As the train leaves Southampton and starts to cut through the countryside on its metal path towards the New Forest, he lies back against the headrest and stares out at the passing fields.

He remembers.

Gary (2002)

1

Gary Roberts lay fuming in his sleeping bag.

He’d been lying there for an hour now, barely noticing his aching thigh muscles or the blisters that had sprung up on both feet after a day’s walking, focusing only on the anger.

He had a cut in his lip which he kept probing with his tongue.

Fucking Tom. Fucking Tramper. Fucking Tom.

The thought cycled through his mind like a mantra. He concentrated on it, focusing the anger on those names even though he knew it was only fuelling the sense of injustice he felt.

That fucker hit you, and you just stood there and took it.

That was his old man’s voice, speaking up in his mind as if the bastard was lying there in the tent next to him.

You just stood there and took it, didn’t you? You’ve always been weak, Gary. Just like your mother.

Gary gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He made an effort to block the voice out and focus his attention on the two people that deserved it.

Fucking Tom. Fucking Tramper.

Lying in bed with the same thoughts going through his mind again and again, the same angry accusations, was nothing new to Gareth. He remembered doing it ever since he was little, after his dad shouted at him or hit him for doing something wrong. He’d learned from a young age that crying didn’t do any good, and running to his mum for help did even less.

She’d always open her arms to him, but she never said anything while his dad stood there berating them both.

That ’ s right, you go running to your mother. Can ’ t even stand still and face me when I ’ m talking to you. It ’ s you he gets it from, Laura, you know that, don ’ t you?

Eventually, Gary learned to hold the tears in. He learned to ignore his mother and just stand still and try to go to another place while his father stood screaming in his face, his stale beer-breath pouring out in rank waves as he told his son exactly what a disappointment he was. Gary would stand there and in his mind, he’d be somewhere else, and any fear or anger he felt would be scrunched up and pushed down deep inside.

Then, when he got upstairs and everyone was in bed, he’d start his mantra.

Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you, you fat, worthless cunt.