by Karen Osman
Suddenly, Paul felt a sharp pain in the back of his head and heard a hoot of laughter as his neck catapulted forward and he heard the bounce of a rugby ball as it rolled away from him, like a discarded peanut shell in a bar.
‘Oi, Paul – watch where you’re going, you twat!’ While the laughter from the group of boys drowned out the voice, he knew it was Gavin. He reached behind his head, feeling his scalp, and walked quickly away, his head down to try to deflect any more attention. But while his body may have given the impression he had given up, he had only one thought about Gavin. Just you wait.
*
‘Excellent work, Paul, as always,’ said Mrs O’Leary.
‘Excellent work, cocksucker, as always,’ snickered a voice behind him imitating Mrs O’Leary as she walked away out of earshot. Paul didn’t dare look behind him, but he knew it was one of Gavin’s gang again. He’d always been relatively safe in the top-tier classes as Gavin and his mates were in the middle or lower sets but clearly Gavin had found a few more people to make his life hell in the classroom as well as outside of it.
Paul sat in his chair looking resolutely ahead as if the physics paper in front of him held no interest at all. Five minutes to the bell and he was going to make sure he was the first one out of the door. He would leg it to his bike, hop on, and get home as quickly as possible. Paul felt his heart rate speed up in anticipation. He discreetly put his books and the paper in his school bag, leaving only a pen and a slip of paper on the desk to write down the homework. But Mrs O’Leary was determined to take her time, stopping at every student to give verbal feedback on the paper.
Come on, come on, Paul said silently to himself. He glanced at the clock. Three twenty-nine. One minute to go. There were two papers left in Mrs O’Leary’s hand. If she spent ten seconds with each student, then she had forty seconds to tell them the homework. But Paul knew from past experience that she wasn’t going to let them out on time and at that moment he wanted to punch Mrs O’Leary in the face so hard. He imagined the feel of his knuckle as it connected with her squishy jowl, her body ricocheting back, eyes wide with shock, that he, Paul – her top student – could exert such violence. But she always did this, raged Paul silently, just kept them back a few minutes past the bell. When she finally let the class go, Paul raced out to the bike rack, but he already knew what he would find. His bike had gone.
Bastards.
His dad was going to kill him.
*
Paul let himself into his house, praying that his mother wouldn’t be in. It had taken him over an hour to get home, leaning over his damaged bike, his ribs bruised. It was rare she wasn’t there when he got home from school, but it happened occasionally. He’d hidden the bike in the garden shed under some tarpaulin and hoped his father wouldn’t find it until he’d had a chance to fix it.
As he closed and locked the back door quietly behind him, he listened. Silence. His wounds and pride could bleed in private. After racing to the school bike rack and finding his bike gone, he’d searched the nearby bushes, hoping he could at least find it and get it fixed without his dad finding out. But it wasn’t there. He’d then spent almost half an hour searching the rest of the school grounds before finally walking to the end of the school field, which led to a patch of woods. Although the school field was gated to prevent kids going into the dense woodland, the students did it all the time during school break times, mainly to secretly smoke or drink. Occasionally a teacher would get their arse into gear and do their rounds as far as the woods but most of the time, they couldn’t be bothered.
Paul approached the woods cautiously. Slipping through the rungs of the flimsy fence, he picked up a nearby stick and started prodding the undergrowth, in the hope that his bike had been dumped. Fifteen minutes in and still nothing. He looked around him in despair. It would take him hours to search the woods and he still wasn’t even sure it was here. But just then, he’d heard a twig snap and he whirled around. Gavin and three of his gang stood there, grinning like apes, the mangled bike between them.
‘Looking for this piece of shit, mate?’ shouted Gavin. The others laughed and one of them, thick-set and with his blonde hair gelled up in a Mohican, kicked the back of the wheel as if for emphasis.
