Gamerunner

by B. R. Collins

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ For Michael it had been being clever. Not that he was, especially, except that at the comp anyone who could spell their own name was clever. Or even pronounce it properly. That was him. Clever Boy. Even when he started to fail tests, stopped reading, couldn’t think at all any more. Even then, they’d made him ‘explain’ Pythagoras’ Theorem before they started on him, mimicking his accent. He remembered thinking, that day, At least they didn’t kick me in the hypotenuse . . . laughing weakly all the way home, because if he cried someone might notice.

  They walked past the hall. Prayers had started. Everyone was on their knees. They went round the long way, so as not to walk past the windows, and up the stairs to the fifth-form corridor. Michael tried to think of something to say, to explain, so Francis wouldn’t think he was cowardly or cruel. But his mind stayed blank. Francis was first to the top of the stairs; he stopped right in front of Michael, and said, ‘You should be in Prayers.’ It took Michael a second to realise he wasn’t talking to him.

  Luke was standing at the lockers, his uniform already dishevelled, even though it was only ten to nine. He stepped aside for Francis to get past. He said, ‘I was late.’

  Francis had his head in his locker. ‘Well, if you get reported and Mum goes ballistic and blames me, you’re going to regret it.’ His voice was muffled.

  Michael went to his own locker and started to get out his books. Luke was still standing there, rolling his tie up and down his finger. He wore it short, like a flag, the way they all did. Trying to fit in, trying to be cool. Luke said, ‘Will you take me paintballing on Saturday?’

  Francis straightened up and cracked his head on the ceiling of his locker. He pulled his head out and stared at Luke, rubbing a hand over his hair. ‘No, I will not.’ He shoved a couple of textbooks into his bag. ‘Why are you asking now, anyway?’

  ‘Mum won’t let me go unless you come with me.’

  ‘Tough. I wouldn’t touch a paintball with a bargepole.’ Francis caught Michael’s eye and gave him a quick ironic grimace.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s puerile. Anyway, I have better stuff to do on Saturdays.’

  Luke put his head on one side and stared past Francis at Michael. There was real hostility in his eyes; Michael felt it register somewhere inside him, like something cold. ‘Going round to Michael’s, like you always do. Are you two gay or what?’

  Francis said, ‘Get stuffed, Luke.’

  ‘I just –’ Luke changed tactic. Michael could have told him he’d blown it, but you had to give him marks for trying. ‘Please, Francis. You’d like it. And I’ll do your chores for two weeks.’

  Francis finished putting his stuff back into his locker. There was a silence, and he looked up at Luke, like he was surprised to see him. ‘Are you still here?’

  ‘Michael wouldn’t mind. It’s only one Saturday.’

  Michael said, ‘How do you know Michael wouldn’t mind?’

  Luke looked at him – that expression again, like Michael was the scum of the earth – and didn’t answer. He turned ostentatiously towards Francis. ‘Francis, please. Please please please. All my mates are going.’

  ‘In that case, definitely not. I told you, no. My Saturdays are mine. Ask Dad to take you.’

  ‘He won’t. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to find someone else.’ Francis slammed his locker shut and turned the key in the door. ‘Piss off, squirt.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  ‘It’s entirely mutual. Go on. I said fuck off.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mum you said that.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ Francis raised his eyebrows at Michael. ‘See you at break?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Michael watched Francis stride off. When he turned back to his locker Luke was still glaring at him. Stop looking at me like that. It’s not my fault. Although possibly it was, possibly Francis knew how much the Saturdays meant to him, how desperate he got if they had to miss one. It was pathetic, really, how dependent you could get. But Luke didn’t know that – did he? Michael said, ‘What?’

  Luke watched him in silence for a moment. Then he turned and went down the stairs, without saying anything.

  Michael left it thirty seconds, then shouldered his bag and trudged to double French. He sat down in the sunlight next to the window, the desk where he always sat, far enough back to piss around but not too far back, not where Father Peters always looked for troublemakers. Not that he felt much like pissing around today. He looked at the trees outside. Benedick. Bent dick. He was in Luke’s class, Francis said. That made it worse, somehow, although why should it? After all, Luke was an annoying little git . . .

  And Shitley. What would he do? If anything, Michael thought sternly to himself. He might not do anything. Anyway, he’d been OK here so far. It was just a one-off. It wasn’t like the comp. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He pushed away the dread, the voice that said: Feeling safe, Michael ... how stupid can you get? He was being paranoid. No need to worry. He settled back and tried to concentrate on the lesson.

  When the bell went for break he felt better. He fought his way back upstairs – Get textbooks, then coffee – and made his way to his locker, pushing first-years out of the way on the stairs. There was music coming from the common room. He stooped to push books into his locker, cramming them in precariously, but there were too many, and the bottom ones started to slide towards him. He grabbed them and tried to steady the pile.

  There was a folded bit of A4 paper wedged into the bottom of the locker, as though someone had pushed it under the door. It said, MICHAEL THOMPSON. It wasn’t handwriting he knew. Michael slid it out, bracing the books against his chest, and flipped it open.

  It said, I KNOW WHERE ARCASTER IS.

  That was when the bottom dropped out of everything.