

BARK AT THE MOON

WARREN R. ARMSTRONG

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 W R Armstrong

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BARK AT THE MOON

CHAPTER ONE

This is a difficult story to begin, but I've got to start somewhere so it may as well be on the day I came across the dead cat. It was a boiling hot summer's afternoon and I was with my best friend, Will Keaton, a tall skinny kid who wore specs that made him look like Brains out of Thunderbirds. Will was fourteen, same age as me. School had just finished and we were heading home. Will was talking about music, trying to get me interested in some new band he liked. Will lived for his music, what he didn't know about the subject wasn't worth knowing.

"Mark my words, "Death Crew" will be huge," he said of his new discovery as we strolled down Kyle Street towards town. "I'll lend you their CD Ricky, you'll love it, I swear to God you will."

"That's really cool," I replied, not really listening. It was just too bloody hot to concentrate properly. My mind kept drifting: thoughts of ice creams, sunny beaches, swimming pools and bikini clad babes.

So we were walking down the road with our jackets thrown over our shoulders because the heat was such a killer when all of a sudden I saw the cat, or rather what remained of it.

A bit of a mess to say the least: guts hanging out of its behind, mangled legs, part of its tail gone, and the flies, they were everywhere. The little buggers loved all that blood and gore.

"Looks like Felix finally ran out of lives," I joked as I nudged the cat with the end of my foot. The sudden movement disturbed the flies. They flew off in a crazy little swarm only to return in seemingly greater numbers.

"Why stop to gawk at something like that?" Will said, clearly unimpressed.

"Why the hell not," I countered as I went in for a closer look at Felix. He had tortoiseshell markings and wore a bright red collar round his neck that had a dinky silver bell. He would've been a real cutie before he got crushed to death by whatever it was that hit him.

"Let's go," Will said sounding a bit uneasy.

I studied the cat's injuries in more detail, intrigued, and rolled its body, careful to use the tip of my shoe. The flies took flight, returned. Will protested. "Quit it Ricky: Jesus!" I concentrated on the cat: on its eyes. They were wide open, staring directly ahead as if focusing on something further along the road. They fascinated me, those big feline eyes did. Will accused me of being a ghoul and stormed off. I called him back, but he paid me no attention. "Hey, don't be so touchy," I said, but he carried on walking, forcing me to leave Felix to the flies.

Catching up with him I said, "Did you notice something, Will?"

He stopped and turned to me. "What?"

"The cat's eyes," I said, "they were wide open and staring like crazy."

"So?"

"Don't you think that's creepy?"

"No, not really..."

"Doesn't it make you wonder if it could still see?"

"It was dead Ricky. Dead things can't see."

"Who says, Will?"

He was silent and wouldn't say, because he couldn't say, could he; not for absolute certain, because the only ones who could tell him were the Dead, and they can't speak, or maybe they can and we just aren't listening: who knows, certainly not Will.

"You're a real sicko," he said suddenly.

The comment surprised me, not because it wasn't true, (I'm a bit off the wall, always have been), but because he had the nerve to say it.

"You worry me sometimes," he added, surprising me even more.

"So why do you hang around with me?" I asked.

He shrugged his bony shoulders and pulled a face. "Because I'm stupid, I guess."

"The real reason you hang around with me," I said, "Is because no one else will."

"That's not fair Rick," he said, plainly hurt by the comment. "I hang around with you because I like you...most of the time anyway."

We started walking again.

"I'm sorry for saying what I did about the cat," I relented as we passed by a McDonalds, "I was kidding, that was all."

"Were you?"

"Calling me a liar now, are you?"

"What about all the other nutty stuff you say: are you joking then? And what about all the scary stuff you read?"

"That's for research," I said, wiggling my eyebrows like Groucho Marx

"Research for what exactly?"

"That's for me to know, and for you to wonder about."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Rick."

"And that's probably for the best," I told him.

We carried on walking in silence, trying our best to ignore the afternoon heat. It was sweltering, and there was no breeze. We reached the busy intersection where Kyle Street crossed Thomas Street, the point where we invariably went our separate ways. Just before we parted company, Will asked me if I wanted to go see some local band with him, claiming the lead singer was as a real babe.

I hesitated. I was really up for it, but I had a problem in the form of my old man. I doubted he would let me. He hated the idea of me enjoying myself. He still held me responsible for my mom's death. It was an accident for crying out loud. But dad swears blind I was responsible nevertheless. Just after it happened, he said, "You killed her. You killed her as surely as if you'd stabbed her with a knife!" Man, did that upset me. I never would have deliberately hurt my own mom, I loved her; I really did. But because dad blamed me for her death he made me suffer at every given opportunity.

"So what do you say?" Will asked, prompting me for an answer.

"I'll think about it," I said.

He nodded his head and said he understood. He probably did too. He knew my old man and me were always at war. Will was a good egg. A bit of a geek to look at, with his rakish body and big thick lens specs, but he was more sincere than all the other kids at school. At least he was always friendly and didn't tease me about my face.

Will and me said our goodbyes and Will turned, plugged himself into his MP3 player and started walking off in the direction of home. I really envied him luxuries like that little gadget. I certainly couldn't afford that kind of stuff, and no way would my old man treat me: why he wouldn't have given me water if I were dying of thirst in the Sahara. The biggest luxury we had in the house, aside from the plasma TV that he watched his horse racing on, was an antiquated home computer that was always playing up. Even that was out of bounds to me most of the time, due to my dad hogging it for himself to do his online gambling and God knows what else. I even had to pay for my mobile phone myself. I was trying to save up enough money to buy Jimbo, my little brother one, so we could keep in touch, and I could have peace of mind that he was okay.

I continued to observe Will until he disappeared around a corner. Then I looked around trying to figure out what to do next. One thing was for sure; I wasn't going to be heading straight home, mainly because I didn't feel much like seeing my old man sprawled across the sofa with half a dozen empty beer cans lying at his feet. So I ended up going into town and treated myself to a coffee at The Black Jack.

The Black Jack was the in place as far as the older kids at my school were concerned, though God only knows why. As cafes go it was a real dump of a place. The linoleum covering the floor was torn and faded, the wallpaper was nicotine yellow, and the windows were so grimy you could write your name on them, but to its credit, it did have a selection of excellent games machines, a red hot sound system and the owners, Mr and Mrs Popowycz were friendly enough I guess, and didn't seem to mind you lingering over one drink for hours on end.

I sat on my own by the window, chewing gum, thinking about my mom, dead these past eleven months. I missed her more with every single passing day. It was awful; one day she was there, the next she was gone; just like that. It was like she'd been stolen and was never going to be given back. I was still having trouble taking it in, and kept on having nightmares about what had happened.

The thought of her being dead and gone forever really began to get to me to the point where I thought I might actually burst into tears, so I looked around for some kind of distraction, and that was when I noticed the girl sitting at a table just across the way. She must've come into the cafe while I was caught up with thoughts of my mom. She was a real dream girl. Shiny blonde hair, baby blue eyes, lovely figure, she had the lot. I started thinking of her as "Miss Gorgeous". I just couldn't take my eyes off her. I'd seen her before, hanging around in school, but always from a distance, never this close. I sat back in my seat chewing nonchalantly on my gum, trying to look cool, hoping she would notice me. But I was the invisible man. It was so frustrating.

A gang of kids suddenly entered the café. Well known troublemakers, they took great delight in scaring the crap out of people, especially younger kids like me. Their great and powerful leader was a knuckle head who went by the name of Dexter Dixon. Everyone referred to him as "The Pig" because of his broad upturned nose and small piggy eyes. No one dared call him "Pig" to his face however. He was built like a young bull. Besides which, he had about fifty elder brothers whose hobbies included ripping folks apart just for the fun of it. Rumour had it that The Pig's brothers were into selling drugs to supplement the family scrap metal business which, a lot of people said, had fallen onto hard times and was merely a front nowadays for the drug running, but no one knew for sure. One thing was for certain, you didn't fuck with The Pig, not if you had any sense you didn't.

I must have been staring at him without realizing, because all of a sudden he was standing over me, frowning like a retard.

"Got a problem?" he asked.

"I don't know what you mean?"

"You was eye-balling me."

"Was I?"

"Eye-balling me like you're a little hard man or something. I don't like being eyeballed."

He leaned in closer.

"How'd you get the scar kid? It makes you look like Freddie Kruger."

He was referring to the scar marking my face. He looked over at Miss Gorgeous. "Looks like Freddie Kruger, don't he?"

I felt my heart sink and my face go red with embarrassment.

"Looks like Freddie Kruger," he repeated when Miss Gorgeous failed to respond. "I bet you give girls nightmares," he said to me. "How'd you get so ugly, kid?"

I stared up into his face wanting to kill him.

"Run into the back of a bus, was that it? I've seen better looking pizzas."

He laughed and walked back over to his friends, leaving me wanting to crawl into the nearest hole never to reappear.

I snuck a crafty look at Miss Gorgeous who was engrossed in a magazine, and then The Pig was back, this time with his four moronic looking mates.

"Gimme a fag," he said.

"Don't have any," I told him.

"Liar. I can see 'em poking out your top pocket. "Now give, before I make you even uglier than you already are."

I did as I was told, but he wasn't finished.

"What about my friends," he said. "Don't forget them."

I pulled four more cigarettes from the packet and handed them over.

"Clever boy," he said sarcastically before popping the cigarette I'd given him into his mouth."Now fuck off before I rip your ugly little head off."

I rose from the table and headed quickly for the door, feeling lucky to have escaped with my life, but The Pig and his mates were up for more fun and games. They followed me out of the cafe and cornered me further up the street, where they took great delight in goading me and roughing me up in front of passing shoppers, not badly, just enough to dent my pride again.

"That's for eye-balling me," The Pig said before giving my face a nice hard slap as a parting gesture. I watched him go on his merry way with his mates in tow feeling like a complete coward for not standing up to him. I could feel tears of anger and frustration filling my eyes, and promised myself that if ever the chance arose I'd get even with him.

A little old lady was suddenly at my side. "Are you all right dear?" she asked kindly. "Those boys should be locked up for what they just did to you." I looked at her and said nothing. There was nothing to say. Silly old bint had watched me get beaten up and humiliated and decided to play the Good Samaritan after the event. What use was she? No fucking use. If she was that concerned about my welfare she would've summoned help, but she failed to do so because she wasn't really bothered and simply liked the drama. She was just like all the rest. She didn't give a flying fig about me.

"Can I do anything for you?" she asked.

I rolled my eyes. "Are you still here?"

She looked at me, unsure whether I joking or not.

"Don't worry about me, lady, I'm fine, honest. Thanks for your concern." Now piss off I wanted to say, but that would've been going a little bit too far. After all, she wasn't the one who'd bullied and humiliated me.

The little old dear wandered off looking confused and out of sorts. I looked up and down the street, suddenly afraid The Pig and his cronies would return for more fun at my expense, and decided to beat a hasty exit. I ended up walking aimlessly around town, feeling even more ashamed for not having the balls to stand up for myself. At some point I happened to catch my reflection in a shop window and stopped and stared. As far as I was concerned the burn scarring the left hand side of my face, which trailed from my cheek down to my jaw line really wasn't that bad, although to have heard some people talking you'd think it was an absolutely horror story. Mostly it was kids like The Pig who passed comment, but occasionally grownups said stuff and they should have known better. They said things like "It's a crying shame," or, "I wonder if it's painful?" I used to wish they'd just shut the fuck up and mind their own business. I made a promise to myself that I would have plastic surgery one day. Mom used to tell me I was an extremely handsome young man regardless, and should be proud of my good looks. The burn happened when I was three years old. My old man claims I yanked the cord while the kettle was boiling and got scalded—said it was my own stupid fault. Said also that for a long time afterwards I would cry whenever I looked in a mirror, which, he added, was extremely irritating.

CHAPTER TWO

I visited my mom's grave after I split from The Black Jack; but seeing her name on the headstone made me feel depressed enough to want to slit my wrists so I didn't stay long, just long enough to place fresh flowers on the grave that I'd taken from the one opposite, and to say hello to her and to tell her I missed her. Afterwards, to cheer myself up, I crossed the road to Singh's newsagents where I nicked a Mars Bar and a packet of spearmint chewing gum. I ate the chocolate then used a stick of the gum to clean my teeth. I take very good care of my teeth; always have, mainly because I don't want to end up like my old man. According to mom he wore a full set of dentures by the time he was thirty!

When I finally got home he was in the kitchen bent over the table studying the sports paper. He was totally hooked on horse racing, loved it to pieces even though it took every last penny he had.

He didn't bother looking up when I walked in, just went on studying the form. He made me feel insignificant, always had. He liked making me feel small. He was forever putting me down, criticising me, saying I had to smarten up my act, pull myself together, that I was no good at this, no good at that. Aside from mom's death he'd never forgiven me for the time Jimbo cut his hand open on a Stanley knife blade I accidently left lying around. The wound was bad enough to need stitches. He wasn't so clever himself though. He left stuff all over the place, always failing to tidy up his mess. He was a slob, bald and flabby with an unsightly beer gut. His face was red and blotchy from too much alcohol. He was a shambling wreck of a man, but I knew all too well that he was still too much for me to take on. That wasn't always going to be the case however. I was still growing: I'd get bigger and stronger. I was hopeful that one day I'd be able to nail him for all the bad things he's done. But for the moment I had to be careful. The numerous holes in doors and walls around the house where my old man had planted his fists and feet in temper were a constant reminder of that. He almost enjoyed hitting walls and doors as much as he liked hitting me.

I offered a friendly hello, tried to make conversation, but as usual got nothing back. I dumped my school bag on the chair, anxious, unable to anticipate his mood, his unpredictability. And then, just when I thought he'd decided to totally ignore me he looked up from the paper and asked me why I was late getting home. When I told him I'd been to the cemetery, he had the cheek to ask me why, and I said, "To visit mom of course," and he just sat there staring at me as if I was stupid. And then, in a totally patronising tone, he said, ""Your mom's dead Richard," to which I wanted to reply, "Don't you think I know that you fucking cretin," but that wouldn't have been a very wise move. Instead I said, "Yeah dad, but I wanted to pay my respects," to which he replied, "Shame you weren't more respectful to your mother when she was alive." Man, when he said that I got this incredible urge to fetch a very sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and stick the blade straight through his big fat neck, but of course I didn't do that either. As things turned out it might have been for the best, and saved me and everyone else a whole load of grief.

I decided to ignore the great fat lump that was my father and went to the fridge to get myself a Coke. As I was pouring the drink into a glass he suddenly piped up again, asking if I had placed fresh flowers. Without looking at him I said, "Of course," and he immediately asked me where I got the money. I told him, "Paper round." He stared at me as if he didn't believe me, which made me nervous. He often looked that way at me when he was about to pick a fight, so I tried to change the subject and asked where Jimbo was.

"Upstairs," he mumbled, eyes never leaving the paper.

"Is he all right?"

An uneasy pause, and then: "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing: It was just a question." I glanced over my shoulder at him, suddenly afraid he might come for me, start pushing me around, but he didn't, he just sat there staring, and for some reason that seemed just as bad.

"If you must know he's upstairs, asleep," he said finally, and the tension that had built up between us seemed to ebb away, well almost, it never totally disappeared.

I looked towards the flaky kitchen ceiling, thinking all at once about Jimbo's wellbeing, and worrying myself to death about the future, sure as sure can be that the day would arrive when dad would start knocking him about like he did me. He quite often shook Jimbo by the shoulders, sometimes violently if Jimbo got on his nerves, or he thought Jimbo was being naughty. But Jimbo was never naughty. He was good as gold. Truth was, dad couldn't cope on his own, and took his frustration out on us boys. He saw us as a hindrance. We tied him down: stripped him of his freedom and stopped him having fun. He could deal with us when mom was alive because mom did everything for us, not that he was here that much back then, he was nearly always away working. Now it was different, mom was gone and was never coming back, and he no longer worked. So he was resentful and blamed us for everything. But it wasn't our fault that things had worked out like they had, and Jimbo certainly didn't deserve the threats just like I didn't deserve the beatings. Jimbo was only six for Christ's sake. As for mom, I can't understand what she ever saw in my old man. She once remarked that he used to be very handsome and that all the girls fancied him. Hard to believe, what with the way he turned out. Why she stayed with him I'll never know, maybe she loved him too much to leave, or maybe he abused her too without Jimbo and me knowing, and was simply too scared?

I often thought of him as the blob, and this afternoon it seemed that the blob was in one of his "funny" moods. He might be okay and he might not. It was one of those moods. You just never knew which way he would swing. It therefore took a certain amount of courage to interrupt him while he was engrossed in his newspaper, but I was hungry and knew Jimbo would be too, so I had to speak up and ask if there was anything to eat.

Without even looking up, he informed me that there was money by the telephone in the hall, and to get whatever I wanted from town with it. Jimbo and me had to eat in town quite often, most nights in fact. Dad couldn't be bothered to cook.

"What about Jimbo?" I asked, knowing he'd be hungry when he woke up, but dad said not to worry about Jimbo because Jimbo had eaten a big plate of sausage and beans before he went to bed, so I decided to let the matter drop. It wouldn't do to start interrogating my old man. I quickly changed out of my school uniform into my favourite everyday clothes consisting of jeans, trainers, a Coldplay t-shirt and a hoodie, in case it got chilly later. I took the money dad had put aside for me and headed for town, still as worried as hell about what the future held for Jimbo and me.

It was a scary situation, living alone with dad. He needed an anger management course or something. He had a real temper and, so I heard, a bit of a reputation as a brawler when he was young. His name was Michael, but according to one of my uncles he was known locally as Mad Mick. Even now he got into the odd scrape. It wasn't unknown for the coppers to pay the occasional visit. His temper got the better of him if you know what I mean, especially if he'd been drinking. And if Jimbo and me were around we got the short end of the stick, especially with mom no longer there to referee. He knocked me about regularly but was careful never to leave visible marks. He slipped up once, gave me a black eye, a real shiner. After he did it he kept apologising, made me promise not to tell anyone how it happened. He said that if I did, we'd both get into big trouble. So when anyone asked I said I walked into a door. It really didn't bother me that much that he beat me, I was used to it, but it was a different matter when he was cruel to Jimbo. Jimbo was tiny for his age. Mom used to say he was a frail child. When Jimbo was a baby he was always in and out of hospital for one thing or another. He got asthma pretty bad in summer and had to use one of those inhalers. If ever he got over excited or really scared he started whistling like a kettle.

I had just enough money to buy cod, chips and peas. I scoffed the lot in record time. Then, feeling bored, I wandered over to the old rectory. It had been empty for years, ever since I could recall, and it had a reputation for being haunted. The reason people said it was haunted was, a long time ago, a murder took place there. The vicar was killed by an intruder, a burglar I think, and his ghost supposedly walked the place because he didn't realise he was dead. Some people claimed to have heard him praying and preaching his sermons in there. I'd visited the old rectory countless times but had never seen or heard him.

That day I was hopeful my luck might change. I decided that should I bump into him I would do him a favour, tell him he was dead and didn't have to hang about the rectory any more. I arrived at the rectory gates, made sure I was alone, then eased the gates open, and headed up the weed ridden shingle path.

The gardens were like a jungle. Nettles, Dock leaves, brambles were everywhere. The light was fading, the rectory looked grey, depressing, like a building in a monochrome photograph. It wasn't a very big place, no bigger than a normal house really. All the windows were smashed. The boards that were put up to stop people getting in had mostly been torn away. It was really shabby, looked dark as soot inside. Spooky! Supposedly it was rat infested. Nice!

As I approached the porch I heard a faint noise. It came from the back of the building. I crept round and peered in through one of the windows. What confronted me was the sight of a man and woman writhing about on the floor, moaning and groaning like idiots. It didn't take a genius to work out what they were up to. Intrigued, I tried to get a better look and moved closer. Big mistake! A twig snapped underfoot blowing my cover. The man had seen me, the girl too. The man cursed loudly. Beneath him the girl gave a little cry of alarm. The couple quickly disentangled themselves from one another. The man sprang to his feet, quickly yanked up his jeans and came after me yelling his head off, saying how he was going to beat the living daylights out of me for being a peeping tom. Behind him the girl, a real dusky beauty, was hurriedly smoothing down her skirt and buttoning up her blouse. While she was doing that the boyfriend was charging across the room towards me looking and sounding like a complete lunatic. He was a stocky little bugger with long curly black hair and a thick beard. He reminded me of a crazed grizzly the way he was looking and behaving. Deciding I was far too young to die I did a quick vanishing act and headed for town at break neck speed.

CHAPTER THREE

Didn't stop running until I reached a building known locally as the market place, where I rested on a wooden bench. Well and truly bushed I was; too many ruddy cigarettes. The market place was weird looking architecture by anyone's standards. It was built of sandstone and had these grand pillars and huge archways. A monstrous clock tower rose heavenward from its dark slate roof. A market was held there twice a week, had been from time immemorial, hence its name.

I lit a fag, thought about the girl at the rectory. Black beauty! Hot to trot or what? Recovered from my exploits I was about to head off when I saw Mark Mullins coming up the road, heading straight for me. He was known to all and sundry as "Pinhead"': got the nickname because his head seemed a little bit too small for his body. The name "Dickhead" would have suited just as well. He hated the name "Pinhead" for obvious reasons. As if having an unnaturally small head wasn't bad enough, he also suffered from terrible acne: his face was a regular zit board; a right royal pepperoni pizza. I felt better about my own face when I looked at him. Shame, he wasn't a bad kid really. Terrible dress sense and boring as hell, but he really wasn't too awful as long as you got him in small doses.

I didn't feel sociable but he saw me before I could get out of sight. When he called my name and waved like an idiot to get my attention I was forced to acknowledge him. He came over looking like an accident waiting to happen and asked me what I was up to.

"Not a lot," I said, hoping he would lose interest and leave. No such luck, I should've known. He joined me on the bench, started saying how he might drop out of school, join the funfair that was coming to town next week. He was a hopeless romantic. Last week he was going to be an airline pilot, before that he was going to join the armed forces, get into the SAS and do dangerous covert operations. Now it was the funfair. Despite being physically inferior he fancied himself rotten with the ladies. I guess he thought that by joining the fair he would get hoards of girls falling at his feet.

"Want a smoke?" I asked for something to say. He shook his head, then started picking his nose, digging deep with his little pinkie, a rather unpleasant nervous habit he had. I lit a ciggie at the same time noticing he was done up in his best gear, which, with his Harry Hill shirt, silly flared trousers and shoes with built up heels, made him look a bit like a seventies throwback. There was no hope for him. I sensed he was either going on a date or was out to get one.

"Going anywhere special?" I asked, casual like.

"Youth club," he announced.

"Who're you meeting Pin?"

"There's a netball game on," he said.

"So?"

"Hannah Daily's playing."

I laughed. "You've got a crush on ol' Daily?"

"What's wrong with her?"

"What's right with her," I said. Actually Hannah Daily wasn't half bad. A bit on the tall side, which was the main reason she was in the netball team, but she really did have what it took in all the right places, especially up top. Only problem with Daily: she had a reputation for putting it about. I didn't tell Pin that, however, didn't want to disenchant him. Not that he stood much chance of getting anywhere with her. She was into older boys. She once dated this guy who had been left school four years, had a job, a car, his own flat: the works. She also had a fondness for motor bikers. Daily was fourteen going on twenty-five. She looked older than her years on account of her height and her voluptuous figure.

I once had a dream about her, not a wet dream exactly, but it was pretty close. In it her breasts were the size of pillows. They resembled giant marsh mellows with huge chocolate buttons for nipples and guess what; my head was trapped slap bang between them. At first it was great being in that position; better than great; it was totally orgasmic! They were so soft and warm and fragrant. But then things took a sudden turn for the worse: I started to suffocate under the pressure: the dream gradually turned into a nightmare in which I ended up fighting for my life. Crazy thing was, it was only a stupid dream yet in the morning I woke up with a major headache.

Pin asked me how he looked. I thought he looked like a prize geek, someone who shouldn't be allowed to handle sharp instruments, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings so I told him he looked fantastic, went over the top a bit, saying he was a dead ringer for the singer, Ronan Keating. I knew he was a big fan, that the compliment would go down well and what harm could it do anyway?

"You really think so Rick?" he said falling for it hook, line and sinker.

"Absolutely," I said, somehow keeping my face straight. "Better watch you don't get mobbed."

He considered this for quite a long time whilst slowly nodding to himself. He reminded me of a mental patient. Suddenly he started humming "When You Say Nothing at All", completely out of tune, before producing this really grubby brown comb which he used to tidy his fuse wire hair. Dandruff rained down around his shoulders like a dusty grey cloud. All of a sudden a light seemed to go on inside his undersized head, and he said, "Want to come to the club with me Rick?"