‘What’re you willing to do to get it back, eh?’ added Gavin, and in that moment, Paul wondered how they’d ever been friends. Gavin, who at eight years old had helped Paul up when he’d fallen off his bike. Gavin at six years old, who had given him his last Opal Fruit even though he never shared his Opal Fruits with anyone. Gavin at ten years old, who he’d played Scalextric with for hours, just so Paul could escape his dad. Where had that boy gone?
‘Give it back,’ Paul demanded, hoping he didn’t sound as scared as he felt.
‘Awww, poor baby, he’s lost his bikey-wikey,’ taunted Mohican. Paul stood his ground trying to anticipate Gavin’s next move.
‘Like I said, what’re you willing to do to get it back?’ reiterated Gavin. Paul thought of his dad and the beating he would get if he found out he’d lost his bike. The answer to Gavin’s question was, unfortunately, anything.
‘What do you want?’ asked Paul.
‘Now we’re talking. Because if you hadn’t entered into negotiation, we would have been forced to beat the crap out of you,’ Mohican declared.
Who the hell was he?
Mohican’s accent was different – it was stronger, rougher. In a split second of horror, he realised that Mohican was Danny Lewis, the boy everyone had been talking about over the last few weeks. Danny had joined from an inner-city school in Manchester and apparently, he’d been suspended for throwing a student down the stairs and then burning him with a cigarette. He’d managed to inflict eight burns before he got caught.
Paul felt the intertwined snakes of fear and anger slither through him.
‘To save you a beating and to get your bike back, how about you do our homework for the next month?’ suggested Gavin. He could have been suggesting a game of football, his tone was so relaxed.
‘What, all of you?’ asked Paul, incredulous.
‘Make it two months,’ interjected Mohican. ‘Or do you prefer having the shit kicked out of you?’
‘No, no, I’ll do the homework. As long as I get my bike back,’ added Paul desperately.
‘Yeah, yeah, don’t wet yourself,’ said Gavin. Paul could tell he was losing interest, but Mohican had a strange look in his eye.
Paul agreed to do the four lots of homework and Mohican dropped the bike on the ground as if making to leave. As the group of boys walked past him, Paul had let his tense shoulders droop in relief. But he’d let his guard down too soon. A searing pain hit the back of his legs and Paul crumpled to the ground, trying to breathe. But he didn’t have time before he was kicked in the gut, three times in a row. They ran then, leaving Paul with his face smeared in earth. Through a muddy cobweb of leaves and soil, he could see his bike and it was only then that he let himself sob softly.
*
Several hours later, when his parents had gone to bed, Paul had slipped out to the shed to fix his bike, but he was disappointed to find that it would need a new tyre and some of the gears were no longer working. He could live without the gears – his dad would never find out – but the tyre was a problem. He would have to persuade his mum to drive him into town and get the bike fixed and then there would be questions. Maybe he could ask his mum one Friday night, while his dad was out at the pub. Tell her he’d fallen from the bike and the wheel had bent. He’d have to play it down though otherwise his mum might stop him from riding it, saying it was too dangerous, and that was the last thing he needed.
Leaving the shed, he was satisfied he had a plan but instead of going back inside, he slowly sat down on the back doorstep nursing his sore ribs with one hand. He imagined Claire gently running her hands over them, her face filled with concern. The air was cool against his bruises and as he looked up at the night sky, he could see a million stars, their luminance emphasised again
st the inky night sky.
He sighed and picked up a stone, wondering how he would survive the next year of school and two more years of sixth form. Would Gavin go on to sixth form? He hoped not. The thought cheered him. But Gavin would still be in Castlefield. Would he continue to torment him? He turned the stone around in his hands before throwing it on to the garden. His thoughts churned, and he continued the pattern, picking up a stone, throwing it, picking up a stone, throwing it.
Out of the dark night though, came a squawk and Paul realised he’d accidently hit something. He could see an outline of what looked like a bird jumping and hopping and he got up from the step for a closer look. It looked like its wing had broken. Paul went back to his seat on the doorstep and continued hurling stones until it no longer squawked.
