comin 2 gt u

by Simon Packham

  ‘Yeah – it runs in your jeans!’

  Not a flicker. Things must have been worse than I thought; he didn’t look up from his texting the whole way to the main gate. Mobiles and MP3 players were strictly forbidden, so there was always a bottleneck while everyone set their phones to vibrate and stuffed them into their pockets.

  ‘Don’t you get it? It runs in your jeans.’

  It was the next bit I hated most: the mad stampede through the gates, the random kicking, the older kids swearing at you and a lump in your throat the size of a tennis ball. I don’t mind admitting that for the first couple of terms I was a whistle away from doing the one thing that Dad had warned me about. ‘For God’s sake, don’t cry, ’ he’d said, as he’d snapped yet another photo of me in my new uniform. ‘One boy at my school cried on his first day, and they were still calling him “the boy who cried” on the last day of the Sixth Form.’

  Now I was in Year Eight I could handle it. I didn’t even get that shivery feeling when the crowd thinned out and I got my first proper view of the maths suite. Dad said St Thomas’s reminded him of a state-of-the-art prison, but as long as you kept your head down, it wasn’t that bad.

  ‘Oh look,’ bellowed a familiar voice. ‘It’s Noddy and Big Ears.’

  Callum Corcoran and his sidekick, Animal, appeared outside the ICT suite, rucksacks whistling around their heads like helicopter blades. I tried to look unconcerned, but Alex’s ears had already started transforming.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Animal, as his rucksack made contact with Alex’s head, ‘didn’t see you there.’

  Callum Corcoran brayed like a demented donkey. ‘What, with those lugholes? You blind or something?’

  ‘Hey guys,’ I said, spotting the fear in Alex’s eyes despite the new designer frames, ‘got a joke for you.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what’s that then?’ said Callum, sounding about as enthusiastic as Simon Cowell.

  So I told him. And fortunately he found it a lot funnier than Alex. Animal cracked up the moment he heard the word diarrhoea, and Callum waved his hand in the air like a rapper. ‘Oi, Gazzer, you gotta hear this.’

  My best friend’s ears were slowly returning to normal. ‘You all right, Lex?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You look a bit . . . I don’t know. ’

  ‘Well, I’m not, OK?’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose and walked slowly towards main reception.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Got to take my guitar to the music department.’ He turned to face me as the reception doors slid open in front of him. ‘Sam . . . ?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was almost like he wanted to tell me something.

  ‘. . . Nothing.’

  ‘What’s up? Is something the . . . ’ But the automatic doors had already swallowed him alive. Poor old Lex, he’d not been himself for a while. Mum said lots of children found it difficult to adjust to new domestic circumstances. I’d just have to think of a clever new way to cheer him up.

  But that would have to wait. The nagging thought I’d succeeded in silencing for a couple of hours had forced its way into my head again, and it was begging for attention. There were only seventy-five minutes until PSHE. What if my internet murderers were about to introduce themselves? What if they were coming to get me?

  9.55 a.m.

  I glanced back at the rest of the class, half expecting something weird to happen, but no one gave me the evils and as soon as Mr Catchpole started fiddling with the interactive whiteboard I had the feeling that everything was going to be all right.

  ‘Like your jacket, Sir. Did you get it from the Cancer shop?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Chelsea. I’ll do the funnies.’

  A huge cheer went up for Catchpole’s catchphrase.

  ‘Now hurry up and hand out those worksheets. I want to get on.’

  ‘What we doing, Sir?’ said Callum Corcoran, screwing up a worksheet and chucking it at Alex. ‘Not puberty again?’

  Animal cracked up at the mere mention of the word puberty.

  ‘Not global warming?’ said Chelsea. ‘I hate global warming.’

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ said Pete Hughes, running a hand through his carefully gelled hair.

  Mr Catchpole hammered on his desk. ‘Look, can we have a bit of hush please? Now before we start, who’s remembered their HMS Belfast money?’

  I was the only one with my hand up.

  ‘Anyone would think you lot didn’t want to go.’

  ‘I’m really looking forward to it, Sir,’ I said, foraging around in my rucksack for the envelope. ‘My granddad was in the navy. He’s got a war wound and everything.’

