Gamerunner (28 page)

‘A rites-of-passage novel of unusual power and skill’

Sunday Times

One

It made sense that it happened on that particular day. Michael could see there was a kind of sick logic to it. Like someone had developed a sense of humour. If it was going to happen, then, well,
obviously
it would be on that day. Not that there was anything special about the date – just, it was one of those mornings when you actually feel pleased to be alive and up and going somewhere. You know, one of those morning-has-broken mornings, a God’s-in-his-heaven morning. Not that he believed any of that stuff, of course, but he could see what they were on about.

That morning as he walked to school in the October sunshine, leaves everywhere like yellow paper, he felt sort of better about everything – sort of
good
, actually. St Anselm’s was always pretty – that’s what you paid for, red-brick buildings and striped lawns – but that morning, with a blue sky overhead and no one around, it took his breath away. Michael was whistling as he went through the school gates. He looked at the drifts of leaves at the base of the wall and thought about kicking them up into the air, because it wasn’t like there was anyone around to laugh at him, but in the end he didn’t. You get hedge­hogs hibernating in piles of leaves, and it wouldn’t be fair to disturb one.

He turned left, the way he always did, past the music block, on to the playing fields, and down towards the belt of trees. For a moment, looking into the glare of sunlight, he thought Francis hadn’t got there yet. Then he saw him, leaning against a tree in his shirtsleeves, his jacket hung on a branch. Francis was the only person he knew who took off his jacket when he smoked. Michael grinned and jogged across the field, the bag over his shoulder bouncing.

‘Hey.’

‘Good morning.’ Francis reached automatically into his pocket and offered the cigarette packet. Michael took one. It was a rule. You had to have a cigarette before school, just like you had to bunk off early on Friday afternoons. He used to feel queasy smoking first thing in the morning but now it was lux­urious, taking deep lungfuls of thin smoke and autumn air, standing in silence. He leant against a tree a little way off from Francis’s and closed his eyes against the light.

‘How was the wedding? On Saturday?’

Francis laughed. ‘Really awful.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette and stamped it into the mud. ‘All those people. Having that many relations is just scary. And they all look the same.’

‘Like you, you mean?’

‘Exactly. It’s horrible.’

Michael squinted at him sideways, smiling. ‘I can see that.’

‘Yeah, shut up. The whole experience is just purga­tory. Seriously. Even getting there’s like some kind of medieval torture. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes just to get everyone in the car. And then when you get there it’s all, haven’t you grown and aren’t your little brothers and sisters lovely and do
you
have a girlfriend, Francis?’ He laughed again, but briefly. ‘I mean, Jesus, they can
see
my little brothers and sisters and they’re clearly
not
lovely. What’s that about?’

‘Compared to you, maybe.’

Casually Francis flicked two fingers up at him. ‘And of course they all say, how nice that you still want to come to these family things, how nice that you don’t have anything better to do. And I want to say, actually, Mum made me come, I
do
have better things to do. Frankly I’m seriously pissed off that I have to be here at all.’ He shook the cigarette packet pensively, then got another cigarette out and lit it. ‘But that should be it for a bit. I mean, Saturdays as nor­mal from now on. Thank God.’ He smiled and flicked ash at a pile of leaves.

Michael nodded and breathed out smoke. ‘Good.’

‘Which reminds me –’ Francis crouched suddenly, his cigarette between his lips, and dug in his bag. After a few seconds he surfaced with an A4 envelope in his hand. ‘Here.’

‘What? Oh – thanks.’ Michael held it for a moment, wanting to say,
No, not here, give it to me later . . .
But that was silly, paranoid. Francis would think he was crazy. It’d be fine. Just because they’d never given each other stuff at school before. What could happen? It wasn’t like anyone was going to go through his bag. Anyway, Christ, it was just an envelope, just a plain brown envelope.

It was like Francis read his mind. ‘It’s not hardcore porn, you know. Unless my mother switched the envelopes.’

