‘Give him to me,’ said Will.
Lou smiled; a cold, cold smile.
‘Don’t be in such a hurry,’ he said. ‘You know, you’ve been careless. Very careless. You shouldn’t let a nice little dog like this wander about by himself. He could get into an accident. He could break his neck.’ Lou’s right hand seemed to tighten a little around Spot’s throat and Will took an involuntary step forward.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Don’t hurt him.’
‘Funny things, dogs,’ continued Lou in that oily purr of a voice. ‘They’re so faithful, aren’t they? Seems they’ll do anything you tell them to, so long as they get a pat and a kind word. People on the other hand, they need more of an incentive.’
‘Look, I’ve got to get to school,’ said Will.
Lou made a big act of remembering something.
‘Oh yeah, right! That’s where I’ve seen you before,’ he said. ‘School bus, the other day. I seem to remember you made a gesture at me. Not a very polite one.’
‘That wasn’t me,’ said Will. ‘That was . . . look, you gonna give me the dog or am I gonna . . .’
‘What?’ prompted Lou. ‘Stamp your feet? Hold your breath until you go blue in the face?’ He laughed, a deeply unpleasant sound. ‘Look, kid, I’ve done you a big favour. This dog could have come to grief snooping around. There’s stuff in here. Heavy machinery. It could have fallen and crushed him flat.’ He moved closer, still smiling dangerously. ‘You’re . . . Will Booth,’ he said.
Will shook his head.
‘No. You’ve got me mixed up. I’m . . . Joe . . . Joe . . .’
‘Joe Schmoe from Idaho?’ suggested Lou.
‘Joe . . . Blackham,’ said Will.
Lou shrugged.
‘OK, Mr . . . Blackham,’ he said. ‘I was wondering . . . you seen any suspicious types around? Strangers?’
‘Not until now,’ said Will, standing his ground.
Lou tittered. ‘Brave kid,’ he said. ‘I admire that. Brave, but stupid. It’s a real shame you don’t know the truth. About your dad.’
Will stiffened. ‘What about my dad?’ he snapped.
Lou’s expression turned serious. ‘He’s tormented. He’s seen that new guy buzzing around your mum like a wasp around a honey pot and you know what? He’s gone ballistic . . .’
‘That’s not true,’ protested Will. ‘You . . . you don’t know anything about my dad. He . . . works up at the steelworks. And I tell you what, if he finds out you’ve been talking to me, he’ll smash your face in.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Lou shook his head. ‘I know all about your dad, Will. Every last little detail.’ Lou leaned really close and Will realised the foul smell was coming from him. Up close, it was so powerful Will nearly gagged. Lou’s gloved hand was now clamped very tightly around Spot’s throat and the little dog was struggling to escape, his eyes bulging, but the powerful arms held him fast.
Will noticed a horrible little detail. A tiny black beetle emerged from the fringe of Lou’s hair and ran down his neck and under his collar. But he didn’t seem to notice. He kept on talking.
‘I’ve heard your dad screaming, screaming in absolute despair, because the most important person in his life has set her sights on somebody new. Have you any idea what that sounds like, Will? A tormented soul crying out in the night? And do you know what else hurts him? The thought of his only son allowing it to happen and greeting the new man like his own father . . .’
‘I didn’t!’ gasped Will. ‘I know he’s not my dad, he’ll never be that!’
‘Geoff doesn’t know that. He wants peace . . . and the only way he’ll ever find it is to give himself over to us. We can take him down into the darkness and then nothing is ever going to worry him again.’
‘Take him down into hell, you mean!’ Will had blurted the words out before he had time to think about them and now the smile was back on Lou’s face.
‘Oh, you do know what I’m talking about. Sure, you do.’ He paused for a moment and sniffed at Will as though he was a meal he’d just ordered. ‘It’s as I thought,’ he said. ‘They’ve got to you, haven’t they? They’ve infected you, you absolutely stink of piety. Little holy man, polishing up his halo.’ He laughed again, that horrible, snide sound. ‘Listen, kid, you don’t want to believe everything they tell you. They’ve made lying into an art form. They’re stringing you along, Will. They’ve probably told you lies about me and my friends, haven’t they?’