  ‘Thank you for that charming snippet of family history, Samuel, but I’m trying to teach here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ sniggered Callum Corcoran. ‘You’ll learn how to do it properly in the end.’

  ‘Right, now this is what I want to happen. First of all, I’m going to talk through the worksheets and then we’ll do a role-playing exercise,’ (chorus of groans) ‘before finishing up with a couple of videos.’ (Ironic cheers.) ‘So, who can tell me what bullying is? Anyone? All right, Tristram, we’ll start with you.’

  Animal put his little finger up to his mouth, like Doctor Evil. ‘It’s when some kid really gets on your nerves and you, sort of like, accidentally, blap him a bit too hard.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m glad you lot think that’s funny, because bullying is actually a very serious issue.’

  ‘I thought you were the only one who did the funnies, Mr Catchpole,’ came a voice from the back.

  ‘OK, someone else. Yes, you.’

  He obviously didn’t know her name, which was hardly surprising because no one had heard Abby say more than a couple of sentences all year. She spent most of the time reading or practising her clarinet. I only knew her because she sat next to me in wind band. I’d tried to make her laugh once, by saying she reminded me of one of those nuns who’d sworn a vow of silence, but she’d looked at me like I was mad or something.

  ‘Come on, come on, we haven’t got all day.’

  A blush spread across Abby’s face, like a map of Russia. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and stared down at the table top. ‘It’s when someone . . .’

  ‘Speak up, for heaven’s sake. This is a classroom, not the whispering gallery.’

  The Russian Empire extended further down her neck.

  ‘It’s when someone wants to have power over somebody else, and they’ll do almost anything to get it.’

  Mr Catchpole nodded grudgingly. ‘As a working definition that’s not at all bad. So, bullying.’ He scrawled the word on the interactive whiteboard. ‘When I was at school it was often of a question of intimidation – stealing another pupil’s dinner money, that kind of thing. But that’s all changed now . . .’

  ‘We don’t have dinner money no more,’ said Chelsea.

  ‘We have them swipe cards.’

  ‘And Queen Victoria’s dead, Sir.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Callum. I’ll do the funnies.’

  Another cheer went up.

  ‘Twenty-first-century bullying is a very different kettle of fish. Let’s start with the internet . . . ’

  Mr Catchpole took us through a long list of bullying techniques, some of which I’m sure Callum Corcoran hadn’t even thought of yet. Despite his catchphrase, old Catchpole was a really boring speaker (in fact, I couldn’t remember him ever saying anything funny) and I soon found myself daydreaming about Granddad’s big secret; kind of wondering if he was going to leave me some money or a share in a racehorse or something.

  ‘. . . it could be that you speak differently, or the colour of your skin . . . ’

  And anyway, now that I was fairly confident The Emperor business was just a random wind-up, I didn’t think I had much to worry about. Catchpole’s catalogue of potential victims didn’t include anyone like me. Sadly for Alex, he seemed to fit the bill on a couple of counts (smalle
r than average, wore glasses). Maybe it was just as well he’d gone for his guitar lesson.

  ‘OK, when you’ve written up the notes, we’ll start on some role-play.’

  Abby looked none too thrilled to be the victim, blinking rapidly and winding a strand of her fine, mousey hair around an index finger. Callum on the other hand was really getting into the part of the bully. He circled his prey like a professional, bursting into song in his peculiarly deep, yet occasionally squeaky, voice: ‘I wore my brace of many colours, ooo.’

  I was supposed to be the ‘bystander’. I’d even been given my own catchphrase: ‘Don’t just stand by, stand by me.’ Only I didn’t have a clue how to go about it, so I stood there like a lemon, with a stupid grin on my face.

  ‘. . . and you’re a real porker,’ continued Callum. ‘Did you know that, A–BIG–gail? Ha, ha, ha, ha . . .’

  That was the moment when Abby should have said thank you and walked away, or confronted her persecutor with an assertive (but not aggressive) ‘No’. Unfortunately, she just turned a deeper shade of red.

