Pressure

by Jeff Strand

  You are so dead…

  He could’ve meant that literally.

  No. He was a sinister, morbid, rotten kid, but he was just a twelve-year-old. He wouldn’t be coming after me with a knife, or a gun, or even a staple remover. Physically, at least, I was perfectly safe.

  I wasn’t going to live in fear because of him. He wasn’t going to have that kind of power over me. No way. He could make all the threats he wanted, but I was not going to let him control my life.

  The best he could do is cost me a night of sleep.

  And he did it very well.

  Darren may or may not have tried to meet me outside. Jeremy, ever vigilant, admitted that he’d fallen asleep and didn’t keep watch. But it was a long shot anyway, so I kept the humorously phrased disparaging remarks down to fewer than eight.

  I didn’t see Darren in the cafeteria at breakfast, which concerned me. I also didn’t see him in Mr. Wolfe’s class when it started. And I didn’t see Jeremy, which concerned me more.

  What if Darren had gotten him?

  What if he’d killed him?

  It was a ridiculous thought, I knew, but still…

  He’d had practice cutting things up. What if he had Jeremy hidden away in some bushes, opening him with his pocketknife, struggling to saw away his head and knowing that with time and patience it would eventually pop free?

  Ridiculous.

  Absurd.

  Maggots in Jeremy’s eyes.

  Laughable. Ha-ha. Ho-ho. Hee-hee.

  His mouth filled with insects instead of a tongue.

  Not even worth the brain energy to think about.

  Perhaps still alive, unable to scream beneath the duct tape, watching as Darren makes precise incisions, staring curiously at his own blood pooling around the blade…

  Jeremy hurried into the classroom, out of breath.

  “You’re late,” said Mr. Wolfe, without looking away from the chalkboard.

  “I know, I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t find my book.”

  “Share with somebody else, please.”

  He scooted his desk next to mine, and we silently read the math lesson while Mr. Wolfe wrote formulas on the board.

  Five minutes later, Darren entered the room, bleeding.

  His face was bruised, swollen, and bloody, as if he’d been punched several times, hard. There was also blood on his torn shirt, along with grass stains and dirt. He walked with a limp.

  Everybody in the class stared at him as he went toward his desk and sniffled pitifully.

  “What in the world happened to you?” asked Mr. Wolfe, glancing over his shoulder. He moved over to Darren in two quick steps and crouched down to check out his injuries.

  “Nothing,” said Darren, sniffling again.

  “This is not nothing. What happened? Did somebody do this to you?”

  Darren shrugged.

  “Who?”

  Darren pointed at Jeremy.

  My first reaction, I’m ashamed to admit, was glee that Jeremy had beaten the shit out of that little monster. That glee was mixed with a sense of disappointment that I hadn’t been there to hold Darren down.

  But this reaction instantly vanished as I saw Jeremy’s face. He hadn’t done a thing to Darren. Our common enemy had threatened me, but gone after him instead.

  “Is this true?” Mr. Wolfe asked Jeremy.

  “No.”

  “He did it in the bathroom,” said Darren, his words somewhat slurred. “That’s why I was late.”

  “I did not!” said Jeremy, almost at a shout. “I didn’t do a goddamn thing to you and you know it!”

  “Jeremy! Language! Get up!”

  “I didn’t touch him,” Jeremy insisted.

  “I said, get up. We’re going to visit Mr. Sevin.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t touch him.”

  Mr. Wolfe stared at him with an expression of carefully controlled rage. “I beg your pardon, young man?”

  “I—” Jeremy shouted this first word, but then quickly lowered his voice to an appropriate classroom tone. “I didn’t touch him, sir.”

  “He was waiting for me when I came out of the stall,” said Darren, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  “You did it to yourself,” Jeremy said.

  “Oh, yeah, I did it to myself. Real funny. Why are you always lying about me?” Darren’s voice cracked, and if I weren’t so convinced of the truth behind the matter I would have absolutely believed him.

  “I’m not lying,” said Jeremy, speaking calmly while shaking in fury.

  “Darren, Jeremy, let’s go.”

  “No.”

  “That was not a request.”

  “I don’t care. He’s not going to get me the way he did Peter.”

  “Get up out of that chair this instant!”

  Jeremy shook his head defiantly.

  “Jeremy, get up,” I whispered in a panic.

  “I didn’t touch him!” Jeremy shouted. In any other circumstances, the way Mr. Wolfe flinched would have been absolutely hilarious and fueled several dozen fond mealtime conversations, but now it just made me want to scream for Jeremy to please, please do what he was told.

  “Stand up.”

  “No!”

  “I said stand up!”

  “No! I’m not going with you just so you can take his side.”

  The entire class watched with rapt fascination, collectively unable to believe what they were witnessing.

  “Young man, you’re making this very bad for yourself.”

  “You can call the cops. I don’t care.”

  “You will care.”

  “Jeremy, just go!” I said.

  Jeremy looked at me, then back at Mr. Wolfe. Then, with a frustrated, furious sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “I didn’t touch him,” Jeremy said. “I didn’t do a thing to him.”

  “That’s for me to decide,” said Mr. Wolfe.

