Читать книгу The Devil's in the Detail - Matthew S Wilson - Страница 10

CHAPTER 5

The weather was hot – or as hot as London gets in Autumn. Returning to school was the first sign that normality was returning to London. It had been an eventful summer. The papers were still reporting on the arrival of Charles and Diana’s son, William, when a month later, the IRA bombed Hyde Park and massacred eleven people.

The boy walked down the cobble-stoned alley, wearing his school uniform with his tie loose and a bag swung over his shoulder. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip. He always liked to have swiped his next cigarette before smoking his last. As he entered the schoolyard, he could tell people were looking at him. He was used to that. It wasn’t because he was the biggest kid in school, which this year, he would be. And it wasn’t because he was the most liked – he wasn’t. But he certainly was the most feared.

Every school in England was probably the same. You had the squares, who were good with their studies. The athletes who were good at sport. The geeks that were good at reciting Doctor Who quotes. And then you had the school bully, who was generally good for nothing. But as the kids watched him walk through the playground, he could have sworn that there was something other than the usual fear in their eyes, something new he’d never seen before: a certain twinkle. Their lips didn’t betray it, but he was sure he could detect a certain amusement in their eyes.

Had they heard about what had happened that Summer?

He walked up the stairs, slid his smoke into his shirt pocket and swaggered down the corridor – checking out all of the other kids. He loved the first day of the school year. Everyone was a tiny bit different. Chris Boyce now had glasses. Alice George had grown tits. Robbie Scott was on crutches.

The hallway parted before him like the Red Sea. Suddenly the conversations that had been happening became hushed and the games of football in the corridor temporarily stopped. There it was again. This was definitely different. Last year it would have been a scared silence, but now there was the unmistakeable silence of a private joke.

Perhaps he was the joke.

And as the crowd parted, one of the younger kids, Albert Sullivan, tripped and fell over in front of him. Sprawled on all fours, Albert desperately clambered to pick up his books and the contents of his lunch.

The entire corridor froze. No words. No whispers. Not even a breath. All eyes were fixated on what was sure to be poor little Albert’s imminent death. He looked down at the pathetic sight of the small boy, amazed at just how tiny some of the kids were in the younger years. He bet that he could pick this kid up and throw him a quarter of the way down the corridor. Maybe even half way.

He reached down and the corridor let out a collective gasp. But rather than pick Albert up by the hair and lob him into the lockers, his hand pushed inside the lunchbox of the younger kid’s lunch and emerged with a “Mars” bar. He ripped it open, took a large bite and smirked as he slid the remainder into the breast pocket of his shirt.

As he turned and continued walking down the corridor, he heard a solitary voice ring out from the crowd.

‘On your bike then.’

Initially there was silence, but then the corridor was hit with an eruption of laughter that seemed to make the windows shake. He spun around to see who had made the crack, but all he saw were kids laughing. Geeks. Squares. Athletes. Girls. Boys. All laughing. All laughing at him.

He stormed down the corridor, the laughter at his back like a whip spurring him on. He had to make this right. He had to find the little turd that was to blame for this humiliation. He had a fairly good idea of where the spineless little shit was going to be.

The door to the boy’s bathroom slammed back against its hinges as he shoved it open. A pimple-faced kid was on his tip-toes, his face almost touching the mirror, biting his bottom lip, just about to squeeze a zit.

‘Fuck off.’

Pop. The kid scrambled out of there with puss dribbling off his chin, leaving him alone in the bathroom. The bell for the first class echoed around the deserted toilet block. Deserted, save for the closed cubicle at the end of the room. He cracked a smile and walked towards it. That new song from the recent “Rocky” sequel popped into his head and he found himself singing it as he walked.

‘It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the cream of the fight, Risin’ up to the challenge of our rival.’

It was so quiet in the bathroom that he could hear the leathered creak of his Doc Martin boots with each step as he walked up to the door. He pushed on it with a finger. Locked. He placed his palms either side of the door and raised his boot.

‘And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night. And he’s watchin’ us all in the eye…….’

He thumped his boot hard against the wooden door. The metal latch shattered and the door sprang back hard, revealing a scared shitless kid sitting on the toilet.

‘…. of the tiger.’

The kid had his trousers up and feet tucked up on the seat, obviously thinking that the cubicle would offer him refuge. He’d thought wrong.