"Love to," I said, "but I'm skint."

He offered to pay me in.

I asked him for the catch. Turned out he wanted me to do him a favour.

"What kind of favour?" I asked.

He leaned in close, hit me with his stale breath; said that once inside the club he expected me to ask Daily out on his behalf. I agreed. What harm could it do? I get into the club free, ask Daily out for Pin, she turns him down, and we all go home happy, all except Pin, but he would get over it I was sure.

So we set off for the club which stood on the other side of town, not too far from my house as it happened, which meant I'd at least have an easy journey home after the fun and games with Pin and Hannah Daily were over. On the way over there Pin got a bad case of speech diarrhoea, deluding himself about joining the fair again. His constant rabbiting caused my mind to wander, and it wandered badly, it wandered off into a particularly dark place, a place I seemed to be visiting more and more in recent times. I suddenly found myself thinking about the books I'd been reading lately about mass murderers and serial killers, Bundy, Dalmer, Sutcliffe, McVie, and the like. I was curious to know what made those guys tick, what made them do what they did. There had to be reasons, I wanted to know what they were. I started reading them because of my old man. Deep down I wanted to kill him. I'd grown to hate him so much since mom died. I never got on with him at the best of times but now it was worse. I imagined killing him quite often. I was so angry with him. He was so unfair, so cruel. I was all mixed up. I was angry that God had allowed mom to die, which had put Jimbo and me at his mercy, at the mercy of the world! She shouldn't have been taken like she was: it wasn't her time to go. But she went anyway. I was angry with myself for not being able to stop it from happening, and like I said, I was especially angry with dad, not just because he was so cruel, but also because he didn't care. It hadn't always been like that though. He was almost bearable when mom was alive. But since her death he had allowed himself to turn into a monster, and for that he was going to pay. One way or the other if he kept on the way he was going he would pay big time.

As we approached the club Pin said, "Penny for 'em Rick?"

"You wouldn't want to know," I said and he wisely let it go.

CHAPTER FOUR

The youth club was a big flash affair, all mod cons: tuck shop with ice cold drinks on tap, big gym and games areas, showers in the changing rooms, you name it, that youth club had it in bucket loads. The tuck shop was elevated above the gym and provided a great view of the area. A balcony stood on the other side of the building, which was even better. Unfortunately, a gang of kids, troublemakers like The Pig's lot, had laid claim to it that evening, so Pin and me opted to watch the netball game in which Hannah Daily was involved from the tuck shop.

The place was always pretty busy but that night it was jam-packed. The visiting netball team was area champion and had a massive following. The game was in progress when we arrived. Our team was being massacred. I don't understand netball rules and don't have the slightest interest in the game, but I didn't let that bother me. The amount of female flesh on view was incredible: wall to wall tits and cheeks. As for Hannah Daily, she'd gone braless and was in constant danger of rendering herself unconscious. Pin was utterly captivated and who could blame him. She had all the hallmarks of a fantasy girl. Her chest was something to behold. She bloody well knew it too. Sadly, not even her titanic tits could save our team from a truly humiliating defeat.

The game over our team left the court destroyed and distraught.

"What now," Pin asked appearing all at sea with his emotions.

I had a little think. "Follow me," I said finally.

"Where're we going?" he asked, gawking at me like an idiot.

"Just do as I tell you," I instructed and led him along a short corridor to where the changing rooms stood, and where there was a fair sized television area.

"What now?" Pin asked for the second time in as many minutes.

I told him to sit down and shut up.

We plonked ourselves on a couple of uncomfortable plastic seats in front of the television set and watched Sky Sports and waited for Hannah to shower and change. And all the time we waited, Pin nibbled frantically at his nails, or rather what was left of them, another nervous habit he had. After about ten minutes or so, our patience was finally rewarded when Hannah emerged from the girls changing room resembling some kind of glamour model. Unfortunately she had a friend with her which made my mission to ask her out on Pin's behalf just a little bit tricky, if I was to be discreet,. This fact I pointed out to Pin.

"Don't care," he insisted, "just do it Rick."

Boy did he have it bad. Whenever he gazed at old Daily he looked like he was high on drugs.

"Go on Rick; do it," he urged when I failed to move.

So I wandered over, cool as a cucumber because the pressure wasn't on me, and prepared myself to ask the million dollar question.

"Hey Hannah," I said, full of false bravado. She glanced over at me frowning suspiciously, like someone would when they see a stray dog or a beggar or some kind of weirdo approaching. The look made me to hesitate, but only briefly. Then I was standing right in front of her, grinning like a prize idiot, at the same time wishing I was about two foot taller. Up close Ol' Daily was Amazonian; she was as tall as fuck. I was forced to take a deep breath to steady an unexpected rush of nerves. "I've got a message for you," I managed, finding it hard to keep my voice steady. She stared down at me blankly. "It's Pin," I said as if she should know who Pin was. I checked myself and started again. "Mark Mullins. He's nuts about you and wants to know if he can date you."

"Mark Mullins," Hannah repeated flatly. "Date me." She glanced at her friend, a bit of a plain Jane with bleached hair and studs through her ears, then back at me, obviously none the wiser. "I don't even know who Mark Mullins is," she said sounding flummoxed.

I duly pointed Pin out to her and immediately wished I hadn't. He was sitting on the plastic chair looking scared to death with his pinkie buried up his nose. His Harry Hill style shirt collar stuck up like he was ready to get airborne. For a moment there I felt really sorry for him. He didn't have a clue.

Hannah Daily pulled a face.

Her plain Jane friend asked if he was safe to be out on his own.

He was on a real loser.

"He's sound, trust me," I said in his defence, "just nervous." To Hannah I said, "Well, is it a yes or is it a no?"

"I'm afraid it's a no," she said ever so politely, which made me really warm to her. Some girls put in such a position would have reacted cruelly and ridiculed Pin.

"You don't want to think about it?" I asked, pushing my luck.

"No thanks," she said, "definitely not."

At that point she decided to take a deep breath causing her ample breasts to swell like inflated balloons. I suddenly recalled my dream, the one in which my head was trapped between them. I came over all dizzy and, unable to think of anything more to say, I returned to Pinhead, who was devastated beyond words when I gave him the bad news. In fact he looked like he might slit his wrists or hang himself from the nearest lamppost. I really don't think rejection ever occurred to him, yet he got it all the time. I don't know whether he was naively optimistic or plain stupid or both. In the aftermath of rejection he sat glum faced staring at his feet and didn't speak a word for ages. I tried to cheer him up at one point, told him a little story I'd heard about a man who accidentally overdosed on carrot juice.

"Overdosed: carrot juice?" Pin queried like it was that difficult to understand.

"He turned orange," I said, "and died. Who'd have thought it: carrot juice: a potential killer."

Pin seemed unimpressed. We sat there like dummies. I started getting fidgety. I hate sitting around doing nothing; dad oftentimes accused me of suffering from "attention deficit disorder". I tried to think of something to do. Suddenly I got an idea.

"Fancy a bit of excitement Pin?"

"What kind of excitement?" he asked.

I told him what I had in mind, which was that we hide somewhere when the club closed for the night, help ourselves to whatever was in the till and behind the counter. I knew we'd have no problem unless we were really unlucky. Typically the council had virtually run out of funds just before the place was finished and was forced to skimp on security. The building was completed minus surveillance cameras and alarm system.

Pinhead was keen, I could tell. "Where would we hide?"

"Leave the details to me," I said. "Are you game?"

Without giving it a second thought he smiled and nodded his head.

CHAPTER FIVE

Five minutes before the club shut up shop I led Pin downstairs into the boys changing room, which was about the size of a double garage. At the far end of the room I spotted a broom cupboard with its door standing ajar. I took a quick peek inside and saw it was empty except for a few cleaning materials. It was also quite roomy, certainly big enough to conceal two average sized kids: the perfect hiding place it seemed. I beckoned Pin over, shoved him inside and quickly followed, pulling the door closed behind me. Except for a faint chink of light around the edge of the door it was pitch black in there. It was also as stuffy as hell. It wasn't long before I made a rather unpleasant discovery. Pin had a personal hygiene problem.

"You reek," I told him.

"You're not so fresh yourself," he replied.

"At least I don't smell like a dead kipper."

"More like a dead rat," he mumbled.

I dug him in the ribs.

"That hurt," he complained, so I did it again, harder, and was surprised to hear him start to cry.

"Stop blubbering," I told him, "or you really will have something to moan about."

It seemed like forever before we heard people leaving and the youth club leaders locking up. When everything had been dead quiet for a few minutes we finally left the cupboard and I heaved a great big sigh of relief.

By now all the lights were turned off so we found ourselves stumbling around in complete darkness. It was so dark in fact, it was virtually impossible to see anything at all. I had trouble finding the door and walked straight into a locker, banging my knee so hard it brought tears to my eyes.

"Fucking thing!"

"Are you all right Rick?" Pin asked keeping his voice low.

I ignored him, finally located the door and went outside into the gym area where the light was slightly better. I checked no one was around and led Pin upstairs to the tuck shop. Luckily a street lamp stood directly outside the only window in the place, providing just enough light to see by. The first thing we did was check the cashier tills of which there were two, on the off chance one or both of them was open, and the night's takings were still in there, but we were out of luck. Both tills were open all right, but any money that had been in there was now gone, no doubt taken away by the youth club leader to be banked the next morning.

We consoled ourselves in the only way we could, by pigging out on sweets and chocolates and crisps to the point where we both felt as sick as parrots. As for drinks, unfortunately for us, the taps to the soft drinks had been turned off, and the bottled stuff was kept under lock and key when the club was closed. Our only option was the milk dispenser. Pin, the greedy little git, guzzled about a gallon of the stuff straight down; didn't even touch the sides. That, combined with all the sugary crap he'd eaten, gave him a serious case of indigestion and he ended up with hiccups and stomach cramps.

"Feel sick," he complained before plonking himself down onto a chair. I was convinced he would throw up all over the floor, but all he did was to give off a series of disgusting burps.

"You sound like an old man," I told him.

"Can't help it," he said between gasps, "Feels like my guts are about to explode."

"Just make sure it doesn't happen in here," I warned, "or you'll be wearing your head back to front."

He let out another huge burp and finally relaxed.

"Better?" I asked.

"Much," he said.

"Hiccup's gone?"

"Think so." He stood and immediately returned to the sweet counter where he proceeded to stuff his pockets with goodies.

"I thought you would've had enough," I said, but he wasn't listening. Greed had rendered him temporarily deaf. While he continued to ransack the sweet counter I went in search of the petty cash box, but was unable to find it. I checked out the games machines, tempted to stay a while and play. They only needed plugging in and switching on, money was no problem, Pin was loaded, but Pin was getting skittish and insisted we split, suddenly worried the cops or a security firm might periodically check out the place. I tried talking him round but it was useless, the more I pressed the more adamant he got. In the end I let him have his own way.

We returned to the boys changing room. We allowed time for our eyes to adjust to the dark then I led Pin across to the only window, a window that was small and located high up the wall. It overlooked a deserted back alley. Not being all that tall I told Pin I would have to go first because I needed a bunk up. He didn't like that idea.

"What if I need help too?" he asked.

"You won't. You're tall enough to reach."

He looked doubtful.

"Trust me."

He looked up at the window then back at me.

"You reckon?"

"Why would I lie?"

He continued to look unconvinced, but played ball anyway. Bending his knees slightly he made his hand into a stirrup to support my foot. A moment or two later, I had grabbed hold of the windowsill and was hauling myself up. I slipped the latch and pushed the window open. I was about halfway through when I heard approaching footsteps. I froze, scared to death. Seconds later a figure passed by the alleyway entrance.

"What's the matter?" Pin asked from inside the building.

"Be quiet," I hissed back at him.

I waited until I was sure whoever it was had gone, then squeezed all the way through and lowered myself safely to the ground. I checked to make sure the coast was clear and told Pin to make his move.

"I'll whistle if anyone comes," I promised before retreating into the shadows. Pinhead was halfway through the window and complaining that his jacket was caught when this copper came round the corner. I tried to whistle but nothing happened. My lips and mouth had gone bone dry. I looked over at Pin who resembled a grub emerging from an apple, tried to whistle again, failed and deciding there was nothing else for it started running like the clappers. There was no point in both of us getting caught.

"Hey, where're you going, come back!" I heard Pin say as I scarpered.

I felt terrible about leaving Pin stuck in the window but what else could I do? To call out would have given the game away. There was no point in me staying there with the cop snooping around. Hopefully Pinhead had heard the cop coming and managed to wriggle back inside the club in time to avoid confrontation. I supposed I would find out soon enough. Pin and me did paper rounds for the same shop. No doubt I'd be seeing him first thing next morning, unless of course he'd been arrested.

I didn't stop running till I reached the far end of town. I was out of breath, felt clammy and shaky. It was a stifling summer night, the kind when you get sweaty in bed and can't get to sleep no matter how many sheep you count.

I walked past the town hall and recalled Will mentioning the chick who would be performing there shortly. I checked out her publicity photo in the showcase window. Will wasn't exaggerating when he said she was a babe. She almost put Miss Gorgeous in the shade. I decided that no matter what I would make it to her show. If my old man had other ideas I'd tell him to shove, it and take the consequences.

CHAPTER SIX

He wasn't there when I got home. Probably out boozing I guessed. He did it most nights, even when he was seeing Betty, his bitch of a girlfriend. When he arrived home he was usually rolling drunk and vicious with it. I made it my business to keep out of his way when he was like that. Drunk he was morose, which meant he started thinking about mom. If he saw me he'd more than likely start accusing me of killing her and would get himself so het up he'd shake and splutter like a crazy man. He scared me big time when he got like that. He hated my guts. I was frightened he might get carried away, go too far and kill me one day.

I went upstairs to check on Jimbo. I didn't like it when dad left him alone. He was so small and timid. He was in his bedroom, in bed, hidden beneath the blankets.

"Jimbo," I said quietly, "are you awake?"

He stirred, opened his eyes and blinked sleepily.

"How are you feeling?"

He failed to answer.

"Jimbo?"

"What time is it Ricky?"

"Late," I said.

"How late?"

"Very late."

I knelt down beside his bed, "Anything the matter big boy?"

He was upset, I could tell, but he refused to admit it. He could be stubborn as a mule sometimes. I saw no point in hounding him for answers so I left him to it and went straight to bed.

I had this weird dream. I have them quite a lot, even now, but this was the granddaddy of them all. It scared the bejesus out of me. I was in this church: it was really dark. I knew it was a church because I could just about make out this huge imposing altar and cross and statue of Madonna and Child. Suddenly the place was filled with loud music: that Bruce Springsteen number, "Dancin' in the Dark". It slowly dawned on me that that was what I was doing, dancing in the dark, I was doing it with someone, but I couldn't see who it was. All of a sudden the whole place was flooded with light. It wasn't a church anymore; it was a courtroom. None other than Dexter "The Pig" Dixon was the judge. He had on a judge's wig and gown and sat there on a raised platform, all pompous, and holding a gavel.

The jury was formed from members of my school class. Pinhead was the foreman, my old man was the prosecution council, Will Keaton was the council for the defence, but Will didn't seem too interested in what was going on around him, he was lost to the world listening to his beloved MP3.

"Will!" I shouted with the sudden terrifying realisation that it was me who was standing trial, "take off that headset and start defending me!" I thought he had heard but it was just wishful thinking, he closed his eyes and suddenly started body popping across the courtroom.

"Will!" I screamed as loud as I could, "What on earth do you think you're doing?!"

Now he was break dancing. I looked towards the jury, desperate to get a favourable verdict but it was already too late. The spokesman was on his feet, speaking the word, "Guilty" in this great booming voice that seemed to fill the whole courtroom. My old man grinned wickedly and pointed an accusing finger at me.

"Look what you've done Ricky," he boomed, "look what you've done, you bad, bad boy."

"Yes," agreed Dexter "The Pig" Dixon from the judge's seat, "look what you've done!"

And then the entire jury started chanting, "Look what you've done Ricky...look what you've done!" at the top of their voices. Will was the only one who didn't join in, he was too busy break dancing to whatever sounds erupted from his MP3.

"Look what you've done," my old man taunted angrily.

That was when I looked at what I held in my arms. It was Jimbo. He was the one I'd been dancing with. But he was dead! His complexion was a horrid blue. There was bruising around his neck. I broke down and started to cry. Everyone in the courtroom, (with the exception of Will), kept on chanting, "Look what you've done Ricky, you bad, bad boy!"

I couldn't stand it. I shouted back at them denying I had killed Jimbo, saying how much I loved him. I pointed to my old man, saying, "He did it! There's your killer!" but no one took any notice, no one believed me. My old man merely flashed his wicked grin and knocked back beer from the can he held.

"He's the one you want!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, "he's the one who killed Jimbo, he strangled him!"

My old man roared with laughter at that. The others went on chanting as if they hadn't heard me. I realised there was somebody at the back of the jury I had failed to notice. I nearly died of shock. It was mom, she was a walking dead, and she was chanting too!

I swore to her before God that I didn't kill Jimbo, that I would never so much as harm a single hair on his head. She stared back at me as if she hated my guts. Then she said, "You're a very bad boy Ricky. You killed your own mother, now you've murdered your baby brother. I don't know how you can live with yourself you bad, bad boy."

I couldn't believe she was accusing me.

"I didn't kill you," I said, "honest mom, it was an accident." I was at my wit's end. If she refused to believe me no one would. All eyes were on her now. She had the power to make or break me.

"Accident be damned," she shouted furiously. "Your daddy told me you killed me Ricky. I have no reason to doubt his word."

"He's a liar!" I screamed back. "Please mom, you gotta believe me!"

All she did was give me a scathing look and shake her head. The courtroom was in uproar. The judge, Dexter "The Pig" Dixon, used his gavel to call for order to be restored. The place fell silent. All eyes turned towards the bench. The Pig placed a square piece of black cloth on top of his head. Then, calm as anything, he sentenced me to hang till I was dead.

What happened after that is a blur. I don't think I did hang in the dream. They say that if you die in a dream then you carp it in real life. I was still very much alive when I woke up in the morning.

I woke up so distraught I actually cried out. It was loud enough to wake dad. He staggered angrily into my bedroom wearing a white string vest and stained Y-fronts whilst demanding to know what the hell was going on. His fists were clenched tight and I just knew he was going to hit me. He had a look on his face I had seen a hundred times before. I raised myself up to a sitting position and tried to explain why I'd cried out but he'd already made up his mind about that. As far as he was concerned I'd done it on purpose just to piss him off. And for that I must be punished and punish me he did by punching me so hard in the chest all the wind was knocked from me. I tried again to explain but couldn't get my breath, and then I got an almighty punch on the arm causing pain to explode like a bomb going off.

"Dad," I just about managed through the shock, "you're not being fair!"

A second punch crashed into my arm, same place, just as hard. Hurt like hell: made me cry even though I tried not to.

"That'll teach you," was all dad said when he'd finished. For the longest time afterwards he just stood there, staring down at me as if I disgusted him, whilst breathing so hard from exertion I thought, no I hoped, he might just fall down dead, but it didn't happen.

When at last he'd composed himself he announced that he was going out. He left the room slamming the door behind him. Moments later I heard the front door open and slam hard in its frame. I made myself stop crying, grabbed my book on serial killers off the shelf next to my bed, and started to read. As I read I rubbed my injured arm. After a while I started to feel better.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As usual I got to the newsagents to do my paper round early. Dawn was about to break. Best time of the day. I always got to the shop early because I had this little thing going. It was kind of lucrative. There was this ancient guy who opened up shop. His name was George, everybody called him "Cheerful George" because, yeah, you guessed it, he was always cheerful, nauseatingly so, and he was always cracking terrible jokes, most of which were in bad taste. He also had loads of bad taste stickers on the back of his old Astra van, which said things like, Save Mice, Eat Pussy and Good Girls Go to Heaven, bad girls go everywhere. He was a sad case.

Cheerful George was a pensioner who did a massive paper round to supplement his income, which took him most of the day to do. As I said, he opened up shop and collected in the papers when they were delivered of a morning and sorted them so they were ready when we paper boys and girls arrived. He would open the front doors and carry all the bundles of papers through the building to the back room, which he used for sorting. I would show up around the same time, offering to help. He was really happy to let me too, said I was a good quiet boy with nice manners. Mom would have approved because she held good manners in high esteem. Unbeknownst to him, and the single CCTV camera I was always careful to avoid, I would conceal various pieces of merchandise in my bag as I followed him through the shop: quite the little entrepreneur I was.

So that's what I did that morning, arrived early so I could help "Cheerful George"

"Gonna be a real scorcher today," he chirped as he transported his first bundle to the rear of the shop.

"Certainly is George," I agreed following, whilst calmly sneaking a computer game into my bag. It was easier than taking candy from a baby. I got a bit carried away that morning. By the time we'd brought all the papers in, my bag was fairly weighty considering it was supposed to be empty. I only hoped all my papers would fit.

I thought about Pinhead, wondering if he had got home safely last night or if he got nicked. I hoped not. I was quite fond of him in a strange kind of way. I was also scared he would blabber if he got caught and incriminate me. He would get his ears well and truly boxed if he did. I was fond of him but not that fond.

He still hadn't showed as I left the shop to start my round, not that I was overly concerned at that point. It was still ridiculously early. I decided to return to the shop after I had delivered my papers and ask "Cheerful George" if he had turned in.

So that's what I did. The answer was no, he hadn't. I went away feeling worried. I shouldn't have been. On the way out of the shop I bumped straight into him. Boy was I relieved.

"How's it going Mark?" I asked.

He told me to get lost.

"Don't be like that," I said.

"You're a git, Ricky, you left me for dead."

"C'mon Pin, you didn't get caught did you?"

"That's not the point."

"But what else could I do?"

"You could've warned me, like you promised."

"My whistle let me down. If I'd called out, the cop would have heard, and then we would've both been in trouble."

"Friends don't leave each other in the lurch," he said angrily.

"I had no choice," I protested.

He tried to walk around me but I blocked his way.

"Come on Mark, don't be mad. There was nothing I could do."

"I wouldn't like to be in the trenches with you," he said as he tried to force his way past.

I pushed him back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you desert your friends. You're nothing but a chicken."

That did it. No one calls me a chicken and gets away with it. I grabbed Pin by the throat and pushed him up against the wall as hard as I could.

"Say that again," I said squeezing, "I dare you."

Pinhead began to choke. His face turned red and tears welled in his eyes. He was too scared to fight back or try to struggle free. He was like a rabbit caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.

"Apologise," I demanded.

He wheezed something that sounded like "sorry".

I relaxed my grip. "Say it again."

He did so with tears streaming down his face.

I let go and he sagged against the wall, clutching his throat whilst coughing and spluttering like an asthmatic.

"Friends," I said extending a hand.

He looked at me in amazement, "First you abandon me," he blubbered, "then you try to throttle the life out of me, and now you ask if we can be friends. Exactly what planet are you on, Galleymore?"

"If we're not friends then we're sworn enemies," I said stubbornly and emphatically. Pinhead, perhaps sensing I was about to blow another fuse if I didn't get my way finally relented and grudgingly shook hands.

"Friends," I said for the second time in as many minutes.

"Friends," he agreed without real enthusiasm.

"So, what happened, Pin?" I asked, pleased the unpleasantness was in the past and our friendship was restored, "Did the cop see you?"

"I seen you run off," he said, "And guessed someone was coming, so I went back inside the club and waited till I heard 'em pass. Then I beat it. I ripped my best coat trying to get through that stupid window."

"At least you didn't get caught."

"No thanks to you."

I rewarded his insolence with a meaty punch to the arm that had him falling against the wall as if he was fatally wounded.

"You're so melodramatic," I told him. "You deserve an Oscar for your play acting sometimes."

He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. "Enough," I warned and he finally wised up and shut up.

"I'll see you around," he said as he walked off towards the shop entrance. I watched him go suddenly feeling sorry for him. He was a loser. Even though he always tried his best he would never amount to anything, you could see it in the way he conducted himself. He just didn't have it; unlike yours truly. I was determined to be a winner for Jimbo's sake, and because my mom had always told me I was.

"You're a little winner, Ricky," she used to tell me whenever I achieved anything. I missed her saying that to me so much, but there was nothing I could do about it, because she wasn't around to say it anymore. She was dead and never coming back. Man that was a hard pill to swallow. My mom; dead and gone, who'd have ever thought it. It really got to me sometimes. Occasionally I was convinced I would crack up and do something stupid because I was so unhappy, but then I thought about Jimbo and knew I couldn't let that happen.

