Cut To The Bone (13 page)

"Names? Ages?"

"I tried asking for identification," said the German, "but she said her name was Mrs Jones and that would do. Of course I didn't believe it for a moment and because the dog was smelling so bad, I was glad for her to take it away. As quickly as possible, you understand..."

"Are we talking teenagers or what?"  queried Don Smith, Head of Sales for a franking machine company.

"Bloody allsorts." The Booth-Collinses spoke in unison. "We actually saw them heading into the Zellers," the husband continued. "I tell you something else. The red-haired lad - about twelve he was - gave our Landcruiser a good looking over. We found it most disconcerting. I expect he'll be nicking it next."

"Not unless you garage it and alarm your garage." Jarvis said.

A collective sigh rose up. Even with the patio doors open, the room was solid heat, the flies ever noisier. Mrs Linklater had fetched herself another glass of mineral water and stood sipping it.

"We could run the CCTV camera in slow motion to pick up on these characters," she said, her lips glistening.  "And the learner driver nuisances who think our development's just for practising reversing..."

"It's called Seccam," Louis corrected her. 

"Well, whatever. There's been no film in the thing for a week now." The salesman again. "Whose turn is it?"

All eyes swivelled on to The Maggot. Louis too, turned round, smirking at his embarrassment.

"Look, I've had assessments up to here,” protested the Senior Lecturer. “Q A A stuff and an Inspection to worry about. I can't do bloody everything."

Jarvis coughed. "Well that's up to you lot to sort out, but in the meantime, I suggest you club together for some more street lights. It's too dark. You're all vulnerable because four isn't adequate - not in the present climate."

"We've not been adopted yet." Mr Patel complained.

"Count your blessings, then." Louis piped up. 

"Louis!" Snapped The Fawn behind him as everyone turned to stare. He felt The Maggot prodding him again, to the sound of more discreet coughing. More shuffling of feet.

"Best proceed." The constable drew out a second scrap from his jacket pocket and cleared his own throat before listing possible crime prevention measures including carpet gripper and razor wire along the tops of side gates and fences, with a public warning of course. Extra trellis work, security beams on all four walls, guard dogs, personal CCTVs and above all, constant vigilance.

Louis smiled. He liked the buzz of anxiety that this ordinary, overweight guy was generating. It was an equation more relevant to him than anything offered up by algebra or calculus. A Uniform equals Power, right? He told himself. Power and Knowledge equals More Power. More Power and a Weapon equals Fear. Q.E.D. And Fear was his favourite four letter word, he knew that now, and promised himself he'd see Mr Blanchard the Careers teacher, to ask him the quickest and easiest way to becoming a pig.

"There's one last item before we disperse." Jarvis added reaching round for his uniform jacket.

The boy felt a tremor of unease at what might be coming next, and kept his eyes lowered.

"It may be something and nothing, but that lad who came to collect the dog with his family, has so far failed to return home today. His name's actually Jez Martin, not Jones, and he attends Scrub Lane Comprehensive School. As you can imagine, without putting too fine a point on it, his mother is very worried indeed. If any of you can help, this is the number to ring." He rattled off a Freephone number, but Louis noticed with relief that no-one reached for a pen.

Then Mr Booth-Collins swivelled round, his red neck spilling over on to his collar.

"Where's the bloody father? That's what I'd like to know."

"Exactly. They're never around, are they?"

"Get the woman pregnant then off they jolly go."

"This country's going to the dogs."

"My dear, it's there already. Or hadn't you noticed?"

"All they do is claim benefits. Half my salary goes on those inadequates..."

Louis looked up as the comments multiplied, more heated, more derogatory each time and when he'd scoured the room for any sign of the pig, realised he'd slipped away.

*

Later that evening, with the meeting’s rants about dole cheats, foreign criminals and how to beef up security still swilling around his head, Louis surfed
the Net and after several abortive attempts, plus a few sneaky looks at FLESHLINK and TEENS LOVE IT, found just the site he was looking for. A colourful Home page, full of gear to hire, from firemens' outfits to all-in- one ape suits.

FANCYDRESSERS.COM

Everything for the discerning party-goer. Uniforms a speciality.

Prices from £12.50. All sizes. All with a six month guarantee.

Prompt delivery to anywhere in the UK.  Carriage free.

He duly ordered a police constable's outfit including helmet and shoes to be sent to Dr D C Perelman at the Mount Vernon Institute of Higher Education. And, having given his not-real father's credit card number plus its three security digits, clicked on SEND, and grinned. Next, he cleaned Jez's remaining knife up and down between his thumb and forefinger. So the Martins must have holidayed in Walton-on-Sea, he mused. Maybe when the kids were younger. When their Dad had gone with them too and helped them build sandcastles like on TV holiday programmes. Happy families clustered on some golden beach. Yes, happy families...

17

Thursday 8th July.

With just one week to go before the summer holidays, Mr Wardle - aka Waddle - was ignoring Louis for some reason and worse, at the end of Year 8 morning assembly, omitted his name while doling out Credits and Distinctions for class work and behaviour. It looked deliberate, even though Miss Underwood - aka Miss Udder - had recently stuck a galaxy of gold stars in his biology book margin. And old Tosser the caretaker, had praised the condition of the two Dutch rabbits which Louis regularly cleaned out and fed between the afternoon’s last two lessons.

"You bastard, Waddle." He sidled towards the double doors, gripping his stomach with one hand, his satchel with the other. "In fact, you can all get stuffed."

No-one stopped him, so he made for the toilets where Luke Brierley's Mum was cleaning the floor tiles. Her mop slewed from side to side in wide, wet arcs. The smell of sick noticeable.

