Woodhill Wood (5 page)

Dewar looked up through his swollen eyes, begging to be allowed to return to his seat. Stewart's eye twitched once.

"Right, Baird. Up!"

He raised his hands as he had seen the others do. With his hands outstretched it was as if Gurde was begging to be hurt. The palms were slippery and Gurde felt the urge to pull them away tug - and then Stewart's arm dropped and Gurde could hear the whistling sound before the hands jerked downwards and the smack rang out.

The feeling of the blow rattled into the top of his skull, followed by a thump in his stomach. Gurde kept the stinging eyes fixed on Stewart as he fought the need to buckle over.

Then Gurde lowered both hands and stood still. A snigger crossed the room. The heat in the fingers tips began to burn and Gurde was surprised at how pain grew and changed. Only a few seconds after the strike and already the hot stab had become a throb that made the hand heavy. Gurde glared up at the twitching face. It was busily scanning the class with a look of smug satisfaction, checking to see if there were any more excuses to be found in the sea of quiet faces.

"I didn't deserve that." It slid quietly out of his mouth but it took a second to realise he had spoken. The sniggering stopped and there was a short silence before Stewart's head span. He took a step back. The left eye flickered and he smiled.

"You'll deserve this one then! Up!"

The refusal rose in his throat but Gurde kept it at bay. He no longer had any fear but to refuse might suggest otherwise. He waited as long as he dared before he raised the arms once more, placed the reddened right hand on top and waited.

"No-one talks back to me, sonny!"

Gurde nodded. The leather strap rose in a blur. It paused for only a second at its maximum height before it came down. The awful smack rang out once more. It was a strange pain. The fingers, still numb from the first blow, hardly felt the impact. Instead it was as if the palm had split and warm liquid was flowing down. His eyes began to water. Then the throb burst through the warmth, stronger than ever, pulsing inside the lump at the end of the arm.

Gurde waited. He could sense Stewart's frustration, and was proud of what Gurde could do. Stewart's eyes flicked across to Dewar who was regaining some composure. Gurde rolled the burning fingers over into a fist to drive the feeling deep into his body. Stewart was staring at him again, waiting for a reaction. The eyes were seeking, trying to read the thoughts, but Gurde squeezed the throbbing fist and gave him nothing, and for a moment he thought Stewart was going to punch him. Then it was over.

"Sit!"

Stewart's shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he turned and marched back to his desk. He slipped the belt back under his jacket and picked up his newspaper.

Gurde paused for a few more seconds, remembering, and then walked back to the desk. As he approached the seat he looked around, moving from face to face, reading their expressions. He hoped there was a hint of admiration. Stewart turned to the blackboard and went on with the next chapter.

Gurde tried to pick up a pen but the swollen stumps would not do as they were told. He closed the books, arranged them neatly on the desk and imagined the new words that would soon be drifting from the back seat of the bus.

Gradually the feeling in the clenched fist settled to a sweaty warmth. Gurde stared in turn at the clock on the wall and at the grey clouds massing outside the window, slipping in and out of the possibilities that ebbed from the throb, letting them drift like a break in the clouds.

It was fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds before the hand recovered enough to hold a pen. The books remained closed. Gurde had begun to relish the heat in his fingers and hoped it would last. He squeezed them to prolong the pain.

The Wizard had kept Matt Duff on the Woodhill until it was too late to get to school. The Wizard had set him up and he would pay. It was a good day just as Gurde had promised.

Gurde noticed Mr Stewart glance in his direction but soon realised that the teacher was staring elsewhere. He was peering deeper into the class with a renewed malice in his twitch. Gurde looked over at Dewar who was a picture of attention, nodding at the end of Stewart's statements, sensing through unblinking eyes that he was a target for the future.

The bell rang out. Gurde dropped the books into the briefcase and joined the crush moving towards the door. The other three boys that he had shared the stage with all carried their books in sports bags draped over their shoulders.

As he passed through the classroom door a hand slapped on to his shoulder and he turned to look up into the face of Dougie Erskine. Dougie winked and gave the shoulder a firm squeeze.

Gurde sat through the first half of the Chemistry trying to imagine things that were too small to imagine. The second half of the lesson was the practical session, where everyone was supposed to make those unimaginable things react with each other, and watch as these changes removed any remaining doubt they might have about what the invisible things looked like.

The class moved off to work at the benches at the back of the room. His partner was John Baird. Bairdy: that's what everybody called him. He was quiet and they got on all right. Like Matt Duff, he was average height for his age but thin and pale, with the short red hair that marked out the Scottish blood in him.

