James Munkers

by Lindsey Little

  I knew he was alright.

  Miss Lassen tuts again. ‘So glad you could join us, Mr Allen,’ she snips.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry, there was a thing.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, there’s a thing called detention, at lunchtime today.’

  ‘Yup,’ Jem acknowledges philosophically. Miss Lassen complains about the continual raping of the English language by her students for a bit, then turns back to me. I was hoping she might have forgotten.

  ‘The futility of opposing the magical forces?’ I stall.

  ‘Yes. Your opinion, please.’

  My opinion on magical forces, lady, is that they can bog off.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem very fair of the magical forces to be interfering in the first place. I’m sure that if they just went away, then the humans would be able to sort everything out in a normal, mature kind of way and do a lot less screeching and running around.’

  ‘You, sir,’ says Miss Lassen, ‘are neither romantic nor adventurous.’

  I don’t see a problem with that.

  The lesson continues on for about a year, and we get about five years’ worth of homework. Finally the bell sounds for break. Jem taps me on the arm, gestures with his head towards the door, and leads me back outside to the wall of yesterday.

  ‘You weren’t fed to the hounds, then?’ I ask.

  ‘Scare you, did I?’ He grins and hoists himself up to sit on the wall. I scramble up less gracefully. ‘Nah, no Rambler action, but Pippa Green ambushed me on the way to school this morning and threw some crazy at me.’

  I snort. ‘You’re lucky. She threw a fist at me.’

  His eyes widen. ‘She punched you?’

  ‘Well, no. She just slapped me. It’s not funny, Jeremy.’ The stupid idiot is laughing so hard he’s almost falling off the wall. ‘It jolly well hurt.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d seen that,’ he says, wiping his eyes. ‘I had to be late today, didn’t I? What did you do to her?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just going to tell her to stay the hell away from me, but she hit me before I could and told me to stay away from her.’

  He stops laughing. ‘Well, that kind of fits with what she said to me this morning.’

  ‘What did she say this morning?’

  ‘She said she couldn’t hang out with us.’

  Hang out with us? Good God, the very thought of it. ‘Who the hell asked her to?’

  Jem shrugs. ‘Maybe you gave her the impression that you really liked her last night and she wanted to let you down gently. You know, by way of a message through a trusted friend.’ He’s grinning again.

  ‘If that’s what she was trying to do, there was nothing gentle about it. The further away she is, the better.’

  ‘I think you’re perfect for each other,’ he teases.

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘She’s interesting.’

  ‘She’s mental.’

  ‘She has nice eyes.’

  ‘They probably have lasers behind them.’

  He laughs and shakes his head. ‘It was the other thing she said that was really bonkers.’

  ‘God, there’s more?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He frowns, trying to remember. ‘She said she couldn’t be seen hanging out with us –’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘– because that would make them realise you’re the One.’

  Wait… what? ‘Make who realise? The one what?’

  ‘Dunno. Didn’t ask.’ He bites into a pear.

  I look at him incredulously. ‘You didn’t ask? Someone gives you a cryptic message about me and you don’t think to inquire further?’

  ‘It was just Pippa Green talking crazy – I didn’t want to encourage it. Besides, it wasn’t a cryptic message about me.’ He licks pear juice off his hand. ‘Except for the last bit.’

  ‘What bit?’

  ‘The bit where I have to protect you.’

  Protect me? ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, I told you. Don’t worry so much.’

  ‘But why do I need protecting?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that imaginary people are after you?’

  ‘Yeah, apart from that.’

  ‘It’th becauth you’re tho thpecial,’ he explains in a slow voice.

  ‘No, Jewemy, you’re thpecial,’ I drawl back, patting him on the side of the head and laughing.

  Then I hear a grunt and look past Jeremy’s special head to see Martin Hacker standing a few paces away, glaring at me. He points at me and draws his finger across his throat.

  That’s the second person today.

