Trench

I guess you never really know how it feels to feel small if you’ve never felt big. I’ve felt like Trench my whole life, nothing to compare to it. Yeah, I was born Shane McCarthy, but I was given the nickname Trench when I was nine and baby Shane may as well have not existed. He didn’t have much to him. Didn’t feel much. Didn’t do much. He was a baby; they don’t do they. Lazy fuckers.

Toddler Shane and kiddo Shane didn’t have much more about them, just tried to stay away from trouble. I didn’t really know who I was, don’t really remember how I felt at the time, and I don’t trust people that say they do. You get those goons that talk about their emotions as a toddler like they have some super power memory, you don’t remember the neglect you felt at two when your pops left for his bit on the side... I know I had a cushion over my head a lot of the time, cheese and beans at the ready, cold showers but I couldn’t tell you how that made me feel… Fucking freezing I guess but the cold has a funny way of making me sweat. Always has done.

I’ve never been much of a lover, or much of a mate. Dad died when I was three, mum was broke, loved her coke and couldn’t afford both the powder and baby Shane. It’s debatable whether I got the short or long straw out of it. I don’t see the point of straws myself. More of a straight out the can man.

I went to live with nan who bless her, she did what she could, but I was hard work, I guess. She put me in to the system when I was nine with nothing but the clothes hanging off my back. I don’t blame her she was old. She died soon after, maybe if she hadn’t have got rid of me, I would have kept her alive. Maybe we would have kept each other alive. You hear stories about dead beat dads and coke head mums all the time, the kid goes off to live with nana who bless her cotton socks turns the little one’s whole life around. Hot coco after dinner, a firm but fair upbringing. Wasn’t quite that kind of party for baby Shane, he was taught how to be tough, that’s what would get him places. Nana weren’t the softest soul.

Shoe laces were easy, it was finding a pair of trainers that fit that was the hard part. Hated non-uniform days, all the other kids would take the piss because I looked like something out “Oliver Twist.” I had this one hoodie that I remember having my eyes on for months, it was only from a charity shop, but I thought if I got my hands on it maybe I’ll blend in when the next day came around. Pocket money weren’t a thing at ours so the only way to get hold of it, or anything else around that time, was to steal. Weren’t “The Great Bank Robbery” or nothing I just ran in, grabbed it, ran out. Kids ripped me for weeks after I wore it, they made up some rumour about my old lady selling herself to get hold of last year’s New Era. That day taught me a couple of things, first, never to blend or set out to dilute yourself for any other piece of shit person, and second that material things don’t make you happy.

I learnt pretty quickly at school that it was never important to have friends, what was important was having people around that feared you. The type of people that rarely fear you know. If you scared them, they’d stay close but stay away.

There were a couple of boys in school that I actually grew to like but I never really trusted them around me. Not for too long anyway. That’s the thing with mates, once you keep them around, they want to spend time with you, play ball, know about your life and all that. I didn’t really ever have the want for it. I didn’t want them knowing my story. I’d rather sit on my doorstep watching people go by. That was one of my favourite things to do back then, creating their stories, I’d do that most days.

I remember, there was Joey the 50-year-old virgin that lived opposite, no idea if his name was Joseph and people liked to him call Joey, or whether he’d had any sexual relationships in his life but that’s who he was to me.

Linda, the blonde-haired bird next door but one, single mum, spent years training to be a heart-surgeon, she’d save lives most days and still get home in time to pick her boy up from football.

Trevor down the road was some kind of Superhero I’m sure of it, claims he’s a cab driver, trained his eyes to look different ways for the fun of it. Always had women swinging by the house in the evening, guiltiest fucker I’ve ever seen.

Funnily enough I never had any problems with the girls, but they just didn’t really interest me. I always knew I liked girls, but what was the point of them. Why would you choose to bring a pretty thing in to your world when your world’s full of ugly? Surely that would make them ugly after time, and it ain’t never nice to make someone ugly. Looks are everything in this world. Besides, I didn’t want an ugly girl.

Jasmine, this little brunette girl was nice, real pretty, she was the only girl I really ever fancied in school, but all the boys did. She’d be linking arms with a different fella every day that Jasmine. I was never going to graft for her she was way too pretty, but I held the door open for her a few times and she always said, “thanks Shane”. She was nothing like her stuck-up circle and she knew my name. I always imagined that when my life wasn’t ugly, I’d find a girl just like Jasmine, but grown up women aren’t impressed by open doors.

