World Walker 1: The World Walker (7 page)

Like a new alpha in a pack of chimps, Jack knew he would have to see off a challenge at some point. The way he dealt with it, when it came, showed him to be a ruthless enforcer, not just a tough, good-looking kid with a winning smile. To no one's great surprise, it was Stevie who took him on.
 

Stevie was a bully, no one would deny that. He took what he wanted, he used violence liberally, although it was never serious, just a case of pinning someone on the floor until they gave up their soda, their comic book, the couple of dollars they'd saved. But Stevie's bullying was a product of his environment. It wasn't nature, it was nurture. He wasn't that bright, he was overly sensitive, he stuttered. But he was heavy, strong and could take punishment. His personality made him a natural victim, his build gave him the opportunity to avoid that eventuality. So he became a bully. And, contrary to the prevailing wisdom about bullies, he wasn't a coward. You could punch him and he would just swat you away as if he hadn't felt it. So when he saw Jack Carnavon establishing himself as de facto boss, he knew he would have to be pre-emptive, put him in his place. Hard. He was no planning genius, but knew enough to understand his move would have to be public - he had to humiliate Carnavon, make his fair-weather friends desert him. Isolated, he would be easy pickings.

The TV was on, but the sound was muted as Jack was reading the funnies. The four boys in the room were keen to earn his favor, and it was only ten minutes, after all. Stevie walked in, glanced around the room, then strolled over to the TV and put the volume up. Loud. Jack looked up from the paper.

"Stevie," he said. "Be a pal. I'm reading here. Just kill the sound for another few minutes, ok?"
 

"Watcha reading?" said Stevie, ignoring his request and walking over to where Jack was sitting. Stevie wasn't tall, but he was broad and squat. A wrestler's build.
 

"Stevie, please," said Jack, not even lifting his eyes from the paper. He waved his hand casually toward the TV. "The volume."

Stevie responded by leaning forward and snatching the paper from Jack's other hand. "Thanks, Carnavon," he said, "I haven't read that yet."

He walked slowly to the door, then turned back toward his audience. "You make sure that volume stays up," he said.
 

Jack sighed theatrically and smiled at the boys, shrugging slightly as if to say, "Hey, I tried to be polite, I gave him a chance." He picked up the remote and muted the sound again.

"Put it back on," said Stevie, scowling.
 

Jack responded by getting up and stretching ostentatiously before walking toward Stevie. The room fell silent. Everybody stood up. A couple of older boys started to follow Jack, but he motioned for them to stay where they were. He stopped just out of reach of Stevie. "There's no excuse for being rude," he said. "And no one likes a bully, Stevie."

Stevie was so tensed up, the veins on his neck were throbbing. He opened his mouth to respond, but didn't get the chance because Jack's fist hit him so hard, two of his teeth flew out. There was a collective gasp in the room. Stevie took a step backward, which put him just into the doorway. He knew he had to respond, and he knew it would have to be good. He launched himself forward, his hand extended to get hold of Jack's collar. Jack was expecting this and stepped nimbly aside, grabbing the open door. He slammed it as hard as he could, his whole body spinning anti-clockwise, lending extra momentum to the move. The door hit Stevie just below the elbow, instantly breaking his arm. The impact was so hard, the bone broke the skin, exposing glistening muscle and fat as the white splinter poked through. One of the boys threw up as Jack moved forward and clamped a hand over the mouth of the white-faced Stevie, now sweating and shaking with pain. Suddenly there was a knife in Jack's hand. Jack's body blocked everyone else's view, but he showed the knife to Stevie, waiting until he could see Stevie had seen it. He leaned forward and whispered.

"You tripped, ok? When they ask. You tripped. Anything else, any more trouble, I'll visit you when you're asleep and I'll slice off your balls."

The atmosphere after Stevie had been taken to the hospital was false, forced, strange. Jack had crossed a line. The boys of St. Benet's were keen to appear self-reliant, tough even, but pretty much all of it was bluster and bravado. Everyone knew a fight would never get serious. Threats were just threats, extremely unlikely to escalate into any real trouble. So Jack did more than break Stevie's arm, he broke the unwritten laws of St. Benet's. At that time, there were 19 boys living there, but those in the TV room after Stevie had been taken away were the top of the tree. They were the oldest boys in a place where age generally implied seniority. The Sisters might run the place, but if you wanted to fit in at St. Benet's, you followed the rules set by the older boys. There was a tense quiet in the room. Everyone knew Jack had gone too far, no one wanted to say it. If they were going to walk away from him, it had to be now.
 