‘I . . . don’t know what you’re on about!’ cried Will. ‘Just give me my bloody dog, ok?’ He reached out and tried to pull Spot out of those leather-clad arms, but they were gripping him too tightly. Lou was laughing now, his eyes mocking Will’s helplessness.
‘What’s wrong?’ he cackled. ‘You want the dog, do you? You want the nice little doggie? You know, it would be so easy for me to twist his little neck . . .’
‘What’s going on here?’ Will looked up to see his mum standing a few feet away, her arms crossed. She looked like she meant business. ‘What are you doing with our dog?’ she demanded.
Lou examined Mum as he might look at an insect that had just crawled out from under a stone. He seemed amused by her stern expression.
‘Oh, look out, here’s mum,’ he sneered. ‘Coming to the rescue.’ He looked at Will and said, half-under his breath. ‘But tell me, Will, who’s going to come to hers?’ Then he plastered on an insincere smile and handed Spot back. The little dog went wild, wagging his stumpy tail and licking Will’s face. ‘There you go, sonny,’ said Lou. ‘You keep an eye on him in future.’
‘Who are you?’ persisted Mum. ‘And what are you doing in that garage? It belongs to Mr Morris from number 49.’
‘Not anymore,’ said Lou, coldly. ‘Didn’t you hear? He died last night. Massive heart attack. He won’t be needing it any more.’
‘What are you talking about?’ cried Mum. ‘I don’t believe you. Listen, if I catch you hanging around here again, I’ll phone the police.’
Lou stared at her.
‘You know what?’ he said ‘I’m really, really scared.’ And he laughed again, that horrible, cold laugh that made the short hairs on Will’s neck stand up.
He turned and walked quickly away. He reached out a hand and pulled Mum along with him.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll miss the bus.’
‘But . . . who was that?’ protested Mum. ‘And what was he saying to you?’
‘Just some stupid low-life messing around,’ said Will. ‘Probably on drugs or something. Ignore him.’
‘He seemed to know you.’
‘I’ve never saw him before in my life,’ lied Will.
‘But what did he mean . . . about me coming to the rescue?’
‘Who knows? Look, I’ve got like about two minutes to get to the bus, ok?’ He pulled Mum around the corner, back up the alley and in through the garden gate. Safely in the house, he locked and bolted the back door, then settled Spot back onto his bed. Spot was still trembling and he licked Will’s hand anxiously. Mum stood there giving Will a dead-eyed stare.
‘Is something going on?’ she asked him. ‘Something I should know about?’
‘No,’ he told her. ‘Now get moving or you’ll be late too.’ He went through the kitchen, grabbed his school bag and ran for the front door.
‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’ Mum called after him. ‘If something was wrong.’
Where would I start? thought Will as he left the house and ran as fast as he could, for the bus stop.
SIXTEEN
He made it by the skin of his teeth. As he turned the corner onto the main road, the bus was just pulling away from the stop. He ran frantically towards it, waving his arms and miraculously, the bus driver noticed him and slowed down again. Will was able to scramble aboard.
He thanked the driver and went straight up the stairs to the top deck, his mind reeling. He needed to contact Ari, fast. Lou was already way too close for comfort. But Will had forgotten that this w
as the first time he had been on the school bus since his ‘triumph’ yesterday.
As he stepped onto the top deck, the packed bus exploded with cheers of delight. He stood there, stunned, looking helplessly around. Everyone was grinning at him and generally making a fuss. Pupils who had only ever treated him with derision were actually giving him the thumbs up. Girls who previously wouldn’t give him the time of day were staring at him in open admiration.
‘Nice one, Will!’
‘Yeah, great game. You really showed Chad’s up!’
‘You were bloody brilliant, mate!’
His face reddening, Will stumbled along the aisle to his regular seat at the back. He could see Terry sitting back there and then he registered that two girls were sitting in the seat directly in front of him. One of them was Asha Patel, Terry’s date for the Halloween Ball. The other was Sophie McKinnon.
