It’s not so easy to throw straight downwards. It isn’t what you normally do. I think it through once, then – boof! – I go for it. It comes up so fast that if you angled it wrong it would hit you in the face and knock you out. Or kill you if it got you on a pressure point. Up it goes, as if it’s jet-powered, then it seems to hover, floating, and suddenly you realize it’s diving back at you.
For a second, I have a crazy thought – catch it in one hand! – but it comes down so fast, and I know from bitter experience that indecision is your worst enemy, so I cup both hands into a V and concentrate on not blinking. The ball flies in – thwack! – and tries its hardest to jump out again, but I lock my fingers together, holding the wriggling, squirming thing firm until it’s calmed down.
In Australia, they catch balls upside-down to how we do. They have the little fingers on top and the thumbs underneath (see fig. 4). This has nothing to do with them living upside-down. You can catch a ball that way in the northern hemisphere too, if you really want to, but you’ll look a bit stupid.
I hand the ball back, like that was the easiest thing I ever did.
‘Good ball,’ I say.
‘You can’t break it. It’s the only thing you can’t break. You can’t smash it or drown it or squash it or anything. It’s the strongest thing in the world.’
FIGURE 4. HOW TO CATCH A BALL
‘You could melt it,’ I say. It just comes to me. Sometimes I think I must be really brainy.
His eyes flick up, and he looks at me properly for the first time, with the same expression Mum has when you say something she thinks you ought not to know. It’s respect. I try not to smile.
‘You reckon?’ he says.
‘Easy,’ I say.
‘How?’
‘Matches.’
I think he’s older than me. He’s certainly bigger than me. But somehow I’m already in charge. It feels great. He’s just looking at me now, waiting to see what I’ll do next. It’s the best feeling.
‘I’ll get some,’ I say.
I almost tell him to wait there, then I realize it’s even better if I don’t say it. I walk back into the house, as slowly as I can make myself. Dad answers the door, but I’m in and past him before he can say anything, because I’m busy now and don’t want to be interrupted.
Out back I scrabble through the cupboard where Mum keeps spare tins and 100 rolls and cleaning products, and I soon find a box of matches – a big one with a sailing ship on the front.
I’m about to walk right out with it when I remember that Mum and Dad are having tea in the kitchen, which I have to go through. If I’m carrying a box of matches, there’ll be questions. Only Dad’s allowed to burn things, and even then not for fun. I can get from here to the hall without touching the floor – I’ve done it loads of times – but that won’t help.2 They’ll still see me.
I stuff the matches up my sweatshirt, but I look pregnant. I push them round the back and tuck in, to hold the box in place, and decide to go for speed.
They stop me right off with that voice they can use.
‘Ben!’ It’s Mum. She’s figured something out. ‘What are you doing?’
‘There’s a boy in the street.’
It sounds like someone’s drowning kittens in the living room, which means Rachel and Lucy are watching pop videos. When they like someone, they scream. Girls are like that.
‘What’s that up your jumper?’ asks Mum.
She’s got X-ray eyes. But for every extra power you get, you’re also given a weakness. It’s how things work. Hers is that she’s a slow runner, and she hates getting up when she’s in the middle of a cup of tea.
‘He’s waiting for me,’ I say, and run for it.
She doesn’t follow.
If you find out their weaknesses, you can win.
The boy holds the ball, and I hold the match. I still don’t know his name, but it’s not time to ask yet. I hold the match until my fingers burn, or near enough for me to act like it, anyway. The flame doesn’t have much effect on the ball, other than making a bad smell and a small, black, ripply patch. It’s a million miles from melting it. We try again, and it’s still not much good.
Then he says he’s got a better idea, and he opens the matchbox right up, takes out one match and puts the box down on the pavement. He’s still holding the sleeve. He puts the ball into the box, on top of all the matches. He looks up at me with a glint in his eye. He’s grinning, and so am I. When you’re excited, sometimes it feels like you need a wee, even though you don’t.