  We narrowly survive a science class, although I still feel shaky at the end of it by the presence of cows’ eyeballs. Most of the boys really get into the gore and filth. I just try to keep from vomiting.

  When we finally emerge into the sweet, sweet fresh air Jem says he needs to go do his detention. I watch him run off and feel sorrier for me than for him. Without Jeremy I don’t know where to go or what to do. I go and get my bag from my locker, then make my way through the groups of friends towards the wall we sit on, only to find it’s been overrun by primary school kids. I consider throwing them off but I’m outnumbered.

  Deciding I’m not hungry anyway, and having no one to muck around with, I find that lunchtime loses all purpose. In desperation I decide to go to the library and start on my homework. Maybe I should have stabbed someone with a compass point in English and got a detention too.

  I take a few wrong turns, but finally find the corridor I’m after. I push open the library door and am immediately bailed up by a severe-looking woman in an old cardigan.

  ‘No bags in the library,’ she barks, and stands there waiting for me to mend my wicked ways.

  ‘But it’s got all my homework in it,’ I say.

  ‘No bags in the library,’ she repeats. She must only be programmed with one response. I sigh, turn around and walk out again. I figure if I can find my way back to my locker I can dump my bag, take out my homework, find my way back to the library, do two minutes of work, go back to my locker, put my homework away, get my books for the next class and bribe someone with my uneaten lunch to show me where it is. Perfect.

  Now, which way do I have to turn?

  To get back outside I try to follow the way I came, but I somehow get myself turned around and can’t find the door I want. Eventually I just walk through the next fire door I find.

  Outside is a small courtyard, deserted by all except Martin Hacker and his friends. They’re sitting around on old benches, smoking and throwing things at the opposite wall. As the fire door clangs shut they turn and stare at me.

  I think I’ll find another way around.

  I quickly turn and grab the handle of the door, but it won’t budge. I give it a desperate shake, but it doesn’t open.

  Turning slowly back around, I find myself surrounded by four guys much bigger than I am. Martin walks up, takes a last drag on his cigarette and flicks it in my direction. ‘That door only opens from the inside,’ he says.

  Oh.

  The first blow lands in my stomach, which makes me double up wheezing, giving him the perfect opportunity to whip his elbow up into my nose. My head snaps back and hits the fire door behind me. I slide down helplessly until I’m sitting on the ground, and try to curl up into the smallest size possible.

  I’m dimly aware of Martin’s friends cheering him on and calling out helpful suggestions, but a couple of kicks to the shin and another to the stomach and he’s done. He leans down, grabs my hair and pulls my face up to his. I can smell the nicotine on his breath.

  ‘Did you think I didn’t see what you were doing this morning?’ he snarls. This morning? What did I do this morning? I thought this was about the take-away shop. ‘I ever catch you doing that again,’ he says, pointing his finger at me, ‘and you’re mincemeat.’

  He drops me back onto the gravel and walks off, his mates following.

  I lie there with my eyes closed, breathing through my bl
oody nose, until I can’t hear them anymore. Then I pull myself into a sitting position, only to find I’ve been surrounded by little blue squirrels. They’re sitting on their haunches, looking at me expectantly.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ I say, throwing some gravel at them. They scatter.

  I stay there until well after the bell has gone, listening to all the kids on the other side of the door making their way noisily to the next class. Only when it’s quiet again do I pull myself upright and totter off to find an empty lavatory to assess the damage.

  It’s very well done, I decide, when I’m peering at myself in a mirror. No visible bruises, no obvious bumps. My nose isn’t broken; the bleeding could be normal. A sore stomach can’t be proven. The only things that show at all are a few red marks on my shins, and I’m wearing long trousers. I don’t look like an assault victim. I just look like a berk with a bit of toilet roll stuck up his nose.

  Martin must have done this before.

  I suddenly hear adult voices just outside, and don’t have time to clear away the bloody tissues in the sink or hide in a cubicle before the headmaster and a caretaker walk in.