Jack sensed the mood and dealt with it quickly. He sat on the sofa and buried his head in his hands, saying nothing. After about thirty seconds, his shoulders started heaving and, when he lifted his head, fat tears were running down his face.

"I never meant to hurt him so badly. Oh God, I swear, I never meant to hurt him."

One of the boys sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I thought he was going to kill me," said Jack, sobbing. "Did you see the look on his face? He'd gone crazy. Psycho. I thought I was going to die." Two more boys moved back toward Jack and made conciliatory comments.

"It was self-defense."

 
"No one blames you, Jack."
 

"Don't be hard on yourself, you had no choice."

The only boy who hadn't moved was Seb Varden. He had seen the look on Stevie's face very clearly. It was the look of a scared boy who'd suddenly realized there were people out there for whom violence was not just a way of life, but a passion. He had seen the pleasure Jack was gaining from hurting him and it terrified him. Seb knew the other boys had seen it too. They'd just chosen to rewrite reality in a way that allowed them to carry on being friends with Jack. Seb saw through Jack's performance after the incident, too. The tears were real enough, but Seb had once read an interview with an actor who could cry whenever he needed to. On demand. Jack obviously had the same ability, since through his tears Seb had watched him looking around, seeing what effect his performance was having, playing the crowd like a pro.
 

Seb felt disgust. Mostly with himself. He had chosen to hang around with Jack Carnavon, had told himself he was a fascinating guy, with some experience of real life. But really, he had known from the start that Jack was something else entirely. He'd felt coldness and emptiness radiating from him. For someone so talkative, who had so many stories, so much to say, he never revealed anything personal. Not really. Seb felt sure no one would ever get to know the real Jack Carnavon. And now, seeing a glimpse of the heart of the boy, he was convinced it was time to walk away.
 

He stood up and went to leave. The boys surrounding Jack were starting to joke around a bit again, diffusing the tension. Jack was joining in, but still feigning weakness and regret, puffing up the other boys' egos so they felt needed by him. But those cold, quick eyes followed Seb as he left the room and he knew his desertion wouldn't be forgotten or forgiven.

The trouble - when it came - was worse than Seb had anticipated. He had managed to avoid Jack as far as possible for a few days. Not too obviously, but enough that the clique of boys at the top accepted that he had voluntarily left their number. Seb was popular with the others, quiet but loyal and with a self-deprecating sense of humor. And he was always willing to listen, which was a truly rare quality. So when he deliberately isolated himself, spending more time at the piano and listening to music, his decision was respected by everyone. Everyone but Jack.

The boys slept in two dormitories, 8-12 boys to a room. A locker beside their bed held clothes, toiletries and a few personal belongings. One late afternoon in Fall, Seb was lying on his bed, supposedly reading but actually thinking about the girl who'd been doing some voluntary work with the Sisters around the Home the past few weeks. St. Catherine's, a local Catholic girls' school, regularly sent small teams of volunteers to help with odd jobs, gardening, or decorating. New faces around the place were nothing new, and Seb was used to exchanging a nod or a polite "hey" with unfamiliar people during the day. But, nearly three weeks ago, that had all changed.
   

Melissa Rae was the most beautiful sight Seb had ever seen. He liked to think of himself as a bit of a man of the world at the age of 15. He had talked with girls on four or five occasions without tripping over his words, blushing uncontrollably or completely losing the power of speech. It had taken work to get past those stages, which had previously crippled his efforts at getting close to females at the various social events organized by the children's home.
 

The Sisters running St. Benet's were considered progressive by many of their peers, allowing reasonably free mixing of the sexes when possible. They justified their position to their more conservative critics by pointing out that any claim to be "good" or "morally upstanding" was suspect if never tested. Easy to be pure if no one had ever offered you a chance to be dirty. That wasn't quite the phrasing they used at the Motherhouse Symposium they attended annually, but that's what they meant. "Would our Lord
be
our Lord if he hadn't been tempted?" was the provocative - and often unpopular - question they posed to their colleagues.