He lights the match that he’s holding and drops it into the box, right on top of the first row’s purple lighting bits. There’s a massive crackle and fizz, and the whole thing goes up, and half a second later there’s another big one as the second row catches alight. The flames are as high as my knee, and they’re so bright the ball completely disappears inside the fire. You can smell it, though, giving off a really nasty pong, but in a good way because we know we did it.
The fire doesn’t last long. There’s a black, lumpy mess left behind which smokes and steams like an asteroid that’s only just landed. We kneel down and blow on it to make the ball cool enough to pick up. I want to be the first to reach in, but he beats me to it. The ball’s not ready, though, and he drops it straight away, with a yelp. The ball’s really wonked. It bounces in a zigzag now, back and forward like it’s gone nuts. We both laugh at how it’s bouncing, and when it stops in the gutter I go and crouch over it.
The surface of the whole ball is blistered and bobbly like the worst zitty face you’ve ever seen – as bad as Alison from the end of the street whose cheeks look like sick. It’s gone black all over, too, and it’s not round any more, but a saggy oval.
It’s not a puddle of rubber, though. I mean, you can’t say we’ve actually melted it. But we’ve certainly bust it, which was the point. We’ve definitely won, even though it seems like a shame now because it was a good ball, and now it isn’t.
We chuck it around for a bit, which is a laugh because you don’t know where it’s going to bounce, but it’s annoying, too, and after a while I’m only pretending to enjoy it. I can tell he’s a bit bored as well. We need something new.
‘My dad’s got a chainsaw,’ I say. ‘He’s been using it all afternoon, but now he’s having a tea break. D’you want to see it?’
He shrugs, but I can tell by the look on his face that he’s keen.
I take him round the side, where you have to go over the gate. I climb it first. I don’t go for a record time or anything, I just make sure I do it right. I can open it from the inside, then, but he tells me to shut it because he wants to go over the top too. I don’t tell him about the loose bit of fence, and he slips a little, but he gets over well enough.
All the houses in the street are the same, apart from the flats that became a mental home, and they all have a garden gate round the side. Mrs Sparks leaves hers unlocked for me, so I can get my balls when they go over without having to ring her bell. Her grass is so long that tennis balls are a nightmare. Mum says I should mow it for her, but it’d feel funny offering.
You’d think the houses were massive, but they’re not because each house is actually two houses. They’re cut in half. If you count the front doors, it’s obvious. Mrs Sparks has got the other half of ours, and you can hear her telly coming through the wall. She turns it up loudest for Highway.
Me and the boy are now in the garden, surrounded by the sawn-up branch, looking down at the chainsaw, and suddenly I’m wondering whether this was such a good idea. I’m not supposed to touch it, and when I mentioned the chainsaw I thought we’d just come and have a look, but now we’re looking at it, it seems like we can’t just walk away or I’ll seem like a total girl.
I’m hoping Dad’ll come out and tell us off, but I look up at the house and the curtains are all closed. It’s the time of day when it’s not dark yet, but if you’re inside you have to put the lights on anyway. Curtains are a big thing for Mum. Opening and
closing them. You never know when she’s going to suddenly jump up and rush all over the house doing it. She tries to get help, but no one else shares the passion.
‘Is it heavy?’ he asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Hurts your arms if you’re not used to it.’
He leans over and tests the chainsaw’s weight. Then suddenly he’s standing there, holding it at his waist like it’s a machine gun. If Dad comes out now, we’ll be in big trouble.
‘How do you start it?’ he asks.
‘There’s a string on a handle at the back. You have to yank it.’
He touches the string, but it almost makes him drop the saw, so he moves his hand back to where it was.
‘It’s too heavy. You’ll have to do it.’
My eyes flick up to the house. Still nothing’s moving in there. I can hear Rachel and Lucy, who are either sticking pins into each other or still watching videos. I could have said I didn’t know how to start it. That would have been a better thing to say. But it’s too late now.
‘I’m not supposed to,’ I say, quietly.
