He waits maybe five minutes, maybe longer, then edges out through the gap that’s been left, as if for him. The corridor is empty. He will be late for his first lesson, but that doesn’t frighten him, although it should. And he’ll be seeing Wolf at break, but that doesn’t frighten him either. He feels invisible, protected. Walking along the corridor, past the changing rooms, he catches a trace of the scent from that first day at school, when he saw the big boys coming back from rugby, that mix of liniment and sweat, a scent that’s almost sweet but with an edge of bitterness to it; a scent that gives him strength.
‘And I’ll kill you,’ Billy says.
*
After school that day, he goes to the shop. He has ten minutes before the bus arrives. The tuck money his father gave him in the morning is still in his pocket. He’s passed the day in a sort of haze. No one has spoken to him, or threatened him. Sharples and the others have kept their distance; he doesn’t know why, but he imagines they can also sense this haze, this protective cloak, invisible to others as he was invisible to them. There is no one he can talk to about what happened that morning, but that’s all right. He doesn’t need to talk. Besides, he can still hear the voice he heard in the niche. All he has to do is think the words he wants to say to hear the voice reply to him. He’s tried it on and off all day. Small questions, nothing of any importance. Sometimes the voice is evasive, sometimes not. He won’t tell Billy his name, for example. Other than that, it’s like having a friend.
The shop’s almost empty, apart from two girls in convent uniform, who glance at him and then look away. He puts his cap in his pocket, walks across to the rotating stand that holds the magazines and starts to swivel it slowly, one eye on the woman behind the counter. She knows him, she knows his mother, she’s greeted him with her usual smile. The monster comics he normally buys are in the bottom racks, the weekly magazines his mother reads – recipes, knitting patterns – are at chest height, but he looks above them, moving the rack clockwise, until he sees the new issue of Rugged Men. He edges round until the stand is blocking the woman’s view of him, lifts the issue carefully from the rack and slides it beneath his open blazer, buttons it, then moves his satchel round until it is hanging in front of him, like a shield. His arm pressed close into his side, he walks towards the door. He’s almost reached it when the woman looks up. ‘Not found what you’re looking for, dear?’ Startled, he shakes his head. ‘Well, maybe next time,’ she says. ‘Say hello to your mother for me, won’t you?’ He nods.
He’s waiting at the bus stop, the unopened magazine safely concealed inside his blazer, when someone grabs his elbows from behind. A knee forces itself into the middle of his back. He cries out in surprise, in the first shock of pain. The two convent girls, coming out of the shop, glance over, then walk away as if they have seen nothing. Help me, he thinks, and the voice says, All in good time, as his arms are wrenched so hard he’s afraid they’ll pop out of their sockets. He’s waiting to feel the magazine slide from beneath his blazer, still buttoned up, to hear it hit the floor. He’s terrified of what they’ll do when they find it between their feet, like proof of what he is. ‘We saw what you did, you little thief,’ says Horton, but he’s speaking from some place over to the left, so he can’t be the one who’s holding Billy. ‘We saw you nick that magazine. Didn’t we, Sharpie?’
Suddenly released, Billy stumbles forward and is only held up by the strap of his satchel as Sharples attempts to twist it free of Billy’s shoulders. Billy hangs on to it.
‘Leave me alone,’ he says, his voice high-pitched with anger. He’s about to shout but something, some fear of being found out, dissuades him. But the magazine, the proof of what he’s done, is nowhere to be seen. All he can see when he looks down is his cap, lying on the pavement by his feet. He’ll be in trouble if he’s caught without it. He sees the Lees twins on the other side of the road, heavy and dumb like the golems he has read about in his comic, waiting to cross.
‘You give that here,’ says Sharples, finally tearing the satchel away. Billy flies at him, but Horton has caught the edge of Billy’s blazer and holds him back. ‘Ooh,’ says Sharples, ‘Baby Billy’s lost his rag.’ He taunts Billy, holding the satchel out, whipping it away, waving it in the air just out of Billy’s reach as Billy struggles to free himself, afraid that his blazer might rip as Horton clings to the hem of it. He feels the buttons about to give.