I realised I was crying and quickly wiped my eyes. I took a quick look around to make sure no one had seen, then jumped on my bike and cycled home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The house was just as I left it, completely silent. No one was up it seemed. It gave me time to get myself organised, hide the stuff I had pilfered from the shop. As always I hid it underneath my bed, not the most original place, but it was as safe as anywhere. Dad never got to look under there when he was cleaning because he never did any damn cleaning. That was my job, just like every other household chore was my job. I don't mind admitting it pissed me off greatly. In fact, I was an extremely pissed off fourteen year old. My old man didn't lift a finger to help around the house. He was a slob, always stinking of booze and tobacco, never cleaning beneath his nails.

Sad thing was he wasn't always a slob. Up until mom's death he was a half-decent human being with a half decent job driving an articulated lorry for a local haulage firm. Very occasionally when I asked him, and with mom's approval, he allowed me to accompany him on trips. It gave me a buzz sitting up there in that huge cab of his. The cab was something else. It had a bed, a television, C.B radio, CD player, almost every mod con available. There was even a little sink and a microwave. The truck my old man drove was a monster. When you sat in the cab you were so high up ordinary cars resembled toys. Dad used to love driving. Unfortunately, when mom died he lost interest in everything and started drinking heavily. Not a good idea when you earn your living from trucking around the countryside. In the end drink cost him his licence. After that, what with no work he got bone-idle, hit the bottle harder, and the more he drank the more ill tempered he got. My aunt Josephine, mom's elder sister, said to me once, around the time dad first started going off the rails, that dad was a fairly decent bloke. Had his faults, she said knowingly, but he wasn't nearly as bad as some men. It was just that he was sad and bitter and a little bit weak willed, and gave into temptation too easily. But he was all right, she said in his defence, a good man when all was said and done. My aunt would say that though, she was a born again Christian, she never had a bad word to say about anyone, not even Fred Budget who ran off with the vicar's wife, and then dumped her for her younger sister.

There was still no sign of dad by the time I was thinking about heading off to school. I didn't even know if he was in the house. I didn't want to go into his room to find out in case he was in a bad mood. He may well not be in. He stayed out all night quite often. Didn't even bother to phone to let us know he wasn't coming back. He stayed over at his girlfriend's place: the lovely Betty, more like Ugly Betty if you ask me: she was a beanpole: a fucking rake with shitty dyed blonde hair, huge baby doll eyes and a pea for a brain, and that was being kind to her. "Dumbass" was her middle name. She was an exhibitionist who wore split skirts and never wore a bra: not that she had much to boast about. She and my dad were into fifties rock n roll and attended all the dances and festivals that celebrated that era, even though neither of them was old enough to have actually lived through it. Dad in his drainpipe trousers looked like a huge bald potato on sticks. He met Betty at a fifties convention in town not long after mom died. He'd always been fond of that era; his heroes were Buddy Holly, Little Richard and Eddie Cochran. So he went along to one of the conventions to see what it was like and came back with Ugly Betty. He would have done better to come back with measles. At least you can get rid of measles. Betty was a leach.

With dad absent from the scene, I had the job of getting Jimbo up and ready for school. No big deal though, I'd done it often enough before. Jimbo acted strange when I woke him, moaning and saying that he didn't want to go. I asked him why not?

He mumbled something about having a bad arm. I didn't know what to do. It wasn't like Jimbo to lie; he never ducked school, not like me. He loved school. That particular day he should've been looking forward to it more than ever, he was due to rehearse his part for the school play. He was playing Humphrey the Happy Hedgehog in a production of The Rip Roaring Adventures of Bobby Raccoon. He was thrilled to death to have won the part, had hardly stopped talking about it. I was puzzled and decided there was nothing else for it but to see if dad was in.

He was. Thankfully, no sign of Ugly Betty meaning dad was alone.

His room reeked of stale beer and bad farts. Obviously, a bloody good night was had by all. He lay in bed, snoring like a great fat pig. He truly disgusted me. I stood there like an idiot wondering what the hell to do. I didn't want to wake him. If he had a bad hangover and I disturbed him I was liable to get another beating. But Jimbo was sick. I had no option. I went over, ignoring the dentures in the glass by the bed, and gently shook him in an attempt to coax him awake.

"Dad," I said when he failed to stir, "wake up."

He groaned, which meant he was alive at least, although I didn't think that was necessarily a good thing the way I felt about him. I shook him a little harder. Without warning his eyes flew open and I jumped back in surprise. He stared unblinkingly, trying to focus. I put a bit more distance between us. He looked both scary and funny lying there wide eyed and as pale as fuck minus his false teeth. He looked like a dead man returned. He finally blinked, smacked his lips together and grimaced.

"Rishard," he said slurring and smacking his lips. "What're you doing in here? What time is it?" He shook himself, rubbed his bleary eyes with grubby sausage fingers. Before I could answer he checked the alarm clock on the bedside table, realised how early it was and frowned darkly.

"What do you want at this godforsaken hour?" he asked slowly coming to and hoisting himself up onto an elbow. He fumbled for his cigarettes and lighter and lit up. My explanation was interrupted by his hacking smoker's cough, which made him sound as if he was about to chuck up.

"It's Jimbo," I said when he had quite finished. "He's not very well."

My old man puffed on his fag, eyeing me suspiciously as if he thought I was making it up. "What's wrong with the little bleeder?" he asked finally before blowing a great big cloud of smoke in my direction.

"He's got a bad arm," I said.

"You woke me to tell me that? Let me tell you something mister. Your younger brother is a hypochondriac. He's trying it on. Now get the lazy so and so up and ready for school, do you hear me?"

"But he says he's poorly."

"Just do as I say," dad barked. I did an about turn and headed for the door. "And tell Jimmy, if he's not out of the house by the time I get up he's for the high jump," he added like a bear with a sore head.

"Yes dad," I said, furious with him. I really hated him for his uncaring attitude. Seemed to me he wouldn't care two figs if Jimbo and me ended up at death's door. All he was interested in was getting boozed up, betting on the gee-gees and hanging out with his bimbo of a girlfriend. Lying in bed that morning he was so flabby and slothful looking he reminded me of a beached whale. At that point I decided Aunt Josephine was wrong about him being a decent man. I suspected he'd always been like he was now. Mean, lazy and uncaring. Mom had managed to bring out what little good was in him and keep his bad side under control; was all.

I somehow managed to coax Jimbo out of bed but I absolutely hated doing it. He looked awful, sallow faced and clammy to the touch. He was genuinely unwell.

"I feel shitty," he said as he struggled out of his Gruffalo pyjamas.

"Don't swear," I told him, "or you'll never go to heaven."

"Mom used to say that," he said, frowning. He grabbed a sock off the chair and groaned with the effort of putting it on.

He flopped down onto the edge of the bed, fought to put on the second sock and complained about his arm again. The skin there looked slightly discoloured as if bruised, I thought. It wasn't bad, but it was noticeable if you looked hard enough, and I always looked hard whenever Jimbo complained of feeling unwell because I knew dad abused him physically, as well as verbally.

"Has daddy been nasty to you?" I asked. "Is that why you're arm hurts?"

He refused to say.

"Jimbo, talk to me."

"I got to wee-wee," he announced and hurried from the room.

He began to feel better as we made our way to his school, and talked excitedly about his part in the school play.

"I've got to save Bobby Raccoon from Bill the Bad Tempered Bear," he explained as we arrived at the school gates. I pretended to be impressed. "It sounds like a very important part, Jimbo."

"Oh, it is," he said proudly.

"Now take care of yourself," I advised, "and promise me you'll tell your teacher straight away if you start to feel unwell again."

He promised that he would and we said our farewells.

CHAPTER NINE

Having to attend to my baby brother made me late for school myself. Breaking my journey at the local tennis court to ogle at a couple of chicks playing tennis made me even later. About eighteen and dressed in brilliant white tennis gear, they could have walked straight out of Vogue.

One was willowy, long legged and wore her golden hair in a platted ponytail. Her partner was shorter and a little thicker set, though no less attractive. They looked far better than they played, yet for all their athletic shortcomings they were wonderful. I stood captivated, the time completely forgotten. The game ended. They left the court. As they passed by, the tall willowy one took me by surprise by smiling at me and saying hello. She was even more attractive close up. I watched her go, mesmerised, her equally good-looking friend forgotten. The fact that she had acknowledged my existence put her a cut above. She was beautiful I decided, inside and out. I was in love.

By the time she reached the entrance to the locker rooms I imagined us being an item and walking off into the sunset holding hands, destined for a perfect future. That little fantasy was soon shattered by the sudden appearance of a sickeningly handsome man, her boyfriend no less. He took her in his arms and kissed her full on the lips. Life is cruel. One minute I was elated, the next I was devastated. Man, was I depressed.

I slumped down onto to a bench and stared dismally at the ground. I tried to forget about the girl and instead got to thinking of different ways I could get back at my old man for hurting Jimbo. Poison him with weed killer; slip little doses of the stuff into his tea and coffee, his booze. It wouldn't take much. I'd read about such things in my forensic book. I could push him down the stairs maybe, or stab or shoot him. I liked the idea of shooting him best. Problem was I didn't have a gun, and I didn't know where to get one.

Before I knew it, it was nearly nine o'clock. I ran like the clappers for school. My attendance was always questionable, but of late it had been abysmal and I was constantly getting myself into trouble for minor misdemeanours. I couldn't seem to do anything right at home, or at school. I was a regular in detention classes. Since mom's death my marks had gone from being okay to downright abysmal, and all this with important exams looming. Nevertheless, I couldn't see any point in going. Most of the teachers were jerks; the way they taught sent you to sleep. With the odd exception they were zombies, going through the motions, lacking enthusiasm, they didn't make learning any fun. If they were bored with the subjects they taught how did they expect pupils to get excited?

I wouldn't have bothered going to school that day but I had to. I had been warned, if my attendance didn't improve my old man would be informed, and that would give him a damn good excuse to beat the living daylights out of me.

Tutorial had already started when I got there. All eyes turned to me when I entered the room including those of the tutor. Mr Pringle, a badly dressed man with jowls like a bloodhound, mumbled something about wanting to see me when the others had gone to morning assembly.

"Don't forget Galleymore," he warned as he continued marking the register. I took my place at the back of the class next to Will, wondering if I would get detention or worse. Will whispered that I was really for the high jump. Before I arrived, Pringle had been making open threats to send me down to McBain, the headmaster. And that was very bad news indeed. McBain was a scary looking bleeder. With his deathly pale face and pronounced widow's peak he could have been mistaken for Count bloody Dracula. He was truly Gothic! Moreover, he had a cruel sense of humour. Get sent down to him and you were in deep shit. Jack Dawkins, known as Jackdaw, who was captain of the school handball team reckoned that McBain looked like the type who could kill somebody's pet hamster and smile as he did it. I think old Jackdaw was right too. McBain gave the impression of being a mean son of a bitch, certainly not someone to cross. He scared the crap out of pupils and staff alike. Jokes at his expense abounded, however, with claims that he regularly dined out at blood banks, and never ordered a steak in a restaurant, afraid he'd get one straight through the heart.

The moment I'd been dreading finally came to pass. It began when Pringle announced class was dismissed. All the kids except for me filed out of the room with Will wishing me good luck as he went. Once everyone had gone Pringle beckoned me to his desk with a slow wave of his chubby hand and a bored "Come here, boy," command. I reached the desk and waited for him to speak. After what seemed like an age, he asked me what I had to say for myself.

"In what way," I asked.

"Your excuse, laddie!" he boomed in an attempt to intimidate. "What's your excuse for being late?"

"Oh that," I said, gazing around the room, playing for time, hoping an original answer might miraculously pop into my head. I couldn't very well tell Pringle the truth: that I'd stopped off on the way to school to watch a tennis game and think of ways of bumping my old man off. In the end, and with inspiration unforthcoming, I simply said I'd overslept and apologized, hoping it would be enough to get me out of trouble. Seemed I was out of luck. Pringle tut-tutted and shook his head gravely, overplaying his part like a hammy actor.

"You'll have to do better than that, Galleymore," he said, appearing to revel in his part. I stood waiting for the axe to fall, waiting for him to send me down to McBain, but it seemed he wasn't quite ready to do that. Seemed he was enjoying playing the power game with me, and was intent on drawing it out. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop, and said, "Enlighten me Galleymore. What is it with you?"

"I don't understand," I said, truthfully.

"Stop playing games," he snapped impatiently. "I've got better things to do than sit here all day wasting my precious time on you." He tried to exert his authority by glaring at me, but I simply glared back. Eventually he averted his gaze and scribbled something down in a notepad. He didn't scare me. I don't think Pringle was capable of scaring anyone or anything. He was a teddy bear of a man, cuddly and inoffensive. He was like the lion in The Wizard of Oz, all bark and no bite.

For all his faults I have to say I quite liked him. He was all right for a teacher. He had character and he acted like a gentleman, always opening doors for females, stuff like that. Mind you, he was a scruffy bastard. He always looked as if he had slept in his clothes, and you could always count on his tie being marked by some obscure food stain. He was a disaster to look at, and he was always sucking noisily on a mint when he wasn't in class. He liked the extra strong variety best. He used to leave them laying openly on his desk until the day when some joker sneaked salt tablets into the bag.

The thing I liked best about Pringle was when he tried to be strict. He'd adopt this ridiculous baritone voice, and bark commands that nobody obeyed. The effort turned his face purple. Veins stood out on his face and neck. He looked like he was having a coronary. It was so obvious it was an act. He was a sheep in wolf's clothing, a fraud. He was unintentionally amusing, and that made him okay.

"Galleymore," he said, eyeing me over the top of his specs. "I would like us to have a little chat."

"Chat," I said, "What about?"

"That is entirely up to you," he said. "You can talk to me about anything as far as I'm concerned: the weather, school; your home life, anything at all. If something is troubling you, all you've got to do is tell me, and we'll try to work it out together."

I didn't know what he was on about. Why would I want to talk to him about the bleeding weather? More to the point, why would I want to talk to him about school or my home life? Especially my home life, it was none of his business. I racked my brains trying to think of some other topic that was interesting but non-personal. I couldn't. I ended up standing there like a dummy, until finally I had to admit defeat. "I'm sorry, but I can't think of anything," I told him.

He looked disappointed.

"A pity," he said as he offered me a mint from the bag he pulled from his coat pocket. I hesitated to take one.

"There mints, not salt tablets," he said. "Go on, take one."

So I did. I popped it into my mouth and sucked. He did likewise and slowly sank back in his seat with his arms folded. He continued to suck on the mint, his expression stern yet thoughtful. I sensed he was about to give me the biggest lecture of my life and that was exactly what he did. He started by telling me to pull my finger out and get down to some serious work. He said I had it in me to get on in life, to make something of myself, he told me all I had to do was to apply myself, stop wasting what he called my "God given talents".

"Discipline is the key to it all," he said leaning forward and pushing his specs back onto the bridge of his nose. "You're smart," he said, "Gifted. Don't waste it. I've seen too many like you son."

"Like me?"

"Bright kids who don't make the most of themselves: they waste time, and time is something you can never get back. To quote Shakespeare, "I wasted time, and now doth time waste me." You get one bite of the cherry. Make sure it's a good one. Do you understand what I am saying, Galleymore?"

"I think so."

"More importantly, do you agree with what I've just said?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"That at least is a start."

In reality I didn't really have a clue. He'd flummoxed me. I stood in front of him feeling awkward and self conscious and unable to work out what he was trying to say. I couldn't get my head around what he was getting at, what the point was of his little pep talk. And who was he to give me unsolicited advice anyway, what did he know about me and what was going on in my life? Why would I take any notice of a dinosaur like him? He was out of touch, just like most other grown-ups, full of bullshit, and unable to connect properly with the likes of me even though he was convinced he could. He was delusional if he thought he could get on my wavelength. I was fourteen years old for God's sake; he was closer to four hundred! We were from different times, and on different planets, with no common ground in the offing.

Maybe he sensed it was the case on this occasion, because he changed tack and tried again. In a softer friendlier tone he said he could understand me being mixed up due to my "recent loss" as he called it, but regardless, I must try to pull myself together and look to the future. "There's a definite pattern here, laddie. Your grades have gradually dipped. Up until your unfortunate loss, you were doing reasonably well. As for your attendance, it has always been a problem, but never so much so as now. You're hardly ever here and it simply can't go on. You've got your whole life ahead of you. Don't mess up before you've even started."

It was easy for him to say. He didn't have to put up with my old man and all the crap I took from him. Pringle continued talking. "This will sound a bit severe, but I'm going to say it anyway. You're not the only person to lose a parent, Galleymore. I too lost my mother; I was about your age too. A year later I lost my father, and was put in an orphanage. It was far from ideal, but I coped. If I could, there's no reason why you can't." He paused, went for his bag of mints, thought better of it and sat there drumming his fingers on the desk top, pondering. It was hot and muggy in the classroom. Pringle's face was beetroot red. Little droplets of perspiration peppered his forehead. He stared at me for the longest time, and then he said something strange. He said, "I have a feeling about you Galleymore." He hesitated. It seemed as if he wanted to get something off his chest but wasn't quite sure how to go about it. At last he said, "There are some people who are born with a wild streak. I would put you into that category. It's not necessarily a bad thing; a trait like that can mean the person is spirited, more determined and more resourceful than others. But they need to understand it, so they can use it constructively. If they don't, it can turn against them." He fell silent and stared at me as if he expected me to respond but I didn't. It was all going over my head. I quite understood he was trying to help me in some strange way, but it seemed pointless. He wasn't in my shoes. I was the only one who could help me. I knew it then just as I know it now, all this time later.

"Okay Galleymore," he said finally, "lecture's over. You are free to go."

I thanked him and hurried from the room before he changed his mind.

CHAPTER TEN

Morning assembly was almost over by the time I got to the main hall. I hung around outside as everyone piled out, thinking about what Pringle had said whilst keeping my eyes peeled for Will. I was so preoccupied I never saw The Pig until it was too late and he'd managed to whack my ear with a very large elastic band.

"What did you do that for?" I said, holding the side of my head.

"That was for the other day," he said, grinning insanely, "When I saw you in the cafe."

"But I didn't do anything."

"Listen up Freddie, you ever eyeball me again and you'll get worse, much worse. Do you understand me?"

I glared back at him wanting to knock his stupid head off his shoulders, but it just wasn't going to happen. He was older than me and twice my size, and by all accounts he could handle himself. Trying to take him on would be an almost certain act of suicide. I was just about to swallow my pride and back down, humiliated once again, when Mrs Bloomfield, a blue rinsed antique who taught art and craft, suddenly appeared at my side to break up the party. Having tottered up to us on legs thinner than knitting needles she ordered The Pig to move along, and to stop blocking the corridor. The Pig did as he was told, but not before repeating his earlier threat, quietly adding that he'd used a blade on his last victim.

I watched him go wondering if this was the start of a major bullying campaign, and more importantly, if the comment about the blade was true. I knew all too well that The Pig and his pals were known to play cruel practical jokes on their victims, that involved debagging and black balling or shoving the odd head down a toilet, or so rumour had it, rubbing the occasional nose in dog crap, but knives, that was a new and quite alarming development as far as I was concerned. I did my best to push any thoughts of becoming The Pig's next victim firmly to the back of my mind, but it was difficult.

When Will finally appeared I recounted to him what had happened with Pringle. He said I was a lucky son of a gun not to have been sent down to McBain. I agreed. We walked over to the science block for our first lesson of the day. Halfway across the yard I spotted a girl called Shirley Hill walking over to the home economic block. She was in the year above me and so cute I could have died as soon as look at her. She had the prettiest face imaginable, thick curly shoulder length hair and the loveliest smile you've ever seen. I got a crush on her the first time I ever laid eyes on her. Thing was I think she liked me too because I had caught her stealing looks at me occasionally and it wasn't the same look I get from people who are curious about my burn. I wanted to ask her out but didn't have the guts. Maybe I would get Will to ask her out for me one day, I decided.

Will broke into my thoughts by asking if I'd managed to sort it with my old man about going to the gig he'd mentioned to me the day we happened on the dead cat. I told him I was working on it, adding that I'd seen a publicity picture of the band's lead singer and that he was right about her being a stunner. "I'm going to get her autograph," he announced, "and ask her to sign it, "with love to Will".

"You're behaving like a love sick pup," I told him. He suddenly reminded me of a young Woody Allen. Same puny physique and hangdog expression, same unfashionable specs, even the same shitty fly away hair.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When school finished Will and me headed straight off to the park. We did it quite often. A tree swing was down there that overhung a babbling brook. We'd mess around on it for ages, taking it in turns to swing from one bank to the other. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. The banks were steep, and the brook was wide and could be fast flowing, especially after it had been raining. One mistake and you might be dangling from the rope dead centre of a brook that looked more like a fast flowing river. If that happened you were dependent on being rescued by someone. I guess it was dangerous, but that's what I liked most about it, the risk factor made it exciting and worth doing.

Will wasn't as keen on the game as I was. He wasn't all that adventurous. He was more into his music and technical books. He never would have stolen from the youth club. He was a right goody two shoes when it came down to it. I liked him all the same. I think the worst thing Will did in his entire life was skive off school with me one day.

So we went down to the brook. Will decided he couldn't stay long, homework we'd been set had to be in first thing in the morning.

"Stuff homework," I said dropping my school bag on the grass. I was feeling even more rebellious than usual. Will shook his head, said I was a lost cause. I laughed. I didn't give a toss about the homework. Life's too short to worry about stuff like that I thought. I knew this kid once, his name was Daniel Bernstein, a real bookworm, always studying, never had any time or the slightest inclination to fool around, pushed himself too hard, ended up having a nervous breakdown, only thirteen for Christ sake. It turned out he had this really clever elder brother whom he idolised. By studying so hard he was trying to emulate this brother. Unfortunately he wasn't up to the job. All that hard work, where did it get him? No fucking where, that's where. Way I see things, working your rocks off isn't worth it, all you're doing is creating unnecessary hassle for yourself and what's the point of that?

I took first turn on the tree swing. The supporting branch creaked like crazy as I flew through the air but it didn't bother me, I'm a decent swimmer. I was confident I'd be able to get myself out of trouble should the branch snap.

I landed safely on the opposite bank then swung back, handed the rope to Will. He was listening to music on his blessed MP3. He loved that stupid thing. He handed it to me for safe keeping, pocketed his specs and followed suit. He landed awkwardly on the other side, slid part way down the bank, "whoops, careful there Will," I said, swivelled round, and came back hanging on the rope for dear life.

"You okay," I asked him.

"Sure," he said doing a funny little dance as he tried to regain his balance. Just then it started to rain.

Something else happened too.

Will nudged me, nodded to a spot somewhere behind. I looked round and knew immediately that we were in trouble. Dexter "The Pig" Dixon and his mob were heading straight in our direction. I had a sneaky feeling he had followed us. Zapping me with the elastic band hadn't been enough for him. He wanted me to suffer some more, I knew it just like I knew my old man was the biggest, fattest, laziest and cruellest bastard that ever walked the face of the earth. The Pig looked like the cat with the cream. I studied him closely for perhaps the first time and decided he was absolutely gross. It wasn't just his snout that made him unattractive, it was everything about him. For a start he was built like a baby Gorilla. Then there were his eyes, they were set so close together he looked completely boss eyed. His hair was black and straight and looked greasy and unwashed. His side burns were his only redeeming feature, if of course you were into side burns. Elvis himself would have been proud of them.

The Pig wandered over flanked by his moronic sidekicks, looking as mean as hell, and told Will he would like to see him swing across the brook again. Will fumbled nervously in his pocket for his specs, put them on and stared at me through extremely wide anxious eyes. We knew what was going to happen all too well. The Pig planned to make Will dangle in the middle of the brook till he couldn't hold onto the rope any longer and fell in. Will's eyes suddenly looked huge and immensely scared behind the lenses of his glasses. I felt incredibly sorry for him, in a strange kind of way he reminded me of Jimbo, so puny and vulnerable.

The Pig stepped forward and shoved him towards the edge of the bank, saying, "Let's see you swing Tarzan, let's see how good you really are."

Will's frightened saucer-like eyes fell on me again. I felt awful, standing there doing nothing to help, but there was absolutely nothing I could do. The Pig had half a dozen pals to back him up. I was completely outnumbered. I was also scared witless.

