Big and Clever (4 page)

Ryan grins again.

“Alright, Raks?” he says. “Anyway, what are we supposed to be up to this morning?”

“Lord Of The Flies.” I turn my pad round and show him the notes I've scribbled so far.

“Oh right,” he says. “William Golding.”

Raks and me exchange a glance. Maybe Ryan knows his English Literature.

Ten minutes later the
PIGGY
cloud on the board has all sorts of lines sticking out of it. As a class we've established that, amongst other things, he's
INTELLIGENT
and
PRACTICAL
, that he's a
PROBLEM SOLVER
and a
MEDIATOR
. I'm starting to feel a bit sorry that he ends up getting his brains smashed out on a rock at the bottom of a cliff.

For the last part of the session, Mrs Wetherall wants us to think about the
THEMES
of the novel. I start jotting a few things down, and I'm doing OK to begin with, but after a while I'm running a bit short of ideas. Mr Gillespie's shouting at the top of his lungs on the other side of the partition and it's not helping. I've been keeping a tally of the kids he's sent out to stand in the corridor. I'm up to five so far. I peer over to see what Raks has got. He's done less than I have. I'm about to lean across and see if Ryan's put anything down when I notice Mrs Wetherall heading in our direction.

“Let's see how you're doing, then,” she says, pulling out a chair and sitting down in a cloud of Dewberry scent. She looks over the top of her rimless rectangular glasses. “Ryan – are you going to go first?”

Ryan slouches back in his seat, eyes down. I can't help thinking that Mrs Wetherall is trying to put him on the spot again. I can feel the tension in the air. Ryan's saying nothing, staring at his pad and sucking the end of his biro.

Mrs Wetherall is smiling now. It's not a pleasant smile. She's got big receding gums and teeth like a horse, and the smile is getting wider and wider, because she knows she's got him. He's been dossing around, doing sod all, and now she's going to be able to give him another jousting. Ryan looks up. He takes a last glance at what he's written on his pad, and then he's off.

“Well,” he says. “There are a lot of themes that cut right across the novel. What I've done is reduced them down to seven major ones. First off, there's the contrast between civilization and savagery — the idea that we're all pretty savage deep down. Then there's the conflict between good and evil. Bad things happen to good people. The world's an evil place. Next up there's the theme of violence. Right through history humans have always used strong-arm tactics to sort things out. After that there's leadership. Some people are born leaders. That's just the way it goes.”

He's about to carry on, but Mrs Wetherall's holding her hand up. The expression on her face is priceless. She looks like she's been hit with a baseball bat. When she speaks you can hear the amazement in her voice. Or perhaps it's disappointment.

“Ryan,” she says. “That's very good. Very good.”

She gets up and crosses to the whiteboard without saying another word. It doesn't look like she wants any feedback from Raks and me, which is probably a good thing.

Eventually the lesson trundles to a close. The break time bell rings and people start packing their pads and pens away, streaming out and heading for the canteen and the vending machines. Ryan pulls his bag onto his shoulder and makes for the door. He's about to set off on his own when he stops and turns round.

“What are you two doing now then?”

“Nothing much, really,” I say. “Just going up to get a drink and a bag of crisps.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

I look at Raks. He nods.

“Yeah, no problem,” I say.

Ryan and me stand by the door while Raks packs his things into his rucksack. Mrs Wetherall has been sorting out various bits of paper on a table by the whiteboard and now she comes past us, head down, clutching a Tesco Bag For Life across her chest.

“See you, Mrs Wetherall,” Ryan says, bright and breezy.

Mrs Wetherall tries a smile, but this time she can't manage it. She keeps going.

I laugh.

“Gutted,” I say.

Raks has finally got himself sorted and we head out into the corridor, where Mr Gillespie's laying down the law to the kids chucked out of the Business Studies class. Judging by the smirks on their faces, it's not having the desired effect. We keep on going, anticlockwise around the curve, in the direction of the canteen. As the three of us walk, I start to feel a strange sort of pride. It's taken a few weeks, but we've made a new mate. There's three of us now. When there's only two of you, you feel a bit exposed, a bit vulnerable. But now we're a gang. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but Ryan's walking one step in front of Raks and me. It's like he's assumed command from the word go.

