The Part That Can't Remember

by Beth Hurst

This is an excerpt from the work in progress novel, ‘The Part That Can’t Remember’, which explores fractured memory, toxic relationships, northern identity and the transformative power of female friendship.

The Boy remembers rugby locker rooms. Coach barking pep talks, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling, picking chunks off the silver pipe insulation when Coach wasn’t looking. He remembers cold showers, naked and looking at the ground, because looking up makes you gay. And you’re not gay. You can’t be gay. Where you got laughed at for getting pubes early. Or for not having them at all. 

Worshipping the local Rugby team stars like gods. On his wall, posters unfolded from match-day programmes so they are split into four quadrants, the crease running right down the middle of the team captain’s face. Two staple puncture holes over his chest, level with where his heart should be.

Getting “must try harder” in his school reports. “Lovely, sensitive little boy, doesn’t talk much. Smart with a good brain but needs to apply himself.” Applying himself wasn’t cool. Being good at football was cool. Pokémon were cool. Snapping the girl’s training bra straps from under their thick polo shirts was cool. Even making them cry was cool. 

Once, he saw a squirrel lying on its back in the garden. Its arms were stretched open like Jesus on the cross, guts spilling on the grass. Dark blood and wet, matted fur. Maimed by another animal, its organs were still spluttering on, struggling. That was the last time he cried, frozen, staring down at the poor animal taking painful breaths.

Through the patio windows, Dad from his usual seat in front of the 75-inch TV had seen him whimpering, taking quick, shallow breaths that made his shoulders go up and down. He’d come out shouting in his big black work boots, saw the squirrel and stamped the life out of it. 

The Boy felt different since then. Like he both understood and was totally let down by life. He remembered the words of his Dad afterwards: 

“Don’t be soft, lad. Wise up.” 

Every night, he dreamed about the squirrel, that he was pulling intestines out of its body like a magician pulls scarves out of their sleeve. Years later, he took a book out of the library about the workings of the human body. He decided to become a doctor soon after that.