20
Claire could barely concentrate. It was the last class of the day and the second time she’d been brought up by Mrs Lyther for not listening. She discreetly checked the clock for the hundredth time. Twenty past two. Only ten minutes to go. The Queen Bee initiation ceremony had been postponed to today, Tuesday, because Charlotte had had a thing the day before. No one knew what that thing was although rumours were that she had an older boyfriend who she saw in secret, so her parents didn’t find out. Claire and Anne had been disappointed. But Tuesday, three thirty p.m. was almost in sight.
If Mrs Lyther would just get on with it instead of droning on about kings and queens. Who cares?
Finally, the bell rang, and Claire grabbed Anne’s hand as they rushed out of the history classroom. They turned to each other, their faces mirroring each other’s elation.
‘This is it!’ squeaked Anne. ‘Come on!’
Claire followed her friend down the various corridors to the music and drama department. The ceremony, explained Anne grandly, was to be held in drama room three, the unofficial headquarters of the Queen Bees, mainly because it was used more as a storage room than a classroom. As they approached the room, Claire was already reaching out one hand for the door handle, but Anne pulled her back.
‘Let me,’ she said. As Anne opened the door and peeked into the room, Anne became a headless body and Claire hopped from foot to foot wondering what she was saying.
‘Two minutes and then we can go in,’ reported Anne, pulling back and closing the door. ‘You nervous?’
Claire looked at Anne in surprise. It had never occurred to her to feel nervous – all she felt was excited.
‘Should I be?’ she asked.
‘No, no, of course not,’ reassured her friend, but Claire thought she saw a brief uneasiness cross her face. The two of them waited impatiently, not speaking. A few minutes later, the door opened and a hand, holding a black piece of material, shot out. Anne took it and the door slammed shut.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Claire.
Anne didn’t answer. Instead, she gently turned Claire around and placed the material over her eyes.
‘Anne?’ called Claire, although she knew it was pointless.
She could feel Anne pull the blindfold tighter around the back of her head. Why didn’t she respond? Was Anne not allowed to talk even now? Suddenly, she felt Anne’s little finger reach for her own, intertwining the two pinkies. They hadn’t done that since they were children. Claire heard the door open again and Anne guided her slowly into the room, before shutting it behind her. She sensed Anne’s presence next to her had disappeared and she could hear the giggles of the other girls as Claire instinctively put her hands out, like a sleepwalking mummy.
And then the jabs came.
Little prods in her side, her stomach, and her bottom. She whirled around in whichever direction the digs came from, always too late to grab the offending hand. Quickly, Claire was so dizzy she almost fell. She was tempted to snatch the bandana from her eyes, but she knew if she did that, they might not initiate her. Just then, a quiet fell over the room and she had a sense that people were gesturing. Were they planning to leave her here overnight and lock the door? But then the room filled with low rhythmic chanting. It sounded like it was coming from a stereo rather than the girls themselves and, despite her fear, she suppressed a chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all.
‘Claire Sharpe,’ came Charlotte’s voice over the chanting. ‘Do you swear your complete loyalty to the Queen Bees, to keep all club information to yourself, and complete this secret initiation challenge? If so, say “I do.”’
Another challenge?
‘I do,’ replied Claire, keen not to have been caught hesitating.
‘Queen Bees, do you accept Claire Sharpe as our new member of the Queen Bees and swear to trust and protect her at all times?’
‘We do,’ the room chorused in unison.
‘Queen Bees, are you ready to subject Claire Sharpe to her final challenge?’ Charlotte’s voice was rising and Claire felt a shift in energy in the room around her.
‘Yes,’ screamed the girls.
‘Ready, steady, go!’ cried Charlotte.
Claire tensed her shoulders, curled her hands into fists and braced herself. But the impact never came. Instead, she felt a light fluttering around her, like streamers at a party.
What on earth was happening?
‘Don’t forget her legs,’ cried one girl.