So Will swung across the brook, hit the opposite bank and swung back. Only The Pig didn't let him land. Just as Will was about to make contact with terra firma The Pig gave him a gentle nudge sending him back across the water. On his second agonizing journey most of Will's momentum was gone, and he didn't quite manage to reach the opposite bank. He swung back across, much slower this time. It was terrible to watch. Once again The Pig refused to let him land.

Will went across the brook a third time, fell short of the opposite bank, came back towards us again, failed to make contact with solid ground, and finally came to dangle like a man swinging from the gallows at the centre of the brook. I glared at The Pig, hating him for what he was doing to Will almost as much as I hated my old man for hurting Jimbo.

The rain was coming down hard by now. The Pig and his mob were getting soaked to the skin but they didn't seem to notice, they were too busy enjoying the spectacle of Will's misery to be concerned with such minor details as catching pneumonia.

Will was losing his grip on the rope, pleading for help. Things were getting desperate. The Pig looked at me and grinned wickedly. He grinned far too much for my liking and never for the right reasons. When The Pig grinned he had mischief on his mind.

"Why don'tcha help your pal scar face," he goaded me. The geeks he had for friends laughed like idiots, egging him on to maybe push me into the water or knock my head off my shoulders. They had the brains of sheep.

"Well," he said when I didn't answer, "why don'tcha? You're chicken, that's why!"

I shrugged helplessly, not knowing what to do or say. I looked across at Will who was slowly sliding down the rope, his feet already in the water, and wondered if there was some way of rescuing him without going in myself. If there was, I couldn't think of it. I looked back at The Pig, saw he had stopped grinning, and recognized it as a very bad sign. He looked thoughtfully at the brook, then at me and said coldly, "Get in."

"No way Dex," I said standing my ground for the first time. I looked at the water, fearfully. It was beginning to flow worryingly fast due to the sudden heavy downpour.

"Get in," The Pig repeated more firmly.

"No."

"In!"

"No!"

He gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes; took on the appearance of a spiteful little ape.

"In!" he demanded, clenching his chubby fists at his sides.

My heart pounded so fast I thought it would burst.

"This is crazy Dex."

"If you don't get in by yourself, you'll be thrown in—head first!"

I tried to swallow but couldn't, my mouth was drier than sandpaper.

The Pig and his cronies closed in, backing me up to the brook. I glanced once again at Will. He was in the drink up to his knees by now and quietly sobbing. My heart went out to him. He looked utterly petrified. All of a sudden I remembered why he was so reluctant to use the rope swing. He could barely swim.

"Hold on, Will," I said as I reached the edge of the bank. I placed his MP3 player and my mobile carefully on the soggy ground, and then stared in horror at the dark torrent of speeding water. I didn't like the look of it one little bit. It'd grown black and sinister and eddied wildly. No one really knew how deep the brook was, some said it was only waist high while others claimed it was three times as deep. I don't mind admitting I was scared out of my wits, but I was even more scared for Will. If the brook was as deep as some said, he might be swept to his death if he fell in.

The Pig nudged me in the back. "In you go," he said, chuckling quietly. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. It was plain to see in his beady little eyes. The Pig was the kind whose idea of a good time was taking a pair of secateurs to a puppy dog's tail or maybe microwaving the family cat.

I sat on the edge of the bank allowing my feet to dangle in the chill water. The current was dubiously strong. I would be in trouble if I didn't somehow manage to touch bottom and keep my balance straight away.

I eased myself carefully down the side of the bank to the mocking applause of The Pig's mob, shuddered as the icy water crawled up over my balls and slid all the way in. The water level was nearly up to my chest and I was getting mightily concerned before finally my feet connected with the bottom of the brook. Wary of potholes I waded across to Will who by now was in the drink up to his skinny thighs. I grabbed him around the legs and tried to move him in the direction of the far bank. I almost got him there too, but just before I managed to get his feet planted on dry land his hands finally gave out on him. He fell backwards into the water disappearing from view and failed to re-emerge. I shouted his name. I didn't know what else to do. There was no sign of him. While this was going on The Pig and his gang stood on the bank shouting and laughing like a bunch of lunatics. They thought the whole thing was an absolute scream. I don't think they even considered that their stupid stunt might cost Will or me our lives.

Suddenly Will's head broke surface right in front of me. With a supreme effort I managed to grab him under the arms and get him standing upright. After I'd got him to stop panicking a bit I supported him while he coughed and spluttered and fought for breath. At first he seemed in a bad way. I thought there was a chance he would choke to death. When he finally calmed down and was breathing okay, I helped him across to the far bank.

Meanwhile The Pig and his merry men were having hysterics. Had I had a machine gun they would have been dead men. Will and me finally got safely onto the far bank. I looked across the brook at The Pig and took great satisfaction in giving him the finger. His face suddenly turned thunderous.

"You're going to pay for that!" he shouted furiously, waving a great fist in my direction. "You're a marked man Galleymore. You'll be walking around with your teeth in your belly and your nose stuck in your brain by the time I've finished with ya!"

"You talk a good fight Dixon!" I called back through the blinding rain, suddenly full of courage due to the distance not to mention the brook that separated us. Will looked at me as if I had gone bananas. You just didn't say things like that to someone like The Pig. I knew it but I was too fired up to care. Egged on by my own sense of bravado and the fact that I knew he couldn't get to me, I shot him the finger again, just for good measure. Then I went a step further, and as it turned out, a step too far, by accusing him of being a "Fucking Gypo", a term that had him glaring at me so hard I thought his eyes would light up and catch fire.

"You shouldn't have said that," Will said concernedly.

"I can say what the fuck I want," I replied defiantly.

"Did you know that Dex's family are descended from Irish travellers," Will asked. "And did you also know it's a taboo subject with him. You've really insulted him Ricky. I wouldn't like to be in your shoes when he catches up to you."

Except for the sound of the rain and the rush of water in the brook, not a sound could be heard. The Pig's motley crew were no longer laughing, I realised. Everyone's attention was focused on the man himself, who continued to glare insanely in my direction. At long last he averted his eyes to my school bag, which lay on the ground at his feet. He calmly picked it up together with my mobile and Will's beloved MP3 and dropped the lot into the surging water. In seconds everything was gone from sight.

"My MP3," Will bemoaned as he slouched on the bank in his dripping clothes. He looked about as bereft as anyone could.

"Sod your stupid MP3," I said, feeling thoroughly pissed off. "What about my phone and my bag. Jesus Christ, my bag contained all my books and my exam revision notes." I looked at Will and realized he wasn't wearing his specs. When I asked him where they were he pointed forlornly towards the brook. Then he started to cry.

"Hey, come on Will," I said, "things aren't that bad," but then I happened to glance across the brook at The Pig and realized they might be even worse. He looked like someone possessed. I dare say; if he could have gotten his hands on me he would have killed me. Our eyes locked and that's when he pointed at me and I swear to God his hand trembled with rage.

"Tomorrow, Galleymore," he said, "Tomorrow." He started to walk off with his mates, one of whom lingered just long enough to advise me to prepare for my own funeral.

I dug Will in the ribs and told him to pull himself together and to stop crying like a baby. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat, which was pretty pointless seeing how wet he was.

"He drowned my MP3," he moaned as he studied The Pig's receding form.

"And your specs," I reminded him. "Don't forget them."

"What're we going to do, Rick?"

"Go home, get dried off I suppose."

"My dad will kill me."

"Yours and mine both," I said already trying to think of a way to get myself out of this sorry mess.

Will looked at me, eyes red raw from crying and asked me what I intended doing about The Pig. Truth was I didn't have the faintest idea, so I said, "Nothing, I'm going to do absolutely nothing."

Will stared at me agog. "Aren't you at least going to try to keep out of his way? You do realise he'll rip your head off if you don't."

The rain was easing off; not that it mattered much. It was going to take more than a short walk home in fine weather to get Will and me dried out.

"I think you'd better stay off school a few days," Will advised.

"I don't give a shit what you think," I said and immediately regretted being so sharp with him. He was only trying to help after all. "Anyway," I said, calmer, "I can't afford to skive off any more. If I do and I'm found out it'll be all over for me." It occurred to me I'd be in trouble no matter what I did. What with my school stuff being destroyed and everything, I was in a no win situation.

"To hell with it," I said. I found a stick and used it to pull the rope in. Will and me swung across the brook in turn and made our respective ways home.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I crept into the house hoping to avoid dad long enough to get changed into dry clothes. Unfortunately Jimbo saw me and gave the game away by asking in a particularly loud and excited voice why I was all wet and dirty. That in turn brought dad out of the lounge. When he saw the state I was in, he demanded to know what the hell had happened. I froze on the spot, my mind went blank and I was suddenly unable to form words. All I was aware of was the muted sound of horse racing commentary drifting from the television set, and Jimbo standing silently at the foot of the stairs observing the tense exchange between dad and me.

"I asked you a question," dad said glaring like crazy, "what in God's name have you been doing to get into such a state!" I started to explain only to be totally ignored as dad ordered Jimbo to his room. Only when Jimbo reached the top of the landing did he return his attention to me. Without a word he manhandled me into the kitchen where he forced me down onto a chair and grabbed me by the hair.

"I'm waiting!" he snapped and yanked back my head so he was staring down right into my face. "What bloody happened; Richard!"

"I-I fell in the brook," I stammered. "There was these kids," I went on but that was as far as I got. Next thing I knew I was being frog marched out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into my bedroom. At some point Jimbo dared venture out of his room curious to see what was happening, only to be told to get back out of sight. Jimbo duly obliged. Guess he knew what was good for him.

"Where's your school bag?" dad asked once we were inside my bedroom.

"Bottom of the brook," I said, shaking like a leaf, sure as eggs is eggs that I was in for the biggest thrashing of my life.

My old man slowly shook his head, almost as if he felt sorry for me. "Why'd you let 'em Ricky, why'd you let 'em bully you," he asked. I stared up in to his blood shot eyes feeling angry and frustrated, and I almost said "same reason I let you bully me, because I am scared to death of you and can't see any way out!" But to say that would have been stupid, more than stupid, it would have been like signing my own death warrant. Dad was angry with me but then again I guess he was always angry with me, especially since mom died. It was purely a matter of degree. He beat me up regularly, beat me without reason, but boy, when he felt he had a legit reason, he really went to town. And today he felt he had an extremely legit reason. I knew without being told that I was about to get it big time, and that meant I was going to get the dreaded belt. Dad referred to it as his "special" belt; it was made of thick brown leather with a big silver buckle and was heavily studded. It was a proper weapon, a serpentine knuckleduster. That I'd made its acquaintance before and knew what to expect was of absolutely no comfort to me. In fact, knowing what it was going to be like from experience only worsened the expectation.

Dad pushed me up against the wall and ordered me to strip off. I did as I was told, placing my wet clothes in a neat pile on the floor before laying face down on the bed like I always did on these occasions. And then I shut my eyes and waited. I shook from the cold and from pure terror, and when dad returned to the room seconds later I braced myself for the worst.

For a split second time seemed to stand still. And then, without warning, it started; a series of heavy solid whacks across my back and buttocks. The pain followed instantly, flowing through my body in thick nauseating waves. As always I bit down hard on my lower lip and tried to make myself go numb, but it had never really worked, the pain always got through. As bad as it was I never ever cried out or begged dad to stop. I learned the first time it happened never to do that, because dad saw it as a sign of weakness, he saw you as a sissy if you dared show you were in pain, and that made him even worse. It seemed to egg him on. That day however, he needed no such encouragement. He really went hell for leather, so to speak. I counted ten strokes before I blacked out.

When I finally came too I was still lying naked on my stomach. Mercifully I was alone. The whole of my back and buttocks throbbed horribly and felt like they were on fire. I could taste blood in my mouth from where I had bit down on my lip and I experienced constant waves of nausea. I tried not too but in the end emotion really got to me and I sobbed uncontrollably for the longest time.

It seemed like an eternity before I started to feel any better and had the strength to get up and check the damage in the mirror. It was always ugly, the wealds and the bruising, but this time dad had managed to break skin for the first time, which had caused a certain amount of bleeding. I would of course live, if it could be called living. With painstaking effort I finally managed to clothe myself in a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms and then I carefully positioned myself on the bed in a sitting position with my back pressed lightly against a pillow, and tried to decide what to do for the best.

I had to do something drastic sooner rather than later. I wanted to run away but couldn't leave Jimbo. If anything happened to him I would never forgive myself. But I couldn't see myself being able to stay around much longer, not with the way things were between my old man and me. If only mom was still alive, everything would be all right, I thought. Dad wouldn't have been angry all the time and would still be driving trucks, and Jimbo and me would be happy.

It was getting dark outside when Jimbo crept into my bedroom. I had resumed lying face down on my belly, as sitting up had proved to be too painful. He guessed that dad had beaten me up; he wasn't stupid. When he asked where I had been hit I was forced to tell him. He frowned with concern and confusion.

"Are you sure you're all right Ricky," he asked. "You look ill."

"I'm fine," I lied.

He heaved a little sigh and asked me why dad was always in a bad mood. "Is it because mom has gone away?" he asked as if to answer his own question.

"Maybe," I said.

He seemed to consider this before saying, "Will he stay in a bad mood forever?"

"I dunno Jimbo," I said and changed the subject. "How's your stomach?"

"It's okay Ricky."

I eased myself gently onto one side so I could see him better. He looked worried to death. There were times, because he was so pale and so frail, when he reminded me of a little old man. His chest was wheezing.

"Where's your inhaler?" I asked, studying him closely. If he came down with an asthma attack now I would be forced to call for dad, and that was a prospect that filled me with utter dread.

"In my bedroom," Jimbo said in answer to the question.

"You should always keep it with you, just in case," I cautioned.

He nodded his head. "I know Rick. Sometimes I forget."

"Just make sure you remember in future, okay?"

"Yeah, promise." He asked me why I arrived home in the state I was in, minus my school bag.

"I slipped and fell in a brook," I said, deciding to keep the truth from him.

"That was a silly thing to do," he said, mildly amused.

"Yeah, I know."

He started to look worried again and the dull wheeze in his chest deepened. I thought it best to try to reassure him that things would work out all right for us, and that dad would change once he got another job, and that when that happened we might get taken on holiday somewhere nice.

"Everything's going to be hunky dory," I ended, trying to sound positive when I felt anything but.

He toddled off, saying he was going to play with his toys. I rolled back onto my stomach, suddenly wondering what the dickens I was going to do about losing my textbooks. It was a disaster, more so with end of term exams approaching. I supposed I could always tell Pringle and the other teachers the truth, but that would have made me a snitch. In the end I decided to say I'd had my bag stolen from the school cloakroom. Things were always disappearing from there.

I lay on the bed as still as death for the longest time, feeling as lonely as hell. I badly needed to talk to someone, and soon, tell them how I was feeling and how fearful I was for the future, but there really wasn't anyone. Even if there was, I couldn't have contacted them because I couldn't use the house phone for obvious reasons, and my mobile now lay at the bottom of a brook. Maybe I could talk to Pringle, confidentially of course, ask him for his advice, I sensed he was the understanding kind when he wasn't trying to come the hard case teacher. But could I trust him: seemed to me that trustworthy people were almost impossible to find. I always thought that I could trust my mom but then she went and left me high and dry. I knew without doubt that I could trust Jimbo, but I couldn't confide in him because he was too young. There was always Will I guessed, but what could he do to help? He was just a kid like me, and no one ever listened to kids. Not seriously anyway. I had a real dilemma it seemed, and I was the only one who could sort it out. For the rest of the afternoon and evening, while I lay prone on the bed recovering from the beating I'd taken, I considered different ways of solving that dilemma. My thoughts went round and round in circles, but always ending up at the same place: my old man was the true cause of my dilemma; eliminate him and my dilemma would resolve itself.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I knew it was pitch black outside. My back and rear end throbbed agonizingly. I slowly rose to a standing position and re-examined my injuries in the full-length wardrobe mirror. They were a mess, black and blue and heavily grazed. The sight of them made me feel queasy. I decided that I truly hated my old man.

I checked my wristwatch. It was late: two in the morning and I was feeling hungry and thirsty. I crept downstairs, helped myself to some cheese and milk from the fridge. After I'd had my fill, I found a pack of dad's cigarettes in one of the kitchen drawers and smoked one. I started playing around with the matches as I smoked, lighting them one at a time, letting them burn right down till they almost burned my fingers before snuffing them out. I was considering how easy it would be to set fire to the house. There was a strong possibility I would have gone ahead and done it had Jimbo not been there.

I once saw this movie called "The Burning Bed", based on a true story, allegedly. It was all about this woman who kept on getting beat up by her drunkard husband, until one day she decided enough was enough. While he was asleep in bed one night she doused him in petrol and set him alight and the fucker burned to death. I didn't blame her for doing that one little bit.

I put the matches and cigarettes back where I found them, and returned upstairs to my bedroom. I couldn't nod off to sleep no matter how hard I tried, my injuries were causing me too many problems, besides which, I had too many things on my mind to be able to sleep.

To pass the time I tried to compose a poem, the kind of thing John Lennon wrote, all cynicism and dry wit, clever stuff, but I couldn't get it to come out right so I gave up and started to read instead. I ended up reading this book loaned from the library. It was amazing, I read nearly all the way through in one go. It was called "Infamous Murders" and had stuff about Jack the Ripper, the Moors Murderers, The Boston Strangler, the Sharon Tate Murder, the Vampire of Dusseldorf and a whole load of others. This one guy, his name was George Joseph Smith, used to charm the pants off wealthy women, marry them; get them to take out insurance on themselves and then drown them in the bath and pick up the dividend. There was this other fella, dubbed The Acid Bath Blood Drinker, who used to drink the blood of his victims, and then dissolve their bodies in acid. Some of the killers in the book looked like kindly uncles, they looked as though they wouldn't harm a fly, like Dr Crippen who was quiet and balding and wore specs. It's really weird. Anybody can be a killer. You can never ever tell. It's scary.

I dozed off, dreamt I killed Dexter The Pig Dixon. In the dream I stabbed him through the heart with a carving knife. Then I hacked off his head with an axe and boiled it in a stewing pot. It was like one of those tales by The Brothers Grim. I let Dixon's head simmer for a while. Before too long his eyes floated to the surface to stare up at me. I didn't like that so I scooped them out using a spoon and chucked them in the bin. Good riddance to bad rubbish I thought. When Dixon's head was properly cooked I took it out into the back garden, buried it deep and just for good measure piddled in the dirt where it lay. On his gravestone I inscribed the rather fitting epitaph, HERE LIES DEXTER DIXON, A REAL HOT HEAD: MAY HE FOREVER REST IN PISS.

In the morning the back of my body still ached and throbbed like mad but at least the pain had subsided. I got myself washed, struggled into my clothes, then went out to do my paper round. I didn't bother getting to the shop too early; I didn't want to push my luck taking stuff two days running.

Pinhead got there just before I left. He refused to speak to me. He hadn't forgiven me for leaving him stranded at the club. Well, if he didn't want to speak to me; that was his problem. I could quite happily live without his pathetic friendship. Besides, I had more important fish to fry. My old man for instance—I could see him ending his days in a funny farm if he didn't pull himself together soon. As I passed by his bedroom that morning I heard him talking in his sleep, gibbering like a crazy. He spoke mom's name repeatedly. It gave me the creeps, though not half as much as when he started to cry. I've never heard of anyone crying in their sleep before, maybe he wasn't asleep after all; maybe he was sitting in there, wide awake, talking and crying to himself like an asylum inmate.

All the while I was doing my paper round I was worrying about what would happen to me when I arrived at school without my books, and calculator, and geometry set and stuff. And then of course there was Dexter "The Pig" Dixon. I would have to be on my toes if I were going to avoid ending up as some kind of physical oddity at the hands of that bullying cretin.

No sooner had I arrived at school than Will, wearing what looked like new specs that looked even bigger than his original ones, took me aside and escorted me to a quiet corner. He got straight to the point and told me I was going to have to keep out of The Pig's way or risk wearing my head up my arse.

"Tell me something I don't already know," I said, trying to make light of it.

"I'm serious Ricky," he persisted. "There's a rumour flying around that Dex has brought a bicycle chain to school, and that he intends using it on yours truly."

"He wouldn't dare," I said dismissively.

"Are you gonna risk finding out?" Will asked with real concern.

"Whatever," I said with a nonchalant shrug, but in reality it was no contest.

For the next three days I was the invisible fucking man.

On the fourth day The Pig finally caught up with me in the history block, but instead of attacking or threatening me, he totally ignored me, and that was somehow worse. I couldn't work out what his game plan was. Surely he wasn't stupid enough to have forgotten what I said to him? Of course he wasn't, which meant he must be biding his time, I decided, making me sweat on it, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Waiting for something to happen was nerve wracking. I found it more difficult than ever to concentrate on my schoolwork, or anything else for that matter. Will was no help because all he did was constantly remind me about how tough The Pig allegedly was, and how my very life might be in danger.

The weekend came and went and still nothing happened. By Monday afternoon I had virtually succeeded in dismissing The Pig's threats as empty talk. And if that was the case, all in all it seemed that things hadn't worked out too badly. Not only did it appear The Pig might have gone off the boil, but my story about having my bag lifted from the school lockers had washed with the teaching staff. Only Pringle was suspicious. I guess it was because he knew me better than the others, but he didn't press me on the matter. As I said, Pringle was okay for a teacher.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

By the time school ended the following Friday I was feeling relatively happy with life for a change. My old man had been in fairly good spirits of late. He hadn't lost his temper once since the brook incident, which in recent times was some kind of record. Mind you, he was out of the house an awful lot, which might have explained it. This development suited me fine. The less I saw of him the better I felt. I suspected he was spending time with his tart, rutting her until she was cross-eyed with steam coming out of her ears. And that was just fine with me; just as long as they didn't do something stupid and get hitched. The thought of having Ugly Betty as a stepmother made me want to jump off the nearest cliff.

That afternoon I walked home with Will and this other kid called Mathew, whose was known as Matt the Prat and who'd gone to live with his grandparents after his parents got killed in a car crash. The nickname suited him to a T. If you wanted something fucked up, a gadget, a party, organising a soccer game; all you had to do was call on Matt to oversee things. He was also a know all who actually knew zilch. He was an unusual looking kid; as white as a ghost with deathly pale skin, snowy white hair and white eyelashes. As for his lips, they were deathly pale too and his eyes; they were a weird translucent blue and always looked slightly bloodshot. Stick a pair of bunny ears on him and you'd be left with a great big white rabbit. Because he was such a physical oddity he attracted stares wherever he went. Will, always the appropriate one, referred to him as an "Albino". I don't even know why he came to be walking home with us that day. He sort of appeared as if by magic, (like a rabbit out of a magician's hat you could say), and just tagged along.

I was right in the middle of telling Will about some of the things I'd read in that book, "Infamous Murders," when he joined us. Of course, Matt being Matt couldn't resist butting in with his own macabre story, which I have to admit, did get my attention. It was about this guy who picked up a woman hitchhiker. He drove her to a quiet spot mile's from nowhere then raped and beat the crap out of her. When he was all done with that, as if it wasn't enough, he got an axe from the boot of his car and chopped off both her arms. Matt the Prat went on to say that after the guy had cut off the arms he stuffed the girl's body down a disused sewer pipe, and left her for dead, but despite it all, she survived the nightmare ordeal.

"Bullshit," I said, feeling upstaged.

"It's true," Matt argued. "Listen up, there's more." He went on to describe in gory detail how the girl managed to escape from the pipe without any help, and walked along the highway holding the stumps of her arms aloft to stem the blood loss, until a motorist happened along and came to her rescue.

Will was suitably impressed, but I still wasn't sure whether to believe Matt or not. He tended to say almost anything in order to steal the limelight. He was always out to impress, always had to go one better to the point where he often made a fool of himself. Maybe he suffered from low self-esteem due to his unusual physical appearance, and tried to overcome it with one-upmanship. He claimed to be a martial arts expert, but always refused to demonstrate any moves saying it was much too dangerous, as his fists were classed as lethal weapons, and could only be used in a controlled environment. To say Matt the Prat was a potential killing machine was like saying Ant and Dec were Mafia hit men. He was a wimp of the highest order. He wouldn't have had the strength to fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Not only that, but he was so unfit! He'd been chain smoking since he was twelve. As a result he'd developed a terrible hacking cough. If ever he got bored with a school lesson he'd use it to his advantage and start to cough on purpose—he sounded as if he was about to die on the spot—and the teacher would invariably excuse him, just to get rid of him. Once he got out of the classroom it was straight down to the toilets to have a crafty smoke. He smelled like an ashtray, his fingers were so yellow they looked diseased.