‘Says who? SAYS WHO?’
It’s like he’s angry. I don’t know why. His face is suddenly twisted and nasty. If he’d looked like this when I went out to say hello, I would have gone straight back inside. He’s not big, but he’s scary. He’s got that thing in his voice which makes you think everything will get worse if you don’t do what he says.
‘My dad,’ I say.
‘And you’re scared of him, are you?’
He beams his eyes at me, and I notice for the first time that they’re bright blue – the colour of empty swimming pools – so blue you don’t want to look straight into them. His skin’s pale and his hair’s a dark, short crop that makes the blue seem even bluer. It doesn’t look right. It’s like his face is in black and white, but his eyes are in colour.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Well, then.’
I don’t move.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘It’ll be fun.’
This has gone all wrong. I’m really not in charge now.
I step towards him and put my fingers into the handle that starts the chainsaw. I can’t think of any way out of it.
‘I’m not supposed to.’ It sounds like I’m begging him.
‘Come on! Don’t be a girl!’
I’ve got the starter in my hand, but I can’t make myself pull it.
‘COME ON!’ he shouts. ‘What are you waiting for, you baby?’
I give the string a yank, just like I’ve seen Dad do, but the engine only splutters. Second time the same thing happens.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he’s saying. ‘Why are you such a weed? Can’t you even do it?’
I pull with everything I’ve got, and suddenly the saw comes alive in his hands, roaring like a motorbike.
‘Hoooo-hooooooooooooo!’ he crows, waving it around in a big circle. It’s so heavy and noisy that it looks like the saw is moving him, not the other way round. You can hardly see the teeth of it now, they’re whirring so fast.
I step back, but not so far he’ll think I’m scared.
He tests it out on a small branch first, and it goes through like there’s nothing there. Then he slashes at a thick log on the ground, and the saw growls and jerks in his hands, as if it could fly off in any direction. Chips of wood spray everywhere.
I take a couple more steps back and bump against Dad, who’s run out into the garden, but you couldn’t hear him over the sound of the saw, which is so loud it’s like everything else has become a silent movie.
Dad says something to me, but without a caption there’s no way of knowing what it is.
‘Switch that off!’ he shouts.
The boy doesn’t hear him. I wish I’d asked his name now, in case anything bad happens. I can see that Dad doesn’t want to get any closer because, if the boy turns round, he’ll get him with the saw.
When there’s a pause in the cutting, Dad shouts again.
‘OI! YOU! SWITCH THAT OFF RIGHT NOW!’
This time he hears. He turns to face my dad, and stares at him. Dad stares back. Neither of them moves. The teeth of the saw are still whizzing round, cutting the air between them.
‘I said, turn that off,’ says Dad. It’s less noisy now the boy isn’t sawing.
The boy still just stares at him. He doesn’t speak.
‘NOW!’
The boy changes the angle of the saw, and props it against his hip. In this position, he’s not just holding it, he’s pointing it at Dad.
Dad’s face goes white. It’s not like a chainsaw is something you can grab off someone. There’s no socket you can switch off, either. In front of this kid, for all his size, Dad’s helpless.
‘Who are you?’ says Dad.
There’s no answer, so Dad turns, grabs me by the elbow and shouts, ‘DID YOU BRING HIM HERE?’
I nod, and windmill my arm so he has to let go. My eyes are stinging now. I glance up at the house, and I can see Rachel and Lucy through the patio doors. They’re standing between the curtains and the window, looking out at us. Mum is up by the back door. I run over to her, and she puts an arm round me. I’m not even embarrassed.
Dad takes a step towards the boy. Then one more. The saw is still going. If Dad reached his hand out now, it would be cut to bits.
‘What’s your name?’ asks Dad.
The boy doesn’t answer. It’s like he’s in a trance. You can’t tell if he’s threatening to attack Dad, or if he’s just gone into a daydream.
‘Put it down. Put it down, now.’ Dad’s trying to sound calm, but you can tell it’s an effort.
