This story, grimmer and more extreme than my usual efforts, was vaguely inspired by a novel, "Amongst Women," by the superb Irish writer John McGahern. The novel is a portrait of a brooding, dominating, sadistic man and the way his family deals with his dark and difficult personality. There's one scene where his adolescent son has been skipping school and is confronted by his parents. His father says, "Go to your room and take your clothes off," in a calm, authoritative voice. The son actually heads toward his room before realizing that his father intends to beat him and fleeing the house. My fantasy here revolves around a similar dynamic if the beating actually were to take place. As I said, it's particularly grim.
As I passed through the yard on my way home from school I saw my father, at the far end near the fence, entering our shed with a length of rope in his hand. Something about the sight disturbed me.
I walked into the kitchen and saw my mother sitting at the table. In her hand was a pink envelope. I knew what that meant and my heart sank.
"It's from the school," she said. "Father Murphy says you've been skipping out day after day."
"I hate Father Murphy," I said.
"You may well hate Father Murphy, but he's the schoolmaster. You can't skip school, you know that."
"I'm sure to get the strap," I said glumly. My father was a mean one with the strap.
"It's worse than that," she said.
I was startled. Worse?
"He means to beat you," she said wearily. "You're to go to the shed."
It was like an electric shock I could feel on every inch of my skin. Suddenly an image I had long forgotten came to mind: my older brother Alexander had been expelled from school for cheating. The barked order to go the shed. I had lurked in the yard, hearing the blows and the cries. Then the door had opened and my father slipped out. In the fraction of a second the door stood open I had seen Alexander, naked, his back and legs and arse striped red, standing with his hands above his head, his hands tied to a rope hanging down. That was why my father had been bringing the rope into the shed.
My first instinct was to run. Surely a life as a 14-year-old hobo without food or shelter would be preferable to that savage treatment? But I knew I wouldn't, I couldn't. The beating was to be mine this time.
I put a hand on the back of a chair to steady myself, because I was suddenly dizzy. My mother put her warm hand over mine and looked at me with helpless compassion.
Unsteadily I went out and walked toward the shed. My father was walking back to the house. We stopped and faced each other.
"You've spoken to your mother?"
I nodded, unable to speak.
He slapped me on the face. "Go the shed now," he said. "Strip off your clothes. I'll be in shortly."
Rubbing my cheek, I continued to the shed and went in. Spring light poured in the window. The rope had been slung over a beam.
I took off my shoes and socks, then the rest of my clothes, folding them and putting them over a chair in the corner, until I was wearing only my underpants. I looked up at the rope. I held my arms over my head and closed my eyes. This is what it would be like.
I heard my father's steps on the path and lowered my arms. He came in, carrying a leather belt and a wooden paddle. I stared at him in a panic. He looked at me coolly. I blushed hotly, my heart hammered. To my mortification and incomprehension, my _c_o_c_k_ had gone rock hard and bulged out in front of me, throbbing with anxiety. He looked me up and down from head to toe with a sneer on his face. "You're going to get it now, boy," he said. "Give me your hands." I did.
He tied them together with the end of the rope, then pulled the rope until my hands were well above my head. Then he secured the rope. I was helpless.
He took the belt in his hand and began to speak to me in a soft, merciless voice about all my sins and shortcomings. He flicked the belt hard against the back of my thighs. I winced and cried out. He continued lecturing me and slapped the belt against the front of my thighs. Back and forth, he kept the belt going as he tortured me with his words. Eventually he stopped talking to concentrate on whipping my legs. I was dancing in place, whimpering, sobbing, as the leather slashed through the air and into me.
Then he stopped and put the belt down. I felt an immense surge of relief. He spoke to me for a few minutes about God and holy obligations. He was a madman.
Then he picked the belt back up and sent it against my back. I cried out, I shrieked as he began to whip my back. The leather belt whipped out through the air and caressed my shoulders, my back, snaking around to my ribs. It bit and burned and shocked. My legs were still ablaze from the beating they'd received and now my back was burning and throbbing.
Finally he stopped. Breathing hard, he threw down the belt and pointed to the paddle. "The paddle's for your arse," he said hoarsely. And then calmly, gently, as if he were going to change a baby's nappies, he pulled my underpants down to my feet. "Step out of them," he said. I did.
My _c_o_c_k_, still semi-erect, hardened again as he picked up the paddle. He spanked me hard on the arse with it and I yelled and stepped forward, then staggered back, constrained as I was by the rope holding my hands above me. He hit me again, the broad smack such a different pain to the slicing of the belt, and kept paddling me hard. I jerked forward with every blow, then back; my _c_o_c_k_ bobbed up and down.
I lost all sense of time. My punishment was eternal. This must be what hell was like for sinners. But finally, my arse paddled long and hard, my father stopped. He was sweating and wild-eyed.
"That'll teach you," he said. He untied my hands and I fell to the floor, panting like an animal. "Dress yourself and come back up for dinner," he said, and left the shed. It was a long time before I was myself again.