At one stage Bairdy had almost been a friend. They had been working together for about two weeks when Matt Duff cycled past him in town and stopped to talk. Bairdy lived only half a mile away so they met a few times after school.

Bairdy came to the white house once, but he kicked the ball into the roses and the mother sent him home. She made it clear that she didn't like him, probably because he reminded her of somebody she taught. "I don't like the look of that boy. I don't trust his eyes." So Gurde went to Bairdy's bit. It was one of a line with a small patch of garden at the back. There were roses there as well but his mother didn't seem worried about them. There were two dogs chained up in the garden that barked at the one chained up next door. Gurde sifted through the comic collection and they talked about their favourite characters. But any friendship had faded. Bairdy now tended to go over to talk to other people and leave Gurde to do the experiments on his own. Gurde had been glad to be left alone.

Bairdy began setting up the Bunsen burner on the bench top while Gurde watched the others setting up on the other benches. Across the room, with her back to him, stood one of Janice Gilchrist's followers. It would take a while for word of the belting to spread.

Bairdy looked at the experiment description sheet and fetched a test tube from the rack further down the bench. He clicked the sparker over the Bunsen burner and the blue flame hissed. Gurde slid the tripod over the flame and they stared as the gauze on top of the tripod began to redden in the heat.

"I heard Stewart belted you," he said, still staring into the flame.

"Aye," Gurde replied.

"What for?" He put a Pyrex beaker half full of water on top of the tripod.

"I wasn't in yesterday, so I didn't know he'd set homework."

"Sick?" he asked.

"No. I was up the hill," Gurde said.

"Doing...?"

"Nothing much.”

The water in the beaker began to bubble.

"Is it right you got double from Stewart?" Bairdy asked.

"Aye."

"Is it right Dewar started greetin'?"

"Aye."

"Poor bugger," Bairdy shook his head.

"He shifted his hands," Gurde added.

"Is that right? No wonder Stewart split him. The bastard."

"Aye," Gurde said, "Dewar just couldn't handle it."

"What's it like, by the way?"

"What?"

"Is it bad... from Stewart?"

"No. Not really. No problem," Gurde replied.

"He cut some kid's wrist last year," Bairdy said.

"Yeah?" Gurde said. "You take your chances, eh?"

The beaker of water was now bubbling. Gurde picked up the empty test tube and put some white powder in the bottom then picked up the jar of dilute acid and put in the required four drips from the dropper. He slipped the test tube into the boiling water. It began to jiggle against the sides of the beaker. They watched for today's dramatic colour change.

"You ever go fishing up the dam?" Bairdy asked.

"Not up the dam. I've fished in the sea a few times."

"The dam's good. You want to go up on Saturday? There's big trout there just now."

"Yeah sure," Gurde replied, "What time are you goin'?"

Matt Duff's name was not mentioned during the bus journey back through the fields that afternoon but despite the ebbing of pain in his palm Gurde could not keep the smile from his lips.

Back in the kitchen the hissing kettle clicked off. Gurde pulled out the cord and poured steaming water on to the coffee grains in the mug. Then he grabbed the pile of cheese, salad cream and beetroot sandwiches with his free hand and carried them through to the living room. Ben was already lying sprawled across the floor watching the television. Gurde slumped down into the chair behind him and slipped off the school tie.

"Is Dad in?" Gurde asked.

"Yup. Working."

"Is he still angry?"

Ben shrugged.

It was sometimes days before the father forgave them for not helping him win his arguments at the dinner table.

Gurde took a mouthful of sandwich, followed by a long slurp of coffee, and sloshed the mixture from cheek to cheek before swallowing the soggy lump. The man on the television looked embarrassed as he peered over his red jumper to read from the book in his lap. Gurde decided not to tell Ben about being belted despite the urge to impress him. If the mother found out she would telephone the school and he couldn't risk anything spoiling the chance of freedom. If Ben was meant to find out, then somebody at school would tell him, and it would be more dramatic if he heard it from somebody else.

Gurde wished there were some marks on his hand to remind him of the day but there was no bruise for him to look at. Gurde took another mouthful of sandwich and washed it down.

"What's on the other side?" Gurde asked.

"I'm watching this."

"But what's on the other side?"

"I'm watching this one, all right!"

"It's rubbish!"

"I like it. It's good."

"Come on."

"Mum said I could!"

Gurde stood up to leave. Ben glared, thinking his brother might be getting up to change the channel.

"You watch it, then," Gurde said, "but it's my turn next time."

