Underdog (5 page)

‘Where are you going?’

‘The Two Feathers.’

‘I’m going past there. We can get the bus together.’ She glanced up the road. ‘It’ll be here in a minute.’

Tom forced a smile. In spite of himself he was unable to stop gazing at her. Her slender arms were nicely tanned, in sharp contrast to the whiteness of her T-shirt. He looked down, not wanting her to think he was checking out her breasts, only to be confronted with her shapely legs, bare beneath a short, tight denim skirt.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly.

‘What for?’

‘For Chris. If I’d known, I’d have …’ She stopped herself. ‘I hate him sometimes. The way he can be.’

She looked at Tom, unsure whether his hair was meant to look so dishevelled. The shirt he was wearing was too big for him, and the butcher’s apron too long; it covered his shins. His offbeat appearance reminded her of how he had looked at school when she had first noticed him: out of place and solitary; not full of himself like the other boys. There was something interesting about him. She studied his face for a moment, lingering on his shy, brown eyes.

‘I’m sorry about your mum.’ She smiled sympathetically before looking away, suddenly unsure what else to say.

‘It’s okay,’ said Tom, sensing her unease, not worrying about what she might have heard. They watched in silence as a car drove past.

Tom realised he liked her even more than he’d imagined.  There was a gentleness in her voice and in the way she held herself, kindness in her eyes. She was so different to how the other kids talked about her at school. She wasn’t stuck-up or fake. And it wasn’t just that she was so pretty or that he fancied her so much; she was caring and thoughtful, too. That’s what really mattered. As he started to relax, it occurred to him that this might be the one time during the holidays they would meet. He didn’t want to leave it until next term.

Their eyes met.

‘What you looking at?’ asked Alison coyly, in a way that suggested she knew what he was thinking.

‘You.’

Tom’s spontaneous response made him clench his toes in embarrassment. He had never asked a girl out and didn’t have the first idea of how he should go about it. But he could feel words coming, urged on as Alison smiled back at him.

‘Alison …’ He did his best to sound sure of himself. ‘Alison, I … I was thinking …’

‘Oi! Soppy Bollocks!’

The shout made them both jump.

‘Oh no,’ Alison murmured.

Tom turned to see Chris, Fraser and another lad he didn’t know coming towards them. Chris was beaming.

‘That’s right, shithead! I fucking told you I’d catch up with you.’

As Chris closed in, he picked up his stride, puffing himself up. In spite of the heat, the hood of his tracksuit top was up, his boots stomping against the pavement as he broke into a swagger, a pace or two ahead of his mates.

‘Alright?’ Tom hoped he might defuse the situation before it turned nasty. Chris came to a halt in front of him, eyes wide, nostrils flaring.

‘Don’t you alright me. You’re fucking for it.’ Chris screwed his face into an aggressive sneer. ‘Little arsehole.’

He glared at Alison.

‘What are you playing at? Your mum said you’d gone to Sarah’s. What are you hanging out with him for?’ He mugged at Tom, getting in close. ‘Trying to mess around with my bird now as well, are you?’

Tom could smell the beer on his breath.

Alison stepped between them. ‘Leave him alone, Chris.’

‘I’m not leaving anyone alone, am I, lads?’

He pushed her aside. Tom knew he was going to get hurt. There was nothing he could do to avoid it. No point in running. Chris jabbed him, hard, in the shoulder, punctuating every word.

‘I fucking told you, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah. You told—’

Tom didn’t see the punch coming. Stunned, he reeled backwards, instinctively cupping his hands under his nose as if not wanting to lose the blood spurting out of it. His eyes stung and began to water.

‘Dirty bastard,’ he choked, his clean white sleeve turning a deep crimson as he wiped his nose with it.

‘Leave him alone!’ shouted Alison, moving towards Tom to see if he was alright.

‘You can keep it shut as well. Get the fuck off him or I’ll be sorting you out next.’ Chris noticed the bags resting against the bus stop sign. ‘What we got here, then?’

Kicking over the closest bag, he stamped on it, hard, repeatedly, enjoying the sensation as its contents were squashed and flattened underfoot, mince oozing out onto the pavement like a squeeze of pink, meaty toothpaste.

‘Get off it!’

Tom lunged forward, tackling Chris to the ground, the two boys rolling around on the grass verge as each tried to get on top of the other.

‘Stop it!’ shouted Alison as the bus came round the corner. ‘Chris, you’re hurting him!’