‘Good morning, Shepherd.’

He still couldn’t believe that this was the kid who’d had the guts to humiliate him. Until that Summer, he hadn’t even known who David Shepherd was. He was the type of kid that could be in your class for four years and you still wouldn’t have known him. He wasn’t very smart. Wasn’t particularly athletic. And he wasn’t very popular. He was a kid that had slipped through the cracks. But Michael O’Connor was about to kill him.

The kid looked in a bad way already. He had no colour in his cheeks.

‘Think you’re pretty fucking funny do you, yeah?’

David hadn’t moved a muscle.

‘What’s the matter Shepherd, don’t feel like making any jokes today?’

O’Connor grabbed David by the scruff of his shirt and slammed him against the cubicle wall.

‘You are a regular comedian, ain’t you? Putting super glue all over my bike seat and handlebars. Is that funny, Shepherd?’

He slammed David against the cubicle wall again.

‘Is the fact that I had to ride to A&E on my bike funny? Well it must be Shepherd, because the god damn nurses found it pretty fucking funny.’

He slapped David’s face. Hard.

‘And even the Doctor had a little fucking laugh.’

He gave him another slap, this time with the back of his hand. A stream of blood flicked over the white cubicle wall.

O’Connor pushed David’s head back against the wall.

‘Awwww – you’re bleeding Shepherd. We’d best get that washed, don’t you think?’

And as he said it, he held David’s throat and with his boot flipped up the toilet seat. He looked inside the bowl and a smile curled onto his lips.

‘Don’t you just hate those filthy bastards who don’t flush?’

The rancid smell of shit hit David’s nostrils and before he could protest, O’Connor grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and thrust his head down into the toilet bowl. David slammed his hands against the bowl and pushed his head back with as much force as he could muster - his face less than an inch away from a bowl full of murky, shit-infested water.

‘Now come on Shepherd, that cut needs a good wash.’

O’Connor grinned at the sound of David’s feet scrambling on the floor tiles. The little bastard had some fight in him. He gave a concerted shove, trying to get the little prick’s head under the water. As he leaned forward, the “Mars” bar that he’d swiped from little Albert in the corridor toppled out of his shirt pocket and plopped into the bowl. It dipped below the water line and resurfaced, before bobbling in front of the boys. Its torn wrapper exposing the now shit covered chocolate bar to both of them.

‘Awww, this is dumb isn’t it Shepherd? What do you say we put all this behind us? I’ll tell you what, I’ll even give you my chocolate bar. How does that sound?’

O’Connor hurled David back out of the toilet bowl and pushed him against the wall. He reached down and carefully grabbed the chocolate bar by its wrapper. Getting some of the murky water on his hands wasn’t ideal, but it was far better than what he was going to subject David to. He held the sullied chocolate bar up to David’s mouth.

‘Maybe this will teach you some fucking manners, Shepherd’

The “Mars” bar edged closer to David’s lips.

‘Come on you little prick – open wide.’

David kept his mouth shut tight.

‘I said, open up!’

He twisted David’s nipple through his shirt and it had the desired effect. David opened his mouth to squeal in pain and as he did, O’Connor slid the shit-covered “Mars” bar into his mouth.

‘Thatta boy Shepherd. Now be a good lad and take a bite.’

David looked at him wide eyed, unwilling to bite down into the chocolate.

‘Come on. You can do it.’

O’Connor grinned, knowing that David’s lungs would be burning as they ran out of air. He kept inching the “Mars” bar further down the smaller boy’s throat, knowing that David would have to take a bite if he didn’t want to choke.

Any second now. O’Connor grinned as he saw the look of resignation on David’s face. Here it comes.

Suddenly David’s eyes rolled back and without further warning he collapsed onto the grimy tiles of the bathroom – the “Mars” bar falling out of his mouth as he fell. O’Connor watched the limp body topple over, simultaneously noticing that the tiles were smeared with blood.

‘Jesus.’

He’d fucking killed him. He’d suffocated him and the little shit had cracked his head open on the tiles. He hunched down over him and checked his head. He couldn’t see any cuts or gashes. He checked the back of his head, half expecting to feel a gaping wound, but there was nothing. Yet blood kept seeping from underneath him. He flipped David’s body over and pulled his blazer off him, immediately seeing the source of the blood. The back of David’s white school shirt was soaked with blood. Surely he hadn’t caused all of that? The fall hadn’t been that hard. And he’d landed on his side anyway. He swallowed, wondering what to do. Seconds passed. He eventually started unbuttoning David’s shirt and opened it up.