‘What’s going on here?’
The three boys turn.
‘Cat got your tongues?’ says Mitchell. He takes the satchel off Sharples and returns it to Billy. ‘This is yours, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Billy. The dream-string tugs at his heart. Yes, says the voice.
‘That looks like your bus.’ Mitchell glances behind Billy. ‘I’ll deal with these two,’ he says, then points to the pavement. Billy’s heart stops. ‘Don’t forget your cap.’
Billy picks up his cap, then runs for the bus without turning round. When the bus pulls away he opens his satchel and finds the magazine.
In his room that night, with the lights out and the torch on, Billy looks at the magazine. The cover shows a shirtless man hanging by his wrists in a dungeon. Behind him a woman in Nazi uniform is wielding a bullwhip. ‘Blood for the harlots of horror,’ says the caption. Yes, says the voice. This is for you. Hands trembling a little, the torch held under his chin, he turns to the story on page 64.
They waste no time the next day. Billy is taken behind the dining hall at morning break. The Lees twins hold his arms and Sharples slaps his face a couple of times, then punches his stomach until he’s crying, spluttering snot from nose and mouth, his knees jerking up in a vain attempt to protect himself from the blows. When Sharples has finished, Horton spits in Billy’s face. The twins let him go, but not before they’ve been through his pockets and taken the money his father gave him that morning. Winded, he slumps to the ground, gasping for breath, his arms cradling his stomach. Sharples kicks him at the base of his spine. ‘And that’s for being a fucking cry-baby,’ he says, while the other three laugh. Horton drops to his knees beside Billy and rubs the spit round his face with the flat of his hand. He has a plaster on the ball of his thumb, slimy and cold, a different texture from the skin. ‘And that’s for not saying thank you to Sharpie,’ he says, before hawking and spitting again. ‘Hello, Gobface.’ More laughter. Billy closes his eyes, sniffs back the snot in his nose and throat, waits for them to leave him, because sooner or later this will be over, and he will make them pay for what they have done. He will have his revenge. Revenge is sweet, his friend says. He’s promised him revenge. Oh yes, he says, too weak and winded to move, in too much pain. Oh yes. Curled up on himself, he imagines Sharples, shirtless, swinging from a beam, his shoulders twisted out of joint, his body streaked with weals from the bullwhip, a puddle of fresh blood on the floor. He imagines Horton, naked and shivering in the corner of the room, begging for mercy, knowing his turn will come, and the Lees twins, locked in a cage like dogs, their bodies streaked with dirt. All in good time.
He’s struggling to his feet when Matron walks round the corner of the dining hall. ‘You shouldn’t be here, boy,’ she says. When he’s vertical, she snaps, ‘Stand up straight. Don’t slouch.’ She takes him by the shoulder, forces his face up with her free hand. ‘Dear God, boy,’ she says, her voice changed. ‘What have they done to you?’ He lowers his eyes. ‘Come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.’ She takes him by the arm and leads him away, across the yard that separates the dining hall from the rest of the school, before a line of boys outside the tuck shop, who turn and stare. One of the Lees twins stands among them, waiting to spend the money he’s stolen. Billy sees a nervous, imploring smile cross his face before he turns his eyes away.