Mum always told me that I’d be like Dave. Dave was one of the men she dated, nice looking fella, full head of hair, looked like he spent time at the gym. He came around most weeks and I don’t know what It was but every time he left; she’d find a way of letting me know that I’ll be like him. Sometimes he left her in tears before she said it, sometimes she’d say it with a smile. That’s always been something that’s stuck with me. I think it’s because I never really understood whether Dave was one of the good guys. He drove a nice car, wasn’t really a shouter, he’d give me a nod on his way out the door.

Although, he never took her out the house, never fixed the TV when it went out, told her to lay off the white or gave her a cuddle goodbye. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to be Dave or not be Dave. I wish I knew who Dave was. I wonder if he’s still about…

They day nan gave me up wasn’t all that dramatic and heart-wrenching. She couldn’t get me fostered so she walked me down to the local children’s home, South Street, Bromley. We walked through the doors to be greeted by our social worker Julie. Julie smiled a lot, spoke in a really sweet placid voice but she wasn’t all that good at acting, you could always tell it was just part of the job. It was a warm day, with some strong winds must have been June or July, I remember the smell of the place as you walked in, dusty and damp. That was the last day I ever saw my nan and as far as goodbyes go it was mighty short and sweet. She put her cold hand on my left cheek, swept my greasy hair away from my eyes and looked at me deeply. She went on to straighten my jacket and tap me on the back a couple of times, which was arguably more of a firm hold.

“You’ll be good for Julie.” she said decisively.

“Don’t be a shit, she won’t put up with it.” she smirked.

I watched her walk out the place from the doorway, she looked back at me briefly, she wasn’t a heartless woman, but tough as old nails and she knew she’d never see me again. I thought I’d see her on the weekend, so I didn’t cry, I don’t even think I cared.

First day at the children’s home was like the first day of school, only the teachers didn’t give a shit and the kids were all as fucked up as me. I’d been on my own all my life I’d got kind of used to it, but there was something about being truly alone that foster care taught me. When no other soul feels anything for you, be it love, hate, disgust, regret… When there’s no one on the planet that cares enough to put energy into any emotion towards you, you’re as lonely as can be. I felt that from the dust and damp.

“Who’s the new boy?”

Some chubby kid with a fucked-up jaw asked some skinny ginger kid who looked over at me as I sat on the grass outside the house playing around with conkers.

“I want he’s coat.” The ginger replied with proper conviction, like he’s used to getting what he wants you know.

They both start walking over to me, slowly, like something out of some bad boy movie they’ve watched too many times.

“Ain’t seen you around here before, first day?” the chubby kid looks down at me now he’s close enough to intimidate me.

I look up at him, grasping on my conkers trying to channel my adrenaline into them, because you never know they might become powerful and start spitting fire or something.

“Yeah, first day.” I replied.

They look at each other, trying to work out who’s going to speak next.

“Nice jacket” said the ginger. “What is it? Leather?” he eyes me up a couple of times.

I know this is the point I should stand, so I do. Strength comes with standing don’t it. When your legs are crossed and your two-foot-tall looking up at some up nasty kids you can’t help but feel weak. It helped that I was a couple of inches taller than both of them, made them take a baby step back.

“It’s a trench coat” I said.

“A what?” The ginger kid laughed a little and looks at his mate to laugh too.

“A trench” I said, with a little cough because my voice was breaking and the deeper you speak the harder you are.

“I want it” said the ginger kid as he takes a step closer to me so that I’m now at arm’s reach.

I knew where this was going. I had what, maybe five seconds to make a move before one of them takes a swing. I gave it three, I remember counting subconsciously before I smashed a conker into the gingers face and watched him fall to the ground. The chubby kid wasn’t a fighter, I could tell. He looked at his mate on the ground with a bloody nose and back at me in fear. If I spared him then who am I? A couple of seconds ago he was more than ready to beat the shit out of me, so I smashed the other conker around his face and walked away.

The other kids stood watching from outside the front door, around eight of them and if you hadn’t already gathered… That’s when I became Trench.