Ben huffed and returned his gaze to the figure on the screen. Gurde swallowed the last of the sandwich, picked up the mug and left the brother to watch television alone.

Gurde went through into the hall and tapped on the study door. He was determined to tell somebody about the afternoon and, although the father wouldn't be interested, at least he wouldn't telephone the school. The father would pretend to listen long enough to give some satisfaction. There was no reply to the knock, so Gurde pushed the door open.

The father was leaning on his elbows at his desk, staring down at another thick book.

"Hello?" Gurde said.

"What is it?" the man replied into his desk, using his best annoyed voice.

"Er.. Do you want some tea?"

"No. Off you go. I'm busy."

"Sorry."

Gurde went back through into the kitchen and poured the remainder of the cold coffee down the sink. All the excitement seemed misplaced in the usual after-school routine.

Gurde peered in at Ben to see if he was still watching his programme. He was. Gurde turned back and wandered through into the hall and ended up in the sitting room in front of the battered piano. He lifted the lid, chose a chord and was about to let out the frustration on the keys when he remembered that the father was sitting next door and wouldn't let him get past the first note without shouting.

He closed the lid again and looked around for something else to do. Nothing caught his eye, so he walked around the room a couple of times, kicking at the carpet, then decided to go upstairs and plan answers in case anybody else asked what it was like to be belted by Stewart.

The curtains in the bathroom were heavier than they needed to be. Gurde pulled them closed, plunging the room into darkness, and went to the mirror to look for Matt. Behind that locked door, in the gloom, he could sometimes see the face - but only when they were alone and it was quiet. After the belting Gurde knew he would come. He positioned the face in the centre of the mirror, fixed an unblinking stare on the eyes, and waited.

For a long time nothing happened, but he had learnt to be patient. He kept still as, gradually, the borders of the face start to darken and melt, the jaw lengthened and narrowed, the forehead bulged, and then that magical instant when the eyes that had been green flicked to black and began to stare back with a new intensity. Gurde knew better than to try and inspect Matt's face closely - if he blinked or moved focus the other face would disappear - but there he was and, although they were one, the severe expression opposite was not welcoming. Gurde smiled and Matt smiled back. It was a knowing look.

They kept the moment for as long as they could but then Gurde had to blink and Matt was gone again, leaving the other face that he knew too well. Gurde threw open the curtains and walked out on to the landing, still aware of the weight fading inside his chest.

It was only five o'clock and already the sun was low, filling the bedroom with pale light. Gurde crossed the room and pushed the catch on the window, heaved it upwards and climbed through the gap on to the narrow balcony outside. It wasn't really a balcony at all; just the flat top of the sitting room's bay windows, and there was no railing. He could sit and stare down the twenty feet to the tarmac drive running along in front of the house. Gurde often climbed out on to the balcony when the stars were out, to sit a few feet from the bed, listen to the owls, and staring up into the endless darkness. He only climbed out in daylight if he was bored.

Gurde looked down the lawn to the wall at the bottom that had yet to be climbed. The leaves on the trees over the wall were always the first to betray the end of summer. Against the side wall, the last of the plums lay rotting where they had fallen. There had been few fruit that year, so nobody from the town had paid much attention.

The year before the branches had almost snapped under the weight of fruit and most weekends had seen hands reaching up from the field on the far side to grab clumps of sweet harvest and stuff them into plastic bags. The plum trees were not unusual - many of the gardens along the street had them too - but, with the field on the far side, they were the easiest to reach without risk. Gradually the hands would be joined by eager faces, lips glistening with sticky juices, until, as confidence grew, figures would begin to climb up on to the wall to grab at the fattest fruit in the higher branches. Then the raiders would drop down into the garden itself, scuttling up and down the drive, collecting all they could carry, glancing nervously towards the house. At the slightest sound they would freeze and listen intently before returning to their plundering. Gurde knew many of their faces from school and they knew that Matt Duff lived behind the dark windows above them.

Gurde used to enjoy it when they strayed into the garden. All he had to do was wait until enough of them had dropped over the wall then he could step forward from the shadows, open the bedroom window a little, quickly take a step back and watch the chaos. They would freeze, then someone would move and in an instant they would all be shouting and pushing and fighting to be the first back over the wall, sprinting away through the long grass with their plastic bags swinging, laughter echoing behind them.

In those moments Gurde had the power to make them afraid. And they had good reason to be afraid. They knew that any sound from the house could be the mother opening the door. That was enough to make them run. If she saw their frenzied stealing she would chase them and grab them and shake them by the collar until they begged to be free. She had no fear. She had spent her life with others like them.

