I did something pretty awful today, completely unintentional, and bloody brilliant. For all my ideas of revenge I could never have dreamt this up, nor executed it to such perfection, or even willingly done such a thing, but it happened. His just deserts, fate took care of that. It must be fate, for it is one year ago, to the day, since he stuck a bullet in my backside, on the same forlorn stretch of coastline where he revelled in his coup, did he bleat at my feet today. The earlier injustice I felt at his hand allows me to wallow in guilty gratification now.
One year ago, the day had started much like this one, a trip to the river on a lazy summer afternoon. Thom had his .22 with him and we shot our empties from the dead tree, that cuts like a slowly healing scar across the rocky shore, its bark fading to the same mottled grey tones and weathered smoothness as the pebbles upon which it lays. Thom could hardly stand to watch a mere girl manipulate his precious gun, the look on Pete’s face when he began to negate my rounds caused him to hand it over, sullen but not shamefaced, denying me would have been closer to his true, bigoted, nature. The damage to his pride caused him to bristle, bringing to mind a hog whose stiff hairs were used to make the broom with which he swept me aside, a pesky crumb. Fed up of his constant, snide remarks I went to sit in the hollow of the dead tree and roll a smoke. As I sat there his pompous voice floated in, the wind bringing me snippets of his nasal drone.
‘Women don’t …… connection to tools and weapons….mans abode….countless times….’
It sounded like Pete was getting an earful out there. Thom has a pet hate of being interrupted when he’s talking, but right then I didn’t care, maybe I even wanted to wind him up, the way he wound me up. I came out and perched blithely on a rock between them.
‘Got a light Thom?’ I interrupted him, mid-highfalutin flow.
He froze, for a split second his face forecast what actions might lie ahead; his eyes flicked from me to the .22 at his feet, and back to me again, gaze narrowing in contempt. Slowly, he pulled the lighter from his pocket and cast it, underhand, across the beach, towards the fallen tree.
‘Go fetch, bitch,’ he said. One side of his mouth curling up in a sneer, while a hint of amusement flashed in his piggy eyes.
Naively, I thought that was my punishment for being rude.
‘Ooh, big boy today, huh?’ I said and went to play fetch.
But, as I bent to pick up the red lighter from the stony shore, it flashed once in the sun, a danger sign just for me, and my eyes were drawn to one of our fallen cans, small holes ripped through its thin shell. A bad feeling snaked down my spine, as if I was being watched on a dark night, I shivered and reached for the lighter. As my outstretched fingers closed round it, pain exploded through me, I leapt three feet into the air, howling like a wolf to a full moon. My hands clutched at my arse, left cheek scorching as though I’d been stuck with a red-hot poker, fingers sticky slick from my own blood. I looked back and through teared up eyes I could see Thom, rifle across his lap, hooting with hilarity, he slapped his hands against his thighs and eventually fell off his rock, snorting like the pig he is. Pete was shouting at him, but Thom didn’t care, he’d had his entertainment.
The wound became deeply infected, embarrassment kept me home until my entire left buttock was sore and swollen, puss leaking from the enlarging hole, whose ragged edges began to give off a putrid smell. When fierce red lines of fiery poison began running down my thigh, I knew I had no choice but to go to hospital. After a five hour wait in agony they delved in without mercy, ruthlessly digging through rotting flesh for bits of pellet while simultaneously shooting me with awkward questions. By then, I was pale and clammy, on the verge of passing out or throwing up and they lectured me, endlessly. To add insult to injury, just before they let me go, they jabbed two giant needles of antibiotics into my knackered nether region. I left the hospital so mentally and physically battered I almost crawled out. Thom never apologised, my just deserts for interrupting him one too many times. I couldn’t help hating him afterwards, a real deep-seated hatred that blistered within me every time I saw that vainglorious grin, which today I managed to wipe right away.
***
‘You really never fished before, Thom?’ I rub it in a bit more. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you how it’s done.’
His lip twitches and I know I’m getting to him. I don’t often try and wind him up anymore, having seen the results, but I feel good today. At the bottom of the hill that meanders down to the river we stop at the corner shop, the bell jangles as we crowd through the door, a perfect imitation echoing back at us from behind the counter, where Ed, the African Grey, perches and struts on his shelf, surveying his territory and screeching at any customer he doesn’t recognise. We pick up the obligatory case of Stella and a disposable barbecue for grilling the fish we catch. The Pakistani shop owner smiles at us, like the cat that got the cream.
‘Today special price cigarettes,’ he says in his lilting voice, black hair slicked back, a gold tooth and dark eye wink at us. ‘How many packs you want?’ A smooth hand with gold ringed fingers is under the counter already, he knows us well.
‘Give me three, mate,’ Pete says. ‘Stop these two numpties arguing about who smokes all the fags.’
