by Paul Berry
‘Before you go, Bruce my boy,’ Rachel says, giving me a mischievous smile, ‘are you as strong as the Hulk?’ He flexes his arms. ‘Sam, feel his arm and tell me how strong he is.’
‘Come on, Sam, squeeze it,’ he says. They both look at me expectantly. I take a deep breath and prod his hard bicep with my forefinger.
‘Yep, very strong,’ I say. He makes a Hulk growl and stomps onto the dance floor as ‘Monster Mash’ starts playing, looking back at me before disappearing into the crowd.
‘Sometimes I could kill you,’ I say.
‘It’s my mission in life to annoy you.’
‘He’s just feeling sorry for me having a dead mum.’
She punches me gently on the arm. ‘Maybe he actually likes you, idiot.’
We take a gulp each from the can and I drain it. I try to crush it one-handedly but it just crumples slightly. Rachel shakes her head
‘It must be the kryptonite effect of fixating on Hewitt’s shapely arse.’
‘I wasn’t …’ Rachel raises an eyebrow. She has caught me staring across the dance floor at him. He’s in full Dracula garb: a long black cape and pointed collar, his hair gelled back and a widow’s peak painted on his forehead, blood dripping down the corners of his mouth. He is laughing with the maths teacher, who is dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein.
‘Really?’ Rachel asks. ‘I’m sure you noticed he forgot to wear underpants in class today.’
‘I was studying his arse for artistic, anatomical reasons.’
‘Do you think he’d bite me if I asked him?’
‘I don’t think teachers are allowed to suck the students’ blood.’
‘Well, she’s barking up the wrong tree,’ she says, looking at the maths teacher. She starts waving at Mr Hewitt.
‘Stop that – he’ll come over.’
He waves back, flashing his killer smile, and my stomach flips.
‘Great. Now he’ll want to talk to us,’ I say.
‘Talking. It’s weird. I think in the future it might become popular.’ Before Mr Hewitt can move, the maths teacher grabs his arm and tries to make him dance.
‘He’s not going to escape the clutches of Mrs Frankenstein,’ I say.
‘Let’s talk with Terry and his bat posse.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘He’s promised to be on his best behaviour.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Come on. Just for a few minutes. Then we can go back to ogling.’ I glance at Mr Hewitt lifting the maths teacher’s hand off his chest.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I probably won’t put a stake through his heart.’ Rachel drags me across the floor to the corner where Terry and his friends are loitering.
‘Hey, everyone, say hi to Sam.’ She sounds like she’s giving a sales presentation and I’m the object she’s trying to sell. They simultaneously turn their heads and look blankly at me, black-clad sheep sharing the same brain.
Even after a year, I can’t remember their names. In class they sit in their impenetrable clique, giggling at each other’s private jokes, which are usually about me.
Terry scowls behind his black perma-fringe and my stomach clenches. What the fuck does she see in him? Sometimes my artwork is vandalised, the eyes of faces coloured in or picture corners torn off, and I know it was him.
He’s in funeral black as always, swaying slightly (drunk or stoned or both), white skull makeup streaking his shirt collar.
‘Bonjour, my sexy kitten,’ he says, trying to kiss Rachel on the mouth, but she turns her head at the last moment so it lands on her cheek. He looks at me, his mouth turned up in a smirk.
‘Nice costume. Did you buy it from the homo department?’
Rachel is chatting away to a girl dressed as Alien’s Ripley and isn’t listening. I can feel panic rising in my chest.
‘My dad got it for me.’
‘Really? Your dad must be as faggoty as you.’ The others snigger with him. Rachel has stopped talking and is staring at him in disgust.
‘At least he doesn’t look like a reject zombie from the Thriller video,’ she says. Terry takes a bow.
‘Thanks for the compliment.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘Aww, come on, I’m only joking. Right, Sam?’ He puts his arm around my shoulders.
‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ I say.
My heart pounds as I struggle to control my breathing and I try not to recoil. Terry senses it and squeezes his arm tighter.
