Born to Fight Read Free Page A

certainly didn’tunderstand the gravity of it. At seven I was too young to know what was right and what was wrong, and what happened between men and women. I could only sense the wrongness of it, but I couldn’t understand or articulate what was really happening.
    Any time I was allowed to leave the house I’d feel an electric unburdening, but there was always a lingering pain when Victoria was left behind. I always got out when I had the chance, though. I’d run from that fucking house.
    Sometimes I’d run to the school, or the big tree in the sporting ground, where I could see if Dad was coming to get my ass, but my favourite escape was to the Spaceys, cabinet video games found at most local shops in Auckland at that time.
    I especially liked the stand-up fighting games, where my character would punch and kick his way further and further into the story, dependent on my skill. Up, down, left, right, button A, button B – you press the buttons at the right time, move the stick at the right time, you could win. It fed a part of my brain that I’d be shovelling money into for the rest of my life.
    How did I get the money to play Spaceys? Sometimes I’d steal other kids’ money to play; sometimes – and these were the best times – I’d get to play because John had managed to jury-rig a machine to give us endless free credits.
    I remember an instance when John had fixed up Kung Fu Master. Man, the joy of not having to worry about a missed button press, or an errant joystick tilt ending the game was something I’ll never forget.
    There were no mistakes that couldn’t be fixed. I could play that game for the rest of my life. Only John didn’t see it that way – eventually he got sick of me buzzing around him, pestering for my turn.
    He told me to go home, and if I didn’t, he was going to beat my ass. That was no idle threat either. He’d done it before, he’d do it again.
    I had to go back home, back to Dad and Victoria and the smell of Dettol. I hated the smell of Dettol before I even knew that Dad was using it to wash himself after his sinful acts. I still can’t stand the smell of it now.
    Dad was abusing Victoria pretty much from when I was born, so I guess I knew about incest before I knew about sex. It was happening when we were first in New Zealand, it was happening in Samoa – with Dad’s brother taking over that fucked-up duty – and it was happening when we came back.
    It was always happening and everyone knew. Mum knew, but she’d just laugh about it. They were ‘busy’, she’d say if I asked where Dad or Victoria were.
    ‘Go to the park for a bit, Mark.’ I’d always go. We all would.
    When Victoria was twelve or thirteen she developed a little bit of a belly, and rumours started flying around school. They were saying Vic was pregnant. They were saying it was Dad’s baby.
    There were too many stories, too much chatter. It was all too open now. Everyone had always known but, until then, they’d known about it in whispers and soft gossip, quiet enough for it to be ignored after a muted chat. Now it was out on the streets.
    I wasn’t relieved when Dad was taken to prison – I was too young to understand the whole situation. I just knew he was going away and that there’d be even less food in the house. I also knew he was going away because of Victoria, and I’m sorry to say I was angry with her because of that. We all were, but we didn’t know any better. Except Mum, she knew better, or she should have anyway, but her concern at the time was keeping Victoria from telling the cops the whole story.
    They were the leanest of days, when the old man was in prison, and we got to the point of delirium. I remember all of us in the front room shouting ‘HUNGRY’ at people while they walked down the street. When they saw us, we’d giggle like hyenas. I guess we were laughing about the contrast between the orderly, peaceful world outside, and the tumult of crap that was going down in our