Our Vinnie (8 page)

‘Now then, lads,’ he said, joining the group, ‘Who wants an arse whipping? An’ I’m talking about pool, for those of you with dirty minds.’

Across the rec room, another group of lads – four of them – were playing cards, and were obviously having some kind of an argument. Voices were raised, one belonging to a big lad called Joe; a boy Vinnie hadn’t had any sort of personal dealings with, but who he had still been busy keeping an eye on, because he had a reputation as someone not to be messed with. Joe would make a good target because he was a lad with some serious status. Vinnie studied him. If he took someone like him on – no small thing – he’d definitely get himself some status too, win
or
lose.

He carried on playing pool for a bit, but nodded over to them as he lined a shot up. ‘Watch them fuckers, Billy,’ he told his nervous-looking pool partner. ‘That big one’s a twat. There’s gonna be a ruck in a minute.’

Billy took his shot and nodded to Vinnie in agreement. ‘Best we keep out of it then, eh?’

Vinnie looked around for staff. There were none in the rec room currently, so this was particularly good timing; no staff meant no fucking interference. He grinned at Billy. ‘Keep out of it? Fuck that, Billy lad, this might just liven up my weekend.’

Without taking his eyes off of the group, Vinnie propped his pool cue against the wall. He then leaned over, slipped his plimsoll off, and peeled his sock from his foot, before picking up the white ball and placing it inside. He laughed at Billy’s now equally white face.

‘You okay, mate?’ he said quietly. ‘You look like you’re gonna throw up.’

‘Vinnie, what the fuck? Shall I go get Vincent? They look about 16, and that big one’s fucking massive!’

‘Which is why he’s the one we’re gonna go for first, Billy boy. And no – fuck Vincent. We don’t need him. We’ll do this together.’

Vinnie shoved his plimsoll back onto his foot and picked up his cue. Holding the sock hidden in his palm, he grinned. His blood was still up from seeing Bacon Neck Brian giving Sullivan a pasting, and the lad’s chatter about it, which was very much still ongoing, reminded him just how much he wanted to make a name for himself as well.

No fear. That was the thing. No fear. He could almost taste the blood, feel the thump of his heart in his chest, sense, rather than see, Billy quaking in fear beside him, feel his own features morph into a rictus that meant one thing – that he was going to give someone a proper pasting.

Billy had grabbed his cue now and was trying to psych himself up, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. Vinnie laughed.

‘Follow me, Bill, just act natural like, okay?’

Billy licked dry lips. Not much chance of that happening.

Not that anyone had even noticed them; they were too busy slinging insults. Even from across the room, it was clear that the argument had got more heated, the group of four now split into two, with each pair making threats towards the other. Though as Vinnie and Billy approached, pool cues in hand, one of the smaller lads turned to look at them. ‘D’ya want a fucking picture, like?’ He snarled. He was a Scouser. Even better, Vinnie thought. He hated Scousers.

‘Picture of you, cunt?’ he said. ‘Nah mate, you’re too fucking ugly.’

Billy laughed at that. Which seemed to flick a switch. The whole group fell silent, looking at him, and Vinnie, in turn, assessed them. It was a shame the little Scouse fucker was one of the pair arguing with Joe, the big lad. Now he would have to fight both sides.

The little one decided to carry on, looking towards his previous tormentors for allegiance.

‘Have you heard this, Joe?’ he asked. ‘Young ginger bollocks here fancies his chances.’

Vinnie felt the words like a slap. Fucking little cunt. He also noticed that Joe was now reaching into his back pocket. What for? A knife? Fuck. No time for small talk, then. He dived onto Joe immediately, aware of Billy’s startled cry beside him, but with all his energies now focussed on whacking his loaded sock, which he held by the end to give weight and a bit of a swing to it, repeatedly into the big lad’s spotty face.

He was soon aware that the little one had jumped onto his back now, to try and stop him, and then of Billy flailing around trying to get him off again. And with some success, too. After a short scuffle Billy managed to prise him right off and Vinnie could see he was now hitting him with his cue. Good lad.

The other lads, still apparently unsure what to do next, or who to go for, left him to get on with the job in hand – Joe’s fucking face. Which didn’t take long, a pool ball being such an effective weapon. In a matter of minutes, Joe – now pinioned safely underneath him – was covered in blood and minus several teeth.