  ‘And her mum’s a right slapper,’ chipped in Chelsea.

  Abby was fighting back the tears. I knew that’s what she was doing because biting hard on my bottom lip was the only thing that had stopped me crying when I kept getting lost in the first term. If I didn’t do something soon, there’d be tears before lunchtime.

  ‘Hey, Corky,’ I shouted. ‘Why did the toilet roll roll down the hill?’

  Callum stared at me like a cat that had suddenly got two mice to choose from. The whole room went silent (apart from Animal, who started sniggering as soon as he heard the word toilet) and I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. ‘Why did the wot?’

  ‘Er . . . why did the toilet roll roll down the hill?’ Callum flexed his knuckles and I hit him with the punchline. ‘To get to the bottom!’

  I held my breath, hoping against hope that Callum hadn’t lost his passion for toilet humour. At the first burst of his machine-gun laughter – ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,’ – I realised I was going to live to fight another day.

  Pretty soon the whole class was laughing with him – everyone except Abby, who crept, gratefully, back to her place, and an almost equally red-faced Mr Catchpole. ‘Quiet . . . quiet, the lot of you. I’ve had just about enough of your tomfoolery for one morning. And as for you, Samuel Tennant, I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I’ll do the . . .’

  And we all joined in with his catchphrase.

  The videos were well boring. First up was a load of celebrities talking about how they’d got picked on at school, followed by a badly-acted, low-budget affair about a boy called Albert who gets bullied because he’s rubbish at football. I was about to die of terminal boredom when I felt my phone vibrating. It must have been Alex texting me from his guitar lesson – probably to apologise for being so touchy that morning.

  Mr Catchpole sat engrossed, as if Bertie’s Bad Day was an Oscar-winning blockbuster or something. I reached surreptitiously into my back pocket, concealing my mobile beneath the table while I checked it out. The message was short and sweet, but it wasn’t from Alex.

  Prepare 2 meet ur doom

  10.55 a.m.

  ‘What’s the matter,’ said Alex, ‘something wrong with it?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your cheese and tomato panini; I thought you liked those things?’

  ‘Not hungry, ’ I said, casting a wary eye around the canteen, wondering if the person who’d sent me that text was wolfing down a carton of spicy sausage pasta and having a good old laugh at me. We normally ate lunch at first break, otherwise I’d have been starving by second break at one thirty. That morning, I didn’t feel much like food at all. ‘You can have it if you want.’

  ‘No thanks, got to go in a minute.’

  ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  Alex smiled and slung his new Reebok rucksack over his shoulder. ‘Chess club, I always go to chess club first break on Fridays.’

  ‘Oh yeah . . . course.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Sam? You OK?’

  I wanted to tell him, I really did, but Dad said you should never let on if you’re scared; it makes you look weak. And anyway, what was there to be scared of? It was pretty obvious that my doom-mongering text messager was just someone from PSHE experimenting with his new bullying techniques. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. After, all, I’d made it through to lunch without coming to a sticky end, hadn’t I?

  All the same, I didn’t want Alex to go just yet. So, even though I can’t stand football, I tried to get him started on his favourite subject: ‘How did Man U get on?’

  ‘Real supporters never call us Man U. We ’re United, or The Reds, but never Man U, OK?’

  ‘Sorry I spoke.’

  Alex squinted nervously at the spiky-haired Year Nines hanging out by the drinks machine. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, OK – see you later.’

  I normally spent the rest of first break wandering randomly round the courtyard, listening to the latest Doctor Who debate or maybe joining in a game of Manhunt. But that morning, I just wasn’t up for it. Maybe there really was someone out there who hated me. Maybe, just maybe, it was Ollyg78 or The Emperor who’d sent me that text.

  I lingered over my lukewarm panini, trying to convince myself that I was being stupid. But I couldn’t help thinking about what Granddad said when they’d told him he’d be better off in a retirement home: ‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean to say that no one’s out to get you.’

  ‘Ouch! What was . . . ?’

  I’m not sure what came first, the stinging blow to my forehead or the raucous cheer. All I remember is the gross sensation of something warm and sticky, trickling slowly down my left cheek. Suddenly I saw red. And . . . ‘Oh my God, I’m bleeding!’

