Maggot Moon (6 page)

“Of course I mean him, you fricking moron.”

You see, Hans Fielder had from birth greedily drunk all this Motherland sheep milk. Mrs. Fielder has eight, nine, ten, eleven children. Can’t remember, not good at counting sheep. What I know is that she and her husband survive on their rewards for the patriotic support of the Motherland. They take pride in their work, which is to report on all the good citizens who don’t toe the party line. Yes, these Fielders have well-fed, well-clothed children.

It’s easy to spot the parents who are collaborators in our school. Their sons wear long trousers. I, like most of the underclass, wear shorts that once were trousers before I grew too long for them. Now they are cut off below the knee, the two drain pipes of fabric kept in my mother’s sewing box in case repairs are necessary.

Hans Fielder, of the long trousers and the new school blazer, pushed me up hard against the playground wall and asked the question again. His sidekicks all gathered round.

I didn’t fight back when they started in on me again.

Gramps once said, “Whatever else you do, Standish, don’t raise your fists. Turn away. If they throw you out of that school, well . . .”

He never finished what he was saying. There was no need.

But I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

I said, “The next time I see the leather-coat man I might tell him all about your mother.”

Hans Fielder stopped punching me.

“What about my mother?” he asked.

“How she informs on people, makes up lies, sends innocent people to the maggot farms — to keep you in new trousers.”

That stopped him. Doubt is a great worm in a crispy, red apple. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know who the real idiots were here: Hans Fielder, who believed he was destined for greatness, along with his merry gang. They were all bleating sheep, the whole maladjusted lot of them. They never questioned anything. There was not one of a rare breed of Whys among them, just plain, shorn, bleached sheep. The brain-branded idiots couldn’t see that, like all the rest of us who lived in Zone Seven, they were never going anywhere. The only chance Hans Fielder had of escape was to be sent to fight the Obstructors, and that was as good as booking yourself a slot in the crematorium. But that realization had yet to dawn on him.

So the beating continued. I thought of my flesh as a wall. The me inside the wall they can’t bully, they can’t touch, so while they beat the drum of my skin I thought hard about that leather-coat man and where his black Jag was going next. In my mind’s eye I could see it arriving in our road. He wasn’t going to have any problems finding where we live. After all, it was the only row of houses left standing. I saw the leather-coat man finding our hens, the TV, pushing Gramps down to the cellar, and, worst of all, discovering the moon man. I was seeing this all in my head like a film being played and ending badly.

“Standish Treadwell,” shouted Mr. Gunnell, “what are you doing behind there? The bell has gone.”

I hadn’t even noticed it. I tasted the blood in my mouth, felt my nose and thought,
at least it isn’t broken.

“Standish Treadwell!” Mr. Gunnell shouted again, his face red. His eyes bulged out of his head, as did two veins leading up to that troublesome toupee.

I climbed out from behind the bench and stood in front of Mr. Gunnell. I had a bloody nose and a half-shut eye that refused to open. He was holding his cane, tap-tap-tapping it on the palm of his hand, and his tongue was sticking out sideways from his small mean mouth. It was then that I had a revelation of sorts. I was taller than he was. I could see his tank arms were well oiled for a beating. I could see that like it or not he was forced to look up at me. Just as he had to look up at Hector.

“You can’t keep hitting me,” I said. “I’m taller than you. Pick on someone your own size.”

The whole class was watching, awestruck. Since Hector, no one, and I mean no one, not even the Head Perfect, talked back to a teacher. The wheels of Mr. Gunnell’s mind were visibly turning.

“Treadwell, your shoelaces are undone.”

I bent down, ducking the fists, feeling the cane on my back. I glanced up quickly, saw his chin jutting out, and without a second thought, I stood to attention fast, making sure I hit him as hard as I could under the jaw. I heard with pleasure the sound of his teeth clacking together, then pushed my hand out in a salute, as hard as it could go, straight into his chest. I must say, even I was surprised by my own strength. Mr. Gunnell tripped backwards, and his toupee, a dead rabbit, came free from its trap and jumped unceremoniously onto the pavement.

The entire class started to laugh, including Hans Fielder, but it was Little Eric, he of the short trousers, of the bleach-bowl bright hair, who was laughing the hardest. He couldn’t stop himself, especially when Mr. Gunnell took another step backwards and accidentally stamped on his toupee.

