David Paul Nixon: The Website

Michael & Me

It's hard to stand here in the fields without thinking of Michael. We spent many summers playing here. All the childhood memories I treasure, are set here.

When father left, me and mother moved to this small estate. It was a town made up of almost all bungalows - a retirement estate; a waiting room for the afterlife. Nothing but old people and their weary carers and nurses.

Michael was the only boy my age for miles. He lived on the other side of the estate. He had charisma then even then; a strikingly handsome boy.

As for me: I was lonely, shy, and easily led.

We met for the first time at the parish school. There were only twelve students and all of different ages except for us two. It didn't take him long to start leading me astray, from the time I helped him steal the test answers from our teachers desk to the time he dared me to snap the teachers bra, for which I swear she would have expelled me had it not been for the intervention of the soft vicar who probably envied my courage.

But that wasn't the first time he got me into real trouble. That was at this big county house. The best conkers, the biggest, fattest and toughest in the area, could be found at this manor. Michael took me over the stone wall and we made the dash across the field to the trees. But our timing was bad. The owner brought out his dogs for exercise and we were forced to wait hours, hiding up a tree, before we could escape. It was a miracle the dogs didn't smell us. I was very late getting home that day.

Mother punished me for my disobedience. She was a hard woman; I don't blame my father for leaving her. Only for leaving me.

Michael probably got in trouble too. But the next day he was back at my doorstep and off we went again. I'd never had a friend like that. Never had one since.

But my mother hated Michael. I was not supposed to spend time with him and she always knew when I had because I would come home all happy and pleased with myself and she could see it written all over my face, no matter how much I tried to hide it. I was punished, but it didn't hurt as badly as it could've done because I knew it was going to happen and I was willing to accept it in exchange for his friendship. It was worth it.

She grew tired of it eventually. She used to lock me in the house. But I knew how to get out. She withheld meals, refused to clean my clothes, forced me to do more jobs for her. I would not give up my friendship. I'd scream and shout in protest, so she'd hit me and kick me. But I didn't give in. So she gave up on me and I learnt how to look after myself.

And there was the tree-house. We pinched wood from farms and back gardens and used his father's tools to build a base for ourselves. Not bad for a couple of 11 year-olds. It stood for years until a strong storm finally brought it down. Some of the nails are still there, rusty and pressed deep down in the bark.

Then we began secondary school and the winters became long and miserable. Michael boarded at school; I had to wait for the holidays to be united with him again. I had no friends at school. It was miles away and I was ignored as an outsider.

When I was about to turn 14, a new family moved onto the estate. There were now three new kids: one slightly older boy and two girls both around my age, both children of different marriages now together in another. They went to my school but I didn't know or talk to them. They once asked me for directions and giggled at my mumbling. I hated them after that.

Michael arrived on my doorstep later that summer than expected. I knew why, and sure enough, at the end of my drive were his new friends.

We walked. Michael was busy trying his best to get the other boy to like him while the girls walked on ahead laughing and giggling, looking back at me and giggling again.

Michael stopped coming over. I kept having to find him myself. I remember this time when we played hide and seek. I found such a good place to hide and I sat there for over an hour and when I came out, they were sitting on a street corner eating Ice-cream. They said they'd given up trying to find me but they just couldn't be bothered.

It was over the day I went to Michael's house and saw them dive behind the sofa when they saw me. They only answered when they were sure I wasn't going away. I tried to laugh it off as a joke, knowing full well that it wasn't.

That same evening they lead me into the woods. My childhood fears still intact, I knew I shouldn't go there after dark, but they goaded me into doing it. By torchlight I was led down the path and then off the path. They knew only too well how afraid I was and when my back was turned a potato sack was pulled over my head and chest. I was spun around and pushed down a bank while they ran away laughing.

It was dark and I was alone. I panicked, ran around in a circle, tripped over; I could barely see the ground. I grazed my knees, scratched my arms and legs and hands and still have scars to prove it. After I don't know how long I spotted a streetlight and found my way to a road, now miles away from home.

And when I got back, almost at midnight , mother was waiting for me. I was too terrified, too exhausted, too shaken up to lie to her. And she said nothing. She went into her room, I went into mine. Then she came to me with her belt. She whipped me across the forehead, across my chest, my back, my legs, she went on. I fell on the floor, I curled up into a ball, she went on striking me. “Now will you learn to do as you're told? I warned you about him.”

I didn't get into bed that night. I stayed on the floor and wept till I slept. I hid in my room for days after that. Too afraid to leave, I barely ate or drank anything.

I saw Michael a few days later, and in this very same field. He smiled at me as if nothing had happened. As if it was all a big joke. But the red marks across my back weren't a joke, the cuts on my arms, my legs, they weren't a joke. He didn't understand. He didn't understand anything.

That was the last time I ever saw Michael. And this is the first time I've ever gone back to the place where they found his body.

Nobody likes a smart-arse.

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