NIPPERS
When I was ten, I went into the local woods with three boys and a girl from my school. At the time it didn’t seem that wrong; we lived in a small village where nothing bad had ever happened and I was pretty sure it never would.
The village maintained its serenity because every child knew if they did step out of line, somehow the neighbours would know. As if at once, a dozen curtains would twitch, followed by a dozen lawnmower engines cutting power so their owners could hear your thoughts. Whenever I did something wrong, I was sure this collective subconscious alert would switch on and the entire neighbourhood would be there, staring with disapproval. Like they all had a secret cable channel tuned into God’s CCTV.
Except there wasn’t CCTV then, just neighbourhood watch.
I could tell you I didn’t know what the boys planned to do; partly it would be true. It took years — right up until I started college and got my first real girlfriend — before I could even think that somewhere in the clogged tunnels of my mind some part of me was aware of it all, even before it began.
The girl was in the year below us at school, not particularly bright or popular; in fact, she didn’t stand out in any way at all. The only thing I remember about her was she wore glasses and that she was willing to go into the woods with four young boys one stale summer afternoon.
We walked for a quarter of a mile, stopping every hundred paces and holding our breath to see if we could hear any signs of the town. Finally, when the din of the A roads had been lost and we could only see forest in every direction, we came to a standstill.
The girl – her name was Maria or Marion or something — stood in a clearing staring at the amount of mud on her jeans; it was as if she’d never seen her clothes get dirty before. Someone passed around a high society magazine, the kind your granny reads, and inside it were the torn out pages of naked or semi-clothed women, all of whom were younger than my mother. When the magazine was handed to me, I leaned against a tree, trying not to make eye contact with the others. I couldn’t decide whether the images were arousing or repulsive; I just knew they were fascinating.
Thom said that most normal women weren’t like the ones in the photos. For a start they were a lot more hairy and their breasts almost always pointed down, like a water bomb when you fill it with too much water.
When we questioned how he knew this he proudly informed us that his mum was part of the swim club and at her insistence he’d been taken with her into the women’s changing rooms until he was eight. It had only stopped because one of the female lifeguards had complained about him watching her. That didn’t matter, Thom said, it just meant she was a bitch and probably a lesbian too. Whatever they were.
It was in the silence that followed that one of the boys took Maria’s glasses. I guess if she’d been one of us - a boy, I mean - I’d have thought nothing of it. It just seemed kind of wrong, because for some reason I was sure she couldn’t see that well without them.
Then Bobby, who lived two roads away from me and whose father owned a snake, swiped out at her, caught her face. Not hard, just enough to shock her and make this weird noise come out of her throat. She stood there stunned and, because she didn’t say anything or try to run away, they pounced on her. I kept thinking it was her own fault for just standing there like some kind of dumb animal.
One of the others tugged at her hair and soon they were holding her still and pulling off her shirt. It looked like a school shirt to me. When I thought about it, she was kind of poor; she lived miles away from school by where the glue factory was. I’d seen her there once with her family, when Dad had let me go with him to buy some timber.
Bobby called to me to join in but I just stared at the cover of the magazine, which had Princess Diana on, holding a baby. I stared into her big watery eyes and she stared back at me with a smile, having no idea that she’d end up bulimic and divorced and dead.
I didn’t look up again until Thom had pulled off her shoes and was throwing them as far as he could. One nearly hit me and I shouted angrily for him to leave off. Me or her I didn’t know.
When I looked over properly, they’d got her lying in the plants with her jeans and shirt off. She had a greyish vest and knickers and I remember thinking she was squealing like my guinea pig when my little brother Jason squeezed it too hard. Bobby was on top of her; just like he did in playground fights except now he was pushing all his weight down on her, he didn’t seem to know what to do.
The three of them took turns to lay on her and rub up and down, pressing their scraggy bodies against hers; I could almost feel them grinding their hips bones into the wedges of her soon-to-be puppy fat. The Princess and I stood back; we didn’t want to be involved. Fuck, we didn’t even want to be observers. I was pretty sure this kind of thing never happened at Buckingham Palace.
Just when I thought I might have to make a run for it with Diana and the naked ladies tucked into my duffle coat, the brisk chopping of a helicopter from the army base down the road filled the air.
Thom got up, so did his friend, and only Bobby was left there, lying on Maria as if they were both dead. The helicopter seemed to hover over the clearing as if watching us, then fled to the south. Thom pointed and began running after it. The other boy followed but my legs were heavy; I couldn’t move without Bobby.
With a grunt Bobby heaved himself off Maria and tumbled into the woods, zig zagging a path for himself as if following the helicopter by instinct alone. Before leaving I wanted to give Maria back her glasses, or at least her shoes but I couldn’t see them. The best I could offer was the princess, who I dropped, scattering tanned pin ups and bored house wives with her.
END