Watchers

by Philip Caveney

  ‘You fancy Sophie McKinnon,’ said Terry, knowingly and Will glanced at him, feeling his face colouring.

  ‘No I don’t!’ he protested.

  ‘Do too,’ said Terry gleefully. ‘You’re always looking at her.’

  ‘Am not!’

  ‘Are too! Why don’t you just ask her out or something?’

  Why don’t you drop dead?’ retorted Will.

  Terry laughed.

  ‘You want to get your skates on, mate. Otherwise Shaun Willis will be taking her to the Halloween Ball.’

  Will frowned. He’d forgotten about the ball. For once the school had organised something that sounded like genuine fun, there would be a live band and a DJ and everything. How cool would it be to turn up with Sophie on his arm? But first, he had to summon up the courage to ask her. And that was the sticking point. Several times, he’d been on the verge of doing it and his nerve had failed him. He’d asked her a question about the homework instead or if he could borrow her calculator. When his dad had died so suddenly, it seemed to have robbed him of what little confidence he had. And he hated the idea of her feeling sorry for him. That would be just awful.

  But he’d have to get his act together soon, he decided.

  ‘How did you go on with the homework?’ asked Terry, interrupting Will’s thoughts. ‘God, that was the pits, wasn’t it? A thousand words about the Russian Revolution? In the end, I borrowed stuff from a load of websites and pasted them all together. It probably doesn’t make any sense at all, if you can be bothered to read it.’ He looked at Will. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ Will tried not to look guilty. ‘Oh, er . . . I didn’t do too bad. I managed to produce an overview.’

  ‘An over-what?’

  ‘An overview.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that, when it’s out?’

  ‘It’s er . . . just a basic breakdown of the . . . the main events and their . . . effect upon the . . . see, I drew up a time-line and . . .’

  Terry made an exaggerated yawning motion.

  ‘Is it me, or is that the most boring thing anybody’s ever said in the history of the entire world?’ he asked.

  Will laughed. ‘Well, you did ask,’ he said. He returned his attention to Shaun and Sophie. Shaun was whispering something into her ear now – probably asking her if she fancied going to the Halloween Ball with him. Will clenched his fists and thought about grabbing a quick word with her as she got off the bus. But supposing she didn’t want to go with him? He’d look a right Herbert, wouldn’t he, being turned down in front of everyone?

  He practised in his head what he might say to her.

  ‘Excuse me, Sophie, I was wondering . . . I mean, I just wondered if you . . . if you would possibly think about . . .’

  It was useless. Even in his thoughts he sounded like a stammering idiot.

  ‘Bloody angels!’ said Terry and Will turned in alarm.

  ‘What did you say?’ he gasped.

  Terry nodded out of the rear window and Will turned to look down.

  The bus was being followed by a whole convoy of powerful motorbikes, ridden by grimy, tough-looking men dressed in black leather. None of them, Will noticed, were wearing crash helmets. Wasn’t that illegal?

  ‘Hell’s Angels,’ said Terry. ‘Don’t cha just hate ‘em?’

  Will stared down at them. The nearest bike was straddled by a tall, wiry but powerful-looking man, with long jet black hair trailing in the wind. His scuffed and dirty leather jacket was festooned with metal studs and badges. He had a neatly-trimmed beard and his eyes were covered by mirrored shades, even though it wasn’t sunny. He was staring up at the rear of the bus and Will felt suddenly very vulnerable.

  ‘Nice bike,’ said Terry grudgingly. ‘Harley Davidson. Must have cost an arm and a leg, that.’

  Will felt as though invisible needles were pricking his face. He remembered something that Amy had said, about how Lou rode a Harley and how he liked to look so cool . . . and the man on the bike did look cool, you could see at a glance that he was the leader of the motorcycle gang. Hell’s Angels, he thought. What could be more appropriate? He glanced at Terry and saw to his horror that his friend was flicking a V at the man on the bike.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ he said. He reached out and grabbed Terry’s wrist, pulling his hand down out of sight.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asked Terry. ‘He can’t do anything, can he?’

  ‘Who knows what he might do?’ said Will quietly. ‘You don’t mess around with people like that.’

  The bearded man was still staring up at the back of the bus, but the mirrored shades made it impossible to read his expression. He couldn’t be a Watcher, reasoned Will, because he was wearing a short biker’s jacket that could never have concealed a set of wings, and he didn’t have the oddly hunched shoulders that all the guys down by the river had. No, maybe he was just what he appeared to be; a scruffy layabout on a motorbike.

  Just then the man’s lips twisted into a cold, mirthless smile and he lifted a gloved hand to point a finger at Will. He lifted the finger and drew it across his throat. Will felt his blood slow in his veins.

  ‘Oh yeah, like we’re really scared,’ muttered Terry, mockingly, but he couldn’t hide the nervousness in his voice.

  Will didn’t say anything. He sat there looking into those mirror-shaded eyes and he could feel a knot of anxiety working itself around in his gut.

  The bearded man leaned the bike over to one side, swung out and overtook the bus. The other riders all followed suit and the convoy swept past. All the kids on the right hand side of the bus waved their hands and shouted insults as the powerful bikes went by and there was the sudden blare of a horn as a car coming the other way had to swerve onto the grass verge to avoid a collision.