Seb and the other half-dozen hormone-driven boys and young men currently residing at the Home, naturally cared nothing for any scriptural or theological justification, as long as the outcome was the same: girls were made available. They could be spoken to, smiled at, even flirted with. Seb knew of the Sisters' thoughts about temptation, but secretly wondered if Jesus would have been quite so quick to avoid it if he had met Melissa Rae when he was 15. He felt terrible for wondering, but he wondered just the same.

Lying on his bed that afternoon, eyes closing, Seb decided he was finally ready to ask Melissa out. Their conversations had drifted to the subject of romance recently, and Seb knew that Melissa didn't have a boyfriend. A sci-fi feature was playing at Cap House (no one could remember the real name of the shabby movie theater two blocks away) and he was going to ask her to go with him. His stomach was in knots, but he was ready. He would ask her tomorrow morning.
 

He smiled and opened his eyes. Jack Carnavon stood over him, a nasty self-satisfied smirk on his face. Seb sat up against his headboard and closed his book. Jack sat down on the end of the bed. He reached over and picked up the book.

"Poetry?" he said, and laughed humorlessly. "You're just such a sensitive soul, Seb. I bet your suffer from inner torments. Don't tell me, no one understands you, right?" Despite knowing the cliche would apply to any 15-year old, Seb still felt the sting of an accurate taunt. Jack examined the cover of the book.

"Philip Larkin?" he said. "Looks like a fag." He read a little of the blurb on the back. "A British fag, too. Thought poets were meant to be sexy. This guy looks like a librarian." Seb considered telling Jack that Larkin was, in fact, a librarian, but decided any attempt to educate him would be wasted. He just patiently held out his hand for the book and waited until Jack returned it.

"What do you want, Jack?" said Seb, putting the book in his locker.

"Hey, why do I have to
want
something," said Jack. "Can't I just hang out with my buddy? Haven't seen so much of you lately. Me and the guys miss you, is all."

"Yeah, well, sometimes I just don't feel too sociable," said Seb. He didn't want to spend any more time in Jack's company than was necessary, but there was no point in antagonizing him. In less than a year, Jack would turn 18 and have to leave St. Benet's. Seb could wait him out. After all, how much damage could he do in such a short time?

Jack stood and looked at Seb, that false smile still on his face. "Ok, pal, that's your choice," he said. "Guess we've got to respect that. But you're missing a bunch of fun." He walked to the doorway, then turned back.

"Speaking of fun," he said, "you checked out that redhead from St. Catherine's? She's some piece, ain't she?"

Seb felt the color rise to his cheeks and his heart rate rise. Melissa was the only girl with red hair - a gorgeous, deep auburn. "Don't think I know who you mean," he said, feigning a yawn.

"Oh?" said Jack. "Someone said they saw you talking to her. Must have been mistaken, I guess." He opened the door to leave.

"Um, what about her?" said Seb, hating himself for being drawn so easily, but incapable of not asking the question.

"Oh, nothing much," said Jack. "Just got talking to her myself today. Melissa - that's her name. Tidy little body, great eyes. Surprised you don't know her. Anyway, I asked her out tonight."

Seb had always assumed the expression 'his blood ran cold' was a gothic exaggeration that had nothing to do with real life. Not any more.

"The Sisters think I'm taking her to a ball game," said Jack, the smirk on his face never touching the cold eyes that were locked on Seb's. He laughed. "They're so easy to play. Thought I might take her to a bar or two, find out how many drinks it takes before I can get into those tight jeans of hers. What an ass on that girl! Gotta go now, enjoy your fag poetry."

Seb clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms to stop him shouting in rage as the door closed softly behind Jack. To his shame, his first thought hadn't been concern for Melissa's safety, but
why the hell did she say yes?

Chapter 8

Present day

The sun hung low and pale in a winter sky. Frost-held grass crunched under his feet as he walked toward the water. On either side, ancient trees, dark, silhouetted and austere, their branches a bold typeface on the blank fog. Geese broke from the surface of the pond ahead in a flurry of purposeful activity, lifting into a V heading North-East.