Vinnie started laughing. It was an automatic thing – a kind of knee-jerk on seeing the pulpy mess he’d made now. He’d done a good job, but he wasn’t done with Joe yet, even so. He dangled the sock, with its ominous bulge now equally bloody, half an inch from the now terrified lad’s face.

‘Tell me who’s the hardest now, you fucking piece of shit,’ he yelled. It had almost been
too
easy. ‘Come on, tell me!’ he screamed.

‘Fucking get off me!’ Joe answered brokenly. ‘You’re the winner!’ He was crying. Crying and in very obvious pain.

‘Come on, Vin,’ Billy said. ‘Leave him now before the staff come. He said you won, didn’t he?’

Vinnie turned. Billy looked terrified. Good. He looked up at him, eyes blazing, still caught in the moment. ‘That’s not what I fucking asked, is it?’

Billy winced. ‘
Is
it?’ Vinnie screamed again, at Joe. ‘
Is
it?’

Joe started to thrust his body frantically beneath him. ‘
Please
get off me! I forgot what you asked!’

Vinnie paused for a couple of heartbeats, while the rest seemed to hold their collective breath. There was a stillness in the room now, which he relished. ‘Well, next time,’ he snarled, ‘you
won’t
fucking forget.’ Then he bent forward and bit down as hard as he could on Joe’s cheek. He felt the blood hit his own cheek, a pungent warm spray of it. And as cries of shock erupted all around the room, Vinnie felt triumphant.
No one
would call him ginger bollocks now.

Someone must have run for staff, though, because no sooner had he thought that than he felt strong hands grip his shoulders and others round his ribs, as he was torn from his victim and dragged to his feet. Mr Bastion, it seemed, and Mr Henry.

Bastion was the head of the institute, and had a reputation for his no-nonsense approach, and Mr Henry was his side-kick. An English teacher, Henry had his own reputation – all the lads said he had a thing for young boys. It was a rare occasion that these two would both be here on a weekend, but, as he was hauled up bodily by the latter, he decided that, for his intentions, this was a bonus. Mouth still dripping with blood and spit, he grinned at them.

‘All right, sir?’ he said to Mr Henry.

Both teachers looked sickened at what they had just witnessed. Both looked at Vinnie with a new sense of – what was it? Shock? Respect? Fear? Any would do, Vinnie thought, as he let them drag him from the rec room. Yes. Any of those three would do.

He was not so much directed to as thrust into a chair in the office and immediately handed a roll of toilet tissue. He could still taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His pulse was slowing now. He licked his lips. Raised his eyes.

‘Clean your face up, you vicious little thug,’ Bastion commanded. ‘You’re in serious trouble, young man.’

Vinnie tore off some of the bog roll and slowly wiped his face with it, holding Bastion’s gaze as he did so. ‘They started on us, sir.’

He noticed Mr Henry staring at him, disgusted. ‘Oh, that’s right,’ he added. ‘It’s bound to be all
my
fault, innit?’

‘It
was
all your fault, McKellan,’ Henry confirmed. ‘There’s a room full of lads in there that will tell us it was.’

‘Mr Henry, I
swear
. We were just playing pool, me an’ Billy, and them other kids started shouting stuff at us. They were taking the piss cos I got ginger hair …’

‘Did you see the
state
of that boy?’ Mr Henry interrupted, upping the volume. He jabbed a finger twice in the direction of the rec room. ‘He probably needs hospital treatment!’

Vinnie felt a surge of pride. Hospital treatment? That would mean notoriety, surely. ‘It was a fair fight, sir, honest,’ he said. ‘He’s
miles
bigger than I am. Was I supposed to just let him beat me up?’

Neither Bastion or Henry seemed interested in providing an answer. Instead of that, they exchanged a glance and shook their heads. ‘We have to involve the police in this, Vincent,’ said Bastion, giving him daggers. ‘And we most certainly will do, come Monday. In the meantime, you will receive six of the best, right now. And will then be confined to your room for the remainder of the weekend.’ He shook his head again. ‘Until this whole sorry mess gets sorted out.’

And he would be sorry. He didn’t doubt it. But that was fine; that was the price you had to pay, that sort of bother. That was the whole point they didn’t get. The reason he
wasn’t
that bothered; in the long term, it meant he’d get a whole lot
less
bother.

