KNOCKOFF

I always had a feeling that I was a fake, a bootleg.

I first heard of it when my parents had me checked over for weak joints.

"He's got weak joints I'm afraid," said our GP.

"He's always been a fragile boy," explained my mother.

"He's not fragile. He's poorly made. Johnny lacks articulation. He's cheap," replied the doctor, "Give him vitamins every day and fish oil."

My mother bought 6lbs of fresh cod liver at the fish market as I stood there staring at a jar of real fish eyes blinking back at me.

My Dad ground those livers with his bare hands and wiped his face, smearing the stuff allover it. He ground his teeth and flexed his massive biceps as the offal perished in his grip. He was more like two men than one. I was half a boy.

They ladled the liver oil down my throat as my weak arms flailed like cooked cotton.

"Uuuurgh" I cried with non-patented lungs and filled up with fish juice like a small jug.

"Now you can run around and be a stallion like me Johnny" my Dad roared pounding his bare chest with his tattooed fists.

My Mum smiled as I got up stiffly off the kitchen table and flopped to the slippery lino.

"Black pudding for tea. Get some blood in you boy," she smiled dropping thick puds in boiling water. They looked like nooses being sterilized.

I ate the puddings awkwardly with a knife and fork in my rigid hands. I sat at the kitchen table. My Dad shook a storm of salt and pepper over me.

"Put hairs on your chest that will!" He declared rifling his fingers through his own.

"I don't have any hair Dad. I don't have any at all. It fell out after a few months remember." I whimpered.

He stared at me and shook his big head.

"What did we do wrong Son? Why are you so cheaply made?"

I dressed in second hand clothes and knotty woolen socks an Aunt had knitted. Nothing fitted right and my boots were too big. My toy rifle didn't work and my helmet was cracked, the chin strap dangling. It was shoddy, the whole damn thing. My unfinished face scrunched as I tried to cry but there just wasn't enough detail to do it.

I crawled into my plastic bag and lay flat with my clumsy rifle at my side. My Mum had put a medal in there to cheer me up but the pins were blunt and it wouldn't stick to my army jacket.

Staring out from the open cupboard I saw my parents phoning the agency. They wanted a real one they said. Not a knockoff. They wanted full articulation, flocked hair and proper hands. Oh and a facial scar. That was important. The neighbour's small man had a facial scar.

I smiled without lips and tried to imagine a scar. I slowly closed my already closed eyes and turned.