As we headed down Clifton Street towards town the conversation turned to music. Will and Matt the Prat argued over who was the best rock guitarist of all time. Will claimed it was a tossup between Hendrix and Clapton depending on whose style you preferred, while Matt the Prat argued it was Elvis fucking Presley.

"Presley was a singer who used the guitar more as a prop, than an instrument," Will said knowledgeably, but Matt stuck stubbornly to his guns maintaining that Elvis's guitar playing was the real reason he was nicknamed "The King". Matt the Prat was a lost cause. He thought he was an authority on every single subject imaginable. When it came to music he was an unqualified idiot. Elvis was the only artist he knew anything about and that was due to his granddad being a big Presley fan. As a consequence Matt had been reared on a musical diet of Jailhouse Rock, Hound Dog and Blue Swede Shoes—the rest of the music scene hardly existed for him.

Will and Matt were still arguing like there was no tomorrow when, quite suddenly and without any warning, the toe of someone's boot torpedoed straight into my injured backside. The pain was immediate and excruciating. I let out a loud agonized howl and spun round to find Dexter "The Pig" Dixon standing there, bearing down on me and looking bigger and meaner than ever. He didn't carry a blade or a chain, (guess he didn't think weapons were necessary where I was concerned), but his fists were firmly clenched in apparent readiness to pummel the living daylights out of me.

He absolutely towered over me, made me feel physically insignificant; it was a case of Jerry being confronted by a very angry Tom. The words "no contest" sprang into my head. I was absolutely convinced I was a dead man.

And then, just as I thought all hope was lost, something quite incredible happened. I had a major light bulb moment. Surely the worst The Pig could do was beat me up and I was used to that, it happened to me all the time at home. So what was I worried about? The transformation was immediate and really quite astonishing. I suddenly felt like a bomb that was about to detonate, and that was exactly what happened. I detonated. I absolutely blew up in The Pig's face. Whether it was the indignity of being humiliated once too often or whether it was anger I felt towards my old man for his cruelty, my mom for abandoning me or my shitty life in general, I don't know, but all that anger and frustration finally found a release, and just as importantly, something to target, namely Dexter "The Pig" Dixon.

What happened next is, and probably will remain a mystery to me. The last thing I can recall with any clarity is seeing me fist fly, like a guided missile, straight into The Pig's face, not once but twice in quick succession, and hearing someone, (I think it was the adorable Shirley Hill), scream at the top of her lungs, "Oh my God! His nose! His nose!!" I have no clear recollection of the events that followed. I can only repeat what eye witnesses later told me.

Will said that I busted The Pig's snout wide open with those quick fire jabs, like it was a giant tomato being hit by a lump hammer—"It literally exploded," were Will's actual words—and that the sight of the blood sent me into a fighting frenzy. The story goes that as The Pig staggered back from the impact I charged forward like a whirling dervish, landing blow after blow before grabbing The Pig by the hair and sending a series of vicious uppercuts crashing into his already badly messed up face. Will states that I even took a bite out of The Pig's hand when he tried to defend himself, maintaining that I must've been in the grip of temporary insanity. I don't know how long the fight lasted, but I seem to recall a couple of teachers finally intervening to break it up, one of whom happened to be Pringle.

When I finally started to calm down I remember being surprised by the number of people hanging around. I couldn't understand why they were there, especially why they all seemed to be watching me so warily. Amongst them was Will and Matt the Prat. Shock and disbelief was written all over their faces. They looked like they had just witnessed a horrific traffic accident.

"What's the problem," I wanted to say, and that was when I saw the state of The Pig and I suddenly understood.

Two teachers escorted him away, one holding a handkerchief to his face, in order to stem the blood flow from his destroyed nose. He was unable to walk unaided and had to be supported. I would next see the dethroned hard man about a week later. His nose would resemble a gigantic squashed prune, he would be the owner of two black eyes, his right hand would be bandaged and his bull neck would be supported by a neck brace. He would never pick on me or any of my friends ever again. None of his brothers ever sought revenge, as I initially feared. It was quite a revelation. Moral of the story, if you're ever bullied, turn yourself into a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Mike Tyson and the world and his brother will leave you in peace.

Pringle took me home that day. On the way he asked me for an explanation for what I'd done.

"Dixon started it," I insisted as I stared out the passenger.

"Knowing Dexter Dixon like I do, I have no doubt you're telling the truth," Pringle acknowledged. "However, that still fails to excuse your extreme behaviour. You were out of control. You do realize that, don't you? It's not an exaggeration to say you might have killed the lad, had you not been stopped."

I held my silence. There didn't seem much point in speaking. I didn't doubt Pringle was right. I must have been badly out of control to inflict such damage. It probably explained why I couldn't remember what had happened. But hell, Dixon was a bullying asshole who deserved everything he got. Why should I be sorry?

"Do you ever stop to consider the consequences of your actions Galleymore?" Pringle asked as we rounded a sharp bend.

"Sometimes," I said, hoping he might let the matter drop. Instead, he laid into me with a lecture on the value of having self-control. He asked me if I'd ever considered joining the Armed Forces when I left school.

"No sir, I haven't," I said dreading the thought.

"Well, perhaps you should," he advised sternly. "It would instil some discipline in you laddie, give you something to work towards. Presently you lack direction. You badly need a target to aim for."

I stifled a yawn, finding the subject a complete bore.

"You're an intelligent boy," he carried on, oblivious, "but intelligence isn't everything. A person needs to be self-motivated, determined, and responsible, if he's to make anything of himself." He took his eyes off the road to look at me, and nearly ploughed into a traffic island.

A little further on he produced a mint from his inside jacket pocket and fumbled it into his mouth. Just then a fly flew in through the open driver's window and buzzed around. Pringle tried unsuccessfully to swat it. It landed on the dashboard in front of me. I hate flies. I don't know why God created them. All they do all day is fly around contaminating everything. I brought my hand down hard against the dash and it was an ex-fly. Pringle nearly jumped out of his seat and looked at me disapprovingly.

"Sorry sir," I said, "but I was scared the fly might distract you and make you crash." I rubbed the remains of the crushed fly off my hand onto the car's upholstery, then, just for something to say, I asked Pringle if he knew why flies existed.

"How the dickens should I know?" he said, plainly irritated by the question.

"You're a teacher," I said. "I thought you'd know."

"Not even teachers know everything," he said. "Try consulting an entomologist if you really want to know why flies exist."

"What's one of them?" I asked innocently.

"A studier of insects," said Pringle, looking mildly exasperated.

I lost interest in the conversation at that point, for it had suddenly occurred to me that I really would be for the high jump when my old man discovered I was in trouble at school again.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

That afternoon Pringle spoke in private with him about what had happened. Needless to say the news was not well received. When Pringle left, my old man took me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table, saying it was time to have a quiet little chat.

That's when he dropped the bombshell, threatening to have me put away if I didn't start towing the line and behaving myself.

"You'll never see Jimbo again," he threatened. "You'll be institutionalized; you'll be an outcast from society."

He said he would see to it personally that it happened. He said it was my choice, but I had to change right now and sort myself out if I wanted to remain a part of the family unit. What family unit, I wanted to say. It was a joke. We were totally dysfunctional. We were the fucking Adams family on steroids!

"Do you want to stay here with your little brother," he asked.

"Of course I do," I said, close to tears. I couldn't bear the thought of being separated from Jimbo.

"Well, do the right thing then, and behave. Understand?"

I gave a nod of my head unable to speak I was so shocked and choked up.

My old man leaned back in his seat, folded his podgy arms and regarded me closely.

"Do you think about your mom much son?" he asked.

I nodded. "I think about her all the time," I said.

"Are you sorry for what you did?"

"I didn't mean it dad," I said, starting to cry even though I tried not to. "It was an accident. How many times have I got to say it?"

My old man didn't believe me, I could tell. He always thought the worst when it came down to judging me. I was getting so upset by all this. The threat of being put away and not seeing Jimbo was far worse than any physical beating I'd ever taken. It was torture. Dad was toying with my mind, emotionally blackmailing me and it was working. I felt helpless. He was using Jimbo to get back at me for mom's death because he blamed me for mom's death and he always would. I couldn't understand why he hated me so much as to think I'd do such a thing. Then again, everything I did was wrong. Only days before, he had bawled me out for not standing up to The Pig. Now that I had, he was punishing me again. The injustice made me so angry and frustrated!

Maybe he'd always hated me but managed to disguise it until mom died.

Maybe my part in her death was the straw that broke the camel's back, and he was no longer able to control his feelings? I looked at him and saw a stranger rather than a father. He was perspiring causing his fat bald head to gleam like a billiard ball. He had dark circles under his eyes and his nose was covered with tiny purple veins. He looked unwell. I wished he would have a heart attack and drop dead on the spot.

Then, suddenly, I was thinking about mom. She had loved me, of that I was one hundred percent sure, even though she often called me a "stubborn little bugger" and had often smacked me across the back of my legs when I was a toddler for disobeying her. But I knew she was justified. I was a naughty kid, never malicious, just mischievous and headstrong and yes, I was stubborn, as stubborn as a mule. All in all, I was a right handful.

Mom once told me that she had a hard time giving birth to me, said I hadn't wanted to come out, said I'd been stubborn even then, but she'd laughed when she said it. Dad told me a different version of that story after she died. He said I nearly killed her during childbirth, he was really angry when he said it, he said I was jinxed, and that it was inevitable I would one day be responsible for her death, because it was fated from that moment on.

He slowly rose from the table saying, "Let's hope we've reached an understanding, son, for your sake. Now get upstairs to your room; Betty's coming over later. I don't want to hear a peep out of you."

"Yes dad," I said, knowing it would be a noisy night if Betty stayed over.

Dad nodded towards the door. Seemed the little chat was over and I was free to go, so as instructed I went upstairs to my bedroom, which felt like a prison. For the longest time I just lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling thinking about what my old man had said. I was distraught. If I got into any more trouble it seemed like my life was over. It didn't bear thinking about, so I read a book instead. It was a forensic science book that I had borrowed from the library the same day I got the one called "Infamous Murders".

It had all these pictures of dead people in it. It told how all the people had died, and how their wounds had been inflicted, and if they'd been murdered or committed suicide, or died from some kind of accident.

One of the pictures showed the body of a woman who had died from monoxide poisoning. She was photographed in a very undignified way, lying on her side with a thermometer sticking out of her backside.

Another picture showed a guy who had died a natural death by a canal. His eyes had provided a meal for the rats. Every page was a shocker; stomach churning stuff. That kind of thing doesn't normally bother me but some of the pics in the forensic book made me uneasy, yet they fascinated me in the same way that the dead cat had fascinated me.

Picture this: a fella who's been repeatedly kicked in the balls, all that kicking has made them swell up to the size of a grapefruit. Another shows a guy sprawled across a set of stairs, suicide victim, first he had cut off his own privates, then slit his own throat; the really incredible thing is, he did the job with a pair of household scissors. It's amazing what the human body can endure. The worst pictures of all were those of dead babies, sick. Babies stuffed down toilets, left in dustbins with their poor little heads battered in, hidden away in buckets under sinks. Jesus!

When I got to the end of the book I returned to the beginning and started going through it again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After I finished the book for a second time I sat on the bed twiddling my thumbs, bored rigid. I couldn't phone or text anyone because I didn't have a phone. And I couldn't get on the computer because I was grounded in my bedroom until further notice. And even if I wasn't it wouldn't make any damn difference because dad was always on the blinking computer. I didn't know what to do with myself. Hanging around doing nothing drives me up the wall. I tried to read a Tom Sharpe novel I'd been given by an elderly uncle for my last birthday but I couldn't concentrate. I was worrying that the cops might be brought in because of what I had done to The Pig; maybe charge me with physical assault or something.

In the end I lay on the bed and waited, hoping dad would eventually come and say I was allowed back out of my room. Time passed at a snail's pace, my mind wandered. I got to think about Hannah Daily's breasts. I could quite happily have set up home between those mountainous regions. Thinking horny thoughts only got me frustrated. I forced my mind back to the matter in hand, namely my old man: a bastard of the highest order. And he was getting crueller by the day, towards both me and to Jimbo. Even on his good days he was bad. I promised myself I would get even with him one day. I wasn't sure how, all I knew was, I would.

It was late evening by the time he finally showed up to allow me out. I was busting a gut for the toilet. After I'd been he said next time I decided to play the fool and embarrass him by bringing disgruntled teachers home, he was going to keep me confined to my room for so long I'd be forced to use my wardrobe as a lavatory. I looked at him, wondering what I'd done to deserve a father like him.

A bit later he announced he was going out to fetch Betty and told me I was to stay in and baby sit Jimbo. In the end he didn't come back home that night. I suspect he stayed at his slut's place. At least I got a good night's sleep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I received some interesting looks from other kids at school the next day. News travels fast. I was now considered a hard case following my annihilation of Dexter "The Pig" Dixon. Being looked upon as someone not to mess with gave me quite a buzz. All of a sudden I was respected. Incredible, absolutely incredible: kids who once ignored, me or made fun of my burn, were either friendly or else gave me a wide birth. To some I was a ruddy hero. It wasn't all roses however. During tutorial I noticed Pringle throwing me troubled looks. His behaviour made me feel uncomfortable. I sensed he was itching to get something off his chest, and was biding his time waiting for the right moment.

How right I was.

Later that day he informed me that the school board of governors had met the previous evening, and that my name had cropped up during the proceedings as a result of the unfortunate incident I'd been involved in, and that consequently I was to report directly to Mr McBain, aka Nostferato.

"Does this mean I'm going to be expelled," I asked, worrying that if I was, my old man would carry out his threat to institutionalize me.

"That's not for me to say," Pringle said gazing over the top of his specs.

"It's not fair, Mr Pringle. The fight wasn't my fault. I didn't start it."

The bell sounded signalling the end of morning break.

""It wasn't my fault," I repeated as if I thought it would get me off the hook.

"What's the matter with you laddie," Pringle asked. "Tell me, what's going wrong?"

"Nothing's going wrong," I lied. "Everything is hunky dory."

With a frown Pringle said, "Then what on earth makes you behave the way you do?"

"How should I know," I said. "What makes a dog bark at the moon?"

Pringle nodded towards the door. "Off you go," he said. And off I went.

When I got to McBain's office I knocked the door, was told enter, and did so fearing the worst.

McBain or "Son of Dracula" as I sometimes thought of him stood on the other side of the room behind a big mahogany desk. He stared at me as if I was something vaguely unpleasant or a little bit dangerous maybe.

"So you're the infamous Richard James Galleymore," he said in a very stern and formal manner.

"Yes sir," I replied as respectfully as I could.

He indicated I join him at the desk and proceeded to verbally box my ears, reminding me of how bad my attendance record was, how pathetic my work record had been lately. He informed me I would be a complete waste to society if I didn't change my ways. Had the lecture come from anybody else it would've been water off a duck's back! McBain wasn't just anybody however. He had the power to expel me on the spot.

After telling me what a no-hoper I was going to be if I didn't get my act together, he strolled over to the window and stood with his back to me. Then he demanded an explanation for my behaviour towards The Pig. I came clean about the whole sorry affair, and told him about the brook incident, and how Dixon had finally provoked me into attacking him.

When I had finished he turned to face me. With the sun directly behind him he looked more sinister than ever. So much so that I half expected him to lunge across the room at me with his teeth bared. Instead he retook his seat.

"You consider provocation gives you cause to half kill another person?" he asked resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and lacing his fingers together beneath his pointed chin. He stared at me through his bloodshot eyes without blinking. I looked away unable to meet his gaze, and was unable to think of an adequate reply.

"Answer me!" he blurted all of a sudden.

"N-No sir. I suppose not."

He grunted, glanced through the window, then back at me.

"I want to know why you did what you did," he said.

"I told you sir, Dixon picked on me; he'd done it before. I was sick and tired of it."

"You do realize you put him in hospital, and that as a result, the police almost got involved."

The news came as a complete shock. It must have registered on my face because McBain said, "Bearing that in mind, what do you have to say for yourself?"

I thought very quickly and said I was extremely sorry for what I did to Dexter Dixon and promised it would never happen again. I wasn't sorry at all. I hated myself for being a hypocrite, but we were talking self-preservation here, and if saying what McBain wanted to hear would help me get out of the fix I was in, I was more than prepared to accommodate. In fact, had I thought it necessary I would have confessed to being Jack the bloody Ripper! I'm far from proud of it but then again, I'm not proud of a lot of things I did that summer. I told McDracula what he wanted to hear and for one crazy self-deluded moment I thought I had gotten away with it. I should've known better. You don't get the better of a vampire by merely grovelling. Hell no, vampires want blood.

McBain stood and told me I would have to do a lot more than apologise if I were to have any future in his school. He added I was going to have to prove myself. He asked me if I was prepared to pull my socks up and go the extra mile and then stared at me, waiting for a reply. I just stood there like a dummy, feeling completely out of sorts, like I was in a dream, and finding it increasingly difficult to comprehend what was being said to me. In the end I had to own up to the fact.

"I'm not sure I understand sir?"

"Are you fond of the elderly, Galleymore?"

"The elderly, sir?"

"Senior citizens, do you like them?"

"They're okay I guess," I said, finally getting my head together, but saying I thought oldies were okay was a complete lie. I absolutely hate them.

Without further ado McBain spoke into the intercom on his desk requesting the presence of someone called Miss Nugent.

Miss Nugent turned out to be a social worker. She was extremely thin, thinner even than McBain, which made her about the thinnest person in the whole of creation. She was slightly older than him and going downhill fast. As far as I was concerned, she was one of the old people he had been talking about, and I therefore hated her on sight. Nevertheless, I thought she and son of Dracula would have made an ideal couple. Miss Nugent had a sharp severe face and wore a permanently unsympathetic expression. She also happened to be cursed with the most revolting pair of buckteeth imaginable. I could barely take my eyes off them they were so hideous. She wore a pair of horn-rimmed specs, was dressed primly in a tweed skirt, horrible flesh coloured stockings, flat heeled shoes and a grey jacket. Her hair, dark and wiry with grey streaks, was pinned up into a stupid bun. She was the stereotypical plain Jane.

McBain introduced us and we shook hands. Her hand was moist and limp. It was like holding a dead fish. The formal introductions over, McBain explained it had been decided that for the foreseeable future, I would forfeit games in order that I travel with Miss Nugent to a Mr Digby's residence. Here I would be expected to do odd jobs such as cleaning, gardening and tending to some of Mr Digby's personal needs. I enquired as to who Mr Digby was. Miss Nugent told me he was an old age pensioner who had suffered a minor stroke a year back, and needed help around the home because he was considered to be a vulnerable person.

"He's well into his eighties," Miss Nugent said, "but don't be fooled by his age, he's as bright as a button."

"If he struggles to look after himself," I said, "why doesn't he go into an old people's home?"

"He doesn't want to," said Miss Nugent.

"But if he has trouble looking after himself..."

McBain flashed me this look that seemed to say belt up or else, so I did. I was no big fan of games, but I'd much rather be doing that than playing wet nurse to a senile, incontinent old man. As I said, I can't stand old people: they depress me to death. They have the same effect on me as rainy Sunday's when there's rock all to do, and all you can hear in the morning is church bells and in the afternoon, dead silence.

I only hoped old man Digby wasn't as depressing to be with as my grandmother. She lived an exceptionally long time, late sixties at least, but was always ill with arthritis and God knows what else. She was a living skeleton with hardly any hair to speak of. Her hair was so thin you could see her scalp. She was my old man's mother. She got on my nerves. When I was little and she was still able to get around, she would smother me to death with sloppy kisses whenever I visited her.

"Ricky, my precious," she'd twitter, "come to grandma, give her a nice big hug." She'd hold out her skinny arms to me, and I'd have to go to her like a puppy dog and pretend I was happy to have her slobber all over me.

When I got older and she started to get seriously ill and was confined to a wheelchair, she'd still call me her precious Ricky and hold out her skinny arms to me, and I would have to go to her as meek as a lamb so she could fuss me. By then I didn't just dislike doing it I absolutely hated it. Because she was infirm she tended to dribble. As a result her chin was always soaking wet.

What's more, she had a bad habit of breaking wind and was completely oblivious to the fact. Her farts were deafening and seemed to go on forever; highly embarrassing for all concerned, except for her that is: as I said, she was oblivious. She'd sit there with this imbecilic grin on her face, sounding like a slowly deflating balloon. If mom and dad and Jimbo and me were in the room with her when she detonated, we'd try to ignore it, pretend it wasn't happening. Mom and dad would make inane conversation with one another hoping to drown out the noise. Jimbo didn't know what to make of it all. He was only a toddler when she was alive. I think the sound of grandma breaking wind scared him. You could see it in his face, sheer fucking panic. You couldn't go near grandma without risking certain death after she'd exploded.

I know she couldn't help being the way she was. I know she was only that way because she was old and ill, but I hated it nevertheless. I didn't like being anywhere near her, never did. Being near her was depressing because everything about her seemed so worn and useless. I couldn't handle it; her body made me feel morbid and sad. I couldn't understand why she carried on living. I mean to say; she was always in so much pain with her arthritis. She couldn't go anywhere because she didn't have the strength. Even when she was younger and I was not much more than a toddler, she was enfeebled. Later, when she was wheelchair bound, mom used to have to take care of her a lot, especially after granddad died and she was left all on her lonesome. It became too much for mom to cope with in the end, even though gran had a daily help and a nurse to regularly visit. Eventually gran had to be placed in an old people's home. I used to wonder if she was happy there or if she thought the same way I do, that she would've been better off pushing up daisies. I bet she drove the staff mad with her flatulence. I get depressed just thinking about gran. I only hoped old man Digby wasn't anything like her.

"Mr Digby is a nice old man once you get to know him," Miss Nugent told me in this condescending tone that made me want to belt her. "As I said, he's in his eighties and he's also a war veteran. There aren't many of those left. He'll be able to tell you all about his time in the war when you visit. I expect you'll like that. His stories are ever so interesting."

Yeah, sure, I thought as she flashed me a patronising smile that revealed her teeth in all their awful glory. I had to fight off a strong urge to send them flying down her scrawny throat. She was horrendous, smarmy and spinsterish, and as cold as ice.

I thought about old man Digby, what he was going to be like, wondering if he was going to bore me to death with his corny tales about the war. My great granddad used to harp on about the war: it was an obsession with him. He'd tell me about how he flew this bomber and that bomber, how he shot down all these German and Jap fighter planes single handedly. One day shortly before he died, I discovered he was never in the air force, he was a conscientious objector: my own flesh and blood, a stinking fraud. When something like that happens it makes you wonder who you can really trust.

I realised McBain was speaking to me and automatically stood to attention.

"I see from your curriculum, you have games last period this afternoon," he said, all businesslike. "Instead of going to the gym, you will report here to me. Miss Nugent will be waiting to drive you to Mr Digby's house."

I looked at Miss Nugent feeling suicidal at the prospect of spending the rest of the afternoon in the company of a geriatric.

"It won't do you any harm to think of someone else for a change," McBain added. "It'll give you a sense of responsibility."

Balls to responsibility I thought, I don't want any of it. I just want to be left alone. Suddenly the words, "why me?" popped out of my mouth.

"Why you," McBain said suddenly looking quite cross.

"Y-Yes sir, why me?" I cleared my throat, reminded myself who I was talking to and said, "I mean, why I am getting this as a punishment instead of detention. No other kids have got sent to look after the elderly when they've got into trouble, so why me?"

McBain and Miss Nugent exchanged a look. Then McBain explained that it was a new idea that had recently been put into operation in the area. He said it was a joint venture between the Education Authority and the Social Services. And that was all the explanation I ever got.

At that point Bugsy Nugent left the room. No sooner had she gone than McBain read me the riot act, saying I was lucky to be put on the new scheme because it was like being given another chance to prove I wasn't a lost cause. He said I had to thank Pringle for being given the opportunity to "redeem myself in the eyes of the school", as Pringle had spoken highly of me. In conclusion he issued a warning, saying that if I ballsed up on this occasion he would have no alternative but to take extreme action. He asked me if I understood. I nodded that I did.

"You may go," he said and I went, quicker than a rat up a drainpipe.

I had to suffer a whole lesson of Religious Education before I returned to McBain's office to meet Miss Nugent. I can't stand the Bible. It's full of fairy tales. If Adam and Eve were the first people in the world and everyone who ever lived descended from them, how come there are so many different races? Adam and his missus couldn't have been African, Caucasian, Negro, Chinese, etc, all rolled into one. And all that stuff about Noah and his Ark, Moses parting the Red Sea, Jesus bringing Lazarus back from the dead, give me a break! It's so farfetched. If all that really happened how come nothing like it happens today? What I reckon happened was, a few clever dick scholars got together over a few beers and decided to write a really good work of fiction, kind of a joint effort, so that's what they did, and they called it the Bible. Over the year's people have forgotten it's only a story and come to believe it's true.