Will dropped into the vacant spot beside Terry. ‘Hey, man, what’s happening?’ he asked.
‘You tell me,’ said Terry. And he gave Will an outrageous wink and nodded at Sophie’s back. ‘Great game, yesterday,’ he said. ‘Me and the girls were just talking about it, weren’t we?’
The girls turned to look at Will. Sophie’s lovely brown eyes seemed to cut right into him. He could happily just have shrivelled up and died on the spot.
‘Yeah,’ said Sophie. ‘Will, I had no idea you were so good at football.’
He squirmed.
‘I . . . practised,’ he managed to say. ‘A bit.’
‘He’s so modest,’ said Terry. ‘With him on the team we’ve got a good chance of winning the inter-school league this year.’
Asha smiled. ‘You scored a goal too,’ she reminded Terry. ‘An incredible one.’
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ Terry looked vaguely startled as though he’d actually forgotten all about it. ‘But mind you, Will set it up for me. He’s like that. A team player.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Then:
‘Thanks for your text,’ said Sophie. ‘I left my phone on silent by mistake so I didn’t notice you’d got straight back to me till late on.’ Her smile deepened. ‘Interesting reply,’ she said.
Will now felt as though his face was on fire. He cast around desperately for something to say.
‘How . . . how did you get my . . . number?’ he croaked.
‘I gave it to her,’ said Terry, brightly. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘Oh, I didn’t . . . I mean, I don’t . . . I . . . I’m glad.’ He grinned wildly at Sophie. ‘I mean, call me any time you like. Really, I . . . don’t mind.’
Terry nudged Will meaningfully in the ribs.
‘Me and Asha were talking about the Halloween Ball,’ he said. ‘We’re really looking forward to it, aren’t we Asha?’
‘Yeah.’ Asha nodded, her dark eyes flashing with mischief. ‘You going, Will?’
She tried to sound casual, but it was so obviously rehearsed, that Will almost groaned aloud.
‘It . . . sounds pretty cool,’ he said.
‘I’ve been making my costume,’ said Asha. ‘I’m going as a witch. Not very original, I know, but I’ve got this really cool mask, makes me look about a hundred years old.’
‘You wearing it now?’ asked Terry.
‘Watch it,’ she said, and she leaned over the seat to give him a playful thump.
Will stared at her. ‘It’s fancy dress?’
‘Sure it is,’ said Terry. ‘Didn’t you know? It’s on the poster.’
‘Er . . . oh, well, great,’ said Will, although he generally hated having to get dressed up for nights out. ‘Yeah, well, I might go, if . . . if I can find a partner.’
‘What about you?’ Asha asked Sophie.
Sophie never took her eyes off Will.
‘Nobody’s asked me,’ she said. ‘I can’t go by myself, can I?’
There was a silence so deep, that Will thought he might fall into it. This was his opportunity. If he blew this, he’d never forgive himself. He opened his mouth to speak . . . just as his mobile phone emitted a beep so shrill he nearly jumped out of his seat.
‘ʼScuse,’ he said. He whipped out his phone and flipped it open. There was a new text message.
She’s a pretty girl, Will. Be a pity
if something bad happened to her,
wouldn’t it?
L.
Will gasped and instinctively snapped the phone shut again.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Terry.
‘Yes! I mean, no! I mean . . .’ Will sat there in a quandary, not knowing what to say or do. He couldn’t be the cause of something bad happening to Sophie; he cared about her too much to let that happen. He looked at her in dismay. She was still staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. With a considerable effort he rearranged his face into an expression of ‘couldn’t care less’.
‘You know what,’ he said. ‘I just remembered. I can’t make it that night. I’ve got something on.’
Terry stared at him. ‘You what?’ he said.
‘Er . . . yeah. I promised to go to a . . . thing.’
‘What thing?’
‘Just a . . . bloody thing, all right?’
‘But I thought you wanted . . .’
‘Tell you what Terry, do me a favour, will you? Just stop trying to arrange my bloody life!’
Terry’s jaw dropped. He looked for all the world like he’d just been punched in the stomach.
‘But . . .’