Thom buys a gaming magazine, proclaiming fishing a sport for losers. I tell him he should have stayed at home then and why doesn’t he turn right round and go back. We carry on to the A14 roundabout, where we meet Alex and Gary, lads who worship the ground Pete walks on, after he donated them his old PS2 and a pile of games they can never do enough for him. They are honoured to lend him their rods, and dig him some bait, because he fancies doing a spot of fishing. We find them hanging about next to the food truck that serves the lorries and bikers before they merge onto the motorway. They hand over the rods and a bag of freshly dug ragworms, writhing together in a slimy tangle, ready to be pushed onto the hooks to entice the fish, who would nibble first around the edges, gentle tugs coming in ripples down the rod to your hand, then they get greedy and swallow the lot, hook and all, so you can flip them out onto the beach and grab them, wet and flapping, scales coming off in your hands as they fight to escape. They offer to come with us, show us how to set the rods up, but we scoff at this.
‘Get lost,’ Pete says, ‘do we look like idiots?’
We cruise on down to the river, Pete and I in high spirits with the rods in our hands, Thom, pissed because he’d never fished before. We select our spot, near the tree, the fading scar, and lay out the tackle box and worms. Thom lurks behind us, sitting on a rock with a soggy cigarette hanging from his fleshy lips and refusing to get involved. We forget about him, crack open a cold one and race each other to set the rods up and be the first to throw a cast. I choose the biggest, wriggliest worm I can find, struggling to push all its body down over the barb to keep it in place, avoiding the fierce jaws that can give a nasty nip. We straighten up, ready to cast simultaneously and grin at each other. This side of the river isn’t popular, the proximity of the turbulent motorway and run down caravan park mean most walkers cross the bridge that spans the water to enjoy the other side, where the Butt and Oyster offers fresh fish and chips and draught beer, overlooking the smacks and barges moored along the rivers muddy banks, sometimes floating, sometimes resting, lilted slightly, when the dark waters recede back out to sea. To left and right our only accompaniment the sea gulls and waders that stalk the foreshore. I grip the rod in my right hand, looking out to the middle of the murky, slow moving river where I want my cast to go, with my left I open the bail, then swing the hook and line behind me before sweeping the rod forward the full length of my arm, strong and straight. Pete’s line flies overhead, the reel whirring as it unwinds and lands with a satisfying plop, mid river. Mine, oddly, whirrs loudly as the rod swings forward and the reel spins round, but the line stays firmly behind, coming at me with a jerk as Thom screams piercingly enough to send ripples across the river and throws himself at my feet. In a split second I know exactly what has happened, I had forgotten about Thom, skulking behind us and trying not to give me the satisfaction of watching, of for once knowing something he doesn’t, which is why he didn’t see it coming. I was caught up in the re-enactment of a childhood pleasure and lulled into a false sense of isolation by the apparently deserted beach. I know full well that I have caught Thom and it is not a funny situation, but an irrational mirth is building inside me, burning my stomach to explode up my throat and burst out through lips I can’t clamp shut hard enough, my cheeks ballooning in and out as I desperately gulp back laughter. I can’t look at him, but I must, Pete has already dropped his rod and is crouched down next to him, trying to pull his hands off his face. I watch in fascination as Thom’s face is revealed, the hook right through his bottom lip. A perfect catch. Thom is trying to say something but cannot use his lips.
‘Ucki itch,’ it sounds like. And then, ‘eh-i-ow.’
‘Don’t worry mate,’ Pete says, ‘we’ll cut the line and pull the hook through backwards, won’t hurt any more than it does now.’
Thom’s face is a picture, he can’t close his mouth because of the hook, so he is on his knees on the shingle, a big wet patch on his jeans where he’s either peed himself or spilt his beer, looking up at Pete, his mouth hanging open, a live, mutilated ragworm stuck to his chin and a terror-stricken look in his bulging eyes, his hands are raised to his face but are not touching it, prized off by Pete, they are poised, framing him. I run to get the knife from the fishing box, glad of an opportunity to hide for a moment. Good job we were only fishing for sea bass I think, and double over as I run, holding my stomach and covering my snorts by rifling loudly though the gear to find the knife. I straighten up and bite my lip hard, I must behave myself, imagine if it was me, I tell myself, have some compassion for your fellow human being. I return with the knife and cut the line gently, the worm is pushed up against his lip, half of its body wet with his blood that runs down his chin and drips slowly onto his shirt. Pete takes the disgusting, maimed creature from the hook, flicking it away from him to land with a wet slap against a rock, where it is grabbed by a watching seagull that swallows it greedily, then raises its head and ca-ca-ca-ca-caaaaa, it cackles aloud. Pete carefully pulls the hook through Thom’s lip, along with all the juicy bits of ragworm that were stuck to it. I must have a look of utter antipathy on my face, but you see, as I watch Pete unhooking Thom, my left hand unconsciously strokes the little indentation on my buttock, I think of the weeks when I was unable to sit down, the burning shame of the hospital visit, the silent revenge I swore one day would be mine. I smile then serenely at Thom, as though to console him in his time of need. He looks at me, chin jutting out, he really looks a mess. I consider offering to clean him up and wonder whether beer or river water would be most suitable. Then, he opens his mouth to spit out blood and “you useless piece of shit”, at me, and I decide he can wash his own mouth out later, with soap.
by 
Leola Rigg
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- Just Deserts - August 16, 2021
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