Vivian?
And just then she felt a paper material across the back of her legs.
Were they tying her up?
But it felt too flimsy to hold her down. Managing to sneak a feel with her right hand, she guessed it was toilet paper. They were covering her from head to toe in toilet paper and Claire relaxed slightly.
Suddenly, the room was still again. There was another whisper of giggles and she felt disorientated. Someone was removing her blindfold and she wiggled her head, desperate for it to be off. As she blinked, the first thing she saw were the masks. They veiled each girl, transforming them into a jeering, eerie clan. Each mask was a different colour but there was one that was strikingly distinctive, and she knew it was Charlotte’s. It was deceptively simple – a black brocade eye mask enhanced with crystals around the cut-out eyes. What made it magnificent was the surrounding black netting, punctuated with diamond studs, feathers, and lace.
Just then, one girl, her mask slightly skewed to one side, stepped up in front of her, holding a banana in one hand and a silver foil packet in the other. She’d seen a condom before, she wasn’t that naïve, and she knew then what they were going to make her do.
‘The challenge, should you accept it,’ announced the girl, Claire guessed it was Vivian, ‘is to put the condom on the banana.’
Vivian grinned, ripping the condom packet open, as the girls whooped and cheered before Vivian added, ‘With your mouth.’
The clamour in the room surged tenfold and Claire hoped nobody would hear them and investigate. She’d never been in any sort of trouble before and even the thought of it brought her out in a cold sweat. Claire glanced around the room at the group and then at Vivian’s outstretched hand, the lubricated plastic reminding her of a washed-up jelly fish. Quickly, she leant down and took the condom between her teeth.
*
Claire lay on her bed, fingering the silver charm bracelet that was now finally hers. After she had completed the absurd banana challenge, the girls had lifted her high in the air, cheering for their new member and Claire had felt so much pride she hadn’t stopped smiling since. The Queen Bees met once or twice a week in drama room three and had secret pow-wows. The next one was on Thursday and Claire couldn’t wait to attend as a member. There was a party on Friday night and on Saturday afternoon, the girls were planning a shopping trip to Manchester. Finally, she belonged.
She tried not to think about Paul and how she had used him, but he had been on her mind more times than she liked to admit. Her guilt was the only thing that punctuated her happiness about being in the Queen Bees. But what could she do? She felt especially bad because she knew he was already targeted by some of the other lads.
But there was something else s
he realised with a jolt; she actually wanted to see him again. Paul hadn’t been at all what she’d expected. She’d expected a boring, skinny boy who simply muttered but the reality had been quite different. Before the film had begun, they’d talked and laughed a little, ignoring the commotion of Charlotte and the girls behind them. And that was what had impressed her the most – he really didn’t seem to care about them; his attention was firmly focused on her. If she was honest with herself, she was slightly surprised he hadn’t called her. Maybe she’d got it wrong? Maybe he didn’t like her as she thought he did?
The shrill ring of the phone interrupted her thoughts and for a minute she was sure it was him, convinced she had psychic abilities. But then her mum shouted up the stairs.
‘Claire – it’s Charlotte on the phone.’
Claire flew from her bed and ran to the top of the landing. Charlotte had never called her. Had she changed her mind about letting her into the Queen Bees?
‘Will you take it upstairs?’ her mum asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Claire over her shoulder as she hurried to her parents’ bedroom where there was a second phone.
‘Hello?’ Claire heard the click of the phone as her mother replaced the receiver downstairs and then Charlotte’s voice came down the line.
‘Claire? It’s Charlotte.’
‘Hi!’ Claire said over-enthusiastically. She sounded like an American cheerleader, for God’s sake.
‘I normally call new members just to say welcome to the Queen Bees!’ enthused Charlotte. ‘How did you find the initiation ceremony? Not too bad, huh?’
‘Well, I’m glad it’s over,’ giggled Claire in a flush of confidence. ‘So, are there different initiation challenges for each girl then?’