Michael forced himself to smile. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘I guess it could have waited till Saturday.’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Michael started to kneel down and caught himself before he got mud all over his trousers. He crouched carefully and pushed the envelope into his bag, between two books to keep it flat. As he leant forward he felt the key round his neck swing coldly against his skin, like a talisman. ‘What’s in it?’

Francis winked. ‘Wait and see.’ He stamped on the butt of his cigarette and added, ‘Nothing world-shattering. Don’t get too excited.’

‘No fear.’ They grinned at each other.

They heard the sound of the five-minute warning bell carry across the playing field, clear and shrill. Francis sighed and picked up his bag. ‘God, I hate Mondays.’

Michael shrugged, agreeing. They walked back towards the main building, away from the sun. There were more people around, now. Michael could hear shouts from somewhere, pre-pubescent shrieks that sounded like they were coming from the music-block roof, and the scuffle of a game of football from further away. Francis kicked genially at a pebble. It skittered forward and Michael chased it and kicked it back. When they turned the corner he wasn’t even looking where he was going. He only knew something was wrong because Francis stopped dead and grabbed his arm. He turned round to look, stumbling. A little kid – a second-year, maybe, skinny and miserable – stood unhappily on the grass, surrounded by a strag­gling circle of older boys.

Someone said, ‘
Bent dick?
Is that really your name?’

But the voice would have stopped Michael in his tracks, wherever he was. It was sly, malicious,
gentle
, so that you answered back, so you made things worse for yourself. He felt a sort of disbelief rise up in the back of his throat, outrage like nausea.
Not here, not now, it can’t be
. He stared at the group in front of him, hardly noticing Francis’s grip on his arm. The kid in the middle was small and thin and scruffy. You wouldn’t have looked twice, except for the expression on his face. Michael stared and then wanted to turn and run. That expression. He felt the muscles on his own face tense, like he was trying to mimic it.

The voice said, ‘Is that because your dick is bent? Or is it because you’re a dick and you’re bent? Was that why your parents called you
bent dick
?’ He was leaning against the wall, smoking, like he wasn’t pay­ing much attention. Tall, dark, with hair that was just too long. Dominic Shitley. Shipley, really, but they called him Shitley because he was a shit.

Francis said quietly, ‘Old Condom Shitley. He can talk.’ Michael wanted to smile but he couldn’t. He wanted to turn round and walk away but he couldn’t. No one had seen them. They could just turn round and go the other way, round past the cricket pavilion. No one would know. But he didn’t move.

Shitley said, ‘So, Bent Dick, which do you think it is?’

The kid knew the drill. His eyes flickered to Shitley’s face, then down. Answering would only make it worse. Michael knew he was thinking,
Just get it over with
. But he wished the kid would say something, anything, just to fill the pause.

Shitley stepped forward, peeling himself away from the wall like something reptilian. He moved in a semi­circle so the kid had to turn to face him. He flicked his cigarette ash casually towards the kid’s face. ‘Personally, I’d guess you’re bent.’ He gestured, like a teacher giving a lesson. ‘You know. A poofter. A fag­got. A
pansy
, if you like . . .’ And for a moment the imitation of Father Markham was so good Michael almost smiled, like it was all a big joke. They’d got it wrong, it was just a kind of game . . . But when the other fifth-formers laughed, the kid flinched. Shitley waited until they’d finished. He took a drag of his cigarette and leant towards the kid, blowing the smoke straight into his face. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, bender-boy?’

Michael felt Francis step forward. He grabbed his arm, wrenching him back by the sleeve of his jacket. He felt the tension in the fabric as Francis tried to pull away, and then the material relaxed under his fingers. Francis turned to stare at him. ‘For God’s
sake
, Michael!’

‘Leave it. Please. Just leave it.’

Francis frowned. ‘
Leave
it?’

