I was hoping that nothing would go wrong tonight, but something did, because after about ten minutes I heard Fiona calling for me. Not wanting to, not really, I made my way slowly to the bedroom. My thingy was still tingling in my pants. I pushed open the door. Fiona's bedside light was on, all nice and glowing red it was, and the man had tied her to the bedposts. I could never tell with Fiona when things were bad, because sometimes she had to be bad just to keep the punters happy and coming back for more. But if she called, that meant it was really bad, not just pretend bad.
She was screaming now, and the punter was kneeling fully clothed astride her naked flesh and he was hitting her across the face again and again, like he hated her or something, like he hated the whole world and Fiona was unlucky enough to be on the end of it.
My excitement died like a squashed fly.
Of course I recognized the punter straight away, even from the back.
Dad, I said, real slow and quiet, like I couldn't quite believe it, which is certainly true. Well, that stopped him, as you can imagine. He turned to look at me, and his look of surprise, the shock on his face, well, I shall never forget it. Trouble was, it just made him even angrier, the surprise I mean. I tried my usual trick, with the innocent face and the smile and everything, but of course that didn't work any more, especially now. I mean, that was my own dad in there, the dirty so-and-so!
He jumped off the bed, and came straight for me, his hand raised to strike. He was screaming something blue at me for being there, as though I was to blame for his stupid randiness. But then I saw the look in his eye, the real look, which was kind of blank. And it came to me in a second, the so-and-so didn't recognize me! His own son, and all. He must've been out of his head with anger, or lust, or maybe both, most probably both. Or perhaps he was just denying me being there at all, out of guilt for instance.
Anyway, I tried to dodge away but he had me already, by the scruff of the neck. He picked me up, and I'm sure he
was going to throw me against the wall. I'm sure of it. So I just screamed his name out loud, as loud as I could, not his real name, I mean I just shouted out DAD!!!! DAD, STOP IT!!!! Like that, as loud as that.
And he stopped. He stopped sudden like, still holding me aloft, like a baby. Then he let me down slowly. He walked back to the bed, more or less just collapsed on to the bed actually. My dad put his head in his hands, his head dropping down to his hands, and his body shrivelling to almost nothing. And then he started to cry.
Then my dad came over all apologetic and begged me not to tell Mum about him visiting a prostitute. I promised I wouldn't, just to get him to shut up, and to get him out of there. After he'd left, Fiona and I sat on the bed together, not saying hardly anything. My dad's money was lying on her bedside table, and she actually offered me my usual cut, can you believe that? Of course I told her what she could do with her money. Then I said goodbye to her.
When I got back home my mum was overjoyed to see me. It was like being smothered in kisses! Horrible. Of my dad, there was no sign. Mum didn't know where he was, and she didn't care, that's what she said. I wouldn't have told on him, I really wouldn't have, except that Dutch finally stuck his big foot in it by telling some stupid journalist about me..That caused a right stink, with questions in the papers and people going on about me as though I was the end of civilization or something. That's why I've decided to tell this true Confession of my time as a Junior Pimp.
Anyway, it's all finished now. I'm living at home again, with Mum and Tango. Mum and Dad are getting divorced. I'm back at school as well, doing my best to catch up with the lessons I missed. I want to be an artist. The authorities are still trying to decide if I've done anything wrong. What do you think - have I? I don't know, sometimes it seems like it never happened, that I never was a Junior Pimp. But then I remember what I've seen, and what I've done. Seen more and done more than any other boy in the school, even those that have actually had sex, or so they claim. They all look up to me now because I'm famous, especially the girls. Some psychiatrist expert type woman has said that it's going to affect me for the rest of my life, and I certainly hope so.
SHED WEAPONS
many gadgetsYour average boyhood fishing trip involves hooks and weights, and floats and lines, and reels and rods, and landing nets and keepnets, and strange apparatus like the little tool that gets the hook out of the fish's mouth. And all this paraphernalia gets a carefully allotted place in the various plastic trays that slot neatly into the wicker basket, the basket that also doubles as a canalside seat.
But the best gadget of all, in fishing, is the bait. By this, I mean specifically, the maggots.
You could buy these little creatures by the ounce, usually from the local pet shop. As though a maggot could be a pet. They came in a rainbow of colours, which means that somewhere on Earth, some kid is being asked, 'What does your dad do?' and he can answer, quite proudly: 'He's a maggot-colourer.' You would give the shopkeeper your sixpence, or whatever it was, and he would open the big tub and there they all were, millions of them, wriggling like crazy. The man would scoop out your portion, plop them into a brown paper bag. The bag was warm in your hand, and pulsated slightly, and from there you transferred them to your baitbox, which was plastic, with a lid. Sometimes they would show a natural history film on television, a speeded-up film in which these very same creatures could be seen devouring a dead rabbit in seconds. It took a while to get over the fear.