The boys continued to thrash around as the bus pulled up beside them. Its doors flung open.

‘Oi. Get off him,’ demanded the bus driver, who nevertheless remained resolutely in his seat. People in the bus peered through the windows, trying to get a better look.

‘I’ll sort it,’ said a thickset boy as he jumped down onto the pavement. The driver closed the doors and drove off.

Chris was straddling Tom, throwing wild punches, too preoccupied to notice the boy coming at him. As he was heaved off from behind, an arm slipped under his chin whilst another pressed into the back of his neck, putting him in a perfect choke hold.

The boy dropped onto his back on the grass, Chris on top of him, staring helplessly up at the sky. He wrapped his legs around Chris’s shins, immobilising him completely.

Alison helped Tom to his feet. Fraser and Chris’s other mate watched on impotently, unsure what to do.

‘Get off him,’ Fraser suggested weakly, his spiky, gelled hair standing even higher on end than normal.

‘Alright,’ said the boy from underneath Chris, ‘but if I get off him, I’ll be getting on you instead.’ It was obvious he meant it. Fraser took a step back.

The boy grinned as he tightened his grip. Chris’s face turned red, his squeals constricted into gurgles as the breath was choked out of him, his arms flailing uselessly in his panic. It felt as if his windpipe was going to be crushed, that his neck might break. He tried to speak but his words were strangled into nothing. His face turned purple.

Suddenly releasing him, the boy pushed Chris off onto the grass. Fraser and his friend took another couple of steps back. Chris coughed and sat up, grabbing at his throat as he rolled onto his knees. He was embarrassed and glanced warily up at the boy, who stood ready, daring him to retaliate. Finally, he struggled to his feet.

‘You coming or what?’ he wheezed at Alison.

Alison, turning away, said nothing.

‘Suit your bloody self, then.’

The boy began applauding sarcastically. He stepped over to stand in front of Tom and Alison, as though guarding them.

‘Looks like you’re not wanted, Frankenstein,’ he said. ‘Fuck off back to your castle.’

Chris wretchedly turned tail, stomping off with his head down, pushing his way through Fraser and his other mate, not looking either in the eye. The two lads turned and meekly followed, like ducks waddling after their mother.

‘Lucky I came along, eh?’ The boy briefly inspected Tom’s bloodied face; his right eye was beginning to swell slightly. ‘It don’t look good, mate,’ he teased, nodding towards Alison. ‘She won’t fancy you anymore.’

Tom was starting to feel shivery, the heat of the day seeming to have suddenly turned cold. He put a hand to his eye and touched it, trying to get an idea of the damage.

‘I’m Stevo,’ the boy continued. He leaned closer. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Don’t think so. I’m Tom.’

‘Yeah, sure I’ve seen you around before. Where my mum works. Bradbury’s.’

‘Maybe. That’s where my dad works.’

‘There you go, then. Makes us family, don’t it?’

Stevo brushed off the grass and dirt from the elbows of his sweatshirt and the back of his jeans. He wasn’t much taller than Tom, but was stocky and muscular. A trace of dark stubble, darker than his mousy brown hair, peppered his chin; he must have been a year or two older. One of his brown eyes was lighter than the other.

‘Who were those blokes, anyhow?’ he asked.

Tom didn’t want to say anything too harsh with Alison standing beside him. ‘Just some kids from our school.’

‘Whose’s the mince?’ Stevo nodded at the squashed meat on the pavement, noting the logo on the trampled bag.

‘Shit,’ said Tom, remembering the delivery.

Alison picked up the other bag. ‘This one’s okay.’

‘I’ve got to get back to the shop. What time is it?’

‘Quarter past eleven.’

‘I’ll walk back with you,’ offered Stevo. ‘I was on me way to Sam’s to pick up some stuff anyway.’

‘You know Mr. Fenton?’

‘He’s a mate of me stepdad’s.’ Stevo grinned. ‘Couple of right bastards, eh?’

Tom turned to Alison.

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault,’ she said, handing him the bag. ‘I’ve had it with Chris. He’s such an idiot.’

Looking at Tom’s face for a moment, she reached into the leather bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a couple of tissues for him. He wiped the blood from his face.

‘Look, Alison, I’ve got to go, but … Can I see you again?’

She didn’t reply at once, seemingly distracted by another bus coming towards them.

‘It’s mine,’ she said. Then she smiled. ‘Maybe.’

The bus pulled up alongside them. Tom watched as the doors closed behind her.