In the sickroom, Matron takes his blazer off and begins to sponge dirt off the back of it. ‘Wash your hands and face over there,’ she says, pointing to a basin. He tucks his tie between two shirt buttons, winces as the end of it touches his bare stomach. ‘Wait
a minute,’ she says, and unbuttons his shirt, while he stands there, letting her handle him, no will to resist. He’s barely there. He’s been reduced to pain and the friend in his head, who is telling him to be patient and to say nothing. All in good time. When she shakes her head and asks him who on God’s earth is responsible for this, he stares at her as though she is speaking some language that intrigues him and that might be essential for his well-being but that makes no sense. He can feel what might be the start of a smile as she buttons his shirt back up and leads him across to the stretcher at the side of the room. ‘Lie down here,’ she says, her voice almost gentle but distant, as if she doesn’t want to be there either. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
He spends the next two days in his own bed. He refuses to name his bullies and he isn’t sure if he’s being kept at home because he’s covered in bruises or as punishment. His mother has told him how brave he is, which isn’t true, and that he is her little hero, and that everything will be all right in the end, which made him cry as soon as he was alone, because he knew that it wasn’t true unless he did something to make it true. His father has said that he’ll sue the school for negligence, which scared Billy, and that Billy should have stood up for himself, which hurt him, but neither of them has suggested he leave, and he’s glad of that. He wants to get back to school as soon as he can because he’s been working on ways of getting his revenge. Rugged Men has helped. Alone in his room, he takes his new copy out and thumbs through it until he finds the stories he wants, the ones with pictures of men being hurt. He reads what is done to them by Nazis, Japanese guards, prison officers – most of their persecutors are half-naked women, but he imagines himself in their place. Billy holding the whip, Billy releasing the starved rats into the cage, Billy tightening the rope around the thighs. He puts the terrified faces of his tormentors onto the straining, sweat-shiny bodies of the victims. He listens to them as they cry out for mercy, relishing each desperate plea. He imagines Mitchell by his side, golden, immense, scented with liniment, handing him pincers to tear out their nails, and teeth. He talks to his friend, his friend nods yes, encourages him to go on. They deserve it. There is an industrial meat-grinder in the corner of the dungeon, large enough to take the body of a grown man. There is a pit in the centre of the floor, and no one knows what it might contain, not even Billy, although he’s working on it. Its time will come.
He’s telling his friend what he will do to Lees One when his mother comes into the bedroom. ‘There’s someone here to see you,’ she says.
‘Who?’ He’s startled. There is no one he wants to see.
‘A friend from school.’
She turns round and smiles behind her, then steps aside to let Horton in. He is wearing jeans and a sweater; Billy almost doesn’t recognise him.
‘Hello, Billy,’ he says.
Billy doesn’t know Horton’s name. He nods, then looks at his mother, pleading for her not to leave.
‘Would you like some orange squash?’ she says. ‘A slice of cake?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lender.’ Horton walks over to the bed. Billy struggles into a sitting position, pulling his pyjama jacket around him.
‘What day is it?’ he says.
Horton sits on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s Saturday, you spastic. Otherwise I’d still be at school.’ He glances across at the door. Billy can hear his mother downstairs, closing the fridge door. ‘You kept your mouth shut then,’ he says. ‘That’s good. People hate kids that tell tales.’
‘They sent you, didn’t they?’
Horton shakes his head, pulls a dismissive face. ‘They’d think I was mad if they knew I’d come to your house like this. They’re shitting themselves, to be honest. You should see them. They think you’re bound to have grassed them up.’ He grins. ‘I am mad. For all I know you might have talked to your dad, told him what they’ve done. He’s downstairs, watching the wrestling. Like my dad does. It’s just like being at home.’
‘You did it too.’
Horton looks surprised. ‘I never touched you.’
‘Yes, you did. You spat in my face.’
‘Yes, well, that’s like sticks and stones, isn’t it? I mean, spit’s like words, it doesn’t hurt, does it?’ He’s still grinning. He looks down, picks at the plaster on his thumb.
‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ says Billy.
‘It’s nothing,’ says Horton. ‘I don’t even know how I did it. Do you want to see?’
Billy shakes his head, but Horton has already peeled away the plaster to show a jagged cut, almost an inch long, as though a gobbet of flesh has been torn away.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Horton says. He puts the plaster back over the wound, then reaches across to Billy. Billy flinches. ‘I only want to see what they did to you,’ he says. He pulls the jacket open, sees the bruises that Sharples’ fists have left on the skin. ‘Crikey,’ he says. ‘I bet that hurt.’