  “Mr. Wolfe?” asked Larry Peakin, raising his hand. He was the smallest guy in class, with one green eye and one blue one.

  “Yes?”

  “I saw Jeremy go into the bathroom after Darren.”

  “You liar!” Jeremy screamed.

  “Quiet!” Mr. Wolfe looked positively enraged. “Jeremy, Darren, Larry…the three of you come with me. Now.”

  “Larry is lying, too!” Jeremy insisted. “I didn’t do a single thing to Darren. Look at my hands!” He held up both of his hands, palms facing Mr. Wolfe. “There’s not a mark on them!”

  “He did it with his book,” Darren said.

  “I did not!” Jeremy shouted. Then his shoulders fell as the impact of Darren’s words sunk in.

  “Jeremy, where’s your book?” Mr. Wolfe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jeremy admitted.

  “He had it with him when he went in the bathroom,” said Larry. “I saw it.”

  “All right, let’s go,” said Mr. Wolfe. “Everybody else, read ahead. No talking!”

  Mr. Wolfe left the room, followed by Darren and Larry, who seemed happy just to be included. Jeremy looked absolutely miserable as he walked out of the room after them.

  I felt absolutely miserable, too, because I had a very good idea of what they’d find. Maybe in a bathroom stall, maybe in the wastebasket, maybe stashed under the radiator, but somewhere between this classroom and the restroom they’d find Jeremy’s textbook. His name in the front. Smeared with both his fingerprints and Darren’s blood.

  I knew that Jeremy was telling the truth. This meant that Darren had stolen his textbook, beaten himself bloody with it, and then convinced (or coerced) Larry to lie for him. Perhaps Larry had stolen the textbook, or even been the one to use it as a tool of violence, but either way it was a preposterous-sounding scenario. Would Mr. Wolfe believe that, or would he believe instead that it was Jeremy who beat Darren senseless?

  Things didn’t look good for my only remaining friend at school.

  Mr. Wolfe returned fifteen minutes later without Dar
ren or Jeremy. Larry followed him and sat down, looking smug.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “That’s none of your concern,” Mr. Wolfe told me. “Everybody open to page two fifty-six. We have a lot to make up.”

  Neither Jeremy nor Darren was at dinner. I walked over and sat down across from Larry.

  “Go away,” he said.

  “What happened?” I demanded.

  “They saw that I was telling the truth.”

  “You were not.”

  “Mr. Wolfe found Jeremy’s book in the trash can.”

  “Why would Jeremy be stupid enough to throw his book in the trash? He’d know they’d look there.”

  Larry shrugged. “Why would he be stupid enough to beat up Darren? Everybody knows he hates him.”

  “You’re going to get caught,” I told him. “You’re going to get in so much trouble you won’t even be able to believe it. You’ll get kicked out of school.”

  Larry sneered at me. “Yeah, right.”

  “You’d better believe me. Because I saw you steal Jeremy’s book.”

  The flash of guilt that I hoped to see didn’t materialize. Most likely Darren had been the thief. “Uh-huh. You’re such a moron. If you don’t go away I’ll tell that you’re threatening me.”

  “Try it.”

  Larry immediately called my bluff, raising his hand and looking for the nearest adult. I grabbed my tray and moved to a safer dining area.

  I didn’t see either Darren or Jeremy the next day. I even went to speak with Mr. Sevin, but was told that it was none of my concern, and that I would do well in life not to hang out with juvenile delinquents in the future.

  I made periodic trips to Jeremy’s room, risking getting in a hell of a lot of trouble, but his roommates said he hadn’t come back.

  The next evening, he was packing.

  “What did they do?” I asked.

  “Mr. Sevin said, ‘Under the circumstances, we have no choice but to believe Darren’s version of the story.’” It wasn’t a very good impression of Mr. Sevin, but I forced a smile nevertheless. “I have to start talking to a counselor and…I don’t even know what they’re going to do. Darren’s parents were all freaked out and they said they were going to sue the school and I’m scared.”

  “I can’t believe he did that to himself.” I’d thought about it a lot. One smack to the face, maybe, but to either beat himself or allow himself to be beaten to that degree just for revenge required some serious mental problems.

  “Well, I can! He’s a fuckin’lunatic! Why did you get him so angry? It wasn’t my fault! You’re the one he should’ve gone after!”

  I stepped back, shocked at this outburst. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You said you did! You said that you made him mad in the library, and that he was going to come after you! Well, he didn’t, he came after me, and now I have to see a doctor and they’re probably gonna give me shots!”

  “They won’t give you shots.”

  “Yes they will! You don’t know what they’re going to do! It’s all your fault!”

  “No, I didn’t do—”

  “Get out of my room, Alex!”

  I just stood there, completely stunned.

  “Get out!”

  I quietly left the room.

  Chapter Ten

  I lay in bed, eyes closed but not asleep, enjoying the movie in my mind.

  Peter, Jeremy, and I kicked the box out from underneath Darren, shattering the wood. As he dropped, we heard the satisfying crack of his neck breaking.

  He dangled from the noose, slowly turning in circles, the rope getting tighter and tighter around his dead flesh.