I was thinking,
this is no laughing matter and now Mr. Gunnell will do me in.
His eyes were glazed over with a look of pure hatred. He came towards me, cane lifted. I waited for the blow but at the last minute he had a change of plan. You see, Little Eric was still laughing. Mr. Gunnell pulled the boy towards him by his ear then he started to beat him, first with the cane until it broke, then with his fists. He didn’t stop, his punches coming harder and faster. Little Eric was on the ground, curled into a ball, crying for his mummy.

This seemed to fuel the rage in Mr. Gunnell, for he was now kicking, kicking the shit out of Little Eric, screaming, “Don’t you ever laugh at me again. . . . I am to be treated with respect!”

The more Little Eric wept, the harder Mr. Gunnell went at him. We all watched paralyzed as gobbets of blood splashed on the pavement. Eric Owen wasn’t moving, and I knew exactly what Mr. Gunnell was about to do as he lifted his army boot high above Little Eric’s head.

I rushed at Mr. Gunnell and I hit that frick-fracking bastard as hard as I could. His boot narrowly missed smashing Little Eric’s brains in. To make doubly sure Mr. Gunnell could do no more harm, I hit him again hard on his nose. I heard it crack and he yelped in pain, bloody mucus rolling into his moustache.

Miss Phillips had been sent by Mr. Hellman to find out what was keeping us. We were the only class not in the assembly hall, and in five minutes history would be made: the rocket would be launched from the Motherland. At first Miss Phillips couldn’t properly see what had happened because all the boys were gathered round Eric Owen.

“Mr. Gunnell,” she snapped, “what is going on?”

“A matter of discipline, that is all,” replied Mr. Gunnell.

Miss Phillips pushed her way through the terrified pupils and saw Little Eric Owen lying there like a twisted sack, his hair no longer bleach-blond but bloodred, his face raw mutton, one of his eyes hanging out of its socket.

Mr. Gunnell was standing upright. Everyone was silent. We watched Miss Phillips bend down over what was left of Eric Owen. She lifted his floppy broken arm, hoping to find a pulse. She turned to one of the sheep.

“Go and get help — quickly.” The boy ran off. “Who did this?” she asked, shaking with anger. “Who is the monster that did this?”

“Standish Treadwell,” said Mr. Gunnell.

She looked at me. “What has happened here, Standish?”

And I told her.

“Did you do this, Mr. Gunnell?” she said, her voice incredulous.

“I won’t be laughed at,” said Mr. Gunnell, patting his nonexistent toupee with a bloody hand. “I demand respect. I am no one’s laughingstock.”

Now Mr. Hellman was running towards us, followed by other members of the staff. Miss Phillips closed Little Eric’s one good eye and gently pushed the other back into its socket. She stood up slowly. There was blood on her skirt. There was blood everywhere.

“I have called for an ambulance. Difficult at this time,” said Mr. Hellman, not daring to look down.

Miss Phillips took a deep breath through that snub nose of hers and said, very calmly, “Mr. Hellman, the boy is dead.”

“He’s just playacting,” said Mr. Gunnell. “He will be all right.”

“No, he won’t,” said Miss Phillips.

“This is Standish Treadwell’s doing,” said Mr. Gunnell.

I said nothing.

Mr. Hellman looked at me as if I was a creature from out of space.

Still, I said nothing.

To my surprise, it was Hans Fielder, Mr. Gunnell’s pet sheep, who said loud and clear, “Standish Treadwell had nothing to do with this, sir. He tried to save Little Eric. It was Mr. Gunnell who beat him to death.”

“Liar!” shouted Mr. Gunnell. “You fucking little sod of a liar!”

Hans Fielder stood tall, looked straight at his teacher, his hair golden blond, his eyes cheap plastic-bag blue, shining with a passion.

“I never lie, sir,” he said. “Never.”

All I wanted to do was go home and make sure Gramps was all right. I knew well enough if I were to make a run for it, me, Gramps, plus the moon man, would end up in a maggot farm. Once you’re there you’re nothing but fly fodder.

The whole school was gathered in the gymnasium for this momentous occasion. The place smelled of overboiled cabbage, cigarettes, and corruption. The teachers had on their glad drags. Pathetic, the whole fricking lot of them.

In that silence I wanted to scream at the top of my voice: Why is there no wolf among you to protect us? Teacher. Please note that word:
teacher.
You are supposed to teach, not beat your pupils’ fricking brains out.