‘See, we’re best friends,’ he says, leaning his face close to my ear, the smell of beer on his breath. ‘I can see how you look at me in class,’ he murmurs. ‘You wanna touch me, don’t you?’ He grasps my buttocks and grinds his crotch against mine. ‘You like this, don’t you? Feels good, doesn’t it?’ I’m paralysed as he reaches into my pocket and his fingers brush against my penis. ‘Hey, I can feel something stiffening in there.’ He pulls out the hip flask. ‘Is this a present from your boyfriend?’ He strokes it against the side of my face. ‘You trying to make me jealous?’ I try to grab it but he holds it above his head.
‘Stop it!’ Rachel shouts, pulling him away and standing between us. She grabs the collar of his shirt. ‘Give it back to him.’
‘Halloween is his favourite night,’ Terry says, ‘when the dead come back to life. Maybe we should go to the graveyard and dig up his mum. She—’
Rachel slaps him hard across the face.
He loses his grip on the flask and it flies across the dance floor, clangs against a metal chair leg and shatters, the silver top skittering into the shadows. He clutches the side of his face and clenches his other fist.
‘Try it, rat-face, and I’ll break your goddamn nose,’ Rachel says furiously, her American accent lilting every word. He opens his mouth to say something but walks away, pushing and swearing at people as he disappears into the crowd on the dance floor. Rachel rubs her palm, her fingers smeared white from his face paint.
‘Jeez, Sam, I’m sorry.’
It feels like I’m trapped in a black pit and the walls are closing in around me.
‘Why did you make me come?’ I ask. ‘I don’t belong here.’
‘We can leave,’ she says. ‘I’ll walk you home.’ She reaches for my arm but I jerk it away.
‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ I run across the dance floor, the proton pack of a Ghostbuster girl scraping the top of my shoulder.
‘Sam, wait!’ Rachel shouts above the blaring music.
I go into the men’s changing rooms. Couples are sitting on the benches whispering in the darkness, some of them kissing, one girl smacking a boy’s hand when he tries to reach up her blouse.
On the wall is a pay phone and I pick up the receiver, my hand shaking, and push coins into the slot. I stab the number to my house. It rings, then clicks onto the answer machine, my dad using his TV presenter voice.
‘This is the Black residence. The men of the house aren’t home right now. Leave a message after the beep.’
‘Dad … help.’ There is laughter behind me and I slam the receiver down and run into the toilets.
Two zombies are peeing into the urinals. I open the door of an empty cubicle, lock it and sit on the toilet lid, digging my nails into my palms. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the bathroom – the coughs as people urinate, the steady drip of water in the cistern above my head – and imagine being back in my bedroom and drawing at my desk. I take off the cape, repulsed by its texture as though it is tainted by Terry’s words, and stuff it behind the toilet bowl.
I open the cubicle door and see Mr Hewitt at one of the sinks drying his hands with a paper towel. He turns around and winks.
‘I vant to suck your bluuud,’ he says in a cartoon Transylvanian accent. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ I struggle to think of something to say.
�
�I’m not sure my painting is good enough.’
‘Sam, you’re a fantastic artist. But no more talk about school tonight. Just have a good time.’ He puts his hand on his chest. ‘And don’t try and hammer a stake through my heart.’
‘I want my dad. I need to go home,’ I stammer, trying not to cry, but tears start rolling down my face.
‘Come to my office. You can use the phone there.’
I slip forward on the wet tiles and he grabs my shoulders to steady me. Our faces are inches apart and I smell aftershave and cigarettes on his skin.
I kiss him, the stubble on his chin brushing against my lips.
His face freezes and he shoves me away. My back hits the sink and I slide to the floor. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smudging red across his face.
‘Christ, I’m sorry,’ he says, reaching out his hands to help me up but then putting them in his pockets.
There’s a cruel laugh behind us.
‘I think Aids boy is in love with you, Mr Hewitt,’ Terry says, his left eye puffy and bloodshot.