  Then the long column of bikes was gone, accelerating on up the long, empty stretch of the road.

  ‘Wonder where they’re off to?’ muttered Terry.

  Will didn’t say anything. As he stared after the bikes, the sky darkened and right on cue, it began to rain.

  NINE

  The bus pulled up outside the school grounds several minutes later than usual and instantly there was a frenzied scramble of people fighting their way to the exit. Will grabbed his bag and hurried down the aisle in an attempt to catch up with Sophie, but he found himself gridlocked in a shoving, muttering sea of uniforms and by the time he’d struggled out onto the pavement, Sophie was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Typical,’ he muttered.

  Terry knew exactly what he was talking about.

  ‘You can always ask her at the football match,’ he said. ‘She’s usually there to cheer the team on.’

  ‘Huh. To cheer Shaun Willis on, you mean,’ muttered Will. Shaun played centre-forward for St Brendan’s and was also Captain as he was the closest thing to a decent player they possessed. Will on the other hand was always kept as full-back, where he could do the least damage, so there was going to be little opportunity for him to shine, no matter what the Watchers did. And he could just picture himself in his muddy football kit, his knobbly knees sticking out of his over-sized shorts, walking up to Sophie and her mates and asking her out. Oh yeah, she’d really go for that, wouldn’t she? He’d be fighting her off with a baseball bat.

  ‘She probably wouldn’t be interested in me, anyway,’ he muttered.

  ‘She might,’ said Terry. ‘You can never tell with girls. Some of them go for real dorks.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much!’

  ‘I didn’t mean you were one. I was just saying . . . who knows how girls’ minds work? They don’t give much away.’

  ‘Yeah, well you saw Sophie with Shaun. Laughing at his jokes and everything. How am I supposed to compete with that?’

  Terry thought for a moment.

  ‘I’ve got a book of jokes at home. I could always lend you that. You could memorise some of the best ones and tell them to Sophie.’

  Will looked at Terry.

  ‘I know you m
ean well,’ he said wearily. ‘But you don’t half say some stupid things.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anyone lined up for the Ball?’

  Terry brightened and grinned.

  ‘Yeah, I have, actually,’ he said proudly. ‘Asha Patel. Asked her last week, she said yeah.’

  Will rolled his eyes.

  Asha was a Bangladeshi girl, dark eyed, lean-limbed and one of the prettiest girls in the school.

  ‘You jammy git,’ said Will, ungraciously. ‘I bet I’m the only one who hasn’t got a date yet, aren’t I?’

  Terry shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask around if you want.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Will sullenly. ‘Look, we’d better get into assembly.’

  He and Terry made their way in through the school gates. They dumped their bags in their respective lockers and ran down the corridors to the gym. A few minutes later, they were sitting in their usual aisle seats under the baleful glare of Mr Henderson, their form tutor, waiting for the usual morning ritual of prayers and songs to kick off.

  Will hated assembly. He just couldn’t see the point of it. How did it make the day pass any differently after they had all bellowed a couple of tuneless hymns and listened to Mr Reece, the headmaster, droning on about bad behaviour and common courtesy and how they’d all feel so much better if they devoted their lives to hard exercise and cold showers?

  Reece seemed to think he knew all the answers but he hadn’t been much help when Will’s dad had died. Oh, he’d had Will in his office the day he got back to school and had muttered some rubbish about how ‘time healed all wounds,’ and stuff like that, but it hadn’t helped in the slightest. A year down the line, Will still felt like he was walking around with a big rusty spear stuck in his side.

  Sometimes he felt like going to Reece’s office to tell him that he’d been wrong, that time only gave you the chance to think more about how useless life was, without offering any answers, but what would be the point of that? Nothing would change, they’d still be meeting every morning to go through the same stupid ritual.

  ‘Eh up,’ whispered Terry, nudging Will in the ribs. ‘They’re here!’

  Will turned to look at the entrance as Shaun and Sophie wandered in. The two of them were still deep in conversation and looking for all the world like everybody’s favourite couple.

  ‘Maybe you’ve left it too late,’ observed Terry.

  Will scowled. ‘I wish he’d break a bloody leg or something,’ he muttered.

  As if in answer to his comment, Shaun gave a sudden yelp of surprise and stared down at his feet. He tried to take another step but his left leg seemed to have lost all power and dragged uselessly behind him. Shaun nearly fell and had to grab Sophie’s arm in order to stay upright. Sophie looked down at him in surprise.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked him; a fairly stupid question under the circumstances, but understandable, Will thought.

  Every head in assembly turned to stare at the couple. Shaun smiled foolishly and attempted to take another step, but his left leg refused to obey him and just dragged along the ground behind him. His face had turned as white as chalk. Sophie’s face, on the other hand, was now a deep shade of crimson. She evidently didn’t like to be the object of everybody’s attention.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Shaun.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘My leg,’ he said. ‘I can’t . . . it won’t . . .’

  Mr Henderson was moved to get up from his seat and hurry over to them.

  ‘Willis, stop horsing around,’ he growled.