As the bus drove away, Tom realised he didn’t know how to contact her. He ran a few steps after it before realising it was too late. It picked up speed and headed out of sight.

‘She was a bit of alright,’ said Stevo. ‘Reckon she fancies you, mate.’

‘Nah. She’s with that bloke I was fighting. Chris.’

‘You don’t want to worry yourself about him. It’s me you got to watch out for.’ Stevo laughed. ‘You’ll see her again. Sooner rather than later, too. She’s yours, mate. Lucky sod.’

He slapped his new friend on the back and chuckled, his good humour infectious enough to make Tom smile.

When they got back to the shop, it was empty. It was also five minutes before the delivery was to have been made. The bell on the door rang as the boys entered, answered by a flurry of red and white strips as Sam came in from the back.

‘Tom?’ he said. ‘What are you doing back?’

The look of surprise on his face turned to one of concern when he noticed the blood and dirt on Tom’s clothes, and the torn and trampled bag Stevo was carrying.

‘What happened, lad?’

‘He was taking a pasting at the bus stop,’ said Stevo, butting in. ‘Some kid from his school having a go. I sorted it.’

‘I didn’t realise you two knew each other.’

‘Oh yeah, we’re old mates, ain’t we, Tom?’

Sam walked around from the back of the counter.

‘Let’s have a look.’

He took Tom’s head in his hands and tilted it back. There was a small cut across the bridge of his nose and a welt beneath his right eye. The edges of both nostrils and his top lip were caked with dried blood.

‘Don’t think that nose is broken,’ said Sam. ‘How’s it feel?’

‘It’s nothing,’ answered Tom. He suddenly thought about the delivery. ‘I’ve missed the pub. I’ll go back if—’

‘Don’t you worry,’ said Sam, taking the bags from Stevo. ‘Kev and I can sort that.’ He turned and shouted into the back room.

‘Kev, get The Feathers on the phone. Tell them we’re running late.’ Sam looked back at Tom and gave him his best smile. ‘I think you’d better take the rest of the day off.’

‘Nice one,’ said Stevo.

‘Get those things off,’ said Sam, gesturing at Tom’s stained apron and shirt, ‘and get them in the wash.’

‘Thanks.’ Tom stepped through the fly curtain into the back room.

‘So he’s got you to thank, has he?’

‘That’s right, Sam,’ beamed Stevo. ‘There would have been more than mincemeat on the pavement if I hadn’t shown up. All the training kicking in, see? Hate bastard bullies.’

‘How’s your dad? I’ve got some nice ones for him today. Keep an eye on the shop for a mo’.’ Sam stepped into the back, taking the bags with him.

Stevo stood alone in the shop, eyeing the glass display. He wondered how quickly he could get round to the till and fill his pockets. Before he had time to finish his calculations, Sam was back.

‘Here you go,’ he said, holding up two large white plastic bags in front of him. ‘That should keep them going for a while.’

Stevo took the bags and looked inside one. It was full of the bones Tom had packed.

‘Thanks. He’ll be happy with these.’

Tom came back into the shop dressed in his usual clothes, the green sweatshirt that hung off him a tad cleaner than his jeans. A pair of old trainers added to his untidy look, but his face was washed and the tangle of his hair slicked back.

‘The only way to beat a bully,’ advised Sam, ‘is to kick the shit out of him.’ He chuckled to himself, then looked at Stevo. ‘Take care of him. Make sure he gets home safe. And say hello to the old man.’

‘So where you going, then?’ asked Stevo as they stepped outside into the sunshine.

‘Dunno. Home, I suppose.’

‘You can come back to mine if you want. Mum’ll be in. She’ll get us some food on.’ Stevo looked Tom up and down. ‘Fatten you up a bit.’ He held up the bags. ‘I’ve got to get these back for the dogs and clean them out. You can give us a hand if you like.’

Tom’s ears pricked up. ‘You’ve got dogs?’

‘Yeah. My mum’s bloke breeds them. They’re all over the estates. Come on,’ he said, taking charge. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where’d you learn to fight like that?’ asked Tom as they bowled down the high street.

‘I go to a gym. They do all sorts: judo, boxing, grappling. You name it. I do a bit of everything. You should come along. Toughen you up.’

They turned off onto a side road, Stevo stopping halfway to sit down on the edge of a low garden wall, shielded from the view of any passing motorists by an unbroken row of parked cars. He put down the bags and rifled around in his trouser pockets, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.