Still the boy just stands there, his body braced against the weight and speed of the saw, staring towards Dad, looking at him or through him, I can’t tell which.
‘What’s your name?’ Dad asks again.
After a long gap, the boy says, ‘I’ve just moved in.’
‘Where?’
The boy waves the saw around, as if he’s practising his slicing technique, as if he’s forgotten Dad’s there.
‘Where?’ says Dad.
He doesn’t answer. He just slices the air, calm as anything.
‘Put it down. Put the saw down before you hurt yourself.’
The boy looks at him. Even though he only comes up to Dad’s shoulder, it’s like the boy’s looking down and Dad’s looking up. For a moment, the boy seems to be smiling.
‘Say “please”,’ he says.
Dad rubs his face and thinks.
‘Say “please”,’ repeats the boy, in the voice you’d use to a baby.
‘Please,’ says Dad, eventually.
The boy tosses the saw on to the grass, as if he’s suddenly bored of it. It lands with a thunk and goes quiet. Before the saw has even hit the ground, the boy sets off past Dad and past me and out into the street. I can hear him laughing as he goes off.
If it wasn’t for Olly, that would have been an end of it between me and Carl. I’m not an idiot. But you can’t always choose your friends, can you?
Or maybe you don’t know that because you probably haven’t got any.
The Park
Me and Olly are at the racetrack. It’s not really a racetrack. It’s a fenced-off bit of the park which has been concreted over, but in the middle there’s a figure eight of concrete in a different colour. We reckon it was probably supposed to be a racetrack, but they never finished it – or maybe it used to be a racetrack, but they dismantled it. Either way, it doesn’t make any difference to us. It still works. We often bike round and round it while we’re talking, or we do skids on the gravel in the middle, and every so often we actually race. We sometimes start from opposite ends, so when you get to the crossroads in the middle there’s nearly a crash each time and you have to see who bottles out first. It’s always Olly.
He’s a ginga. That’s ginga to rhyme with singer. He hates it when you call him that. You can also call him ginge, which he hates just as much. The sad thing is, there’s no
polite word for it. He’s more orange than you’d ever think was possible. You don’t normally see hair Olly’s colour. In fact, you don’t normally see anything that colour. The only other place I’ve ever seen it is on Donny’s ‘DANGER: HAZARDOUS WASTE’ sticker.
Because he’s my best friend, I take the piss out of Olly for everything except the hair. He’s the only person in the world who’s looking forward to going bald.
Me and Olly are at the track. We’re not doing much in particular, sort of trying to see how long we can stay in one place without putting a foot down, but we’re not doing it properly. We’re not watching each other or timing it or anything.
It’s Olly who notices him first. He’s at the other side of the track. He’s doing the same thing we’re doing, except he’s really good at it. He can stay there for ages without going forwards or putting a foot down or even wobbling. He’s not looking at us, he’s just doing it. He’s pretending he hasn’t seen us, but you can tell he’s noticed he’s being watched because he starts concentrating even harder on his balancing.
‘Shit!’ I say. I don’t know why, I just say it.
Even though it’s ages since I last saw him, he’s still wearing the same red tracksuit. It’s supposed to be Arsenal, but it’s not the real thing. If it was mine, I’d put a ‘7’ on the back for Liam Brady, and get Olly to wear a ‘10’, which is Frank Stapleton.
‘What?’ says Olly. ‘D’you know him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Moved into my street. He’s a nutter.’
Then suddenly Olly’s cycling over to him, which is the last thing I was going to do. Olly’s like that. He’s always curious. Maybe I shouldn’t have said ‘nutter’ because I didn’t mean it in a good way, I meant it in a bad way, but if you don’t explain it properly, it can sound like a compliment.
I can’t just stay there on my own, while Olly goes over, so I spin my pedals into place and follow him. My gears crunch as I go over, changing down from what I was using for balancing. You’re not supposed to start off in a high gear, it’s bad for them.
Bad Influence Page 3