  ‘It keeps getting blocked. I think one of the students is –’

  Mr Grayson stops talking as he sees me and holds up his hand, keeping the caretaker from coming in any further. ‘Phil, could you just give me a minute?’ he says and shepherds the man back out into the hall again. Once the door is closed he comes up and gives me a worried look. ‘Are you alright there, James?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I scoop up the mess in the sink and throw it into the bin without looking at him.

  ‘It is James, isn’t it?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, it’s actually Jim, unless I’m in trouble.’

  ‘And are you?’

  I look up then, and for a second I consider telling him – at least the bit about Martin Hacker. I don’t, of course. It doesn’t work like that.

  ‘It’s just a nosebleed, sir.’

  ‘Does it happen a lot?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. Usually in the spring, though, with hay-fever and that.’

  He nods. ‘Stress can bring them on too, you know,’ he says. ‘I get them sometimes. I was talking to your mother earlier today – lovely woman. It sounds like you’ve had some big changes happening in your life.’

  He can say that again.

  He sits on the edge of a sink, slips off it, then opts for standing while he waits for me to respond. I don’t know what to say. He’s being very nice and all, but I’m not about to give him my life’s history. Not a recent history, anyway. I don’t think a clumsy headmaster is up to solving my problems.

  ‘It just all happened kind of fast,’ I say eventually. ‘I guess I’m still working it out.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, moving to the door and opening it for me, ‘don’t feel you have to work it out alone. Remember, there are people looking out for you.’

  I know there are people looking out for me. One of them is called Martin Hacker. The other one’s called the Rambler.

  I go back out into the endless corridors to try to find my French class. I manage to avoid detention by explaining in French to Madame Rousseau that I had to talk to the headmaster (almost true), and lower myself carefully into the seat next to Jem. He gives me a funny look. He obviously realises that something painful has happened.

  ‘Rambler?’ he whispers in awestruck horror.

  I shake my head. ‘Just some dickhead. He’s in the year above us, I think.’

  ‘Jeez,’ he says, ‘I take a break from protecting you for an hour and you get your arse kicked.’ His eyes go wide. ‘Pippa Green is going to kill me with her laser eyes.’

  Somehow I don’t think this was what Pippa Green was talking about. This was a petty schoolyard fight – one that I lost and spilled blood over, but petty nonetheless. I accidentally pissed this guy off, and he’s taking it out on me. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before. And it has nothing to do with protectors or crazy girls or men with leather jackets launching themselves through my windows.

  I’ve got bigger enemies than Martin Hacker. And I don’t think they’re done coming after me.

  Chapter Six: Attacked

  It happens on Thursday. I knew they were evil, but I didn’t think they’d come at me like this, so cold-blooded, so ruthless.

  ‘Compulsory extra-curricular sport?’ I ask, aghast.

  ‘That’s right, Munkers,’ says Mr Barrack. ‘Every student must participate in some team sport outside ordinary physical education classes. Helps to promote team spirit, co-ordination and getting beaten to a pulp. Very useful life skills right there.’

  I happen to know that being beaten to a pulp is something that you can pick up without any prior training, and who the hell wants co-ordination? I’m capable of doing things like eating and walking; surely that’s enough co-ordination for anyone.

  ‘It’s either football tonight with me or rugby tomorrow with Mr Hooper, Munkers,’ Mr Barrack says, obviously tired of waiting for my sullen silence to end of its own accord. ‘Take your pick.’

  Munkers picks football, on the understanding that the ball will be more likely to be flying at his ankles, and not at his face.

  Or so I thought. I think I just broke my nose, and I keep seeing black and white polygons hovering before my eyes.

  ‘That’s the idea, boy,’ Mr Barrack is saying from far away, almost a yard. ‘Kill the ball’s energy with your head or chest, then pass it on to your teammate, over there, see?’

  ‘Id wath by fathe,’ I try to explain.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I kild id with by fathe.’

