Poor Billy had been a target on the first day he had arrived at school. Like Michael, he had come from a beach suburb and sported the surfer tan and long blonde hair that went with it. Unlike Michael he was small in stature and had his ear pierced. A pretty boy - a Poofter!
The boys at school had seized on him without mercy. He was bullied and harassed at every opportunity. Michael hadn't needed to instigate anything. Half the school was on the poor kid by the end of the first day. Micheal had ignored it. Every new kid got the treatment. This kid was no different.
One day they had been in the changing rooms getting ready for PE. Michael's mates had been tormenting Billy with a pair of smelly socks. Pinning him against the locker and shoving the socks into his face. Michael had been changing into his sports gear and was in his underwear when Billy had made a break and run from the boys.
'Grab the faggot'. Sean Riley had yelled.
Michael had automatically made a grab at Billy. Catching him by the shoulder and pulling him in towards him before throwing his other arm around him and pinning him in a tight hold against him.
As Billy had squirmed against him, trying to get away, Michael had suddenly felt himself start to get hard. He was sure he felt Billy relax and push himself against him. The soft firmness of the boys buttocks like a ripe peach to a hungry mouth.
Michael had shoved the boy hard away from him. Too hard. Billy had shot forward like a rag doll, falling over the wooden bench and going down, head first, hard onto the concrete floor. The other boys, too caught up in watching Billy topple with a helpless moan as blood gushed out from his cut forehead, hadn't noticed Michael's bulging underwear.
He was dressed and soft by the time anyone bothered to help Billy. Of course it had to be Ben Carter. The only boy who would step in without waiting for an okay from Michael. He had picked the boy up and carried him to the shower and run cold water over the boys gashed head, telling one of the other