I stand up, my back throbbing. Mr Hewitt backs away as though I’m some venomous creature.
‘Careful, he might try and bum you next.’ Terry laughs.
‘Get out! Both of you!’ Mr Hewitt snaps.
Terry raises his hands, grinning triumphantly. ‘No problem, sir. I really should tell the principal what happened, though.’ He jabs his finger at me. ‘You’re fucking dead on Monday, faggot.’
I run out of the toilets, through the changing rooms to the noise of the disco.
The walls of the sports hall start to blur and collapse around me as I stagger across the dance floor, blindly shoving people out of the way. They swear at me, their faces distorting and stretching into monstrous snarls. I smash open the exit doors and run down the corridor towards the glass entrance.
I stop as a strange calmness washes over me.
The corridor is empty, the ticket desk unoccupied, and the only sound is the muffled beat of ‘Thriller’ behind the sports hall doors, Vincent Price announcing how darkness is falling across the land.
I head to the art room, the lights irradiating the corridor with a sickly orange. I reach the door and pull down the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it swings open.
The lamps from the carpark gleam through the windows and the classroom looks like an alien landscape with easels growing out of the floor like toadstools. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I find what I’m looking for.
Terry’s painting.
The creased photograph of his grandma is still taped to the easel. I rip it off and tear it into ragged squares, scattering them over the floor, grab a pair of scissors and stab the canvas, pulling sharply downwards and splitting his face in two. Rage burns in my stomach and I keep stabbing and ripping until there is nothing left except for shreds of canvas dangling from the wooden frame. I walk over to another easel and slash the picture.
On a table next to it is a clay sculpture of a peacock. I pick it up and throw it against the wall. It bursts into multicoloured chunks and I lunge around the room in a frenzy, stabbing and smashing everything I see.
The room suddenly dazzles with light and I wince, shielding my eyes.
Rachel is standing by the door, her finger on the light switch. She looks around the room in shock.
‘What have you done?’ She kneels down and picks up the head of the peacock, gently cradling it. I remember her carefully painting its tail this morning and Mr Hewitt saying how talented she was, how it was the best thing she had done, and she had grinned with pride.
‘This was the only thing I’ve made that I cared about,’ she says.
I start blubbering and fall to the floor. ‘I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.’
‘Get up and go,’ she says coldly.
‘You have to forgive me. You’re my friend. We’re best friends.’
‘Get away from me, you crazy shit.’
‘Rachel, please.’
‘Fuck off!’
She stares ahead, motionless, as I walk past her through the doorway. Mr Hewitt is hurrying towards me down the corridor. He sees me and stops, opening his mouth to speak, but no words come out. I step around him and his body goes rigid. As I walk towards the glass entrance I hear shouting behind me.
‘You kissed Mr Hewitt?’ I turn around. The girl Terry was caressing in the library is laughing at me and clapping, feathers from her angel wings twirling to the floor, a lopsided tinfoil halo hovering on wire above her head. ‘That’s just fucking beautiful! How was it? Did he slip you the tongue?’
By now, the whole college would know what happened.
I throw open the glass doors and run into the night, her laughter echoing behind me.
Chapter 7
Snow is falling heavily. I run around the perimeter of the college to the metal railings and pry out the loose section, the lightning tree twisting sawtooth branches into the sky.
I look back over the lawn and the monolith glowers at me.
I turn my shoulders and push through the gap, feeling the back of my shirt rip, and sprint down the path through the trees, crossing the park towards the maze, leaving a trail of footprints in the fresh snow. I imagine everyone swarming from the disco in pursuit, fanning out through the park until they catch me.
But it’s not just the people from the college who hate me.
One Tuesday evening when I was eleven years old, about a year after the bus accident, I was at the community centre just down the road from my house, hunting through items at the monthly jumble sale. This was the first time my dad had let me go alone, and he had given me my weekend pocket money early. I loved the anticipation of the jumble sale and always got there early to queue outside, wondering what surprises awaited in the tangle of objects spilling over the stalls. My dad had told me to buy him anything from Star Wars, and when I found an R2D2 figure I let out a whoop of joy, much to the annoyance of the boy next to me, who was about to grab it.
