As I turn and watch Marcus march into the distance, I realise my hands are still in the air. I drop them and try to comprehend what just happened. This was definitely not the right time to confront him and it feels like I’ve dodged a bullet. Whatever pissed him off, he didn’t appear to be in the mood for discussing computer games. I let out a breath I may have been holding for too long and decide it’s time to head home. I take barely three steps before a voice booms from behind me.
“Who are you?”
I slowly turn around to face a giant of a man filling the doorway. My eyes move up his frame, meeting his rocky face sat beneath a crown of close-cropped black hair. His dark eyes are barely visible in the shadow of his prominent brow, and a bushy moustache twitches above his mouth. There’s something about him that suggests he once had a career in the military.
“Craig,” I reply meekly.
“What are you doing here?” the giant bellows.
“I...err...just came to see Marcus.”
A deep crease develops in his brow.
“Speak up, boy,” he barks.
“I came to see Marcus,” I splutter.
He eyes me with lingering contempt.
“You a poof?”
“What?”
“A poof. You know, a faggot, a bender,” he spits.
“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Without warning, he lurches off the step towards me, stopping a few feet away. I almost soil my pants. He raises one of his orangutan arms and points at me, his face now twisted with fury.
“I’ll say this only once, I don’t want your sort around here. If I see you or your perverted bum-chums anywhere near my house again, I’ll rip your fucking head off. Clear?”
I have no idea why I’m being subjected to his homophobic tirade, and to be honest, I don’t really care. I just want to get away from this unhinged lunatic so I nod enough times to make it clear I understand although I don’t. Having made his point, he throws me a look of disgust and stomps back inside the house. The door is slammed shut and I slowly walk backwards up the path, keeping my eyes fixed on the door in case he changes his mind and decides he’d rather rip my head off on this visit.
My trainers barely touch the pavement as I scoot out of the cul-de-sac. I run for a few minutes until I feel I’m a safe distance from Marcus’s house, coming to a stop near the skate park on the edge of the estate. With the majority of teenage skaters likely to be in bed until lunchtime, there isn’t a soul around and the park is quiet. I lean against a chain-link fence while I catch my breath and try to make sense of what just happened. Unlike yesterday, my hopes for this morning’s task could not have been more savagely dashed. I begin to feel annoyed with myself for pushing my luck. In hindsight this was a badly planned and reckless idea that wasn’t worth the risk. I suppose I can take solace from the fact I avoided a confrontation with Marcus, although that creates another problem. Once he calms down, he’ll want to know why I was as his house. In about thirteen hours’ time, I won’t be here to answer him, least not this version of me.
The positivity I had when I left the house fizzles away. I’ve made a problem for myself that I have to fix within the next thirteen-odd hours, but I don’t even know where to start. I need to talk to Marcus, but there’s no way I’m going back to his house. My immediate thoughts turn to social media and contacting him via Facebook or Snapchat. Obviously not an option. How did we survive as a species without the ability to communicate with one another every second of every day? What are the alternatives? I wander around aimlessly all day in the hope I bump into him? I find his phone number and hope the psychopathic giant doesn’t answer when I call? Both totally impractical and I’ve got nothing else.
I push myself off the fence and head home, with the faint hope Marcus will be curious enough about my visit to come and find me.
I trudge alongside the perimeter fence of the skate park and turn into the road which runs along the rear boundary. A grass embankment extends for about fifty yards along the road, acting as a noise barrier between the park and the nearby houses. There are three wooden benches sat at even intervals at the top of the embankment. The nearest two are empty, but the one at the far end is occupied by a solitary figure. I get halfway along the road, and as the figure gets closer, my heart beats a little faster. I quicken my pace until I’m only fifteen yards away and able to confirm the identity of the lone benchwarmer. This could be incredibly good luck, or incredibly bad luck — I’ll know which within the next few minutes.
2
I’ve been on the receiving end of a punch twice in my life. I was only a ten year-old when it first happened and the assailant was my eleven year-old cousin, Darren. He claimed I was cheating at Battleships and decided to avenge my deceit by punching me squarely on the nose. It bled for about ten minutes while Darren received a slippering from his father as punishment. Darren and I never spoke again. Twenty years later, I was on a stag night in Newcastle when I received my second punch. At the end of an all-day drinking session, I had entered that stage of drunkenness where I believed I was invincible. Turns out it was just an illusion and I probably shouldn’t have tried to jump the queue at the taxi rank. I awoke the next morning with hazy memories and a vivid purple blotch around my left eye.
I’ve just received my third punch, courtesy of Marcus Morrison. As he swung wildly at me, I tried to back-peddle and lost my balance so his fist only glanced my cheek. However, I’m now sat on my arse at the top of a grass embankment, with Marcus looking down upon me.
“Say that again, Pelling and I’ll fucking kill you.”