The lesson was as boring as usual. The teacher we had made the lesson even more boring. Her name was Snoot. She was like a doll, all make-up and pretty clothes, no personality. She was forever saying things like, "You won't find out what happens if you don't pay attention", and "Now children, listen and you might learn," or "If you don't behave I will have no alternative but to send you to the headmaster's office". She lacked authority, had absolutely no control over her class. As for calling us "children"—please! Not only was it condescending, it was also a very bad mistake. We were young adults. Most of the girls were getting periods already. As for the boys, the vast majority had long since discovered that willies could be used for more than just pissing. And some of those girls and boys had actually got it together and found a brand new way of playing doctors and nurses. Biologically speaking we were old enough to be parents ourselves. Therefore, some prissy little Miss, fresh out of teacher training college who referred to us as "children", didn't exactly endear herself or gain our respect.

Although Miss Snoot was an empty headed doll who believed in a book of fairy tales I have to say she owned a pair of the most remarkable legs. She knew it too, and always wore revealing skirts and dresses and seamed or fished net stockings. I'm sure she knew all the boys, including me, secretly lusted after her legs. Often, during her lesson she would find a reason to flaunt herself by sitting atop her desk with her legs crossed in such a way that her lovely thighs were shown to best effect. I reckon the thought of all those red blooded young males getting the hots for her, gave her some kind of cheap thrill. She was a contradiction in terms, a teacher of religion who spoke primly, yet who painted her face and dressed like a tart. She might have been sexy, but boy was she a lousy teacher. Two years after I made my ignominious exit from tertiary life I heard that Miss Snoot was forced to leave in much the same fashion, having had a torrid affair with the head boy, an indiscretion that left her pregnant. I guess the moral of the story is that no one is perfect. I only hope she had a good time while it lasted because it cost her her career. Last I heard she was a single parent living on benefit. Such is life.

Will teased me something rotten when he found out I was to visit an old guy as punishment for beating up The Pig. I soon got tired of the good-natured ribbing and warned him to pack it in. He shot me a wary look and did just that. Like a lot of others, he'd developed a healthy respect for me in the wake of my annihilation of Piggy Dixon.

We were standing in the middle of the schoolyard. The sun was at its highest and we were slowly boiling to death.

"Let's get in the shade," I said. Just then I noticed activity over by the gym. A group of boys had gathered there. They were busy staring through the windows. And that could mean one thing only. Netball practice was taking place inside. Will and I headed over to take a look for ourselves. Sure enough there they were—enough nubile females to sink a battleship. As if that wasn't enough Miss Gorgeous put in an appearance! She wore next to nothing—on purpose I suspect—and ran around pretending to be interested in the game when all the time her eyes kept straying to the windows, and the goggle eyed faces of countless lust thirsty young males. I experienced a familiar stirring down below and got away from there fast. I urged Will to follow suit but he wanted to stay put. I warned him that ogling girls would send him blind, but he just laughed saying he was halfway there already. In the end he came away and we headed towards the other side of the yard where a game of soccer was taking place. While we were standing there a voice from behind suddenly said, "Hey, Ricky, got a minute?" and I turned to see none other than the delectable Shirley Hall, woman of my most romantic dreams, approaching.

"Hi. What can I do for you," I said trying to be cool, whilst hoping I wouldn't collapse from the excitement. She came to within a foot or so of me, dangerously close to invading my personal space. I should be so lucky I thought, and then she smiled so sweetly I thought I really might pass out on the spot. My heart was going sixteen to the dozen and my stomach was fluttering uncontrollably. My mouth had gone bone dry, and for the second time in almost as many minutes something potentially embarrassing was beginning to happen in my nether regions. I did my best to retain what little self-control I had left: tried to return her smile and ended up with my top lip stuck to my gum. Shirley Hall, curly haired, hazel eyed, angel faced, dream girl, then shocked the hell out of me, and I suspect Will too, by thanking me for beating up The Pig. Seeing the bemused look on my face she explained that her elder brother, Thomas, a bright kid in the year above us and destined for university, had been squarely flattened by The Pig because The Pig thought he was a swat and a snob who should be cut down to size.

"I've wished bad things on that bastard ever since it happened," said the normally demure Shirley Hall with uncharacteristic spite. "I never thought anyone would have the guts to do it. I think you deserve a medal for what you did." With that she leaned forward and pecked me on my scarred cheek. It was a kiss that went all the way down to my groin. Suddenly I was imagining all sorts of possibilities regarding Shirley Hall. And then, just as quickly, it was back down to earth with an almighty bump. You see; I somehow got it into my head that the beautiful, intelligent, sexy young woman standing before me had fallen madly in love with me, that I was in fact her Knight in shining armour, and I made the fatal mistake of asking her out.

Even before the words had finished leaving my mouth I sensed disaster, for her expression changed markedly with the grateful smile vanishing in an instant, replaced by a fleeting look of embarrassment.

"You don't misunderstand," she said in this sympathetic voice that I found vaguely patronizing. "I only wanted to thank you for bashing up Dixon." And then she smiled sweetly, I guess she was trying to be kind, but in my head that smile seemed to suggest that she found the idea of dating me somewhat ludicrous. I felt my face flush and grow extremely hot. All of a sudden my romantic dreams lay in ruins. My pride and self-esteem had been blown to smithereens. It was unquestionably the most embarrassing moment of my life, especially with Will there to witness it. I watched Shirley Hall turn and walk away and then looked at Will and said, "Not a word of this to anyone. Understand?"

He promised. Luckily for him he kept his word.

Later that day we bumped into Matt the Prat and Pinhead. Matt the Prat was beaming from ear to ear, whereas he normally looked quite miserable.

"What're so fucking happy about?" I asked him as he wondered over to us.

"I won some money on a scratch card," he said sounding as chuffed as hell.

"And he's gonna buy some porn with it," Pinhead chipped in.

"Porn," I said, "What's so amazing about that?"

"Matt hasn't ever done it before," Pin explained.

"What're you gonna get?" Will asked with great interest.

"Nuts or Zoo," Matt said excitedly.

"They're for beginners," I said, unimpressed.

All eyes turned to me.

"What do you suggest I get then," Matt asked.

I reeled off a few titles for him to mull over, such as, "Big n Bouncy", "Luscious Lips", "Tits Galore", "The Pussy Club" and "Shavers and Ravers". "But if you want the really hot stuff," I said, "you'll have to go to a bona fide sex shop, or log on to a website and open an account."

"How come you're so wised up on the subject," Pin asked.

"My old man is really into the stuff," I said. I looked at Matt. "We'll come with you, be your adviser's. What do you say?" Matt went to speak, but instead started to cough his guts up. He put a handkerchief to his mouth and continued coughing for the longest time. When he pulled the handkerchief away I noticed it was stained with tiny specs of blood.

"You need to pack in smoking," I advised him.

"You smoke," he reminded me.

"Not half as much as you," I said. "You smoke for England."

"It's my body.

"It'll be your funeral too," I warned.

He told me to mind my own business.

I would've floored him for saying that if he wasn't such a puny specimen.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As arranged I met Miss Nugent in McBain's office. I felt like killing myself I was so depressed. Before we left for the old fella's place Miss Nugent informed me that my dad was aware of the situation and had given his consent, then she asked me a load of personal questions, the answers to which she recorded in a notebook and on official looking forms that my dad had previously signed, questions relating to my home life. She wanted to know if I got on all right with my old man and my younger brother. She had obviously been well briefed I thought, annoyed my old man had mentioned nothing of this to me. I told her everything was hunky dory at home hoping she would let the subject drop, but she was far from finished and went on to ask me about my mom. She irritated the hell out of me, and insisted on calling me Dicky.

"I know this must be difficult for you, Dicky," she said, "having lost your mother in recent times, but I must ask you how you've been coping with the loss."

"Why?" I asked. "Why do you have to know?"

She stared at me, momentarily lost for words. She flicked a tongue over her horrible protruding teeth and swallowed thickly. Her throat clicked. She seemed exceedingly nervous all of a sudden. I don't think she quite knew what to make of me.

"I have to ask you because it's my job," she said hesitantly.

"Really," I said. We were sitting across a table from each other in a poky room adjoining McBain's office. It was cramped and stuffy and stank of Miss Nugent's insufferably cheap sweat smelling perfume.

"Is that the only reason you want to know," I said, "because it's your job?"

She frowned at me uncertainly. "I'm not sure I'm with you."

Oh yes you are, I thought, you know very well that you've made a faux pa and you're trying to buy yourself time so you can dig yourself out of the hole you've got yourself into. I spelled it out for her. "Saying it like that makes it sound as if you couldn't really care less."

"That's not true," she said quickly. "Heavens forbid, I do care, Dicky, really I do."

"You can't even get my name right," I pointed out, but she hadn't even heard me, I could tell, and as if to prove the point, in her very next breath she said, "So Dicky, would you care to answer the question?"

I wanted to scream at her, get my ruddy name right bitch! But I somehow knew that she wouldn't, even if I did. All she wanted to hear were answers to her pre-rehearsed questions. I held my temper, kept my answer short and to the point, told her it was hard but I was surviving. She recorded my response in her little notebook and on the paperwork and seemed happy as Larry.

On the way to her car she gave me the low down on Mr Digby. He could get around, mainly with the aid of a walking stick, she said, although stairs were now a problem for him, so a stair lift had been installed. A carer came in once a day, usually in the mornings, to tidy up and see that everything was all right, and meals were provided by the local Meals on Wheels service who visited at lunchtimes. And emergency pull cords had been installed by the local council in case Mr Digby ever encountered a problem. Mr Digby, Bugsy finally concluded, enjoyed reading and loved smoking his pipe. I secretly prayed he might use it to set fire to himself, preferably before I met him.

"Mr Digby was once a policeman in Kenya," Miss Nugent went on, as if I cared one jot, "he has no close family. I'm afraid he feels very lonely at times. Occasionally he can be a tad grumpy, especially with strangers, but once you get to know his little ways you'll find he's really quite nice. He has a dog called Winston, named after Sir Winston Churchill, and a pussy cat called Montgomery after..."

"Viscount Montgomery," I said for her. I knew all about Churchill and Montgomery because of my fraud of a great granddad and his war stories. Miss Nugent, who reminded me of Matt the Prat in the mouth department, due to the oversized gnashers, congratulated me and ruffled my hair patronisingly as if I was a seven year old. She continued to get my name wrong, calling me Benny now. For some reason I found being called Benny more infuriating than being called Dicky. I hate people getting my name wrong, especially after I've corrected them; it makes me feel like a complete non-entity.

Miss Nugent rattled on incessantly about Mr Digby on the drive over to his house, saying how he'd suffered his stroke shortly after his wife passed on.

"I think it was due to his wife's death that he suffered the stroke," she said squinting at the road ahead through her horn-rimmed specs. She seemed to have trouble seeing, which made me nervous. "He'd been with her for nearly sixty years," she added as she drove through an amber light, "I imagine her passing came as a tremendous shock."

"A tremendous relief, more like," I said.

Miss Nugent reprimanded me for saying that. Afraid she might grass me up to McDracula, I said I was sorry and promised to behave.

"Apology accepted," she said. As she continued to drive I grew increasingly tense. My initial suspicions were correct. Miss Nugent was a seriously bad driver who had a murderously bad habit of repeatedly taking her inferior peepers off the road as she spoke. Every time she did so, the car would veer dangerously towards the nearside kerb. I wanted to tell her to stop nattering so much and keep her eyes on the road before she got us both killed, but I was scared of making things worse.

By the time we arrived at the old man's place I was a virtual basket case. Plainly, Miss Nugent was as lethal as a cruise missile behind the wheel of a car. I lost count of the number of times she cut up other motorists. She seemed oblivious to everything else on the road. She went through a red traffic light and failed to stop at a zebra crossing that was being used by a frail and extremely alarmed old lady. She only missed the old dear by a whisker. It was terrifying for all concerned. She turned into a homicidal maniac when she drove a car.

The sight of old man Digby's house put me even more on edge. It looked like something The Adam's Family might've lived in. Big and dark with overgrown gardens, it was a real mess, and looked almost derelict. By now I was almost suicidal and I hadn't even met the old codger who lived there yet. It was going to be like serving a jail sentence, I thought, having to spend time here every week.

Miss Nugent, who had her own key to the place, let us in without so much as knocking to give Mr Digby warning of our arrival, which, to my mind was downright rude. Even old fogies have a right to privacy.

The hallway stank of animals and mould. Dog hairs covered the threadbare carpet. I thought that if first impressions were correct the place hadn't seen a duster or lick of paint for longer than I'd been alive. Overall it was horribly shabby and oppressive, with absolutely no redeeming features. I hated it on sight. Faded wallpaper, cobwebs, ancient carpets, decrepit furniture, you name it old man Digby's place had it. Seemed most of the curtains were drawn to, making it dreadfully dark and eerie. I half expected to bump into Boris Karloff or Bella Lagosi.

I brushed against something hanging on the wall and nearly died when I saw what it was. A snakeskin for Chrissakes! I asked Miss Nugent if it was real. She said that it was, thereby confirming my worst fears. I stepped quickly away and nearly tripped over a pile of old newspapers.

"I believe it's a puff adder," she said, referring to the snakeskin. "Mr Digby shot it whilst in Kenya."

"How long ago was that?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. Long before you were born; that much I do know."

So old man Digby once had enough bottle to shoot deadly snakes in Africa, I thought approvingly. Maybe he wouldn't be so bad after all.

I followed Miss Nugent down the hallway, passing the stair lift she'd previously mentioned and came to a big wooden door. This time she had the decency to knock before entering. She failed however, to wait for an answer, barging straight in as if she owned the joint. I reluctantly followed her into a room which was as hot as a furnace, and that was the moment I first laid eyes on Digby.

He sat huddled in a heavily padded armchair that was positioned next to a blazing coal fire. A thick tartan rug covered his legs. Curled up on his lap was a cat the size of a young mountain lion, which I deduced was Montgomery. Mr Digby and his moggy looked at me as if they would attack, and then the old man barked at Miss Nugent demanding to know who I was. Struggling to maintain her composure, Bugs Bunny introduced us to one another.

"This is Benny," she said, getting my name wrong for the umpteenth time. I tried to correct her but she talked over me, telling Digby how he would enjoy having me as company once he got used to the idea.

"I don't require company," he snapped indignantly. The excitement brought on a prolonged coughing fit. He reminded me of Matt the Prat. What a pair they would have made at a dinner party I thought. He pulled a tissue from the sleeve of his dressing gown and spat into it. Miss Nugent waited until he had quite recovered, and then continued.

"It'll be a nice change for you," she said smiling sweetly at him. She glanced over at me, and the smile faltered. "Benny here will be able to help you around the house."

"It's Ricky," I said, but she wasn't listening, or maybe she just preferred to think of me as Benny or Dicky.

"Don't need any damn help," Digby croaked, looking as stubborn as a mule.

"Oh come, come," said Miss Nugent, refusing to take no for an answer, "everyone needs a little help at some time or other." She looked at me. "Don't they Benny?"

It's Ricky! I wanted to scream. Why the hell she couldn't do a simple thing like get my name right was beyond me. I could understand her confusing my name with Dicky but it's not even as if Benny and Ricky sound alike.

"Anyway," Bugsy said to the old man as she started tidying up around him, "you can tell Benny about your wartime exploits."

"My name is Richard, not Benny," I told her using my full name in the hope that it might finally get through her thick skull.

"Of course it is," she said failing to take a blind bit of notice. "And you're going to enjoy talking to Mr Digby, aren't you Benny?"

I gave up. Brer Rabbit had somehow gotten it into her head that my name was Benny and nothing I said would change the situation. I looked across at old man Digby, tried to smile, but couldn't. I was too depressed. It was his damn fault for being so old and useless. He was all white hair, puckered skin. Why, he looked ready to drop down dead.

I noticed a dewdrop starting to form on the end of his nose. I wondered how long it would be before it dropped onto his stupid cat's head. I was mesmerised by that dewdrop. Miss Nugent continued to fuss around Digby, clearly irritating him as she did so, and proceeded to tidy up the room so it no longer looked like a bomb had hit it. Next, she made a pot of tea, before taking me to one side and telling me to be nice to the old fart, and to humour him and do whatever he asked. Some bloody hope of that happening I thought. I wanted out. She poured Digby a cup of tea, then left.

It was awful from the word go. He and I stared at each other in silence for an eternity. I tried to think of something to say but nothing came to mind. At last, Digby nodded towards the table, telling me to make myself useful and bring his pipe and tobacco over. The dewdrop, which had grown to quite a healthy size, finally fell, landing smack on Montgomery's head, getting him right between his eyes. He looked around, momentarily startled.

I handed Digby his pipe and tobacco and watched him stuff tobacco into the bowl and light it. He looked a miserable old sod slouched in the chair with the rug over his legs and the cat lying on the rug, frowning with concentration as he fumbled with his precious pipe and tobacco. I noticed that a bible lay on the side table next to him: looked like my charge was a bible basher to boot. He caught me looking at it.

"You read the good book sonny?" he asked, showing sudden interest in me.

I shook my head.

"Don't they teach religion at school anymore?"

"Oh yeah, they do that," I said.

"So you do read the bible?"

"Only if I have to..."

I knew it was the wrong thing to say but couldn't help myself. I wanted to see the old codger's reaction. It was as I'd expected. He looked at me as if I was the biggest sinner since Eve. He looked totally disgusted. He went back to smoking his pipe in silence, which left me standing in the middle of the room like a spare part. He wasn't just old: he was a killjoy I decided. I suddenly remembered the snakeskin and asked him what made him kill the snake. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into the air and told me that the snake had bitten his dog.

"Would that be Sir Winston Churchill," I asked.

"Certainly not," he said. "It was another one."

"Did the dog die Mr Digby?"

"It's none of your business," he snapped, so I let it go.

I changed the subject, and asked where Sir Winston Churchill was.

Digby nodded towards the window: "Backyard."

I went to the window, looked out and saw what had to be the ugliest dog in the whole of creation. It had a flat scrunched up face, squat muscular body and tiny bowed legs. It was slavering like it had rabies. I asked Digby what breed it was.

"Bulldog," he said.

When it spotted me standing at the window it ran over barking its stupid head off. Digby told me to come away, accusing me of upsetting the mutt. I did as I was told and sat down at the dining room table, out of harm's way, twiddling my thumbs, not knowing what to do next. Digby suffered another coughing fit, grabbed a clean tissue and spat phlegm. I asked him if he was okay, not that I cared one way or the other. He ignored me and sucked on the stem of his pipe. My mind wandered back to the puff adder. I asked him how he killed it. He told me he shot it.

"Once in the head, once in the body," he said factually.

"Did it die quickly Mr Digby?"

He nodded. "Quick enough..."

I asked him who skinned it.

"I did," he said looking at me as if I was stupid.

"Did it take long?"

"Long enough."

I had run out of questions, and drummed my fingers on the tabletop. Old man Digby didn't like me doing that and told me to stop. He frowned at me as if I was a Martian and continued to stroke his cat and smoke his pipe. I was curious to know what part he played in the war and if he had killed any Jerries, but he refused to talk about it. I asked him about Kenya instead. Maybe in his role as a policeman he had killed some black men? He didn't want to talk about that either. He was trying to make life difficult for me because he didn't want me around him. That was fine with me because I didn't want to be around him either. But it was so boring having to sit there being ignored. I really wanted to know if he had ever killed anyone, and if so, what it had felt like, so I came right out with it and asked him. I decided the worst he could do was to tell me to mind my own business or kick me out of the house, which would have suited me fine. Suddenly I had his undivided attention, but he refused to tell me what I wanted to know. Instead he accused me of being impertinent.

"I was only being curious," I said.

"Well, you know what curiosity did," he replied.

"It killed the cat," I said taking a meaningful look at Monty. I hate cats: the only good cat is a dead one.

A second dewdrop had formed on the old fellow's nose. He was like a leaking tap: a moment later Monty got it on the head again.

I was bored out of my tiny, was tempted to say to hell with it, just get up and leave, but I was realistic. Leaving would have got me in deeper trouble at school and consequently and more importantly, deeper trouble at home. There was also the fact that exams were fast approaching, so I told myself to be patient, give it another try. I asked Digby if there was anything I could do for him.

"You can leave me in peace," he said bluntly. "I didn't ask you to come here. I don't desire your company."

Hard cheese, you're stuck with me, I felt like saying. Instead I said, "I have to stay here until Miss Nugent gets back. I could get expelled from school if I don't."

He was unrepentant, saying it wasn't his problem. It was little wonder he was lonely if he treated everyone like this, I thought. I stared at his scrawny neck and wondered what it would be like to throttle him. I imagined myself creeping up from behind and using my belt to do it. It would be so easy, I thought. He was so frail and useless. No doubt he would struggle, wave his puny arms around as I did it to him. In my mind's eye I could see his eyes bugging out of his head, spittle flying from his mouth, his face turning blue. I found myself starting to grin at the idea. He saw me, and asked what was so funny.

I pretended I hadn't heard. Another long drawn out silence ensued. I was slowly beginning to lose the will to live. And then, right out of the blue, Mr Digby fixed me with his rheumy old eyes and asked me how I got the scar on my face. It surprised me so much I just came right out and told him. I was amazed he was even interested. When I finished, he nodded thoughtfully to himself. I thought he was about to make a serious attempt at conversation but in the end he said nothing more, just smoked his pipe and stroked his gigantic cat. I didn't think I could take being in his company much longer. It was about as much fun as being in the company of a stiff.

I looked around the room taking in my surroundings properly for the first time. Dreary, crammed full of old fashioned furniture, not the kind you get in antique shops, just junk. A load of ornaments stood here and there, figures of animals carved from wood, gazelles, elephants, Rhino's. On the walls hung boring old pictures and paintings, mainly of planes, gunships and tanks, but there was also a framed montage of old press cuttings. I took a closer look and saw that it had Africa as its central theme. I was curious about one clipping in particular. It showed two black men standing together, smiling earnestly into camera. I asked Digby who they were, half expecting him to ignore me, but he didn't, he looked at the picture, then at me and said, "The one on the right is Deden Kimatha, the other is Jomo Kenyatta." He added that they were Mau Mau members, but refused to say what Mau Mau was.

He grabbed another tissue from the box to wipe his leaking nose. When he had finished with it he screwed the tissue up into a tight ball and dropped it onto the table next to his chair where, besides the bible, there were another half dozen used tissues. Sharing the table with these items was a stack of medicine bottles, a brown apple core, a newspaper and some shrivelled grapes. A spider crawled over the newspaper. I suddenly noticed a cat's littler tray lying on the floor just inside the kitchen. It was full to overflowing. I almost threw up.

Mr Digby's house, I decided, was a complete health hazard. The place was a hovel. I prayed Miss Nugent would hurry back so I could get out of there before I caught a disease or went stark raving bonkers. Digby continued to stroke his cat mumbling incoherently to himself. I tried to make out what he was saying but couldn't. Seemed to me the old guy was off in another world, off with the fairies. I had another go at trying to find out what the phrase, Mau Mau meant. Digby repeated the words as if trying to recall their significance. I encouraged him to speak up, but that was too much to ask of the old fellow. I asked him who exactly the two black guys in the photo were. I got the vague impression Digby despised them. He raised his eyes and looked at me. He didn't seem to recognise me, which, I thought, might not be such a bad thing. We hadn't exactly got off to a good start. He turned his attention to the montage hanging on the wall, but he still seemed somehow disconnected. It was impossible to know whether or not the penny had dropped. I wanted to shake him, wind him up with a key; do something, anything, to make him get on with it.

"You don't want to hear about Mau Mau," he said finally, as if the subject was dangerous. I tried to assure him otherwise. By now I was desperate to know. Another dewdrop had formed on the end of his nose. A split second later poor old Monty got it on the head for the third time. At long last Digby seemed to grow more lucid, and he began to open up a little. "If you must know, Mau Mau was a black renegade organisation," he said. My ears immediately pricked up. "Its members were recruited mainly from an African tribe called 'Kikuyu'. It carried out acts of terror against Europeans in Kenya in the early fifties."

"What for Mr Digby?"

"To try to force both they and their sympathisers out of the country, and to regain land they thought had been stolen from them. Mau Mau didn't think whites belonged."

"And did you fight against them?" I asked.

"I was a police officer sonny. They were law breakers." He broke off to smoke his pipe.

