His bedroom resembled a cell. You came in, the single bed was jammed against the wall on the left; about as much space again made up the width of the room. Beyond the bed were three items of furniture: a small chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a three-shelved bookcase. The floor was lino - red and yellow squares. The curtains were yellow and flowery. The wallpaper was also ornamented with flowers. Out of the window he saw Market Hill on which there was always, in daytime, some movement. The buses now used it, which was illegal, said Mr Carrick, Market Hill belonged to the people of Wigton. Beyond the hill he could see the fields behind which lay the baths. There was a telephone box directly across from the pub and a street-light.
Somewhere in his mind he realised - in a fragile, intermittent, all but blind manner - that this room was where he had to fight. If he could not brave being here alone without running out to the stairs or being in a locked terror, if he could not hold his ground here, then there was no hope.
He did not realise this in any worked-out way. There was no plan. Sometimes there were days on end when hostilities ceased. Usually, though, over the next eighteen months to two years, he was, in so far as he was able, fighting it through in that room.
It was easy not to go on long solitary bike rides. It was not hard to avoid windows and mirrors, although even the merest accidental reflection could unbolt him now. His name was still so strange to look at but there were few occasions when he had to.
It was the night which was always waiting for him, the night and that time just before sleep when the attack, if it were on, would begin.
He would come up to the room as late as possible, rush his prayers, still dressed, change in the bathroom, come back and be in bed so fast he would beat it. Sometimes it worked. Or go up very early, with his supper on a tray, put on the wireless, find music, have a book, read until he was heavy-headed, read beyond that, let the story become a world that filled his head, with the music, so he could feed on them when the tiredness forced him to turn to sleep. If he could think about the book and replay the music in his head then that was better than a fortress. The light left on. But there would always be a time when it was turned off.
Spring and summer helped, the curtains left partly open, the window open too so that voices from outside, clear voices outside the room, not the seethe of noise below which was part of the room, helped distract him. But as summer nights lengthened his mother and father would go for walks after closing time and he would always be awake for that and, flat on his back, try to walk with them, to be with them down Burnfoot, into Birdcage Walk, past West Cumberland Farmers, alongside Toppin’s Field and Toppin’s Farm, past the police station, up the long incline of Station Road, round the Blue Bell, back into the High Street towards Market Hill and the Blackamoor, going step by step with them, trying not to rush, trying not to move, untensed only when the key turned in the door and he heard a voice.
As the months went on he made it harder for himself because otherwise he would never win. He said he wanted to do his homework in his room and not in the kitchen where everybody came in and out. Homework was not now the chore that had much taxed him. He would force himself to sit alone and do it and lock himself in. In the room. He did not have the remotest idea why this action would help but he did it.
Testing himself was good. Not just in straight competition like swimming but seeing if he dared go out of the bathroom window and climb up the steep pitch of roof under which the spirit of the blackamoor boy might still be enraged. Get to the peak. Then sling himself over, let himself slide down the steep pitch, which ended in a long drop on to the concrete front of the pub, see how his nerve held, feel the terror, feel welcome sweat to the palms, begin an insect-like back sprawl upwards, his throat choking.
Testing himself. In the Scouts. In school. Though he had blankings and an overgrasping nervousness that could misfire, he wanted the tests, the tests made his head feel occupied. At the church youth club, to debate harder, dance better, show off more; in rugby to rush with the scrum, disguising the fear of tackling under the puff of effort; how long it took him to do this, go that distance, tests. Save for the choir when testing was pointless, but what reward for that pointlessness! A calm in the mind that made him feel safe, normal, in touch with the heart of whatever he was. Something of the same in reading, particularly when the book’s characters took him into their skins, the story of the book became his story, he twinned with these invented people whose paths were certain sure compared with the amoeba and sludge of his own.
Envy sprouted everywhere. Everyone he liked had more that he liked than he had. And none of the fears he had. How could they be so certain of everything? He tried to drive the gang to feats of cohesion difficult for a mixed bunch of half a dozen boys not even in the same class, different tastes, talents, but they had to be together so that he could feel the solidity. Jealousies came from that, all signs of independence were proofs of betrayal, it was hopeless and endless, above all, it was endless.
Somewhere inside, to meet this perpetual threat that scooped him out, stripped the skin from inside his head, took his soul from him, abducted all but the thing of body, he had to build a redoubt. His father had told him about the redoubt, the final place. Where you had to fight until you dropped but also where you could build to win. He was seeking to build that, or a shell, but inside himself not outside. A shell to seal in that which left him, a place almost independent of his body as the inner flask of a vacuum. Blindly he stumbled towards that.
There was a terrible violence in his head. When he heard the preliminary murmurings of disruption from downstairs, he wanted to take a sword and slice them open from head to belly, those who threatened. At the boxing matches in Carlisle he liked the blows to land and growled and yelled in the crowd as deep in it as any, losing his singleness as in the choir but finding blood not peace. His feelings even for the gang could be savage, and he held on as if an unbroken horse were trying to buck him and sometimes he could not hold on and the anger uncoiled would be disproportionate, silencing, puzzling to others and leaving Joe himself dazed.
All he really knew was that he had to keep it secret, not a hint, not a sign to anyone at any time no matter what, he had to conceal the shame. And all he also knew was that he could not give in. He was beaten, he could see that when, for all his tactics, he was still prey, still defeated; but somehow being beaten had to be got through.
In this long time, when the wait of a day for the night’s battle could seem like a month and despite all the furies on the surface the depths seemed not to stir but hold a sullen grip on him, there were times of escape, vivid release, a bare intensity of seeing whether a wood or a sky, a candle in the church, stones clear on a river-bed or the face of a girl in the street, to be haunted by him, however hopelessly, it was a mercy.
But he deserved no mercy, because he lied. He lied about himself and what he did in any and every way to protect the secret of what he feared. His contempt for his courage grew as the months went by. You were not frightened of such insubstantial things. You were not yellow-bellied in front of what could not even be talked about for fear of laughter. But the attacks continued and the chasm in his life was covered over as best he could with a desperation of energy that could see a whole day’s reparation ripped away in moments as what was him left the body, left it petrified, vanishing into the infinite blackness for eternity unless he could be forgiven.