The Killing Fields

Pol Pot wus . . .

Christmas music coming out of de shops.  I tink I love dem all.  Even de shite ones.  Cliff Richard.  Dose are shite ones.  Jona Lewie.  Dat’s a deadly one. 

Pol Pot wus an awful . . .

Soon dere’s Dixon standing outside Boyd’s Stores.  His hands are in his pockets and he’s circling his foot in a puddle as if he’s on de pitch planning a future attack wit oweny his boots like a mastermind of de beautiful game.  He tinks he’s Mick McCarthy.  Or Christy Brown.  When he sees me, he jumps out of his daydream and scowls as if I did someting wrong by coming to meet him.  Dat’s his way of saying hello dese days.  I stop humming Shakin’ Stevens to myself so as not to be slagged.

Ye have it?  he says.

I do.

Den we walk to St Joseph’s Hall for karate.  I don’t usually do karate.  I do some exercises while I’m dere and sit down de back lecturing de younger ones about de magic of Hong Kong movies.  I tink dat’s whut I’m going to be when I grow up.  A professor of Hong Kong cinema.  But I’ve a lot to learn first.  De young ones in de karate club for a start don’t believe a word of it.  Der heads are too busy wit Van Damme.  Dey can’t open der minds, see de wide world of martial arts and its many wonders.  Dey know oweny one pose, one stretching technique and oweny two kicks cause of Van Damme and all of it in slow motion which isn’t very practical.    You’d tink dey’d wunt to know more about it all being as dey’re set to go for der belts.  But no.  Dey look at me like I’m a clown.  Maybe de presentation tomorrow is de first real test of my life.  Can I stand up in front of dem all and speak my words and be listened to and not looked at like I’m a clown?  It’s a big ask.

Pol Pot wus an awful man . . .

--Whut are ye on about?

--I’m practising fur me presentation tomorrow. 

--It’s about Popeye, is it?

--No, Pol Pot.  He wus a dictator in Cambodia.  Killed many people.  I saw a fillum about it.

--Best of luck.

Dixon’s not interested.  He rarely comes to school annymore.  We’ve oweny bin in de secondary about tree months and he’s bin out half of dat on de mitch.  Always mitching.  He does it so much dat whenever de word mitch comes up I get a picture of Dixon in me head up against a gate in a field smoking a fag.  He’s come to sum it all up in how he goes about his life.

I chose de topic of Cambodia fur me class presentation tomorrow cause I saw de Killing Fields fillum last month.  It wus on de telly.  I taped it.  I loved it.  It affected me.  Made me sad.  And I wunted to know more about de history since it wus a true story.  My mudder and fadder have a big red Chronicle book which lays out de whole century up to now, or until de year we got de book, and I found a lot in dere which I’m going to use for de presentation. 

At karate, I do ten press-ups and when de instructor spots me and asks if I wunt to warm up wit de rest I tell her as usual I’m just going to hang in de back and prepare fur me presentation at school in de morning.  She nods.  Cause she knows.  Fair play to de karate people fur putting up wit me. 

As I work on my presentation, I watch Dixon sparring wit another fella.  He’s wearing de headband.  I brought a red headband wit me tonight to give him cause he wunts to wear one at practice.  He can’t afford anny gear or equipment so he’ll take annyting he can get.  He hasn’t realised it’s me confirmation tie yet.  Soon he will and surely I’ll get one of dose kicks he’s flinging around like a wild ting.

Going to bed dat night full of worry, I have no clue whut nightmares are in store for me.  De one so crazy I member it clearly shows me Dixon in de fields on de mitch.  And I’m dere wit him.  Dat’s scary enough as I’m too terrified to go on de mitch when I’m awake.  Too scared of being caught and whut might happen as a result.  I see Dixon running off ahead of me.  He’s running on a road of bones.  And skulls.  I hear behind me Mr Mullen shouting Come here, yous.  So I start running too.  On de road of skulls.  And bones.  Human bones.  Maybe some animal ones too.  I slip and fall in de bones.  It really hurts.   Lying dere I realise de fields are all bones.  No grass left.  And Mr Mullen is riding de skeleton of a bull up towards me and he’s saying, Wur calling yer parents.  And Dixon comes running back holding my red confirmation tie in de air all upset and ready to hit me a box.

Nightmare.  Serves me right for picking such a heavy topic to do.  But it puts tings into perspective.  De true life horror.  Wit all de worries I have, at least I’m not one of dose poor Cambodian people.  Still, in class de next day, I’m shitting myself as I wait for my turn to speak.   I’m fort on Mr Mullen’s list.  De presentations before me are: one about Alex Higgins and den histories of Christmas crackers and Quay Celtic Football Club.  I don’t care about de ones after me.  Don’t care to listen.

Pol Pot wus an awful man in history.  In 1975 . . .

Most of de class are bored.  Like de young ones at karate.  But Mr Mullen seems happy and he says Bravo to me like a TV presenter.  Dat pleases me.

 And den, among de bored expressions, I see one face in de class who looks to be affected by my presentation of real life horror.  Rich boy Aidan.  Looks like he’ll be having nightmares tonight.  Is it a future in education calling out to me?