Another Life Altogether (47 page)

THOUGH IT HAD BEEN
warm and sunny that morning, by the time we left the school building the air had turned cold. I shivered as I trudged after Tracey and the Debbies toward the school gates, pulling my coat
tight around me and trying not to think about what lay ahead. It had crossed my mind to make some excuse so that I could leave them and walk instead to the car park, where I could wait for the bus. There, I could pretend I didn’t know what was about to happen, that this was just another ordinary day. No matter how tempting that prospect was, however, I felt oddly compelled to go with Tracey. Besides, I knew she expected me to accompany her, that this was another required duty of her best friend.

As we walked, swept along in the river of students exiting the school, I thought about Malcolm and what he said to me after we left detention together, how he’d been so angry at me for worrying about what other people thought. I’d considered what he said many times since then, imagining how light I’d feel if I said what was on my mind. I’d tell Tracey to stop being so petty and mean-spirited; I’d tell the Debbies that they needed to start doing their own homework and I never wanted to hear another word about the Bay City Rollers again. I’d tell Stan Heaphy that he was a coward and a bully, and I’d tell Greg Loomis that he was vain and shallow and that he looked a complete moron in his ridiculous clothes. I’d tell Mabel I thought she was a fool for marrying Frank, and I’d take great pleasure in telling Frank how much I hated him. I’d tell Uncle Ted to get up early, go out, and not come back until he had a job. I’d tell my father to stop pretending that my mother wasn’t bonkers, and I’d tell my mother that she was ruining my life. Of course, I’d tell Amanda that I loved her. I’d say all of this and more, loud and without inhibition, relishing the way my voice carried through the air. Except all of this was nothing more than an impossible fantasy. The punishment Malcolm was about to get for speaking out, for simply being himself, was evidence of that.

When we reached the gates, I felt a surge of hope when I saw that Stan and Greg weren’t there and their motorbikes were nowhere to be seen, but when Tracey’s expression brightened and she gave a little fluttery wave I turned to see Stan and Greg standing about thirty yards away, their bodies tucked behind a stand of trees. She rapidly explained
her plan to the Debbies. “Stan and Greg are hiding,” she told them, “until nancy boy shows up. Wouldn’t want to frighten him off, now, would we?” The Debbies nodded, exchanging eager looks.

As I watched Tracey strut about, the picture of impatience, I stood rooted to the spot while my heart resounded through my body, as loud as my mother’s sledgehammer when she’d driven those metal stakes into the ground. I kept hoping that Malcolm would see through Tracey’s ruse, make his way instead to the car park, get on his bus, and go home. But this was not to be. And when I saw Malcolm leave the main entrance of the school and begin walking toward us, his long-limbed gait unmistakable even from that distance, it was as if one of those cold metal stakes had been driven into my gut.

Tracey, on the other hand, let out a joyful little gasp, and as Malcolm came closer she smiled and waved at him, as if she were greeting a long-awaited friend. Then she turned to the Debbies and me. “Move back from the gates a bit,” she said, gesturing us to follow her as she stepped a few yards from the entrance. “I don’t want anyone in the school to see us. Besides, I want to get closer to Stan and Greg.” The two of them had ducked all the way behind the trees now.

“Hiya,” Tracey said when Malcolm was within a few feet of us. “I’d almost given up on you. Thought you weren’t going to show up.” She swung her ponytail and smiled. I gnawed on my lip as I watched.

“I heard that you wanted to talk to me,” he said.

“Yeah,” Tracey said. “There’s something I want to tell you.” She stepped toward him. I clenched my hands into fists so tight I could feel my fingernails pressing like tiny blades into my palms. “I just wanted to say—” And then Tracey reached out and grabbed hold of both of Malcolm’s arms.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said, jerking his arms about and trying to shake her off.

Tracey held on tight, clutching at the thick woolen fabric of his blazer. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him!” she yelled over her shoulder.

At this, Malcolm ceased his struggle for a moment. “What the hell—?” And then his voice faltered as he saw Greg and Stan charge out from behind the stand of trees.