I scuttle back a few feet and reassess my strategy, which clearly hasn’t gone according to plan. My opening gambit to Marcus was, in hindsight, maybe a little too direct. I hoped my shocking revelation would unnerve him. It didn’t, it enraged him. I need to adopt a different strategy, and quickly. I’m gambling everything on my experience prevailing over Marcus’s youthful, but uncontrolled, aggression. If I get it right, I can gain control of the situation. If I’m wrong, I look set to receive punch number four, then five, and possibly six.
As we grow older, it’s inevitable that the amount of information we absorb becomes deeper and broader. Most of this fairly useless information is stored away in the deepest recesses of the mind, waiting for the moment where it might prove its worth. For example, things like knowing that the capital city of Uganda is Kampala, or that the distinctive smell in the air after it rains is called ‘petrichor’. Information of no value beyond a pub quiz. However, amongst all that trivia, some of the information stored in your head can occasionally provide a practical use. This might be one such an occasion.
I've picked up this information by reading dozens of books centred around an outcast-type hero. Books where a former military loaner arrives in an American backwater and stumbles across some dark secret amongst the townsfolk. Before he rights all the wrongs, our hero will take part in several fight scenes where he kicks the shit out of the bad guys. Such is the author’s attention to detail in these books, my brain has absorbed a lot of the tactics used by the hero during those fight scenes. If that information turns out to be written with poetic licence, I’m in trouble. But if it’s vaguely accurate, it could prove invaluable for my own impending fight scene.
There is about eight feet of space between where Marcus is stood and my position on the ground. I need to appear subservient, which I guess is what he expects. Surprise will be my ally. I climb to my feet, adjusting my stance so my left foot is planted forward of my right with about twenty inches of space between them. I have to keep my centre of gravity low for this to work so I bend my knees slightly. I lean forward a fraction, keeping my eyes fixed on Marcus. My right shoulder is tensed and my hand balled into a fist. I raise my left hand as if to show surrender, and to focus his attention away from my fist.
Time to repeat the line that provoked Marcus’s initial punch, and will undoubtedly trigger the second.
�
�Marcus, I want to talk about your homosexuality.”
I wasn’t 100% sure he was gay, but his father’s outburst was the tin lid on a box of clues stretching back over the months since Marcus started at RolpheTech. It was the only viable answer to a lot of questions. My theory was that Marcus would be so shocked that I know his secret, he would beg me not to say anything. I hoped we could have a civilised conversation and reach an agreement where he’d leave me alone, in return for my silence. Turns out my theory was wrong and I’ve now got to do this the hard way.
Repeating my initial statement only serves to enrage Marcus further. It doesn’t appear he’s in the mood for a civilised conversation as he prepares to dispatch his second punch. This time I’m ready for him.
His first mistake is that he draws his arm so far backwards, there is no element of surprise. The second mistake is that he swings wildly while still moving forward so he can’t control his momentum. The third mistake is that his feet are only a few inches apart so his balance is compromised. All three mistakes play right into my hands. I keep my entire focus on the travel of his fist as it takes an age to arc through the air towards my head. My timing needs to be perfect. Move too soon and he might adjust the course of his fist or abort the punch. Move too late and some part of his haymaker will connect with my head.
If I could repeat it a hundred times, I doubt my timing could be any more precise. I bend my knees and stoop at the exact moment Marcus’s arm reaches the point of no return. His fist passes through air previously occupied by my head, and with nothing to stop its momentum, continues its trajectory. As his body twists to follow his flailing arm, the entire right side of his torso is open to attack. The window of opportunity is now open to implement the second move borrowed from fiction. Using every joule of kinetic energy in my body, I uncoil like a loaded spring and deliver a measured, but devastating punch to Marcus’s rib cage. Such is the force of the impact, pain streaks across my knuckles and travels up my wrist like forks of lightning. If my punch hasn’t debilitated Marcus sufficiently, I’m in trouble because I doubt my fist will withstand a repeat performance.
As it transpires, I don’t have to worry about Marcus retaliating because he’s lying on the floor, holding his ribs, and groaning between irregular breaths. I take a few seconds to shake the pain from my hand before I step across to his crumpled body and stand over him. I’m not a violent man, and ordinarily I can’t stand seeing anyone in distress, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny part of me gleefully savouring Marcus’s discomfort. I squat down in front of him and his eyes dart around as if he’s trying to evaluate his limited options for escape. He knows he’s helpless. If the pain in my hand is anything to go by, I suspect he might have a cracked rib or two so I doubt he can get up and run. I could kick seven shades of shit out of him now and there would be nothing he could do. I could unleash years of pent-up anger. It would be the sweetest revenge.
As tempting as it is, I don’t enact this kicking because when I look at his face, all the arrogance, the narcissism and the sneering attitude are buried beneath a pained expression. Almost to my annoyance, my glee dissolves.
“Don’t worry Marcus, I’m done here. Okay?”
He nods his head as he tries to choke back tears. I suppose I should be gracious in victory.
“Can you get up?”
He unfurls his body and rolls onto his back. He gingerly raises his knees and props his torso up by extending his arms behind him. Certain movements are accompanied by a gasp of air through gritted teeth. Slowly, but surely, he sits upright.