‘What do you want?’
Billy’s mother comes back into the room, carrying a tray. ‘Here you are, boys,’ she says. ‘It’s cherry cake; I made it this morning. It’s still warm.’
‘It looks delicious,’ says Horton, standing up to take the tray from her.
‘Isn’t he a gentleman?’ says Billy’s mother. ‘You’re lucky to have such a polite friend, Billy.’
Billy doesn’t answer. Horton winks at him, puts the tray down beside the bed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lender.’
Billy is confused. Part of him would like to see Horton as a friend, despite what he’s done: the spit, the Crunchie, the betrayal. But another part of him, the stronger part, hates Horton and would like to see him dead. To not see Horton at all, he watches his mother leave the room. When she’s gone, Horton sits down on the bed again.
‘You’re good at nicking stuff,’ he says. ‘If I hadn’t been watching you, I’d never have seen you take that magazine.’ He takes a bite of cake. ‘This is great,’ he says. ‘I bet you could steal practically anything, couldn’t you?’
Billy shakes his head.
‘I bet you could,’ says Horton again.
‘Why?’
Horton leans in. Billy can see a crumb of cake caught on his upper lip, where Horton has the first fine hairs of a moustache, but resists the urge to brush it off.
‘Sharpie’s waiting for you,’ he says. ‘He’ll really make you cry next time.’
Billy shrugs. Horton pulls away.
‘Unless,’ he says.
‘Unless what?’
Horton grins, takes another bite from his slice of cake. ‘Your mum’s a brilliant cook. You should bring some of this to school. For all of us.’ He pauses. ‘On Monday.’
‘I’m not coming to school on Monday,’ says Billy. ‘Not if I don’t want to.’ He wants to keep them guessing. He needs to be able to surprise them. He’s been talking to his friend. It’s better if they don’t expect you, his friend said, and Billy agrees.
‘I bet you could nick some cigarettes,’ says Horton.
‘I don’t smoke,’ says Billy.
Now Horton shrugs. What you do doesn’t matter, his face says.
‘Why should I steal stuff for you?’ says Billy.
‘Because Sharples will rip your throat out if you don’t,’ says Horton. He puts his own hand on Billy’s throat and squeezes gently. Billy doesn’t move. Horton lets him go. ‘That’s why.’
Billy closes his eyes and sees Sharples falling to his knees, his neck torn open, his eyes turned up to Mitchell, whose arms are red with blood. He nods for him to step away and Mitchell does, his head bowed down. More blood is pumping from Sharples’ neck, buckets of it, and Billy is waiting for the flow to stop. When it does and Mitchell is watching him, his hands behind his back, he pushes Sharples’ body with his foot, as Sharples did with him, because there has to be balance, it is only fair. It must all be fair, everything must always be fair, he knows that, Mitchell knows that, and his only friend, whose name he still doesn’t know but will discover one day soon, will remind him in
case he forgets.
When he opens his eyes again, the bedroom is empty, as though Horton had never been there. All that is left is a half-empty glass of orange squash and a few crumbs on a plate.
3
He’s left alone for almost a week. Horton sidles up to him on the first morning back and asks him if he’s brought any of his mum’s fantastic fruitcake, but he seems to be joking and when Billy says no he wanders off. And that’s all. He notices Sharples glance his way more than once, and the Lees twins jostle him to one side of the corridor as they leave assembly, but no one speaks to him. Even the other boys seem to be avoiding him. He’s relieved and hurt, as though the only friends he has are the ones that give him pain. Outside the classroom, between lessons, at break, in the queue for the dining hall, he finds himself constantly on the lookout for Mitchell but, when he sees him, looks sharply away.
Two Dark Tales Page 11