  His head fell to the ground, followed by his body. We left his body alone, but kicked his head around until it was unrecognizable.

  No, rewind…

  We kicked his still-living, screaming head around until it was unrecognizable. He begged us to stop, but we laughed and laughed. When he tried to bite us, we kicked out all of his teeth.

  I opened my eyes.

  In my mind, I watched men in immaculate white suits strap Jeremy to a machine. They gave him shots with an oversize needle to keep him calm, and then pulled a lever. His body spasmed, drool gushing from his mouth, blood trickling from his eye sockets.

  No, nothing like that would happen to him. You couldn’t get in that much trouble for beating up another kid.

  Bashing him bloody with a textbook…

  Jeremy didn’t even get the pleasure of the act that he got blamed for.

  What did Darren have planned for me?

  Nothing.

  I was vigilant those last couple of weeks of school. Vigilant to the point of paranoia. But Darren didn’t try anything. He returned to classes, face still swollen but healing nicely, but he didn’t even make eye contact. He didn’t look guilty. He looked…satisfied.

  The term ended. Because Branford Academy didn’t have a summer session, my parents really had no choice except to pick me up, even if they planned to immediately dump me someplace else. My mom hugged me and said that she missed me, and while her words weren’t convincing even to a thirteen-year-old, I told myself that on some level, they were true.

  We loaded up the car. My dad asked me some superficial questions about life at Branford Academy, and I gave some superficial answers. I really didn’t want to talk about it.

  As I ran back upstairs for one last check to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, I saw Darren standing by my door.

  “You’re too late,” I said. “You can’t do anything to me now.”

  “I wasn’t going to. But you were pretty scared that I was, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Darren smiled. “I bet you spent every day scared that I was gonna get you.”

  “If you could get me, you would’ve done it. You wouldn’t have gone after Jeremy.”

  “I liked you better than Jeremy.”

  “Well, I hate you.”

  Darren shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. You coming back to Branford?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

  “Did you beg your mom not to make you come back?”

  “No.”

  “I bet you did.”

  “You bet wrong.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll see you around. Have a good life.”

  He chuckled, turned around, and started to walk away.

  “Hey, Darren!”

  He glanced back. “Yeah?”

  “Did you kill Peter’s dog?”

  “Nope. I found him that way. But I did finally kill one of those fuckin’birds.”

  He walked away, whistling cheerfully but tunelessly through his swollen lips.

  PART TWO

  * * *

  FRIENDS

  Chapter Eleven

  There were dead bodies everywhere.

  It was the tackiest decorating scheme I’d ever seen. This was my first year of college, and while I fully expected cinder block shelving, pizza box tables, and beer can wallpaper, I really hadn’t expected to walk into my dorm room and discover a love shrine to serial killers and their prey.

  I tossed my garbage bag of clothing on the unclaimed bed and did a quick survey of the room. Virtually every square inch of my roommate’s half of the wall space was covered with graphic photographs and newspaper clippings on the subject. This did not seem conducive to an effective study environment.

  I’d only spoken to Will, my randomly selected roommate, for a few minutes on the phone before arriving at Shadle University. We’d discussed who would bring the TV, who would bring the stereo, and who would bring the contraband microwave, but the joys of maiming human beings had never entered into the conversation.

  Oh well. College was supposed to be all about new experiences, right?

  I scratched my chin and looked at one of the photographs more closely. Good Lord, was that a can opener protruding from her—?

  “Co
ol, huh?” asked the tall, lanky guy who entered the room. He had blond hair that was cut just above the shoulder and was handsome in sort of a goofball stand-up comedian sort of way. He wore a silver earring shaped like an outhouse, and a T-shirt that depicted a skull about to be hit by a cream pie.

  “Uh, yeah. Way cool.”

  He stuck out his hand. “I’m Will. Either you’re Alex or a trespasser that I’ll need to shoot.”

  “Yep, it’s Alex.”

  “Glad to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind that I picked this side of the room, but I got here yesterday and didn’t have a whole lot to do.”

  “No, no, that’s okay,” I said. I knew that the subject of gory photographs and my objection to having them wallpapering our living space would have to come up sooner or later, but I didn’t want to start things off on a bad note.

  “So what are you majoring in?” I asked.

  “Criminal psychology.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “With a minor in cutlery.”

  I stared at him.

  “That was a joke,” he explained.

  “Ah.”

  “Actually, I’m not truly a criminal psychology major, it’s just regular psychology, but the criminal mind is my main interest. What about you?”

  “Not really into the criminal mind, to be honest.”

  “No, your major.”

  “Architecture, I think.”

  “Hey, cool.”

  “I haven’t officially declared a major, but I figured I’d try a few basic classes and see how I like it.”

  “Good plan, good plan.”

  I cleared my throat. “So how long have you been interested in…you know, people who passed away?”

  Will considered that for a moment. “Since forever, I guess. I know all of them. Jack the Ripper, Jeffrey Dahmer…everyone. Here, test me. Name one at random and I’ll give you the stats.”

  “That’s all right, I believe you.”

  “No, you’ve gotta do it. Pick one. Any one.”

  “I’m blanking right now.”