The Nipper: The heartbreaking true story of a little boy and his violent childhood in working-class Dundee. Charlie Mitchell
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СКАЧАТЬ It will make you sad and make you laugh and sometimes will make you dislike me. I’m in no way proud of any of the stories in this book, and I just hope that people can understand why I was like the way I was. My main aim is to show young people who are thinking of choosing the life I did what the consequences are. And to show people that no matter how close you are to death and giving up, there is always a chance that you can turn your life around.

      In life, every decision you make has an outcome, some good and some bad, and there are always two roads you can take. I always chose the wrong road, as my anger or need for attention would make the choice easy. But over the years I have realised that I was using my childhood as an excuse for everything I did. A large part was my father’s fault, but a lot of it was down to the roads I chose.

      Drugs and drink were my choice, and the violence that followed was caused by my decision to take them, as they would trigger memories of my childhood. I just pray that after you read this book, you will forget about being a victim, and start thinking about what is good in your life – what you can achieve and how you are going to make the most of what you have.

      My advice to people who read this book is to think seriously before you live the life that I did. Who cares if all your friends are on drugs, or fighting every night? They can’t help you when you stand in front of a judge, or are struggling to pay the bills when you’re older.

      And no matter what you go through in life, don’t use it as an excuse to self-destruct. Ask someone for help. Because the longer you let things happen, the more you’ll accept it as normal life.

      Life is never over till the fat lady sings. Unless, she falls out of a window and lands on you.

      Life is never easy, but if you think about famine, war and all the other terrible things that are happening in the world, it puts it into perspective. Having to pay bills, or arguing over EastEnders or your team losing a football match is not the end of the world.

      Treat people the way you want them to treat you. The better the person you become, the easier your life becomes. Well, that’s all I have to say at the moment, except…welcome to Dundee.

       Prologue

      Through a small gap in the curtains I can see the snow floating gently past the street lamp. Trying to focus my eyes, I yawn. It’s the middle of the night and I’ve been woken up by the sound of shouting and swearing from the living room. A few moments later the bedroom door opens.

      ‘Come on you – get up.’ He’s dragging me out of the bed by my arm and yanking me down the corridor and into the kitchen as he sways from side to side. The smell of cigarette smoke and beer and vodka turns my stomach, as I’m now in his arms, and only inches from his scarred face.

       ‘What is it, Dad? Is something wrong?’

       ‘Wrong? No nothing’s wrong. I’ve made yi a cup o’ tea. Yi like tea, don’t yi?’

      He pushes me down on the chair and starts to boil the kettle. Why has he woken me up like this and why do I have to drink tea? I don’t even like tea. But I don’t dare say anything. Besides I’m shivering as it feels like it’s minus ten degrees. It’s one of the coldest nights on record in Dundee and I’m dressed only in my old paisley pyjamas that are already two sizes too small for me.

       ‘What’s the matter, son? Are yi cald?’

      ‘Yeah, it’s freezing,’ I reply as my teeth rattle together.

       ‘This’ll warm yi up then.’

      He turns back to the stove, pours the boiling water from the kettle into a cup.

      The next few seconds seem to happen in slow motion.

      As he turns round again I think he’s going to hand me the cup but instead he reaches across to me and there’s something in his hand but it’s not a cup and a second later I feel an agonising, scalding sensation that starts in the middle of my cheek, spreads across my whole body and then seems to shoot into my heart.

      Dad has pressed a burning teaspoon on my face and he’s holding it there long enough to get a result – he’s scored a goal and he grins because he can see that I’m in agony as I’ve started screaming out in pain.

       ‘Oh, is it too hot for yi, pal? Sorry, son, this’ll cool it doon.’

      He looks straight into my eyes and then spits right into my face, his saliva mixing with the tears running down my cheeks.

      Dad grins again and takes a swig of his vodka.

       I’m just a nipper, and I’m frightened and I don’t understand. But I am still too young to realise what the effect of living with Dad is going to have on my life; too young to know that I will live the majority of my childhood as a virtual prisoner, and that my home in the Dundee tenements will be my torture den.

       And it has only just begun…

       Chapter One First Day, No Way

      It’s 1980 and a freezing September morning in a run-down tenement block in St Fillans Road in St Mary’s, Dundee. The winner takes it all, the loser has to fall…Snow is driving horizontally against the misty bedroom window and the Abba record has been repeating all night in the living room.

      The time on my Mickey Mouse clock says 7.30 and it’s my first day at school – I’m nearly five years old and I can’t wait to meet new friends and play snowball fights with the kids I’ll meet. I’m a cheerful kid by nature, and as soon as I get out of my prison I always feel happy and excited and free.

      I’m trying not to make too much noise getting up, as I don’t want to wake Dad. He’s probably not long fallen asleep. My head is pounding and my eyes have not yet fully opened as the swelling from last night’s head blows is dropping down my face and into my eyes.

      I’ve opened my creaky bedroom door to go to the toilet, trying not to step on any loose floorboards in case Dad wakes up. The house is freezing and I’m shivering in my brown and yellow Y-fronts, the wind blowing through every nook and cranny in the door and windows.

      I close the door and to my relief make it to the toilet, passing a broken mirror on the left-hand wall; I can only see the top of my head, so I stand on the side of the bath and stretch over with one hand on the sink, and peer in. I have never seen before what I see this morning – the shape and colour of what used to be my face is like a Freddy Krueger Halloween mask.

      There is dried blood in the corner of both my eyes, and my neck has three long gashes down the back of my ear to my shoulder. My temples are swollen so badly that I can hardly see my ears. Then that creepy deep voice comes from the other side of the door.

      ‘Charlie! What are you doing in there?’

      ‘Nothing, Dad! I’m coming now! I’m brushing my teeth!’

      ‘Good lad, hurry up – I’m bursting for a piss.’

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