Box of Terror (4 book horror box set)
Page 22
They had talked about the latest episode of the A-Team, and who their favourite characters were. (Billy couldn’t look past B.A Baracus, whereas Dillon was more of a 'Howling Mad' Murdoch fan). They had swapped a few Star Wars figures, Dillon reluctantly trading his Luke Skywalker in Storm trooper disguise for the Yoda figure from The Empire Strikes Back, which he had wanted for a while but didn’t have the heart to ask his mother for.
On Sunday, after eating dinner, Dillon sat outside on the back step, enjoying the solitude of the overgrown yard as day melted into night. The sky was clear as the fading day finally revealed the first stars. It was perfect. He was excited, looking forward to what the next day would bring. It seemed like he had been waiting for this forever, for this one opportunity to show that he was something special. The idea of Ron coming back didn’t even bother him, not anymore. He could handle whatever he wanted to dish out, just like he always had.
Dillon pulled his knees up to his chin and smiled.
Nothing was going to ruin his big day.
Nothing at all.
FOUR
He woke early on Monday morning, setting his alarm for five thirty. Daylight was already bleeding into the sky, and as he looked out of the window he was sure it was going to be a perfect day. Dillon decided to leave for school early for the simple reason that he wanted to avoid any kind of run in with Ron that might ruin his day. He had kissed his mother goodbye and set off on the ten minute walk to school. Being out so early was bliss. There were no other children around, none of those who laughed at him or pointed. None of those people who used him as a way to make themselves feel better by insulting his clothes or his hair. It was almost like it was a secret time of day designed just for him, the perfect start to his perfect Monday.
He approached the building, hands in pockets, loose sole of his shoe slapping against the concrete. He would have to have his mother glue them again as he knew she didn’t have the money to replace them yet. The building had a very different feel when its yard was devoid of children. It was strange to see it so bare. It almost made him feel like a trespasser as he walked towards the entrance. He could see a scattering of cars in the car park, Mr Ashley’s Ford parked close to the gates. Dillon wondered if he'd made a start on creating his uniquely pungent morning coffee and tobacco breath for the day. He smiled at the idea of his teacher standing in front of the mirror and brushing his teeth with coffee flavoured toothpaste. It was funny, and he reminded himself to tell Billy about it later, if he remembered. He entered the school, the cavernous corridors long and quiet, polished floors echoing as he walked them, loose sole slapping a unique rhythm.
Click slap.
Click slap.
Click slap.
He went first to his classroom, poking his head into the door. Mrs Simons wasn’t there, but her red coat was hooked over the back of her chair. He counted the desks, mouthing the numbers to himself as he tallied up the numbers. Twenty-three pupils including him. He repeated the number over and over in his head, committing it to memory. The last thing he wanted to happen was for him to miscount and for someone to have to go without. Not after he had waited for so long to do such an important job. He took a deep breath, inhaling the slightly musty, polish smell of the room. To see the building so quiet was almost like exploring a place for the first time. It was like the time he and Billy had wandered the woodland behind the school pretending to be explorers like Indiana Jones, only this time it was a solo mission for him alone. Billy was probably only just getting up to start the day anyway. Dillon nodded to himself then closed the door and walked down the corridor towards the dining hall. Like the rest of the school, it seemed so much bigger than he remembered. Empty tables and circular desks waited for children to inhabit them. He glanced at the spot where Ron had knocked his food tray out of his hands, spilling gravy and potatoes all over the floor. The laughter then had been awful, amplified by the high ceilings. He had gone hungry that day, but the pain inside had been worse.
He shook it off, determined not to let anything ruin his good mood.
