I stood with a chill wind caressing my limbs outside my wooden door on a cold November morn watching the hearse drive by, followed by a cavalcade of limousines.
Good riddance to the bastard who buggered me from an early age.
The scars were mental. My suffering unnoticed or worse, ignored.
Ron could have who he wanted, anytime, no questions asked. Especially by poor peasant families, in rural England.
My home, a hovel by any standards, was testimony to the abuse rendered for the pleasure of being quiet when questioned by the authorities.
‘What’s up duck?’
I turned away. ‘Nothing, ma. Go back to sleep.’
Yes, I spilt the beans. For thirty pieces of silver, I set him up for a police raid on his drug business.
And I ruptured his femoral artery before they arrived. A knife in the groin while he was pleasuring himself. Two minutes to bleed out.
I was a victim. According to DI Jones, a pub mate of mine. No charges.
‘It’s cold. Shut the door, son.’
‘Yes ma. Go back to sleep.’
But, cause and effect. At least one of his crew would be seeking me out. I suppose the best would be a single head shot.
Not before I witnessed the funeral. Spat at his coffin, a single raised finger to his family.
‘I have to go, ma.’
‘Close the door, son.’