  ‘Oh.’ He peers into my face. ‘You’re not bleeding, you’re fine. You might not want to do that again though. Try to get it on the top of the forehead or chest next time it’s coming at you.’

  Yeah, like that’s going to happen. The next time something comes hurtling at my face, I’m going to duck. This sport defies reason.

  ‘Okay, pass it to Warren.’

  Warren. Where is Warren? Oh, that must be him, standing over there looking bored and waving at me. Here you go, Warren, have a nice rock-hard ball to play with. I kick half-heartedly at it and it dribbles vaguely in his direction.

  I cross my arms, trying to will some of the sudden warmth of my nose into the rest of my freezing body. Hopefully I can stand here for a whole two minutes without the ball coming near me again. The other guys in the team are certainly trying to keep it away from me, since I accidentally booted it into Jerry Tomlin’s ear.

  I thought this kind of activity was supposed to help you make friends?

  I look longingly over to the other side of the field where my only friend is. Jeremy’s in the upper division for strong, graceful people. Look at them all, slinking about in front of the goal like panthers. I don’t see how they can be so much better than me. It’s not like they’ve got extra legs or anything…

  Whoops. Ball in the shin.

  ‘Wake up, lad,’ Mr Barrack calls. ‘Okay, everyone, grab a ball each. I want you weaving in and out of these markers. Fast as you can, but keep control of the ball. No, Campbell, that’s not what the markers are intended for. Put them back.’

  Weaving, huh? I pick the set of markers at the end and start nudging my ball around the first marker with my foot. Not too hard.

  ‘Pick up the pace, lads.’

  I assume that comment is meant for me as all the others are a good few yards ahead. I shuffle faster and have just made it to the middle without disaster when a giant blue cat pounces on my ball and I trip over its tail. By the time I’ve pulled my face out of the mud it’s taken my ball to the sideline to snarl at it.

  I knew there were panthers out here.

  ‘What’re you doing, Munkers?’ Mr Barrack calls. ‘On your feet and go get your ball back. That’s the ticket.’

  Get it back from the vicious jungle cat? Can’t someone else do it? I stand up and edge towards the glowing creature, and
watch the muscles rippling down its back as it opens its jaws and tries to puncture the football with its teeth.

  ‘Um, excuse me?’

  The panther looks up and assesses me. It licks its lips.

  ‘Can I have my ball back, please?’

  I know having a polite conversation with this thing probably won’t work, but I can’t think of anything else to do. I’m certainly not going to get any closer. The panther looks from me to the ball between its paws, then over to the other players. At last it nudges the ball with its nose, making it roll towards me. Success!

  ‘Thanks,’ I say and dribble the ball back towards the markers. I don’t like turning my back on the panther though, so I check over my shoulder to make sure it isn’t following me.

  It’s following me. Only a couple of steps behind. I quicken my pace and try to meld in with the other players.

  The panther ends up settling itself down next to the goal to watch the rest of the training. It watches me as I slip over in the mud, get a couple more footballs in the head, and miss shots at the goal entirely. It watches one of my attempts fly out into the car park, a confused expression on its face. Then it looks back at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to ask for its help.

  ‘Alright, everyone. Bring ’em in.’

  Finally.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t too bad, tonight,’ says Mr Barrack encouragingly. ‘Try to get as much practice in as you can over the weekend, so we can move on to new stuff on Monday. Gibson, remember to keep your head up and notice what’s happening around you; you lost the ball several times by not paying attention that way. Hays, work on your dribbling some more. Control is key. Munkers…’

  He pauses, probably wondering what he can tell me to work on that’s more specific than “everything”.

  He sighs. ‘Just try to make friends with the ball, okay, son? You act like it’s a weapon being thrown at you. You want to come out and meet it, not run away from it.’

  Could have fooled me.

  Everyone else starts to scatter away into the evening, taking balls and markers and jumpers with them, with the exception of the panther. Jem has come over from the other side of the field and is flipping the ball up into the air with his feet and bouncing it on his knee.