"Did you catch many?"

"A few," he said before sinking back into thought. I got the impression he was trying to dig up memories from those days and was finding it difficult. I've noticed that old people sink into thought a lot. My great granddad did, so too did my grandma. They can be talking quite normally to you one minute and then, for no apparent reason, they can switch off and stare blankly into space. It's as if they've forgotten where they were or lost interest in the conversation. Digby eventually returned to the present and looked over at me. I took the opportunity to ask him if he had any other 'Mau Mau' pictures besides the one hanging on the wall. Instead of answering the question he rambled on about how the 'Mau Mau' was responsible for murdering innocent men, woman and children to further their cause.

"As I said, it was all over ownership of land," he said. "They reneged on the deal they made. European settlers bought land from the Kikuyu tribe legally and above board, uncultivated land that the Kikuyu tribe didn't know what to do with, built farms on that land, they did, and prospered from sheer hard work. Then the Kikuyu decided that that land hadn't been purchased according to their own tribal law, they claimed it was only leased and demanded it back. It was outrageous." He fell silent and stared solemnly at the floor. I tried to get him to say more but it was no dice, he had said his piece and that was that. I changed tack, asked him if he had any more pictures from his time in Kenya, said I would be interested to see them. Digby's eyes strayed to an old bureau standing in the corner of the room.

"Do you have pictures in the bureau, Mr Digby?"

"Why are you interested in such morbid things?" he asked suspiciously.

"I don't think it's morbid," I said. "I think it's exciting."

He raised his eyebrows. "You call murder exciting?"

Scared the old man was about to take offence I trod carefully, saying, "It's history, Mr Digby. I'm interested in history. They don't teach us this kind of thing at school."

He thought carefully about this. Finally he said, "Top drawer, left hand side. You'll find an album there. I hope you enjoy it." He looked at me knowingly, and gave a secret little grin.

I was out of my seat like a shot. The album looked old and smelled of mothballs. I brought it back to the table where I quietly leafed through its musty pages. The pictures were really quite gruesome. I was surprised Digby had kept them. Newspaper cuttings captured scenes in which black people had been burned, butchered or shot. Then there were actual police photos showing dead blacks minus their hands. Mr Digby explained that those who had been burned or mutilated were 'Mau Mau' victims. Those who had their hand's missing were 'Mau Mau' members or sympathisers. I didn't get it.

"I thought you said 'Mau Mau' were against whites, not their own kind?"

"Blacks were also terrorised and slaughtered," he replied, "if they failed to conform to 'Mau Mau' doctrine."

I asked him about the missing hands. He stared at me for the longest time. I wasn't sure if he would answer. At last he said, "They were removed for identification purposes. It saved us the trouble of hauling the bodies back to base."

I shook my head in wonder and disbelief. "How'd you cut them off Mr Digby?"

"Enough," he said abruptly. "No more talk of 'Mau Mau'."

"Can't you tell me how you cut off the hands?"

"Enough!" he barked slamming his fist down on the arm of the chair so hard that Monty shot off his lap. "Now look what you've done," he snapped. "You've upset Monty."

"I didn't do anything," I said. We both fell quiet this time. I sat there like a dummy still burning to know how the hands were chopped off, and if Digby had personal experience, but didn't want to offend him further so I let the subject drop. I watched him wipe his leaking nose on a tissue, and tried to come to terms with the fact that someone so old and feeble could have once hunted down and killed people like they were animals. I found it hard to imagine Digby as anything other than what he was now, a weak bad tempered old codger who didn't have the strength to get up the stairs of his own house without help.

When he'd finished wiping his nose he instructed me to put back the album where I'd found it. Then he said I could make myself useful by cleaning the kitchen.

I got the shock of my life when I went in there. It was disgusting. Dirty pots and pans piled up on the drainer, a stove that was black with filth, a table cluttered with a dozen milk bottles, one filled with a vile looking green liquid, a bare stone floor littered with rubbish, and then there was the revolting cat litter tray. That kitchen turned my stomach more than the pictures in the album had. The place needed more than a carer to do a bit of tidying up; it required a team of professional cleaners. I found some cleaning stuff and bin liners and cleaned up as best I could. When I'd finished I went outside into the back yard intending to put the rubbish in the dustbin. Halfway across the yard I heard growling and suddenly froze.

"Oh shit," I said under my breath. I'd completely forgotten about Sir Winston Churchill. He stood before me as large as life and twice as bloody ugly. He bared his teeth and barked. And then he charged. I stood rooted to the spot, certain I was going to get mauled to death. But what neither of us realised was that Sir Winston Churchill was tethered to a post on a very short length of rope. He ended up almost decapitating himself. It was like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Tough little bleeder that he was he was back on his feet in a flash, barking his stupid head off and straining at the rope like a crazy. I noticed a broom by the kitchen door. I went and grabbed it and cracked him across the top of the head with it. He yelped and retreated to the corner of the yard where he barked like there was no tomorrow.

"Stupid fucking dog," I said as I went over to the bin to get rid of the rubbish.

Back in the house Digby asked me what all the commotion was about. I told him that Sir Winston had gone bananas because a stray cat had got into the back yard. He didn't buy it, saying that Sir Winston liked cats because of his friendship with Monty.

"Well he didn't like this one," I said sticking to my story.

Digby grunted and let the matter drop. He filled yet another tissue with mucous and then relit his trusty pipe. Then he picked up his bible and started reading it, leaving me feeling bored to death until Bugs Bunny returned. He never even had the decency to thank me for cleaning his filth infested kitchen. As I was leaving I told him it'd been a pleasure making his acquaintance and promised to visit again soon.

"Not if I have any choice in the matter," he grumbled.

Miss Nugent tut-tutted and admonished him for his rudeness. I wanted to throttle him to death. I would probably have been doing him a favour. I don't know why he carried on living; he wasn't any use to anybody, sitting there all day smoking his pipe, stroking his fat cat while giant dewdrops formed on the end of his ancient nose. He wasn't even friendly. He would have been better off dead.

"You'll have to excuse Mr Digby," Miss Nugent said as we were driving away from his house. "He can be a little short tempered when he gets tired. He didn't mean to cause offence."

I looked out of the window and said nothing.

A little further on Miss Nugent asked me if I was all right.

"Only you're very quiet," she commented like she was really concerned. "What's the matter Dicky?"

That did it! "My name's Ricky," I snapped at her, "not Dicky or Benny, it's Ricky!. Why can't you remember that?"

"There's no need to shout," she told me unapologetically. As if to add insult to injury, she added, "You really should learn to control that temper of yours, you know. If you don't, it could get you into serious trouble."

Oh fuck off, I wanted to say, but somehow managed not to.

We travelled the remainder of the journey in stony silence.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As planned, Will, Pin and me accompanied Matt the Prat to the newsagents after school. He wanted to buy porn. We wanted to have a laugh at his expense. And that's exactly what we got. It took him an age to pluck up enough courage to reach for the top shelf to get the magazine he wanted. Then he went and dropped the thing, scooped it up and dropped it again, and nearly fell over in front of a girl who had just entered the shop and who happened to be in his class at school. With his normally bloodless looking face turned bright red with embarrassment, he took the magazine over to the cash register and was just about to pay for his lewd purchase when his grandmother and parental guardian happened to breeze into the shop. Matt didn't see her, but she clocked him immediately. She also clocked the magazine he was holding. A big, formidable looking woman with died black hair, huge bosom and big moon face, she marched straight over to her unsuspecting charge, grabbed him firmly by the arm and demanded to know what on earth he thought he was doing. Matt looked absolutely horrified. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't.

"Just you wait until I get you home," she growled as she frog marched him out of the shop, minus the magazine. Will, Pin and me looked at each other in total astonishment before finally bursting into fits of laughter. We were still laughing at "Matt the Prat's" expense half an hour later when we took a trip down to the park to mess around on the rope swing.

A couple of other kids were there when we arrived. One was called Robert Popham who was a braggart and a creep. True to form, the first thing he did when he saw me that day was to congratulate me on beating up The Pig, adding that if I hadn't done it he probably would have. He was standing at the water's edge holding the rope swing as he spoke. I was tempted to push him in just for the hell of it.

Instead I said, "C'mon Popham, let's see you swing?"

So he did, very badly. He hesitated as he pushed away from the bank, always a mistake because he failed to gain the necessary momentum causing him to struggle to reach the other side. He only just managed it and was afraid to swing back.

"C'mon Popham," I encouraged from the other side of the brook, "show us what you're made of."

"Can't do it," he said.

"No such word as "can't", I told him. "Now don't be such a fucking chicken."

He finally went for it, swinging across the brook like an out of control idiot before landing heavily on his scrawny backside right in front of me.

"Steady on Popham," I said, stepping back whilst thinking what a cretin he was.

He stood up and dusted himself off. Then he asked me why I was absent during that day's games session.

"I was getting bored out of my tiny by a dead man," I said and explained about my visit to Digby's house. Julian, one of his quirky little friends, openly sniggered.

"What's so bloody funny?" I asked him.

He stole a glance at Popham, suddenly unsure of himself.

"I asked you a question, idiot," I said.

"I wasn't laughing at you, honest," the kid replied looking scared to death.

"So who were you laughing at?" I asked, "The invisible fucking man?"

"Please," he said, backing away, "I didn't mean anything by it."

"I'm not sure I believe you."

His eyes began to brim with tears. I suddenly knew how it must feel to be a bully, like The Pig, and am ashamed to say I felt empowered.

"Please don't hit him," Popham pleaded on his friend's behalf.

"Can't he stick up for himself?" I asked, milking the moment for all it was worth.

Now Popham looked like he was about to cry.

I suddenly decided I felt very uneasy about my new found sense of empowerment. I was a bully hater and yet here I was, bullying two kids who were incapable of knocking the skin off a bowl of custard. Besides which, only days earlier I had beaten the crap out of the biggest meanest bully at our school, so what on earth was I trying to prove by terrifying Popham and his little gay friend?

"I'll let it go this time," I said, "but be warned, I don't take crap off anyone. Understand?"

The two of them nodded their heads, their sense of relief obvious.

"Thanks Ricky," Popham said, noticeably humbled by the experience, but his new found humility wasn't to last long. Minutes later he was back to his usual braggart self as he told anyone who would listen about his forthcoming family trip to America.

"It's costing my parents thousands," he announced proudly. "We've got three weeks in Florida and will be visiting Disney World and Miami and the Everglades. It's going to be fantastic."

We all stood around him, jealous and resentful, and half wishing he'd drop down dead on the spot.

"Have any of you been to Florida," he asked.

"I haven't even been to Rhyl," I told him.

"Well you should go... to Florida, I mean," he said failing to pick up on the hostility in my voice. "I've been three times before and every time it's brilliant."

"If you like it so much why don't you stay there," I asked.

"Yeah, maybe you should stay there if you dig it that much," Will suggested.

"And hopefully get eaten by one of the fucking alligators that roam the place," I added.

Popham seemed to get the message for once and shut the fuck up. We should have been used to his bragging, but it never ever failed to get to us. He had this way of looking like the smuggest bastard on the planet whenever he did it. It made you want to smash his teeth down his scrawny throat. Last time I ever saw him he was shouting about how fantastic his brand new plasma TV with surround sound was. And the time before that it was his new top of the range laptop, not to mention his Nike trainers. He was spoiled rotten and intolerable because of it.

Eventually he wandered off with his little friend in tow leaving the rest of us to carry on messing around on the rope swing. Eventually we got bored and ventured down to a stretch of river known as The Horseshoe Bend where I slumped down cross-legged on the grass. Having scrounged a fag off Matt I quietly observed the river. The current could be treacherous here, strong enough to sweep a person away to their death. I knew it for a fact because I had witnessed it happen. This was where my mom died.

We'd been out for a stroll the day it happened, just her and me: dad was away driving his Rig, and Jimbo was in hospital with yet another chest infection. I got it into my head to run down the bank, and swing from a tree branch overhanging the water. I do crazy impulsive things like that, can't seem to help myself. I get an idea into my head and have to carry it out. Unfortunately this one cost my mother her life. I recall mom telling me to be sensible, to stop my silliness. I took no notice, just hung there like a frigging monkey.

"Ricky," she said, "please be careful son: I'm warning you, that branch will break and you'll fall in!"

"No chance," I called back all cocky as I swung my legs back and forth, playing the big I am.

Suddenly there was a horrendous loud crack from above my head and the branch snapped just as mom warned me it would sending me feet first into the drink. Mom either didn't realise or forgot I was a competent swimmer because she plunged straight in after me, committing herself to a doomed rescue attempt. She should never have done it; she was a poor swimmer, but I guess she didn't think about that. All she probably thought about was the fact that her precious son was in dire trouble. So, without a single care for herself, she jumped in after me. No sooner was she in the water than she was being swept away by the current.

By the time I managed to get to the bank and haul myself out of the water she was gone. It was almost like she had never been there that day. By this time a small crowd had gathered, women were crying, having hysterics. When it dawned on me that mom was probably dead, I cried too.

They recovered her body later that day. When my old man found out how she'd come to drown, he went berserk. At the first given opportunity he beat the living daylights out of me. I was off school two weeks.

"You okay Ricky?"

I looked up and there was Will standing over me.

"I'm fine," I said, climbing slowly to my feet. We started walking. Will knew what I'd been thinking about, I could sense it; even though he never said as much I knew he wished he could have said or done something to make me feel better. Will was okay, not like the rest of them.

After we left the park we went up town to The Black Jack, messed around on the video machines until we ran out of money, then we went our separate ways.

2.

Some people never ever learn, and I happen to be one of them. One week later saw me down by the river again. It was a particularly hot Saturday afternoon. I'd been bumming around town when I chanced to bump into Robert Popham. We were both at a lose end, getting steadily bored out of our tiny minds. Ordinarily, Popham was the last person I'd ever want to spend time with, but I really was stuck for something to do, so when he suggested we go skinny-dipping I agreed to go along with the idea. Besides, it was something local kids did quite regularly in the hot summer months. It was free as well, whereas you had to pay a small fortune to visit the public pool, and then there was the element of danger involved in swimming in the river. The water was full of reeds, which made the experience all the more exciting to us kids. It was common knowledge that in the past five years a number of people had got into difficulties along certain stretches of that river, of which two had actually drowned. Consequently, warning signs had been posted along the riverbank. Unfortunately they did little to deter kids like Popham and myself who were determined to enjoy a free swim come hell or high water, so to speak. So we went down there and found a private spot where we stripped down to our undies, and then we clambered down the bank to the water's edge.

Popham was first to take the plunge. Being the sensible one he was mindful to keep close to the bank where there was less likelihood of getting caught in the reeds. I promptly joined him and initially did likewise. Then I got brave and swam out towards the centre. Popham started to fret for my safety and called me back, but I ignored him and kept going. The cool water revitalised me. I carried on swimming for the far side oblivious to the dangers. At some point I heard Popham yelling at me again, pleading with me to turn back, but I was having too much fun and kept going. And then, quite suddenly, something snagged around my leg dramatically halting my progress. A reed, I knew it immediately. My sense of bravado vanished in an instant, replaced by sheer fucking terror. With the awful memory of my mom's death now foremost in my mind I somehow managed to free myself, and began swimming back the way I had come. On the way I kept a lookout for Popham but failed to spot him. Then, as I neared the bank I finally caught a glimpse of him. Seemed he had problems of his own, having been dragged down stream by the current. He was trying frantically to get back, and was failing miserably.

With a tremendous effort I reached the bank and clambered up to a higher vantage point. I looked to the spot where I had last seen Popham just as he let out a desperate cry for help. He was being carried further out towards the centre of the river. I stood rooted to the spot, naked I realized, for the river had managed to steal my underpants, and was gripped by a terrible feeling of déjà vu. For a second there I could have sworn it was my mother struggling in the murky water.

Next thing I knew; a stranger appeared on the scene; raced right past me almost knocking me off my feet, headed straight for the river. Just like my mother did when she thought I was in trouble. Without any thought for his personal safety, he dived fully clothed into the water and swam expertly out to the spot where Popham floundered.

Having first life saved Popham from the reed filled watery depths the stranger proceeded to drag him onto the bank out of harm's way. Just then a second figure drifted into my line of vision. When I turned to look I was horrified to see Shirley Hall standing there. She pretended to be unaware of my naked presence, for her eyes were respectfully averted, focused rigidly on the hero of the piece, who busily checked to ensure that a shaken and breathless Robert Popham had suffered no ill effects from his brush with death. But she had clocked me all right, I was certain. Let's be honest, standing stark naked on the river's edge, I was pretty hard to miss. Not that there was really that much to see, the icy cold river water had seen to that. I hurriedly dressed and joined Popham and his rescuer, whom I now loathed with a vengeance, for not only was he a hero, he and the lovely Shirley Hall also appeared to be an item.

I asked Popham if he was okay. He nodded his head whilst looking extremely sorry for himself. I handed him his clothes. He started to put them on. I looked at the guy I presumed was Shirley Hall's boyfriend. He was around eighteen, tall, athletic, and handsome to a fault. I was beginning to hate him. I half wished he had drowned. Looking up at me from where he squatted next to Popham, who struggled to put on a sock, he said, "Can't you kids read? There's no swimming allowed along this stretch of the river."

"Is that right," I said trying to stare him down, revelling in my recently acquired hard man persona.

And then he rose up to his full height and that superior feeling I had quickly deserted me; in fact I suddenly felt extremely inadequate for he was six feet of solid rippling muscle and moreover, something in his eyes told me to be very careful, something told me that while I may have had the beating of Dexter "The Pig" Dixon, this guy was going to be a different kettle of fish entirely. And that's when I remembered who this real life Adonis was. A couple of years ago he had been none other than Head Boy at my school. He had also been leader of the school athletics team, and the school rugby team, not to mention being a martial arts fanatic who was a member of the British kick boxing team that had toured Thailand. I seemed to remember that when he finished school he had joined the Armed Forces; the story had even made the local papers. The reason I didn't immediately recognize him was because he had physically filled out since then, really filled out and in all the right places. Army training had turned the boy of two years ago into a real life he man. It was no wonder the delectable Shirley Hall was smitten by him.

"Yes, it is," he said in answer to my question, whilst towering over me like a giant. Next second Shirley Hall was standing demurely at his side, looking like an absolute vision.

"Come on Frank," she urged, gazing up at him adoringly, "let's go and get you dried off."

Frank looked me up and down as if sizing me up and then, sounding a little bit like Superman, he said, "Remember what I told you kid. Next time, I might not be around to help."

With that he slid his huge wet hand around Shirley's delicate dry one and quietly led her away.

"I nearly drowned," complained Popham as he pulled on one of the expensive Nike trainers he had once bragged about.

I ignored him. All I could think about was Shirley Hall and the fact she had seen me stark naked in all my pathetic glory. If she gossiped I would end up a complete laughing stock. Why oh why had I allowed Popham to talk me into going skinny-dipping, I wondered.

"It's all your bloody fault," I told him angrily.

"What did I do?" he moaned.

I picked his other Nike trainer up off the ground and aimed as if to throw it into the river.

"Hey, what goes on Ricky?" he whined.

I let him sweat a second or two before finally dropping it into his lap.

"See you around Popham," I said and made to walk off.

"Not if I see you first," I heard him mutter under his breath.

I promptly reclaimed the trainer. This time there was no bluff. I took aim and threw it straight into the river, and that made Popham start to cry.

"Next time it'll be you that goes in the water," I warned as I left him to lament his loss.

CHAPTER TWENTY

My old man's bimbo, Ugly Betty, was there when I got home, curled up on the settee—my settee! Dad was sitting there with his flabby arm around her. They were drinking wine, smoking and listening to a Hollies album. They both looked bombed out of their skulls.

Betty had on a garish blue see through blouse and a black split skirt that exposed her stocking tops. She was absolutely shameless.

When I walked into the room she flashed me a false smile and said, "Hi sweetie," in this stupid little girl voice she had. She always called me sweetie. Anybody would've thought I was a jelly baby. Betty was a forty something woman going on seventeen. She'd have made the perfect gangster's moll. I made a point of ignoring her and inquired from dad where Jimbo was. He reminded me that Betty had just said hello, and to have the decency to acknowledge her.

"Hi Betty," I said trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

She flashed me another insincere smile and asked me how I was.

"I'm fine Betty. How are you?'

"I'm fine too," she chirped back.

"Pleased to hear it," I lied.

"How's school sweetie?" She sipped her wine, took a drag of her fag. She was lady muck, queen of the sluts. I hated her.

"School's fine," I lied again.

"I'm so glad."

It was barely four in the afternoon yet she was slurring her words like a true wino. She took another sip of wine, hiccupped and giggled stupidly. Seeing her tipsy, and in a good mood, it was hard to believe she could be a foul mouthed cow with a vicious temper. When she got into a rage she was uncontrollable. She once attacked my old man in front of Jimbo and me, socked him right in the jaw, swore so much she turned the air blue. It all started over some stupid thing to do with them going on holiday together. Dad said Jimbo and me would have to come along, that we couldn't be left on our own for a whole week or he would get in trouble. She insisted we were old enough to look after ourselves. In the end the holiday plan was scuppered. I finally got to ask dad what I wanted to ask him, which was where Jimbo was. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like "upstairs".

"Is he okay dad?"

He slowly turned to look at me. "Of course he's okay. Why wouldn't he be okay?"

"I wondered if he was poorly, that's all."

"He's okay. Now stop hassling me."

I decided to make myself scarce. As I got to the door dad announced that he and Betty were going out and that I was to look after Jimbo and fix tea for him.

"Do you mind doing that for your father?" Betty asked sweetly.

"Of course not," I said, when in fact I minded like hell. It wasn't fair of dad to keep shirking his responsibilities to his kids in preference to entertaining his bitch of a girlfriend. I wished Betty dead for a hundred different reasons. I hated her for being in our house, for sitting on the same settee mom used to sit on, for sleeping in the same bed mom once slept in. She had no right to be in the house at all, she wasn't fit to clean my mom's shoes let alone take her place. That was what was happening; slowly by surely Betty was inching further into our lives. I could foresee the day when she'd show her true colours and be bossing me about, telling me what I could and couldn't do. I knew I wouldn't be able to stand that; it would crack me up. I would go crazy. God only knows what my old man saw in her.

I went upstairs and looked in on Jimbo. I was glad I did. He lay on his bed looking as sick as a dog, wheezing like he'd just run a marathon. He was dressed in his Batman t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms and had his head propped up on a pillow, clutching his inhaler tight to his chest.

I got down on my knees at the side of the bed and said, "Are you okay shrimp?'

"Don't call me that," he said, "I don't like it."

"Sorry Jimbo." I felt his forehead. It was hot and feverish.

"How do you feel?'

"Okay," he said.

But he wasn't. I could tell. He had suffered a bad asthma attack. Since mom died the attacks had grown steadily worse. I think it was caused by anxiety. It worried me like hell.

"What brought it on Jimbo?"

He looked at me without saying anything.

"Come on, out with it."

He heaved a sigh. His chest rattled.

"How come you got an asthma attack?" I persisted; knowing he usually got the severe ones whenever he was over exited or upset.

"I'm waiting, Jimbo," I said.

He thought about it for a moment before finally giving in and then told me that he'd wandered into the living room while dad and Betty were kissing and cuddling, and that dad had bawled him out, threatening to lock him in the outside toilet for embarrassing Betty. It was the idea of being locked in the toilet that had brought on the asthma attack.

Dad suddenly shouted up the stairs announcing he and Betty were leaving. Then the front door slammed shut and the house fell silent. I wished dad would never come back, that he'd desert Jimbo and me, run off with his tart, get himself knocked over and killed by a bus. I thought about the dead cat lying in the gutter that day and imagined it was him lying there with his guts hanging out instead. If he were to die I supposed Jimbo and me would be sent to our Aunt Josephine to be looked after. The idea was appealing. Aunty Josephine was kind. She was also rich as stink. She looked like a fatter younger version of Hilary Clinton. She lived on the other side of the country in a massive house with a swimming pool, the works. It was like something out of a Hollywood movie. Her husband, my Uncle Arthur, he was the one who gave me the Tom Sharpe book, was a merchant banker. I'm not clear what merchant bankers do exactly but I do know they make buckets of money. Aunty Josephine had invited Jimbo and me over to stay shortly after mom died. Dad wouldn't let us go, he said she'd only spoil us and lead us astray. She had been over to see us since, once with Uncle Arthur, once on her own, but she didn't stay long either time. Dad was rude to her.

I fixed something for Jimbo and me to eat and then we settled down to watch TV.

