Jack of Diamonds by Bryce Courtenay Read Free Book Online

me. ‘Look what ya done to yer mother!’
    ‘I got lost. It snowed real heavy,’ I said through chattering teeth.
    ‘Why the fuck didn’t ya wait fer me?’
    ‘I did, then I thought you were in a fight,’ I stammered, my teeth still chattering, now even more so from fear at his drunken rage.
    ‘C’mere!’ He reached out and grabbed me by the scarf, and yanked me violently so that I near lost my footing and found myself in the centre of the kitchen. ‘Git yer fuckin’ pants down!’ he barked.
    My hands were frozen, and I had trouble removing his scarf and my overcoat, then unhitching my braces and dropping my pants. I watched fearfully as he removed his big leather belt. Holding the buckle, he wound it around his fist and snapped, ‘Bend!’ While I’d received my share of backhands from him, I’d never received a formal thrashing. Most of the guys who’d told me about their experiences said that it wasn’t too bad – six across the bum and sometimes you couldn’t sit comfortably the next day. But that was when your dad was sober. I was terrified. The leather belt he wielded was at least two inches wide and my knees were knocking, not, I assure you, from the cold.
    ‘Turn round, grab yer ankles!’ he commanded. I turned so my ass faced him, then bent, my stiff fingers disappearing into my crumpled pants to grasp my shins. I locked my knees so that they almost stopped shaking.
    ‘Please don’t, Harry!’ my mom begged him frantically. ‘Please don’t thrash my boy!’
    ‘Shurrup, woman!’ he commanded. ‘Teach the little shit a lesson!’
    Still bending, I peered around my skinny legs to see him lift the belt above his shoulder. I braced myself, ready for what was coming to me, but suddenly my mom sprang at him, screaming and clawing at his neck and face. The lifted belt came down hard across her back, but I don’t think she even felt the blow as her nails raked across his face, opening it in four distinct furrows from just under his right eye, down his cheek and the side of his neck. She was in another chilblain fury but this time she had no pail of cayenne and piss as a weapon, only her nails. My father let fly with a straight left, his fist smashing into her face, and she sank to the floor, bleeding from the nose and mouth.
    ‘Now see what yer gorn and done to yer mother!’ my father growled. The scratches on his face had reddened but he seemed oblivious to them. ‘Next time you wait for me, if necessary, until the fucking second coming of Christ! Yer hear, boy?’ With this, he started lambasting me with the belt, going hell for leather across my ass and the backs of my legs. I started to scream and scream until I fell to the floor, unable to stand any longer. He whacked me one more time across my back, then I could hear him panting. I managed to crawl to my mother, and we huddled together on the kitchen floor, her blood dripping onto my best shirt, which I’d worn especially for the game, both of us howling our hearts out.
    Then my father grabbed his coat and gloves and stormed out of the house, presumably heading for the tavern before it closed.
    It was the first and last time I accompanied my dad to a game of any sort. I think my mom must have put her foot down. But I don’t suppose he needed much persuading. I don’t think my dad liked me, and I’ve got to admit the feeling was pretty mutual. I wasn’t the kid he’d wanted, nor was I, like most kids my age, mad about sport and collecting cigarette cards of football and hockey stars. I just wasn’t into ball games.
    We had never been a proper family. We seldom, if ever, shared anything, not even meals, except occasionally on a Sunday night. Dad must have eaten somewhere, because my mom rarely cooked for him. If she left a plate of food for him to warm up when he got home from the tavern at night, in the morning she’d invariably find it untouched and scraped into the garbage pail. He’d never just leave it on the plate so we could