‘Jesus.’

As he peeled open the shirt, he noticed that David’s chest and stomach were covered in bruises and cuts. Some looked old, whilst others looked newer – sporting all of the colours of the rainbow. He rolled the limp body onto its tummy and peeled the shirt off.

‘Christ almighty.’

No wonder the kid was bleeding. His back was covered in half a dozen fresh lashes which were still weeping blood. He leaned over just in time to vomit violently into the very bowl that he’d just held David’s head over only a moment ago. Michael O’Connor had wanted to kill David Shepherd that day, but it appeared that someone else had already tried. He crawled back over to the kid to see what he could do for him. As he did, the door opened.

‘Michael O’Connor!’

It was Sister Accarelli. If O’Connor was the scariest guy in school then she was the scariest teacher. The sight of any other of the female teachers in the boy’s toilet would have otherwise been strange, but it was widely known that she enjoyed a fag in the boy’s toilets between her classes.

‘Go to the headmaster’s office now,’ she thundered.

David briefly stirred, still groggy from the fall. He remembered seeing Michael leaving the bathroom and giving him a bizarre look of empathy. He remembered Accarelli’s rancid breath on his face as she slapped his cheek and asked if he was alright. He remembered the walk to the sick bay and the fact that Sister Mulligan had cried when she saw his back and bruises. And he remembered the hushed tone of Headmaster Chadwick. Snatches of words like “abuse” and “investigation”.

He lay on the bed in the sick bay, his eyes focused on a shadow on the ceiling that resembled the profile of a woman’s face.

Chadwick walked in.

‘David, how are you feeling?’

This was the first time he’d ever spoken to the headmaster. Headmasters really only ever cared about those kids that were academically brilliant, or constantly in trouble. David was neither.

‘Fine, sir.’

Chadwick sat at the edge of the bed.

‘Not a good start to the school year is it? I’ve spoken to your mother and she is terribly upset. She’s coming to take you home now.’

He paused, biting his lip a moment.

‘Is that what you want, son?’

David looked into his eyes and saw the message in them.

‘Yessir.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be, sir?’

The headmaster paused a moment, biting his bottom lip before cautiously continuing.

‘We noticed some bruises on your body.’

‘Sir?’

‘And some lashes on your back.’

David flushed with embarrassment. How had they seen those?

‘How did you get them, David?’

He’d always been so careful covering up. Mum had always ensured he had. That’s why he wore extra-long shorts when playing football. And it was the reason he hadn’t learned to swim yet, because that would mean taking his shirt off in front of the other kids. He didn’t have to be careful all the time though. Just sometimes. And it wasn’t anyone else’s business anyway. What did it matter to anyone else?

What did people know about him anyway? Why was the headmaster all of a sudden being his best friend? David hadn’t done anything to anyone, so why was he the one that was in trouble now? Why was he the one that was going to be sent to a new home? That’s what would happen now. His mother had told him so. A new home, new parents, a new school, a new football team. How had this happened?

And then it dawned on David. Michael O’Connor was to blame. If it hadn’t have been for his constant bullying and bashing of younger kids, David would never have covered his bike seat and handlebars with super glue. It was his own fault. And he hadn’t even learned any kind of lesson. He was still going to bash people. Headmaster Chadwick sensed the boy’s willingness to confide.

‘You can tell me, son. Who did this to you? Who is to blame?’

Michael O’Connor was the reason David was going to be sent away. He looked the headmaster in the eye.

‘Sir, it was Michael O’Connor that did this to me.’

Chadwick’s brow furrowed.

‘O’Connor?’

‘He did it all of last year too sir. And over the holidays. He said …’

David bit his bottom lip and looked down. Chadwick put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Go on. What did he say?’

David kept his eyes down.

‘He said that the only thing I was good for was a beating, sir.’

David didn’t see the headmaster’s Adam’s apple shift as he swallowed. He just kept looking down at the floor, feeling ashamed. Not ashamed at the bruises or the cuts themselves. He was ashamed at placing the words of his father into the mouth of an innocent bully.