Michael shrugged helplessly. He still had Francis’s sleeve in his hand. He held on to it, like he was anchoring himself, like if he gripped hard enough this wouldn’t be happening. He swallowed frantically. ‘It won’t help. Whatever you say. It won’t help.’ His voice sounded small and pathetic, and he hated himself.

Francis narrowed his eyes. Then he looked away, pointedly. He could do that, he could turn his head away so that you felt
dismissed
, shutting you out like you just weren’t there any more. Michael had seen him do it to other people. It made him feel cold. He looked away himself, scared of what his face was doing.

Shitley said, ‘Is that what you get off on? Working away at that little bent dick of yours?’

The kid raised his eyes and looked at Shitley. His face was rigid, blank. Michael felt the force of his hatred as though it was inside him: the hatred that ate you up, that froze your face into stone. It was dan­gerous, because it made you want to fight back. You had to brace yourself against it, like a wave.

Shitley shook his head slowly, smiling. ‘Looks like I’ve touched a nerve.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, yeah, baby . . . Bet you’re turned on now, just thinking about it.’ He stood there, still, daring the kid to hit him, to retali­ate, and Michael knew, with a spasm of shame that knotted his stomach, that the kid wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be able to. He couldn’t even stare him out. Shitley said, ‘Or would you like to . . . ?’ His hand went to his flies.
No
. No.
Oh God, he can’t
. Disgust hit the back of Michael’s throat like a finger.

Francis hissed, ‘Jesus
Christ
,’ and stepped forward. He started to say something, loud and clear, ‘Hey, Shitley,’ but before he’d finished – maybe even before he’d started – Shitley had stepped towards the kid. Michael heard the kid’s sob of revulsion, then saw him force himself to stay still, not to flinch, to keep his clenched fists at his sides. Shitley brought his cigarette up to his mouth and took a long drag. Then he brought the glowing end of it down on the back of the kid’s hand, grinding it down into the pale space above the wrist. The kid cried out and stumbled backwards.

‘Stop it! Piss off, Shitley, leave him alone –’ Francis ran towards them. But underneath his shout you could hear the noise the kid was making, the dry hoarse sobbing that you can’t control, like your body’s trying to shake the pain out of you, like it’s trying to break it down into manageable bits. Almost like laughter. Sometimes they thought you really were laughing, and that made it worse; or if you were cry­ing, properly, with tears, that made it worse as well. But now all Michael could think was,
Thank God, thank God it’s over, thank God that’s all
. He felt relief push up warm from his gut and despised himself.

Shitley swung round towards Francis, leaving the kid to drop to the ground. His henchmen followed his gaze. ‘Mind your own business, Harris.’

‘You sadistic bastard, Shitley, what the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

Shitley blinked, twice. ‘What did you call me, Harris?’

‘A sadistic bastard.’ Francis held his look, cold, challenging. Michael looked round at Shitley’s mates and wondered if they’d fight another fifth-former. Surely not. It wouldn’t be worth it.

Shitley shook his head slowly. ‘Before that.’

‘What?’ For a second Francis looked genuinely con­fused. Then he said, ‘Oh. Shitley. It suits you better than Shipley, don’t you think?’

Shitley looked at him consideringly. Then he flicked his cigarette butt away. ‘You’d better watch yourself, Harris. Don’t mess with me.’

‘What, is that a
threat
?’

Shitley shrugged. Like, it wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, only that he couldn’t be bothered to say it. He glanced down towards the kid, who was hunched over, knotted into himself, cradling his hand, still gasping. Then he started to walk towards the main building. He looked Michael briefly up and down as he passed. Michael met his gaze. It wasn’t like Shitley could see inside his head. After he’d gone past, Michael was pleased he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t given anything away.

The henchmen followed, giving Francis dirty looks. He stared them out. Michael wished he could do that: keep his cool, gaze back at them flatly until they looked away. But it wasn’t courage. Not really. It was only not knowing how things could be.