“You’re going to get your head kicked in.” Stan sang the words as he galloped over the grassy verge and onto the path. As he ran his blond hair flared behind him, his lips twisted into a lopsided snarl, and his eyes, narrowed and focused completely on Malcolm, glinted like coins catching the sun. He moved faster than Greg, who was wearing platform shoes and stumbled clumsily over the uneven grass before reaching the pavement to clunk along the asphalt after Stan.

Malcolm struggled to free himself from Tracey’s hold, fighting more fiercely now, his arms flailing while he kicked and shoved and tried to pry her fingers from his sleeves. Even next to Tracey he looked slight, but in contrast to the looming forms of Greg and Stan he seemed scrawny, hopelessly light, as if with a single blow they might send him flying into the air and he would land lifeless on the pavement.

This was not, however, what made me do it. It was the look Malcolm gave me as he wrestled with Tracey. At first I saw his fear, a sheer animal panic. It blazed, a conflagration in his cheeks, flames in his eyes. But beneath that fear I saw the fire of his accusation. When, that look demanded of me, will you stand up for what you know is right? So it was then, with Stan fast approaching me on the footpath, that I lifted my satchel from my shoulder, grabbed the strap, swung it back, and hurled it with as much strength as I could muster, right into Stan’s face.

First there was the sound, an enormous hollow thud as the satchel struck him, and then there was Stan’s roar—a simultaneous cry of pain and consternation. I saw his head snap upward, his back arch, and then he took two, three, four staggering steps back. My satchel continued upward, spinning on itself, sweeping loose, so that for a moment it looked as if it might take flight and never return to earth. Then, caught by the tug of gravity, it ceased spinning and fell, like a rock, to the ground.

It was just at this moment that Greg caught up with Stan. He’d seen me slam Stan with the satchel, and he was enraged, yelling at the top of his lungs. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you stupid cow?”

I stood there gaping at Stan as he floundered, appearing for a moment to find his balance before teetering forward, and then, like one of those unfortunate murder victims shot during the opening sequence of
Columbo
, he crumpled to the ground. I looked up, horrified, expecting now to feel the full force of Greg’s fury. But Greg, like me, hadn’t expected my blow to have such an impact, and he hadn’t anticipated Stan’s sudden fall. So, as he continued to run forward, pulling back his arm, readying to land his fist on me, he careened into the buckling Stan and fell with him, headlong onto the ground.

I simply stood, blinking, staring at the bundle of tangled arms and legs at my feet. Then I looked around, feeling as disoriented as if I’d been woken from a deep sleep. Everyone’s eyes were on me—Tracey, the Debbies, Malcolm. They were all motionless as they gawked, mouths flaccid and wide open, eyebrows arched high, foreheads creased with shock. And then Greg let out a little moan and began trying to haul himself up. I felt a surge of fear and energy, and I began to run.

“Run!” I yelled at Malcolm as I approached him. I saw him turn and try to move away, but he was pulled to a halt as Tracey grabbed him again.

“Come on!” she cried at Greg, who was pulling himself to his feet. “I’ve still got him, Greg. Come and get him. Smash this little poofter’s face.” Then she let go of one of Malcolm’s arms only to grab hold of a hank of his hair. “I’ve got him!” she yelled, her voice shrill and victorious. “Come on, Greg, he’s not going to get away!” Malcolm flailed and pummeled at Tracey, then yelped in pain as she twisted his hair around her clenched hand and yanked his head back, hard. At the same time, I saw Greg finally lift himself off the ground, and I saw the Debbies move closer to Tracey, apparently readying to help her hold Malcolm down. So I did the only thing I could think of. As I came level with Tracey, I halted, swung my leg back, and issued the hardest kick I could
muster to her shin. As she screamed, I prepared to kick her again, but she relinquished her grip on Malcolm to double over and grab her leg.

“Run!” I yelled at Malcolm again as Greg ran toward us. We both turned on our heels and ran back along the path and through the school gates. We kept running at full tilt into the car park, sweeping over the dark asphalt and easing to a stop when we reached the single bus still standing there, its passengers already loaded, all of them staring out the windows at us.