It's busy in the canteen. People are getting tea and coffee and hot chocolate, lining up at the tills. We get our cans and food and take our places at the back of the right hand queue. In front of us there's a fat girl in a crop top and combats. She's got
BAD GIRL
tattooed across her lower back in Gothic script.

“That was quite something back there, Ryan,” Raks says, as we're waiting.

Ryan looks puzzled.

“What was?”

“All that stuff you came out with. All those themes in
Lord Of The Flies
. You weren't even there when Wetherall asked us to read it at home.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. “I've read it before. I've seen the film too, the old 1960's one, not the crappy modern one.”

Raks looks at him. “Shit.”

Ryan grins, raising his eyebrows.

“You're surprised are you? Just thought I was some stupid thick bastard?”

Raks looks mortified. In that split second it's dawned on him that he might just have offended someone we had down as a maniac less than an hour ago.

“N-n-no. No. I didn't mean that.” He looks at me to help him out.

“He's not trying to be…” I say, but Ryan cuts me off.

“Don't worry about it,” he says. His voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. He's trying to put us at ease. “I know what people think of me. I know what people say about me. All that ASBO Boy bollocks. I don't give a fuck though.”

I nod. There are one or two things I want to find out. I look at Ryan and take a breath.

“Have you got an ASBO then?” I ask him. As the words are coming out of my mouth I'm already realising what a sad question it is.

Ryan doesn't seem to be bothered. He laughs.

“Not yet,” he says.

“So why do people call you ASBO Boy?”

“It's just a nickname, isn't it? People think I'm some sort of juvenile delinquent, because I've been in a spot of bother once or twice.”

Raks seems to have got his composure back now.

“What sort of bother?”

Ryan shrugs.

“Just things. Probably nothing like the stuff people think I get up to. I mean I've heard people saying I've been in Young Offenders and all sorts. It's bollocks. I told you though. I don't care. If people are scared of me, they just leave me alone. I can cope with that. To be honest, I'm happy with it.”

There's something in Ryan's body language that's saying we should let the subject drop now. Not surprisingly. Raks and me are starting to sound like a couple of little kids quizzing our big brother about the things he does when he's out.

We're getting to the front of the line. I put my Coke and crisps next to the till and reach into my pocket for my money. Before I get the chance though, Ryan's pulled out a fiver.

“I'll get this,” he says, putting his own stuff down and taking Raks's.

“Oh, cheers,” I say, surprised.

BAD GIRL
is collecting her change. She picks up her tray and wanders into the dining area. The woman at the till looks at us suspiciously. She slowly tallies up.

Ryan hands over the note.

The woman holds the note in the air, narrowing her eyes, checking the watermark. She gives us another suspicious look, then she opens up her till.

We pick up our food and drink and head out into the main part of the hall. As we walk, a couple of older lads, Sixth Formers, nod acknowledgement at Ryan. I've seen them before. Tall lads, short blond hair. One of them is carrying a Nike rucksack. Our local DVD specialists. It's not so mysterious that the hip-hop boys didn't push their luck with Ryan a few days back. He's got connections.

The room's quite full, but we don't have any trouble finding a seat with Ryan leading the way. Sitting down, I rip open my crisps and stuff a couple into my mouth.

“You're going to piss on the English Lit GCSE then, Ryan,” I say. I'm looking to get a new conversation going.

Ryan takes a swig of Sprite and shrugs.

“Who knows? Passing exams isn't exactly at the top of my list of important things.”

“Don't you want to stay on for the Sixth Form though?” Raks asks, through a mouthful of scampi and lemon Nik Naks. “You know, get a couple of A Levels, go to college, all that stuff?”

Ryan winces.