‘Just drop it, ok.’ Will turned to look at the two girls and they had expressions of absolute horror on their faces. ‘And what the hell are you two staring at?’ he snapped. They turned away and made no further attempt to speak to him. He realised that the whole of the top deck had fallen silent and that nearly every eye was upon him. He slumped down against the window and stared miserably out at the desolate October landscape.
Nice going, he thought. That was Sophie right out of the picture as far as he was concerned. But what else could he have done? He remembered Lou’s gloved hand curled around Spot’s throat and he thought about what those hands might be capable of. For a horrible moment, he imagined them around Sophie’s slender, white neck and he felt like he might be sick.
He flipped open his phone again, created a new message and wrote one word, HELP! In the address box, he just wrote the word Ari. He pressed send. The message went flying off into the ether and he waited hopefully for a reply but there was no response by the time they arrived at school. His three companions trooped off the bus with their noses in the air, without speaking a single word or even looking in his direction. He felt like weeping but he just sat where he was until everyone had got off the bus and then, wearily, he grabbed his bag and went down the aisle to the exit.
It was a terrible day. The only people who were keen to speak to him were the ones he didn’t give a damn about. And the friends he cared for most in the world clearly had no intention of ever speaking to him again, if they could possibly help it. He trudged from class to class, feeling about as miserable as he ever had, painfully aware that he was playing right into the hands of Lou and his followers, but absolutely unable to do anything about it.
The last lesson before lunch was history and this turned out to be the low point of the day so far, because they got the results of the history project. Mr Jenkins, the stick-thin, balding history teacher, seemed to have had some kind of personal revelation. He stood at the front of the class, dressed in his green corduroy suit with the leather patches on his elbows and Will noticed that he was holding one pupil’s folder in his hands. He knew, with a doomed feeling deep inside, that it would be his project.
‘I have taught in this school for fifteen years,’ announced Mr Jenkins, dramatically. ‘And I can honestly say that in all that time, I have never been as impressed as I was last night, when I read the work of one member of this class.’ He looked around the desks to make sure that he had everybody’s undivided attention. Then he raised the folder so e
verybody could see the name on the front of it. Will did his best to blend in with his surroundings.
‘Now, let me tell you,’ continued Mr Jenkins, ‘that the other projects I marked ranged from the inept . . .’ He shot a withering look at Mark Sullivan. ‘ . . . to the downright stupid . . .’ He glared at Tasmin Bailey. ‘To the merely adequate.’ This description was reserved for Tim Pringle, who was generally considered the class swot, and was usually the one singled out for any praise. But not today. Mr Jenkin’s eyes were shining with all the fervour of St Paul on the road to Damascus.
‘When I sat down to look at the work of Master Will Booth,’ he cried, ‘I could not have anticipated the joyful experience that lay in wait for me.’ He waved an elegant hand over the pages.
‘Here was a piece so consummately brilliant . . . so concise, so perceptive, that I confess, for several moments, I considered that it had been copied from some work of exceptional literary merit.’
He paused for effect. ‘But on reflection, I realised that this was not the case. The voice was totally original and absolutely authentic. I realised that Will simply has an extraordinary grasp of the subject, one that even makes me envious. And that is why I have given him the maximum possible mark for his project and why I am intending to nominate him for the position of pupil of the year!’
Will felt the eyes of his classmates upon him. They were looking at him with a mixture of emotions; admiration, envy, irritation, and in some cases, downright hatred. He wanted to jump up from his desk and clamp his hands over Mr Jenkin’s mouth in an attempt to stop the endless barrage of superlatives. But he could hardly do that. He could only sit there, writhing in his seat, as Jenkins reached his inevitable conclusion.
‘I am now going to treat this class to something very special. I am going to read you this composition, in the vain hope that some of you might actually learn by Will’s wonderful example. Listen carefully . . .’
He began to read. Will prayed that the ground would open up and swallow him. But it didn’t. He had to sit there with the rest and listen to Jenkins droning on and on and on about the boring French Revolution and boring Napoleon and boring bloody Marie Antoinette and all things considered, it seemed a long, long time before he reached the end.
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