“Do you think you can make it over to the bench?”
“Think so,” he mumbles.
I stand up and hold my arm out. He grasps it with one hand, keeping the other held to his rib cage. I take a step backwards and help him to his feet. It’s an action that clearly hurts, judging by the way his face contorts. I guide him over to the bench and he cautiously lowers himself down, his hand steadfastly fixed to his side. I take a seat at the other end of the bench, and for a few minutes, neither of us say anything. I suspect we’re both equally stunned at what just happened, although for very different reasons.
Marcus eventually feels compelled to speak.
“How did you learn to fight like that?”
“My Uncle Jack used to be in the military police. He taught me.”
A lie, but more believable than the truth.
“I could report you to the police, you know. That was bloody GBH,” he whines.
I detect a hint of the real Marcus rising to the surface. His pride has been as badly damaged as his ribs so he wants to regain the upper hand. I’ve come too far to let that happen.
“Shut up, Marcus. You tell the police and it’ll be all around school by lunchtime tomorrow that I kicked your arse. You really want that?”
He lets out a sigh and shakes his head.
“No, thought not.”
Silence falls again and I suspect Marcus is considering a way to turn this situation around. Time to return to plan A.
“Are we just going to sit here and pretend I never said anything about you being gay,” I ask.
He twists to face me, but immediately regrets it as a jolt of pain reminds him of his injury.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he hisses.
I ignore his protestation.
“I assume the fearsome giant at your house was your Dad?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, he hid it well, but I sort of got the impression he’s not keen on gay folk?”
“What did he say?”
“He seemed to think I was gay, and he made it clear I wasn’t welcome. Why would he think that?”
“Dunno, ask him if you’ve got the balls.”
“No, you’re okay. It seems odd though, don’t you think? You were arguing about something when I arrived and then you ran out of the house. I then had to listen to your dad’s homophobic threats, presumably because he thought I was gay. I’m guessing your dad knows about your sexuality and isn’t too happy about it. Would that be about right?”
He doesn’t answer me. An ice cream van appears on the road at the far side of the park, and the chimed melody of ‘Mr Softee’ fills the air, somewhat ironically.
“I need to go home,” he says, before delicately lifting his body off the bench.
“Are you not going to answer me? Is your dad giving you grief because you’re gay?”
“Just stay the fuck out of my business will you,” he blasts.
He obviously isn’t keen on discussing his relationship with his father so I change the subject.
“What are you going to tell your parents about your injury?”
“Don’t panic, Pelling, I’ll tell them I fell off a mate’s skateboard. Besides, If I tell my Dad a skinny runt like you did this, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Less of the insults Marcus. This skinny runt can add a couple of black eyes to your injury list if you like.”
He avoids eye contact and shuffles away. He gets five or six yards when I call after him.
“Oh, one other thing before you go. This plan of yours to get Tessa Lawrence into bed. Can I suggest you drop that idea because it won’t end well for either of you?”
He stops abruptly.
“What? Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter. You need to accept your sexuality, Marcus. Besides the fact you probably don’t want to have sex with her, it won’t change who you are. And whether you’re trying to kid yourself or your dad, it’s not fair to use Tessa like that.”
“Even if any of this shit was true, which it isn’t, why is it any of your business?”
“Sit back down and I’ll tell you.”
Marcus turns his head and surveys the skate park. Still too early for anyone to be out there, so for now we’ve got the park to ourselves. Seconds pass and it appears he’s weighing up his options. It doesn’t matter what he does now, I’ve done enough to keep him of
f my back for the foreseeable future. But it feels like I’ve only done half a job, and while I might have eased the symptoms, I haven’t cured the problem. For that I need a willing patient.
“If you’re worried I’ll say anything to anyone, then you needn’t be. Anyway, who’d believe me, it’s my word against yours.”
“I’m not admitting to anything, but if you wanna talk I’ll listen,” he begrudgingly replies.
He edges over to the bench, and with one hand on the armrest for support, he lowers himself back down.
“I’ll tell you why it’s my business, Marcus, it’s because you’re an arsehole. I don’t think it’s your fault you’re an arsehole, but just because your old man has issues with you, doesn’t make it fair you vent your frustration at the kids in school. And I include myself in that.”
He doesn’t react, or give the slightest indication what’s going on in his head. He changes the subject though.
“What were you doing at my house, anyway?”
“I wanted to get my computer games back. You know, the ones you borrowed and never returned?”
“Oh yeah, those. Shit games anyway,” he sniggers.
My patience frays.
“It’s not funny. You keep treating people like you do and I won’t be the last one who retaliates — and maybe the next guy you piss-off will do a lot more than just punch you in the ribs.”
The grin on his face fades away and he chooses not to respond. Void of threats and snide remarks, it’s clear he doesn’t have much else to offer in the conversation department. I’ll give him one last chance to grasp the olive branch.
“There are people you can talk to about what you’re going through. People who can help you.”
The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel Page 23