The kitchen was at the back of the hall behind the serving area. He walked there, sole of his broken shoe still flopping against the floor. The clock on the wall said it was just after eight thirty. School started at eight fifty five. Plenty of time. The kitchen was cool, and other than the buzz of the fridge, was silent and deserted. The crates of milk were on the table, one for each class. He wasn’t sure what time it was delivered, but assumed the caretaker, Mr Ruddock, let them in. The dinner ladies wouldn’t be in until at least mid-morning, meaning that, for the time being, the kitchen was his alone. He walked around the table, running his hand across the crates, each containing the miniature bottles of milk, one crate for each class in his year. On the counter top beside them was a bulk pack of blue straws. Dillon went to these first, recalling the number he had memorised and counted out twenty three of them, taking them to the first crate. He paused, flicking his top lip with his tongue as he counted the bottles, lips moving in silence. There were thirty bottles in the crate, and so he removed seven of them, putting them on the counter top.
Satisfied, he shrugged out of his backpack,set it on the floor and took out the box he had brought from home. He set it on the counter and opened it, removing the syringe and one of the bottles of liquid that were packed along with it. He traced the word on the bottle with his finger, struggling to spell it in his head.
In-su-lin.
His mother had to have it when she was feeling weak. The doctor had given her it as he said she was dibetric, or maybe it was diabeteric, he couldn’t recall the right word for it. He remembered the way she had taken him aside and shown him how to use the syringe, and said that if for any reason he came home and she was asleep and couldn’t wake up, that he had to inject her with it. She had, of course, warned him that it was dangerous, and that he wasn’t to touch it unless it was in an emergency. She made him repeat it, to tell her he understood. He had asked her how dangerous, and she had told him that if it was given to someone who didn’t need it, they could die. That had scared him, and he hadn’t touched the box that was kept in the fridge until that morning.
He took the syringe and pierced the lid of the bottle, pulling up the plunger and filling the tube with the clear liquid. He held the syringe up to the light; unable to believe it could be so dangerous.
It looked just like water.
Carefully and methodically, he injected the syringe into the silver foil cover of the first milk bottle and squirted it inside, the insulin mixing into the milk without any trace. He nodded, satisfied. It was all going to work out exactly as he had planned it. There were three bottles of insulin in the box he had taken from the fridge, and he used them all. When it was done, he took the pack of blue straws and pushed into each of the puncture marks he had made, hiding any evidence of what he had done. He was calm as he worked, humming the theme from The A-Team as he carefully arranged the bottles, setting his own, unspoiled milk towards the back of the crate and away from the others.
When it was done, he put the syringe and empty bottles back in the box, then the box back in his bag. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. It was perfect. And although the wait to do it had been long, it was worth it. He stood in silence, watching the clock and waiting. At eight fifty-five, the bell rang, and he listened to the thunder of feet and chatter as the school was filled with pupils.
Normally, he hated that sound.
Today, it filled him with joy.
He thought about them, the people who had let him be bullied, the people who had laughed at him and called him worthless. There was a sadness in him, but no regret. None whatsoever. He heard the other milk monitors coming towards the kitchen, chatting and joking, ready to count out their straws and prepare the milk for their classmates.
Colin Decker was first through the door, followed by Laura Perkins and the other five milk monitors, one selected from each class. They gave him that look, the one he was used to.
Distain.
Hate.
Repulsion.
None of it mattered anymore. Dillon picked up his crate and walked to the door.
“What happened here? Did you do this?” Decker said as he looked at the table. Dillon followed his gaze. Each of the crates had already been prepped, each bottle of milk pierced with blue straws. He locked eyes with Decker and nodded.
“Oh,” Decker said, glancing at the others. “Thanks, Dillon.”
He nodded again. It was always this way. Laughter and jokes, finger pointing and ridicule when there was a crowd, but fine and civil when there were less of them. He had seen the pattern. Dillon walked out of the kitchen, pushing it open crate first and headed through the hall. He could hear the other milk monitors laughing at him as he left, but it was okay. Let them laugh. By the end of the day, he was sure he would be laughing too.
He walked through the dining hall and out into the corridor. He paused there for a second, taking it all in, savouring the moment, then set off, milk bottles rattling as he walked towards his classroom. He started to hum the theme tune to the A-Team as he entered the classroom and gently nudged the door closed behind him.
End
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