  ‘I’m not, sir,’ Shaun told him, through gritted teeth. ‘It’s my leg. It . . . I can’t seem to move it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Henderson glared at him. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘No, sir, it just kind of . . . went.’

  Will felt Terry staring at him and he turned his head to give his friend a blank look. He knew how it must seem, and right now it was pointless to insist that it was simply a coincidence. Hadn’t he just wished for this to happen? Why, for Pete’s sake, had he said it out loud?

  Mr Henderson looked around for some help and gestured to the two nearest boys, who as luck would have it, were Will and Terry.

  ‘You two, get over here,’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get him outside.’ He turned to look at Sophie. ‘Sophie, you go and sit down please.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Now, please.’

  As Will and Terry got out of their seats, they passed Sophie coming the other way. Will and Sophie’s eyes met for a moment. She looked upset but Will couldn’t prevent a little voice in his head from cheering at the delightful thought that Shaun was unlikely to be taking anybody to the Halloween dance now.

  They reached him and under Mr Henderson’s directions, they stooped to get a shoulder under each of his arms. Shaun had a look of complete bewilderment as he kept trying to get his leg to obey him without success. They got him going, hopping along on his good leg and half-carried him towards the exit. Once they were out in the hall, Henderson indicated that they should lower him into a chair. Then he excused himself and hurried off to the office to phone for an ambulance.

  Will and Terry stood there looking down at Shaun.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Terry, after a long interval.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Shaun told him. ‘I was just walking along and my leg went dead, all of a sudden. Now I can’t even feel it.’ He thumped it with a fist as if to emphasise the point.

  Terry looked at Will.

  ‘That’s weird,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Will, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Shaun thought for a moment and his eyes widened. ‘Oh no!’ he said.

  Will nodded and tried not to smile. ‘The Halloween dance,’ he said.

  Shaun stared at him.

  ‘Bugger that! I wasn’t even planning to go to it.’

  Will stared at him.

  ‘You . . . you weren’t?’

  ‘You must be kidding. I wouldn’t go to a dance if you paid me! No, I was just thinking . . .’ He gritted his teeth and placed his hands on his useless leg. ‘How are we going to take on St Chad’s now? I’m not being funny, but I’m the only one on the team that can kick a ball straight.’

  TEN

  The members of St Brendan’s First XI sat huddled on benches in the changing room exchanging worried looks. The news from the hospital was that the doctors were trying to fathom what was wrong with Shaun’s leg. They had found no sign of a fracture or even a pulled muscle. The cause of his problem remained a mystery but one thing was for sure – he wasn’t going to be playing football today. Which meant that the team’s substitute, Tim Pringle, was to have his first game in months.

  Will despaired. Tim was a puny, gangly sort of lad who wore thick horn-rimmed specs and looked barely capable of running the length of a football pitch, let alone striking fear into the hearts of the opposition.

  ‘We are sunk,’ muttered Terry, gloomily. He directed a baleful glare at Will, who he seemed to be holding personally responsible for the team’s misfortunes. Will had tried protesting that he was completely innocent, that it was all just a terrible coincidence, but it clearly didn’t cut any mustard with Terry.

  ‘I heard you say it,’ he’d insisted. ‘You wished he’d break his leg and it happened!’

  ‘No it didn’t. You heard what Mr Henderson said. The doctors can’t find anything wrong with Shaun. They’re saying it may all be in his mind.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, it doesn’t help us much, does it?’

  The door of the changing room swung open and Mr Varney, the P.E. instructor, slunk into the room. A short, tubby man with a sizeable beer gut, Mr Varney was zipped into a hopelessly tight and hopelessly outdated Adidas tracksuit. The enduring mystery about him was that although his head was as bald as a freshly boiled egg, he was incredibly hairy elsewhere.
Thick black bunches of the stuff sprouted up from his neck and chest and the sleeves of his tracksuit top were rolled back to reveal arms that would not have looked out of place on a gorilla. It was this that had earned him the nick-name ‘Kong’.

  Mr Varney paced up and down for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. The expression on his ape-like face suggested that he had detected a bad smell in the room and was trying to figure out where it had come from.

  Finally, he stopped pacing and took a long, slow look around the team.

  ‘This is not good,’ he said, in his slow Welsh drawl. ‘Not good at all. Our best player is lying in the hospital, incapacitated, and we’re facing a team that could, quite frankly, play the pants off us with blindfolds on.’

  Oh, thanks, thought Will. Good job you pointed that out. We were actually in danger of thinking that we had a chance of winning.

  ‘Our only hope is to fall back on the old Indian trick,’ continued Mr Varney. ‘Would anybody care to tell me what that is?’

  There was a long silence while the team considered the question. Terry put his hand up. Mr Varney nodded to him.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Give up?’ suggested Terry.

  ‘No, you idiot! Did Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse give up at the Battle of the Little Big Horn?’

  There was another silence. Everybody knew that Mr Varney was very interested in the history of the Old West, but Will wasn’t sure what kind of answer he was expecting from them.

  ‘Well, come on!’ prompted Mr Varney. ‘What did Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse do at The Little Big Horn?’