The Takeaway Man

6

Damien took his first punch when he was six, and his stepdad was the one who did it.

The memory of that day was always fresh in Damien's mind. He remembered so much. The tiniest details loomed out like formidable shadows. The creak of the leather sofa when his mum sat up. The dust motes floating gracefully in the slash of light that pierced through a gap in the blinds. The smell of alcohol.

His step-dad's name was Kevin. He was much younger than Damien's mum. He must've been in his early twenties. He had spiky hair and a messy beard. His nose was slightly bent and he was missing a couple of teeth. He was usually drunk.

Damien wasn't even sure that his mum and Kevin were married. He was just told that this was his new step-dad.

'Stand up,' Kevin said to him.

It was Saturday morning. Damien was watching cartoons. His mum and Kevin were vegetating on the couch. It was the middle of summer. Hot. All the blinds were closed. The room was littered with beer cans and takeaway trays.

'Get up,' Kevin said. Damien stood. He was wearing Power Rangers pyjamas. His favourite.

His mum was puffing on some kind of glass pipe.

'Have you ever been in a fight?' Kevin asked.

Damien shook his head. He'd never been in a fight. He'd never even been in an argument. Damien was a quiet boy. People liked him.

'Well,' Kevin continued, a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, 'when you're fighting, it's not all about hitting hard. It's also about being able to take a punch. Understand?'

Damien nodded. Kevin was wearing striped boxers and a grey vest.

'Good,' said Kevin, and then it came.

Damien didn't react. He couldn't react. It came too quick. He remembered it as if it was in stop-motion. The fist sailing down to meet the side of his face, just at the corner of his left eye. Damien remembered the tattoo on Kevin's knuckles. HATE. Blue ink and slightly faded.

Then impact. The explosion that erupted from the point of connection and sent a wave of pain crashing through his head, shaking his brain and knocking him to the floor.

Damien meant to cry. It was coming. He felt his eyes getting hot and the rush of salty tears. He felt the crush of expectation, the warmth of his mother's embrace and her soothing words in his ear. But it never came. His mother sat up on the couch, the creak of leather, and laughed drunkenly. Kevin saw the watery eyes and shouted.

'Don't you fucking cry!' He boomed. 'Don't you dare! Don't you fucking dare!'

The tears stalled. Refused to fall, and Damien was left sitting on the floor, rubbing the throb on the side of his face. Kevin crouched down so they were face-to-face.

'Don't you ever show weakness,' he said, his nicotine breath washing over Damien and making him dizzy. 'Now, hit me.'

Damien was confused. Surely this was some kind of trick. Kevin was only pretending. Kevin would never let Damien hit him.

'Fucking hit me back,' Kevin snapped.

Slowly, uncertainly, Damien slapped Kevin on his hairy knee. Kevin looked stunned. He burst into a fit of hysterical laughter that hurt Damien worse than the punch.

'Was that it?' He said. 'Fucking hell, Barbara, your son's a poofter.'

'Shut up,' she slurred.

Damien lay quietly on the floor expecting another explosion of pain.

'You have to learn to fight,' Kevin said. 'You should start a fight with someone. Hit hard. Don't be afraid. If you get knocked down, get back up. Never give up, and don't stop until you've really hurt that little bastard. And, please, don't fucking cry.'

Then Kevin stubbed his cigarette out on Damien's arm.