The six of the best – standard punishment in approved schools, if not all schools – was administered without any delay. It could be administered with a cane, or a ruler or a shoe – it didn’t matter. Just as long as it was something that was good at inflicting pain. Mr Henry’s weapon of choice was a leather shoe, an object he’d been acquainted with many times at his old school but never at the hands of this pervy fucker; the subject of many a rec room conversation.

‘Come on, lad, drop ’em,’ Henry told him, with a glint in his beady eye. He almost smiled at Vinnie. ‘You know the drill.’

Vinnie stood up, placing the bloody bog roll on the desk just beside him, dropped his jeans to his ankles and positioned himself towards the seat of the chair he’d just been sitting on, gripping the backrest tightly with both hands. He then bit his lip in readiness for what was to come, and then as reaction, as the first part of his punishment began.

Old Henry started swinging away, the sound of the air-rush audible, and counted each strike out loud as Mr Bastion looked on. Vinnie refused to acknowledge the pain surging through him and turned to fashion the best grin he could manage at his observer. ‘Come on, sir, is that all you’ve got?’ he taunted Henry, causing the teacher to make strike six the hardest one yet. But not as hard as
he
was, Vinnie thought. Not by a long shot.

‘Now get to your room, you little bastard, and stay there,’ Henry said as he threw down the shoe.

Vinnie stood up, hitched up his flares and gave a mock salute. ‘I’m knackered anyway, sir,’ he said. ‘Could do with a nice nap. Did you enjoy that, Bastion? Do you like watching boys get their arses smacked?’

‘Get out of here!’ Bastion snarled. ‘Straight to your room and stay there. No tea or supper for you tonight, son.’

‘Fuck you very much, sir,’ he responded, beginning to enjoy himself despite the searing pain. ‘Can’t stand the shit you call food anyway.’

He was halfway out of the door when he felt the shoe hit his back.

Though he’d made a point of laughing as the shoe had been lobbed at him, Vinnie let his guard down just as soon as he was out of sight. His arse felt as if it had been thrust into a roaring fire, and he rubbed at it furiously as he limped back to his room. Nasty bastards, the pair of ’em. Bastion the bastard and Henry the arse bandit. Yeah, that’s what he’d call them from now on, he decided. He felt lighter of heart than he had at any point, he realised, since he’d arrived at the shit-hole. Yes, he might have a swollen arse for a few days but it was worth it. It was
worth
it. Now he wouldn’t have any more bother. Billy too, perhaps. He hoped he’d gotten away with it – respect to the lad. He’d torn straight in to help, even though he was plainly bricking it. As far as Vinnie was concerned that cemented their friendship for ever.

A successful Saturday, all things considered.

Monday arrived and Vinnie went to brick-laying for the first lesson of the week, as per usual. His group – a bunch of six lads he barely knew – were building a wall in the gardens at the back of the centre. The reason why eluded him, because it seemed pretty pointless, other than to give them something useful to do. Well, useful, that was, if building walls was your thing. And the one thing he knew he had no intention doing was spending the rest of his life slapping mortar onto fucking bricks.

The dimwits he was working with were like robots, too. All ‘Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir’ morons. They never even questioned the futility in the exercise. Vinnie sighed and shook his head as he picked up a trowel and a bucket. He’d let these monkeys do the hard graft today, he thought. No point him killing himself when he had no intention of becoming anyone’s labourer. No, Vinnie fancied himself becoming a carpenter. He’d really loved making his bookshelf and had taken real pride in carving intricate patterns into the sides. He had decided there and then that when he was ready to do some honest work, it would be something involving making things from wood.

And on his own – not as part of some brain-dead group of wets. He preferred his own company much better.

He had only been there for 10 minutes when he was summoned to the office. A tall lad of about 17 who he’d never seen before, who looked like he could handle himself, had come to escort him, and after washing his hands in the bucket outside and wiping them on his T-shirt, Vinnie followed him back into the building. The lad didn’t speak so, taking his cue from him, Vinnie kept his mouth shut as well.
Ignorant fucker
, he thought.
Probably thinks I’m scared of him
.

They walked down the main corridor, their boots slapping in time on the navy-blue lino, towards the office where Mr Bastion was housed. Vinnie winced as he approached – it was almost automatic. He hoped that he wasn’t going to get the shoe treatment again. His arse was still throbbing from Saturday, the bastards. He glued a grin on his face and pulled his shoulders back a little. He’d not been told what he had been summonsed for, but it didn’t take a brain surgeon to work out that it would almost definitely be about Saturday. So he’d go in smiling and just take what he had coming.