After about half an hour, I left with a carrier bag full of books and another Star Wars figure of a hooded Jawa, which I was deciding whether to keep for myself or give to my dad. I was about to cross the carpark at the back of the community centre to the path that led onto my road, almost running from the excitement of giving my dad his figure.
Someone grabbed the back of my coat and pushed me against the wall.
‘Your mother is a murderer, did your dad tell you?’ the man said, swaying slightly as though he was dizzy. I tried to run around him but he pushed me back against the wall, hard enough this time that it thumped painfully against my head.
‘Don’t try and run away when I’m telling you something. Your bitch mother killed my son; she killed all of them.’ His spittle sprayed against my cheek as he spoke and his eyes narrowed in fury. I was too scared to speak and started crying. He grabbed my throat, his other hand keeping hold of my shoulder so I couldn’t move. He started squeezing and a bolt of pain shot up the side of my neck. I dropped the carrier bag.
Suddenly, the man was wrenched away and I fell to my knees, coughing. Two figures dressed in black pulled him into the shadows of the carpark to where a car had silently driven up, its lights off and the engine gently idling.
‘Go home,’ one of the figures said as they pushed the man into the back of the car and slammed the door. They both got into the front and it drove off. In the side window I could see the silhouette of the man who had attacked me thumping against the glass.
I sat against the wall for about ten minutes, rubbing the soreness from my neck, still too scared to move. Eventually, I picked up the bag, checked the R2D2 figure was still inside and walked down the path back to my house. When I got home, my dad was sitting on the sofa watching the news.
‘Did you manage to get lots of goodies?’ he asked. He turned to look at me. ‘Oh my god, Sam,
what happened? Your neck.’ I had already concocted an excuse on the short walk home.
‘There was a boy outside the jumble sale. We got into a fight over R2D2.’
‘A fight? Are you sure?’ I nodded. ‘Well, I hope you gave as good as you got.’ He made me hold a bag of frozen peas on my neck for a few minutes to help with the bruising. When I gave him both Star Wars figures he kissed my forehead and told me that next time it wasn’t worth getting into a fight over.
On the local news the next day, a man was found drowned in the River Ribble, the second tragedy to hit the family, the reporter said, after the death of his son in the Vega College bus crash.
I never went to another jumble sale again.
If I’m not drawing in the college library in the lunch break, then I go into the maze. It isn’t very big or complex, but I like the feeling that when I reach the centre I’m completely alone and no one in the world can find me. I know every path, every twist and turn, so in a few minutes I get to the centre clearing with its warped bench under a rusted gazebo.
I sit down and bang my fist repeatedly on the wood, snot dribbling over my top lip.
It’s over.
I won’t be able to go back to college and they’ve probably already called the police to arrest me, the crazy, dangerous queer. I also can’t go home. Worse than my dad’s disappointment will be his look of disgust. He will never feel comfortable being around me again, that gay waste of space dragging him down.
Everything has been leading to this moment and I was stupid to think that anything would change. It would have been better if I had been killed in the carpark after the jumble sale.
I think about the scissors I used in the art room and wish I’d taken them with me. I look around the centre of the maze for a glass bottle I can break. If I numb my wrist in the snow it won’t hurt when I cut and then I can just sleep.
This time my dad won’t be able to stop me.
Snow already blankets the ground around the gazebo, glowing platinum in the moonlight and hiding any bottles beneath it. I reach under the bench where the snow hasn’t fallen and feel between slimy crisp packets and cigarette ends. I flinch when my thumb pricks against something pointed and pull out the broken neck of a bottle, the glass curved into a glittering fang. I scoop up a handful of snow and hold it against my wrist. After a couple of minutes I prod it with my finger and don’t feel anything. I press the glass against my wrist and prepare to slice downwards.