"Don't mind me," she began. "That Patel boy’s just thrown up in here. Been picked on again, ‘e said. An' this is s'posed to be a good school an' all."

Louis agreed, then chose a cubicle and sat down on the lavatory seat to consider his next move. He was hurting. Not physically, but in his head. Nothing he did was ever good enough, either at home or in this dump, and in front of the other Grubs, he'd been humiliated.

He unzipped his trousers.

"You alright in there?" Mrs Brierley called out.

"Fine. Just coming." And he was too, just thinking of Waddle's likely reaction to his planned revenge. It took less than a minute to feel again that exquisite relief just as the mop's head worked its dank, grey locks around the cubicle door, in out, in out, trying to touch his shoes it seemed.

When he emerged, he handed the woman a pound coin like The Maggot had done in the Gents at Coventry’s station.

"Who d'you think I bloody am, then? Some immigrant skiv?” she shouted as he almost collided with the portly figure of Clive Blanchard, Careers master, busy pinning a notice to the UCAS board. The man turned round. His well-fed face shining.

"Perelman. How goes it?"

"Good sir. Thank you sir."

"So why weren't you in assembly?"

"Not too pukka, sir."

Blanchard pinned up another sheet detailing the number ‘A’ level points required by the Russell Group universities.

"I see you've made an appointment with me for 1.20p.m. today. Miss Carey said you wanted to chat about joining the Police Force."

"That's right, sir."

"Very well. Room C3. Remember punctuality is the politeness of kings."

"I will sir. Thank you sir."

*

Louis focused on his Action Plan throughout Maths, Music then Drama, despite being reprimanded for lack of homework and Mrs Barber harping on about the end of term concert and his lack of commitment.

"A boy with your talent should at least be in the County Youth Orchestra," she’d nagged after an hour of Theory work. "One day you'll regret not taking your violin seriously."

"I'm playing it on Saturday," Louis had retorted.
"At our musical
soirée
."

She’d sniffed, unimpressed.

"Finzi and Beethoven, actually." He’d added.

"I see. Well that improves matters somewhat."

"With my Dad."

"'Not your real one, though..." Someone piped up and another tittered. Louis spun round to see smallest but deadliest pupil in the class half-hidden behind his desk. Toby Gabriel Lake, twelve years and ten months, whose school place was subbed by the tax-payer, had just elected to die.

*

During Drama, involving various scenes from Julius Caesar, Louis was still smarting. The fact he'd been given the part of Brutus and Darshan Patel that of his obedient servant Strato, did little to lessen his second humiliation of the day. 

Sunlight struck the hall floor, thick with dust motes, while in all its four corners some thirty boys were dressing up in various skirts and sheets donated by the Parent Teacher Association.

Louis and Patel stood aside from the imagined forum entrance as the tribunes and commoners milled around.

"Fancy earning twenty quid?" Louis asked him.

"What for?" The other's breath still sick-sour, his nervous eyes glancing around.

"A favour." 

"I dunno."

"You go swimming Thursdays after school, yes?"

"So?"

"I'm seeing some skirt then," Louis lied, "but it's secret."

"What's her name?"

"Lisa. Lives in Darnwood Road near the Mall. Got tits out to here..." Louis cupped his hands well out from his chest. "And the rest. So if anyone asks, you say I went swimming with you. OK?" Louis fixed him with a threatening stare.

Patel shrugged. "Whatever."

"Cheers. You're a mate."

Louis unpeeled two tenners from his wallet and handed them over. This made him feel strong again; in control. Since being kneed in the balls by Nick Weaver before Assembly, Darshan Patel needed every buddy he could lay his brown hands on.   

*

At lunchtime, the heat kept everyone indoors, except Louis who sneaked round to the biology lab's annexe where the school's Dutch rabbits were housed. On a wide shelf stood various feed bags, wilting lettuce leaves and two grooming brushes with Willy and Wonka painted along their handles. There was no sign of either Miss Udder or old Tosser.

He picked up a lettuce leaf and tore it into strips ready to poke through the hutch’s chicken wire door. This was earlier than usual, and the rabbits snatched at the greenery and sniffed for more. Louis felt their soft, twitching noses against his palm. He liked that. It did things to him that were for his pleasure only.

Their carer checked again he was on his own before opening the hutch door. He brought the furry creatures out one at a time and with a quick twist of his hands, ignoring their strangled squeals, despatched both to a sudden stillness.

Each limp body fitted snugly into his empty satchel before he pulled over its flap and secured the two buckles. Then, having scattered straw on the surrounding shelf and floor to make their absence look like an escape, he crept round to the staff car park, littered with Freelanders and the latest registration Mazdas and Kias. No CCTV here, making it his favoured way of sneaking in and out of school, while a black blind helpfully covered the annexe's one window.

*

Head of Year, Keith Wardle drove a ten year-old Volvo Estate with a Northampton dealership sticker in the rear window. Inside, assorted folders labelled DETENTIONS, SUMMER TERM TASKS, ROTAS and the like, lay strewn on the passenger seat. Not at all impressive. In fact, landfill came to mind, especially with half-empty sweet packets and several items of soccer kit clogging up the rear seat.

Louis then noticed a blue file on the floor - 8JP EXAM RESULTS 2010. How dare the proof of all his recent effort in subjects which bored him shitless, lie there in that state. Waddle was a fine one to preach thoroughness. However it all made the next task easier, especially as the Volvo was unlocked. 
             

Stupid git
.

Louis pulled the dead rabbits out of his satchel then positioned the pair on Wardle's cloth seat as if one was mounting the other. Four blank eyes reflected the sky as he neatly kept something for himself, courtesy of the Design Technology department’s box-cutter. Lighter, quicker than the Walton-on-Sea knife.