“What's the point of piddling around till I'm twenty-one, twenty-two, coming out with an armful of certificates?” He takes a chomp of his Mars bar. “This is Letchford. There are no jobs round here. I'll just be bumming around on the dole for the rest of my life. Like I said, passing exams isn't a big thing with me.”

“So what
does
get you going then, Ryan?” Raks asks.

Ryan laughs. Putting his can of Sprite down, he hooks his thumb under the collar of his jacket, pushing it forward so that me and Raks can see the small enamel badge next to the zip. Orange and black, with the lion crest and the initials
LTFC
.

“Letchford Town,” he says. “That's what does it for me.” He pulls the badge up and kisses it. “Come on you Tangerines.” It's the first time I've seen him properly enthusiastic.

“So you go to the matches do you?” It's a stupid question really. I'm full of them this morning. Ryan looks pleased that I've asked it though.

“Not missed a home game for six years,” he says. He brushes down his collar, making sure that his badge is facing the right way.

I crack open my can.

“Who do you go with then?” I ask.

“Just people,” Ryan says. “What about you lads? Ever been?”

Raks shakes his head.

“I've been once or twice.”

“What about you, Tom?”

“Well, you know,” I say. “I've been a few times, with my dad. Not so much in the last couple of seasons though.” In truth I've not actually been since I was in primary school. Since before my mum died. Dad isn't too keen on being around crowds of people these days.

Ryan nods. He reaches into his pocket, checking his phone for messages. You can see the disappointment in his face.

I suddenly feel really guilty. Like I've let him down. You're supposed to establish common ground at the start of a friendship, but here are me and Raks admitting that the most important thing in Ryan's world does nothing for us. I'm about to say something, but Raks gets in first.

“How are Letchford doing this season, then?”

Ryan shoves his phone back into his jacket.

“The same old same old, really.” He finishes his Mars bar and crumples up the wrapper, shoving it into the top of his empty Sprite can. “Bottom half of the table. Fourteen points from fourteen games. Out in the first round of the League Cup to Leicester. Leroy Lewton's got six goals so far, but Championship clubs have started hovering around, so he'll be off in the January transfer window. Bloody Coventry or somewhere.”

I'm thinking of ways I can get things back on track. I start dredging my memory banks, spooling back to last Saturday at ten to five, trying to visualise the League Two classified results on
Final Score
. Like a flash it comes to me. Swindon Town 1, Letchford Town 2.

“Decent win last weekend, though,” I say. I'm trying to sound authoritative, hoping that I've got it right. Luckily, Ryan's convinced.

“Not bad,” he says, livening up again. “Away form's been pretty good this season. We'd not beaten Swindon for years. And it puts us above Mackworth in the table. That's always nice.”

“Are they still the big rivals, then?” I say.

“Oh yeah.” There's a stern look in his eyes. “There's not really anybody else is there? Not since Lincoln went up. I mean, there's Boston, and I suppose Grimsby at a push, but they're miles off. Mackworth's just down the road.”

I nod.

“If we could just get the home form going then, we could be thinking about the Play-Offs next May,” I say. I'm warming to the task now. I've started referring to Letchford Town as we.

Ryan smiles.

“Not this year,” he says, shaking his head. “Not if you'd seen them against Wrexham and Barnet.”

Raks has finished his Nik Naks now. He smooths the packet out on the table-top and opens his can of Coke.

“Bad, were they?” he asks.

Ryan skims his hand across his hair.

“Fucking awful. The thing is, it doesn't matter does it? They're my team. With a bit of luck we won't go down this season, but even if we do, I'll still be there in the Conference.”

I look at my watch. It's just after eleven. People are tidying their tables and heading off in the direction of their third lesson of the day. An idea is starting to form in my mind. If there isn't much common ground between Ryan and us at the moment, then we're just going to have to make some.

“So who have Letchford got this weekend?” I ask. I'm hoping to get us an invitation, but I'm trying to be subtle.

“Castleton at home.”

“What do you reckon then?” I say. Ryan isn't biting yet. “Three points?”

He shrugs.