  I rifled through my pockets for something to stem the flow; all I could find was a letter about the HMS Belfast trip (packed lunch, a maximum of three pounds for the gift shop, no peanut products) and a melted Malteser, so I dabbed at the wound with the end of my tie.

  And then I smelled vinegar. ‘Hang on . . .’ My regulation blue-and-white St Thomas’s tie appeared to have developed a red stripe. When I explored it with the tip of my tongue, I realised that it wasn’t blood at all, it was . . . ‘Huh . . . To mato sauce.’

  I can’t tell you what a relief that was. There was supposed to be a ceasefire, but the Year Nine Ketchup Wars had obviously broken out again; just my luck to get caught in the crossfire.

  But the feeling of relief lasted about two seconds. Callum Corcoran was grinning like a children’s telly presenter and waving his finger at my head.

  ‘Look at him. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. What’s the matter, Sam? Not your time of the month is it? Didn’t think you’d reached puberty yet!’

  Animal had cracked up the moment he heard the phrase ‘time of the month’.

  My face froze when I attempted a smile. ‘I just . . . Well I was . . . ’ If I didn’t get out of there fast, I had every chance of becoming ‘the boy who cried’.

  Callum advanced menacingly, brandishing a loaded can of Diet Coke. ‘Eh, Sam, got any more jokes?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Animal, ‘tell us another one.’

  I reached frantically under the table for my rucksack. ‘No, soz I —’

  ‘Come on,’ said Callum, ‘we was only having a laugh.’

  If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get the hell out of there I might have spotted the rogue PE kit that wrapped itself around my ankle and sent me plummeting to the ground like that footballer Alex was so keen on. I crawled the last few metres to the door, stumbling gratefully into the corridor, wishing I was a Time Lord who could just hop in the Tardis and jump forward to half past three. But like Granddad was always saying, ‘You should be careful what you wish for.’

  3.30 p.m.

  ‘All aboard for the Skylark,’ shouted Barry the Bus Driver as the Year Elevens swarmed up the steps. ‘No spitting, kicking, bi
ting or eye-gouging. Flick-knives and Kalashnikovs are strictly forbidden. And may the best young gentleman – or young lady – win.’ iPod blasting ‘Mood Indigo’ (the 1930 recording), I hovered in the bushes until they were all in their seats. It might have looked pretty random, but everyone knew their place. From Callum’s older brother Luke and his spotty mates in the back row, past Gaz Lulham and Pete Hughes in the middle, right through to me, Alex and a couple of Year Seven girls at the front, the pecking order was as well established as Mum’s chicken coop, and woe betide the hapless hen who tried to step out of line.

  A brief moment of calm descended as mobile phones were produced and messages checked. I slipped up the stairs and flopped down next to Alex.

  ‘Is anyone watching me?’

  ‘No need to shout. What are you listening to anyway? Not that jazz stuff again?’

  ‘Is anyone watching me?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you? You’ve been acting weird all afternoon.’

  ‘Just have a quick look, will you? Is someone staring at me?’

  Alex glanced towards the back of the bus. ‘Oh . . . my . . . God!’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Luke Corcoran’s got a huge pair of binoculars, and he’s like pointing them straight at you.’

  Lex hadn’t laughed like that since the time we made a prank call to the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter helpline. ‘It’s not that funny.’

  Barry the Bus Driver pulled down his shades and did his usual Elvis Presley impression over the PA system: ‘Thankyouverymuch, ladies and gentlemen. Now, will you kindly fasten your safety belts?’

  ‘You sure no one’s staring at me?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said, relaxing slightly, but sliding further down my seat just in case. ‘At least I . . .’

  Alex smiled and started texting. ‘You going online later?’

  ‘Doubt it . . . got clarinet practice.’

  ‘Why not? It only takes like three minutes, doesn’t it?’

  For some reason, I didn’t want to tell him about the night before. ‘Yeah . . . well . . . anyway, how about you?’

  ‘Probably not. Mum’s so upset about Dad’s new girlfriend she wants us all to watch a DVD together.’