But that was all the year before. There were richer pickings elsewhere. Gurde had felt relief that the plums had not appeared and that the lines between him and the others had not been redrawn.

Perhaps after the belting things would be different. Perhaps he would go with them with his own plastic bag to steal the apples and plums from other people's gardens.

Gurde stared down from the balcony at the wide, black strip between the house and the lawn. It looked a long jump across that dark river of tarmac to the far bank but perhaps it was not impossible. He had stood on the edge of the balcony many times and tried to judge if he could reach the grass. Perhaps when he had the crash helmet, and had successfully leapt down the long flight of stairs, he might have the confidence to try. The Wizard's Skull would fall, the stairs would be beaten in a single bound, and then he would be ready for the Great Leap to the lawn.

There was the grinding crunch of a gear change and Gurde looked along past the field to where the mother's blue car was trundling along behind the line of trees. She pulled up out of sight on the pavement below the wall. The engine roared and then cut. Minutes passed before he heard the car door open and then slam shut behind her. He followed her footsteps along the pavement to the front gate but, though the huge metal handle turned, it didn't open. There was a long silence before he heard the handle turn again. She heaved the left gate open with her back, shouldered it shut and carried her heavy briefcase up the drive with her head bowed. It wasn't until she had reached the front of the house that she looked up. Gurde tapped his heels against the front of the house and grinned.

"What are you up to?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Come down. I want to talk to you."

He looked down the garden.

"Now!" she said.

She went inside. Gurde slipped away from the edge and stood up carefully, using the window surround for reassurance as he swung a leg back over the sill into the bedroom.

Two piano notes rang through the house as he opened the bedroom door. There was a pause before he heard the study door open and the father's muffled shout. Gurde walked down the landing to see Ben climbing the stairs feeling sorry for himself. The brother glared at him as he squeezed past.

"Don't turn the telly over!" the brother called.

"Why not? You can't watch it," Gurde replied.

The study door flew open again and the father filled the doorway with his favourite angry expression.

"Ben! I thought I told you to keep it down! Now get upstairs!"

Ben turned and stamped his feet up the next few steps.

The father then turned his attention to Gurde.

"What are you doing?"

"Just going in here," Gurde replied and hurried into the dining room. The study door clicked shut again.

Gurde walked through into the kitchen where the mother was making a cup of tea for herself. She sighed when she saw him.

"Go and wait in the sitting room," she said. "I'll be there in a minute."

Gurde gave her a puzzled look and walked back the way he had come.

In the sitting room the piano stood invitingly against the far wall. Its lid was up and its yellowed keys beckoned. Gurde walked over, fighting the urge to press them down, longing to hear the untuned notes ring out. His right hand reached out and pressed down a key so lightly that there was only a suggestion of a sound from inside the wooden case. Gurde strained to hear any movement from the study next door. Here was an opportunity to escape the lecture from the mother that seemed to be looming. All he had to do was press the key a little harder and he would be sent upstairs to join the brother, leaving them to argue it out in the hall. If he had known what she was going to talk about it would have been easier to decide whether to press the key or not; from the tone of her voice it didn't sound as though he was going to enjoy it. The hand hovered over the keyboard, so Gurde forced it into a pocket, breaking the moment. He crossed the room, slumped on to the sofa and waited for her to come.

It was a few minutes before she scuttled in.

"Right!" the mother said, gesturing that he should move his legs off the sofa to make room. She fetched a small book from the top of the piano, put it on the arm of the sofa and put her cup of tea on top of it. Then she sat down, picked up her cup, took a sip, and put it down again. Gurde began to feel uncomfortable and looked towards the piano. The atmosphere was not promising.

"Right.. um.. I've got a couple of things to say. First thing is that.. well.. your father and I had a long talk last night and we've decided to go away for the weekend. We think you're old enough to look after Ben for a couple of days, so we're going up the coast. You know that little Bed and Breakfast near Oban that your father wanted us to stay at last time? Well, anyway, I want you to look after Ben while we're away and that means I want you to stay in the house, or rather that you are not to leave Ben in the house on his own. Is that clear?"

"But Mum.. I was going fishing with.."

"You can take Ben with you," she snapped.

"No.. No it's..."

"This is important. You can go fishing any time. Who are you going with?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Well, if it doesn't matter then I'm sure you won't mind staying here with your brother. It's only two days. I don't want anybody in the house apart from the two of you and that means don't answer the door and if you answer the telephone just tell them to call back later. Is that also clear?"