“That’s my bus,” Malcolm said, panting. “Quick, get on. It’s leaving.” He tugged at my arm.

I hesitated and looked back. Greg and Tracey hadn’t pursued us. They were standing just inside the school gates, their faces furious. “You fucking bitch, Jesse!” Tracey yelled.

“Come on,” Malcolm said, pulling at my arm again. “Otherwise you’ll be left here with them.”

I followed him onto the bus, flopping down into the nearest seat as the doors swished shut and the engine rumbled to a start.

“Are you all right?” Malcolm asked me. There were no other empty seats close to mine, and he stood over me in the aisle.

I nodded. “Are you?” I asked.

“Yeah, my head’s a bit sore.” He patted the place on his head where Tracey had pulled so viciously on his hair. “I think I—”

“Hey, can you sit yourself down?” It was the bus driver. He frowned over his shoulder at Malcolm, his brows knotted into a single heavy line. “As you know full well, lad, I can’t move this bus an inch until you put your bum on one of them seats.”

“Sorry,” Malcolm said. But before moving away he looked down at me again. “Thanks, Jesse,” he said. “That was really—” He paused in apparent embarrassment. “Well, I just want you to know that I thought you were really brave.”

As he smiled at me I felt pride, a burst of glorious yellow light, flood through me.

“You want chucking off this bus, lad?” the bus driver bellowed.

“Sorry,” Malcolm said again, and shuffled along the aisle to find an empty seat.

I didn’t look out the window at Tracey and Greg as we drove through the school gates. Instead, I closed my eyes and let my head loll against the seat back. As the bus pulled away, my heartbeat slowed and my breaths began to lengthen, while a feeling of utter satisfaction thrilled through my veins. I had stopped something terrible from happening. For once, the fear of consequences hadn’t left me silent and afraid. I had, as Malcolm said, finally been brave. I knew I ought to be worried about Tracey’s anger, the threat of reprisals from Stan Heaphy and Greg Loomis. I knew that I’d stepped over a line that would separate me from them, and that now that I’d done it there would be no going back. But instead of worrying I felt deliciously carefree. I felt weightless, unhampered, as if, like my satchel after I’d thrown it into Stan’s face, I could defy gravity, dance upward, spinning, through the air.

And then I remembered. The thought plummeting into me with all the force of something heavy falling and then crashing to the ground. I had left my satchel behind.

I
GOT OFF THE BUS IN REATTON HIGH STREET. “JESSE, WHY DON’T YOU
come to the caravan?” Malcolm said, pushing his way through the other kids on the pavement to reach me. “When my dad gets back, he can give you a lift home.”

I shook my head. I felt dull, dazed; there was a hollow dread pushing from my stomach into my chest. “I’m going home,” I said, turning and striding toward where the road veered off to Midham.

Malcolm jogged after me. “He won’t be long, Jesse. You’ll probably get home sooner if you wait for him. And I don’t know about you, but I’m a bit—well, I’m still a bit shaken up.”

His face was flushed, mottled red, his clothes rumpled where Tracey had grabbed and pulled at them, his hair messy and snarled. His eyes were wild and watery. But it wasn’t fear that held him now; he was flying high on the thrill of victory. I felt a surge of anger at him for still being able to occupy that place.

I said nothing. I kept on walking. The wind, brisk and cold, pushed my hair back from my face and sent grit into my eyes.

“Slow down, Jesse,” Malcolm said as he strained to keep up with my rapid march. “You don’t need to leave. It’d be nice if you stayed. We
could look at some of my library books. I’ve this really good one right now about London….” He touched my arm.

“Get off me!” I yelled, swinging my arm away as I spun around to face him. “Just because I helped you it doesn’t mean I want to be your friend, you stupid little poof!” I stood there watching as his expression changed from concerned to confused, then to bemused and stung. I stared at him, daring him to say something. When he stayed silent, I turned on my heels and marched off down the road.