Dad didn't come home again that night, at least, I didn't hear him come in and he wasn't in his room when I got up to do my paper round next morning. I prayed he'd run off with Ugly Betty or been knocked over by a lorry.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

When I got to school the next morning I went straight to the staff room and asked to see Pringle. I wanted permission to have the afternoon off so I could go see Jimbo do his star part in "The Rip Roaring Adventures of Bobby Raccoon". Pringle listened carefully to my request, and then consulted with Count McDracula. On his return he told me that McDracula had given his permission on the condition that I report back to school immediately the play finished. I promised that I would.

"You mean it?" asked Pringle.

He didn't trust me, I could tell. Not many people do. I'm unreliable. I try not to be but I can't help it.

Jimbo cracked me up as Humphrey the Happy Hedgehog. He looked hilarious in his prickly costume and painted on whiskers and black ping-pong ball nose that kept falling off. Seeing him enjoy himself like that made me happy too. He was better by miles than any of the other kids in the play. This one kid who played a character called Herbert Hamster kept forgetting his lines and had to be prompted. This other kid who played a slug called Sidney went one better and delivered other peoples lines by mistake. It was an absolute scream.

I was proud as punch of Jimbo. I also felt sorry for him. He had worked his socks off to learn the part, and deserved better than to have just me there to see his hard work put into effect. It goes without saying that mom couldn't have been there, but dad should've made the effort to go along. To see him there would have made Jimbo's day. I knew it for a fact because the first thing Jimbo did when the play finished was to ask where dad was. I made up some story about him having to go for a job interview. Jimbo tried not to show it but it was obvious he was disappointed. I tried to think of something to cheer him up. I remembered the funfair, which had come to town. When I asked Jimbo if he would like to go along his face lit up like a light bulb, and he clapped his hands gleefully.

We went home first, where we ate egg and chips washed down with a cup of tea. There was still no sign of dad, which made me dare to wonder if my wish had been granted and he and Betty had run off together, or were lying dead somewhere.

At the fairground Jimbo and me tried out the dodgem cars first. Jimbo wasn't too keen on those; he kept thinking the people in the other cars were trying to hurt him when they crashed into us. Poor old Jimbo was too timid by half; he was a mouse. I was amazed he had the guts to take part in the play. Him being so timid was the main reason why I got so mad with dad for bullying him.

I spent more than I could afford at the funfair, not that I minded. Seeing him so happy gave me a thrill.

We went on the shooting gallery. Jimbo won a teddy bear dressed as a pirate. It had a patch over one eye and a cutlass and everything. It was ace. Jimbo went crackers over it.

Next we paid a visit to the amusement arcade. Then we called into the hall of mirrors. Jimbo liked that best of all. He couldn't get over how the mirrors distorted our reflections. We went on the Big Dipper twice. Jimbo rode the merry-go-round with pirate Ted, pretending he was a pirate too. When we'd been on most of the rides I bought Jimbo a toffee apple and promised him a ride on the ghost train if he finished it all. Jimbo woofed it down as if his life depended on it, but had second thoughts about the ghost train. He was worried the guy in the Nightmare on Elm Street films might get him. Freddy Kruger was Jimbo's personal bogey man. The reason Jimbo knew about Freddy was, dad had once rented a DVD of one of the Elm Street films for Betty and himself to watch, but he had to go out unexpectedly. He had left the DVD lying around. I put it on for Jimbo and me to watch. The film didn't scare me but Jimbo never got over Freddy's knife blade fingers, and how he used them on kids. He had horrible nightmares in which Freddy came to get him. Somehow I persuaded Jimbo he'd come to no harm riding the ghost train. Soon we were setting off into the dark unknown of the fairground tunnel of horrors. It wasn't the best horror ride invented, but it was far from the worst.

Dracula suddenly popped out of an upright coffin, nearly scaring Jimbo half to death, (I thought about McBain when that happened), Frankenstein's monster clanked towards us. We just about got away by the skin of our teeth. The Mummy lurched at us, streamers of ragged bandages trailing after it. The Werewolf howled from within the shadows, ghosts and ghouls shrieked and screamed. Jimbo did likewise, while every so often skeletons would appear out of nowhere and jangle their bony limbs at us. It was a hoot, although I don't think Jimbo thought so, I think he was just glad to have survived the experience.

We left the ghost train and I led Jimbo through the crowds towards the fairground exit. It was creeping towards 9 o' clock. I'd been careful to leave a note for dad explaining where we were, but it still wouldn't be wise to be late.

We drew level with the Big Dipper and that was when I spotted the delectable Hannah Daily standing in the distance. She was hanging around with a couple of friends and was wearing a tight revealing top and spray on jeans and looked as sexy as hell. I recalled how pleasant she'd been to me the night I asked her out on Pin's behalf and wondered if it was because she might like me. Stranger things have happened, I thought, I was reasonably intelligent and far from ugly despite my facial scar, and furthermore, since seeing her at the youth club I had scored my comprehensive victory over The Pig, which would surely go to improve my chances. After all, didn't girls like guys who could take care of themselves? I suddenly fancied my chances and thought seriously about asking her out if I ever got the opportunity. I recalled something I once read that said most people never get the partner they really want simply because they are afraid to seize the opportunity when it presents itself. Well, that wasn't going to be me, I decided, and made myself a firm promise to ask Hannah out the next time I caught her on her own and hopefully succeed where Pin had failed so miserably. I pointed her out to Jimbo who, despite his tender years, seemed extremely impressed.

"So you think she's pretty?" I asked.

"Oh yes," he said without hesitation.

"Would you like her to be your friend?" I asked getting way ahead of myself.

"Are you going to marry her Rick?" he asked eagerly.

"Maybe," I said, knowing it was probably as likely as my old man being made a Saint, but I guessed I could always live in hope.

And then, just as we were about to leave, and I prepared myself to put Hannah back in the fantasy box inside my head, a miracle happened. Her friends suddenly wandered off towards the hotdog stand leaving her by herself. The opportunity was suddenly there for the taking. I knew I had to take it. Strike while the irons hot, I told myself and immediately took Jimbo by the hand and headed over to her, unsure of what I would say or do, knowing only that I had to give it my best shot.

I had forgotten how tall she was. Even in the flat shoes she wore she dwarfed me, but I tried not to let her height, or my lack of it, put me off and launched straight into some friendly banter trying to appear more confident than I actually felt. And I did a pretty good job to start with, politely reminding her who I was on the off chance she had forgotten, before introducing Jimbo and telling her all about the play he'd been in that afternoon. Despite my best efforts however, she seemed unimpressed and acted almost as if I wasn't there. It didn't help that she continually looked straight past me and even over the top of my head at one point, which made me feel rather insignificant.

She was proving to be far less approachable than she had been at the youth club, and I began to suspect she was trying to give me the cold shoulder. Nevertheless, I battled on gamely, trying to appear interesting as well as being interested in her as a person. I asked her questions, what kind of things did she like doing, what kind of music was she into, what were her favourite TV shows, but no matter what I did I couldn't break through that ice wall she had erected between us. And the more I tried to break through, the more ill at ease in my company she appeared, which in turn made me feel ill at ease, until nerves finally got the better of me, and I completely lost my train of thought and clammed up.

The most awkward silence imaginable followed, which saw me biting nervously on my lip racking my brains trying to think of something amusing to say, while she stood and fidgeted and yawned. It was hopeless. I just couldn't get it together. She was out of my league, and yet I had to know for sure so I made my move and asked her out on a date to MacDonald's. She must have thought I was some kind of half-wit. Here was a girl who regularly dated older guys who rode motorbikes and owned cars and visited pubs and clubs, and I had asked her out to a kiddie's playground that sold burgers. My invitation sounded as juvenile as hell. Needless to say it sent our fledging relationship into even more of a tailspin. Hannah politely declined, and then she was on her way over to join her friends, leaving me standing there feeling like a complete failure.

Once I had collected my thoughts together however, I decided to be philosophical about the whole thing, put it down to experience and take the rejection on the chin like a man. A case of some you win and some you lose, I told myself. Unfortunately, when it came to girls I always seemed to lose. I tried my best to shrug it off, but deep down I was absolutely gutted.

As I walked home with Jimbo I was depressed enough to slit my wrists, but obviously that didn't happen. The way things turned out I bet some people wish I had.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Dad was home when we got back, in a decent mood for once and was especially nice to Jimbo. I suspected he perhaps felt guilty about not coming to see Jimbo in the play, though his good mood was more likely due to the fact that he'd been having his evil way with Ugly Betty for the last couple of days. I tried to take advantage of the situation, and asked him if it would be okay for me to go along to the pop concert, which was set for the following evening.

He flatly refused, but I guess I should have known that would be his response. Even in a good mood he was a complete bastard to me. He told me he'd arranged to go out so I would have to baby sit Jimbo again. I was so angry I started arguing with him, I couldn't help myself. It was a bad move; I got a clout round the ear for my trouble, and was sent to my bedroom. I guess I should've counted myself lucky I didn't suffer a worse fate for my insolence.

So I went to bed. There was nothing else to do. I lay there wondering whether or not to take a chance, leave Jimbo by himself tomorrow night and go to the concert anyway. Who'd ever know? Jimbo wouldn't say anything if he thought I would get into trouble. I think he secretly hated my old man as much as I did.

2.

The following night, before dad left, he mentioned that he wouldn't be back till late, and that decided me on going to the gig. I could be back in the house by ten, which meant no one would be any the wiser. Before I left I tucked Jimbo up in bed, explaining the situation to him so he wouldn't drop me in it, or worry too much.

"Promise you won't be long," he said snuggling up to pirate Ted.

"I promise," I said. "Now try to get some shut eye and I'll see you in the morning."

He smiled uncertainly. "Okay, Ricky."

As things turned out I wish I had never bothered with the concert. The babe who was the lead singer was a disaster. She sang out of tune, had two left feet, and had the personality of a crushed grape. Even Will, her number one fan until he actually saw her perform live, admitted she was a complete waste of space. I left before the end, because I couldn't see any point in staying.

I got the shock of my life when I got home. Dad was there, waiting for me. He'd had an argument with Betty, and come home early. He called me all the names under the sun for leaving Jimbo on his own, and I had to admit that he had a point for once. He made me spend the night in the cellar as a punishment. I went stir crazy in there, and kept imagining I could hear rats scuttling around in the dark. More than once I brushed against a cobweb, and imagined a giant spider laying in wait. I was a nervous wreck at the end of it all.

I didn't do my paper round the next morning. Dad overslept and didn't come and let me out in time. The phone woke him. He sounded pretty pissed off with the caller. At the end of the conversation he spoke Betty's name. They must've had a serious fall out, I thought. He ended the call saying he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to see Betty again. He was in a foul mood when he let me out of the cellar, threatening to keep me locked up in there for a week if ever I defied him again. He meant it too. One thing about my dad, where I was concerned he never ever made idle threats.

That night he got blind drunk and did something unforgivable. He slapped Jimbo across the face for knocking over a glass of milk. The blow split Jimbo's lip, and bruised his cheek. In the morning, when he was sober again, dad claimed it was me who'd hit Jimbo. He warned both of us that if we said otherwise we would live to regret it. He kept Jimbo off school until his face was healed.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

A gang of us went swimming at the public pool on the Saturday before the end of term. We wanted a bit of fun before exams started. It was an absolute riot. Pinhead tried to perfect his diving technique and failed ending up with a sore chest from a succession of belly flops. Will, whose dominant stroke was a strange version of the doggy paddle, raced Matt the Prat who claimed to be a qualified lifeguard, beating him hands down. Matt's excuse for losing, a case of the bends. No wonder he was known as Matt the Prat.

Will's sister and one of her friends tagged along. Will's sister, Mandy, was a plain Jane. Her friend however, was a blonde bombshell. She swam breaststroke. I tracked her progress underwater, enjoying the view.

Afterwards, we visited the shopping centre and had our photographs taken in a passport photo booth. Mandy and her friend were photographed together, Jimbo and me likewise. Will and Matt had theirs taken individually. Will looked slightly demented in his picture while Matt looked like a ghost. The expression Pinhead wore in his photo suggested he was being held at gunpoint.

Inevitably we ended the day at The Black Jack drinking coffee and listening to music playing on the sound system. I was aching to ask Mandy's friend out but didn't have the bottle. Guess I still hadn't recovered from the humiliation of my failed attempt with Hannah Daily.

Back at home on my own I got depressed. I was due to visit Mr Digby again. I had gotten out of it the previous week. The old guy had a cold and wasn't well enough to receive visitors. I was hoping the cold might get bad enough to relieve him permanently of receiving visitors as in, too bloody dead to receive them.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

No such luck.

Mr Digby was victorious over the cold and lived to fight another day. I tried to get on with him when I next visited but he didn't want to know, saying that I annoyed him with all my questions. All I did was ask him about Mau Mau and how Mau Mau killed their victims. He finally lost patience.

"If you want cheap little thrills, go somewhere else," he snapped.

"I'm not after cheap thrills, Mr Digby," I said whilst trying to look sincere.

He didn't believe me. "You think killing is fun," he said. "I can see it in your face. Well, let me tell you something, young un. Killing is anything but fun." He patted the bible that lay on the table next to him. "It is written in the commandments that thou shalt not kill."

"But you've killed Mr Digby," I pointed out.

He frowned crossly and demanded to know who had filled my head with such nonsense.

"You must've killed," I said. "You fought in the war and you fought the Mau Mau."

He glared at me. "Listen to me sonny. To kill someone, for whatever reason is to kill a part of yourself. You are never the same again. And let me tell you something else. If I did kill, and I'm not saying I did, it was out of necessity and for the common good. I repeat: it was never fun."

"I never said it was fun," I said, "What makes you think I think it's fun?"

"As I said before, I can see it in your face," he said glumly.

"Please Mr Digby," I said, "Tell me what it was like, the war and Kenya and all that fighting. Did you feel brave?"

"Of course I didn't feel brave. I was simply doing my job. I did what had to be done."

"So you killed people, even though the bible says it's wrong to kill."

"Don't try to provoke me, and don't presume to preach at me or you will leave this house never to return."

I apologised and promised it wouldn't happen again. But I was still desperate to know what it was like to kill someone, but no way was he going to tell me, so I tried for second best and asked him what it felt like when someone was trying to kill him. He looked at me pitifully, and said, "You are a very strange boy; did you know that. I warn you for the last time. One more word out of place, and you will be through the front door never to return."

I didn't dare say anything for a while. I was all too aware that messing up here would get me kicked out of school, which would lead to dad getting me institutionalized, which in turn would mean I would be parted from Jimbo, maybe forever. It didn't bear thinking about. I sat in obedient silence for the longest time, studying old man Digby's profile, trying to imagine what he might have been like as a young man, one who had actually killed people, but I couldn't do it. He was just an old man to me. I tried to put thoughts of him murdering people out of my mind, and thought I might actually succeed, but it wasn't to be.

Curiosity eventually got the better of me yet again, and I made another attempt to get him to tell me what it's like to kill another human being. When he ignored me, I told him about the dead cat, and the effect it had on me.

"It's the fact that it was still there, whole," I said, "yet at the same time, gone forever. Where'd it go Mr Digby? What happens when something or someone dies? You of all people most have some idea?"

He shook his head at me. "You are not just a strange boy," he said with a wary look, "you are also very sick."

And that was the end of the conversation. Not another word passed between us until Miss Nugent arrived to collect me some twenty minutes later. By then I was insane with boredom. Immediately upon her arrival Mr Digby demanded she take me away, never bring me back. Miss Nugent looked suitably shocked. "My goodness," she chirped, "why on earth not?"

"The boy is a ghoul," Mr Digby complained into a tissue as he blew his leaking nose. "All he wants to do is talk about death and killing."

Miss Nugent made the mistake of accusing Mr Digby of exaggerating and got her head bitten off.

"Now take him away!" he blasted. "He depresses me!"

Me, depress him! That was rich. I nearly told the old fart what I thought of him, but that would have only got me into more trouble so I held my tongue. To Miss Nugent's credit, she went to great lengths to assure Mr Digby I was a normal boy, and really quite nice once you got to know me.

"He's a ghoul," Mr Digby reiterated, convinced beyond any reasonable doubt.

"Oh come, come," said Miss Nugent adopting her usual patronising tone. "You don't give people a chance, that's your trouble."

"Ghoul," he spat back.

"Well anyway, I'll bring Ricky to see you again next week," she promised, having finally remembered to get my name right. "Hopefully you and he will reach an understanding and learn to get along."

"I don't mind not coming," I told her.

"You have no say in the matter," she said sternly.

Seemed I would have to put up with her and the old man until McBain saw fit to take me off the program. Boy was I depressed.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

I dreaded the next visit but it turned out to be an absolute revelation. Initially I had another try at getting Digby to open up about his time in Kenya, but he refused to discuss the subject. He got angry with me for pestering him, and told me to get out of his sight, and make myself useful by tidying the place up. Not wanting to push my luck any further I set off to do as he asked.

I decided to take a proper look around and rode the stair lift to the upper level, which consisted of three bedrooms and a bathroom, all of which were dirty and depressing and stank of embrocation and mothballs. Much like downstairs, the upstairs level of the house was all peeling wallpaper, dirty threadbare carpets and dusty grime ridden surfaces. It was fair to say that despite having a stair lift at his disposal, old man Digby probably didn't spend much time up here, (why would he when there was a downstairs toilet and the dining room served as a bedroom), and if social services ventured up here they certainly didn't spend any time cleaning and tidying for the old fart.

The main bedroom bore testament to Digby's long life, housing photographs of him as a young man, with his wife, friends and family. Seeing how he was then, with his whole life ahead of him, made his present existence seem all the more squalid and pointless.

In the far corner of the room were his wedding photographs. His late wife looked a classy woman, I have to admit. I couldn't understand what possessed her to marry a miserable old git like Digby. Then I looked at him as he was back then, a strong handsome man who fought and killed the Jerries in the Second World War and did likewise to savages in Africa. I wondered how Mrs Digby died. Bugsy never told me, and Mr Digby never referred to her in my presence. He and his missus were childless, which meant that the old guy was probably all on his own in the world nowadays. What a way to end up, I thought, sick, useless and all alone. And with a delinquent fourteen year old kid visiting him against his will as well. I took a look in the other rooms but found nothing of interest. Then I took a leak in the bathroom, which was as squalid as the rest of the house. Like I said, old man Digby had no need for the bathroom now. He either used the one downstairs, or else the Victorian chamber pot he kept under the bed in what had once been the dining room. He asked me to empty the chamber pot for him once. I told him to go take a hike. What was I, his nursemaid?

Finally, I took a look in the attic, which was up a further level. It was crammed with enough junk to fill a museum. An ancient record player, French horn, numerous paintings, books, there were enough books to fill a library. Highbrow stuff mainly, Bernard Shaw, Hemmingway, Wilde, Shelley, Keats, Hardy. There were piles of old clothes too. I didn't know where to begin with the clean up Digby had instructed me to do, not that I supposed he would ever know what I had or hadn't done. As I said, he never came up here to my knowledge. Digby hadn't said whether he wanted stuff chucked. I nearly returned downstairs to ask him, but then reminded myself that I wasn't going to do anything anyway. It was all the same to Digby. He would be dead soon so what did it matter.

A bureau stood in one corner. I wondered if it contained more mementoes of Digby's fighting career, ideally Mau Mau pictures. The first drawer was filled with stationery. The second was even less interesting. The third however contained the star prize, not Mau Mau pictures, but a revolver for Christ's sake! Man, I couldn't believe my luck. It lay on its side, small yet deadly, and in surprisingly good nick. It might have been a toy, but somehow I knew it wasn't. It had a four inch barrel and a chequered walnut grip, with a silver 'S & W' monogram. My hand trembled as I reached down and picked it up. Touching that gun gave me the biggest thrill of my entire life. I had no way of telling whether or not it worked. The chamber was empty, which I found extremely disappointing. Then I spied the box lying right at the back of the drawer that had contained the gun, written upon which were the words British Service Ammunition. Seemed I had hit the jackpot after all. Hands trembling with anticipation I opened the box. Roughly a dozen bullets were stuffed inside. My heart rate was up and I was shaking all over. I took a deep calming breath and tried to compose myself. I examined the gun closer. It was small, lighter than I would have expected, compact I guess you'd say. It fitted really snugly into my hand. Snug as a bug in a rug I thought with a silly grin.

I did some homework on that pistol down at the local library the next day and discover that it was in fact a .38 Smith & Wesson Number 2 Revolver, made by the Smith & Wesson Arms Company, Springfield, Massachusetts. It was the regulation Smith & Wesson Police Model fitted with a six-chambered cylinder. The chamber was designed to fit the British Army 200 grain .380 inch cartridge. This particular design of pistol was issued to Allied troops in the 1940's. Judging by its design the one I had found in Digby's drawer was one of a batch made between 1940 and 1942. The old guy had obviously neglected to hand it in when he was demobbed, perhaps keeping it as a memento or maybe he simply forgot, though I doubted it. I wondered if he used it to kill Mau Mau when he was in the Kenyan Police.

Grinning like the cat with the cream, I aimed the gun at various objects in the attic room. I felt like The Terminator. I squeezed the trigger. Click. I repeated the action and got another "click" for my trouble. I wondered what kind of sound the gun would make had it been loaded. An extremely fucking loud one, no doubt. The grin broadened. I narrowed my eyes, aimed the gun at the wall. Suddenly, I was Dirty Harry in Magnum Force: Keano Reeves in The Matrix, Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, all rolled into one.

The spell was abruptly broken by the sound of Digby's voice calling out to me, calling for help. I dropped the gun and the ammo back in the drawer and rushed downstairs to see what all the fuss was about. I found him in the living room where I had left him, only now he was sprawled across the floor, flat on his back having suffered some kind of seizure. His face was deathly white. His lips were an alarming shade of blue. He was gasping for breath. He was like a grounded fish. Totally helpless, pathetic, I thought. He stared up at me, tried to speak. His words were choked. I thought he was about to be sick.

"Help me," he managed, and then he told me to fetch a doctor. There was extreme urgency in his voice. He was in a serious way. He coughed harshly and his face coloured, and slowly turned purple. His eyes bulged, spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He spoke my name, the first time he had ever used it. He'd always referred to me as "sonny" or "my boy" or "young 'un". Calling me Richard all of a sudden sounded insincere, as if he was trying to butter me up because he wanted something, which of course he did. He wanted help because he was dying.

"Ricky—help me—please," he gasped. I looked down at him, strangely unmoved. It suddenly occurred to me that I was witnessing someone fighting for their life. The effect was hypnotic. I found myself rooted to the spot.

Digby's dressing gown had come undone. His pyjama flies were open. I tried not to look. He repeated his pleas for help, and struggled harder for breath. I stood watching him, mesmerised. I should've been sorry for him but I wasn't; not one little bit. I felt like reminding him that he hadn't even wanted to know me five minutes earlier.

I knelt down beside him, and looked into his pale watery eyes. His cat slunk towards me curious to know what was going on. I waited till it got up real close then let fly with my fist catching the animal a good one across the side of the head. That cat, big as it was, virtually flew across the room, yowling at the top of its lungs. I hate cats: they're more insincere than people.

I stared into the old man's eyes. He was about to die: I just knew it. I hoped to see the change that would take place in them when it happened. I wanted to see the light go out. Maybe if I was really lucky I would get an idea about where his spirit actually went to. I leaned in, close, expectant.

"Mr Digby," I said, whispering, "how'd you feel?"

He fought for breath, dribbled like a baby. He made me feel sick. I forced myself to keep watching his eyes.

"Hey, Mr Digby," I said softly, trying to sound friendly, "what's it feel like—can you feel yourself going?"

The question shocked him rigid, I could tell.

"Well, can you?"

He groaned, raised his hand, and then let it fall limply.

"Tell me Mr Digby, I need to know."

"Sick," he muttered. "You're..."

"Sick," I said for him. "Yeah, okay, so I'm sick, but I still want to know what it feels like."

His eyes started to close, ever so slowly, the eyelids flickering uncertainly. He wasn't playing the game. He knew what I wanted. He was trying to cheat me out of my moment. I got angry.

"Hey, Mr Digby, wake up," I said, shaking him. "It's not time."

When he didn't respond I shook him harder. He opened his eyes a little, looking confused. He stared at me as if I was a stranger. He moaned as if he was in pain.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

He mumbled something that I didn't get. A strange gurgling noise rose from deep in his throat.

"Are you going," I asked, watching his eyes, waiting for the change, "please Mr Digby, be nice to me just this once, and tell me how it feels."

Without warning he spat in my face catching me on the cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. I was so angry with him I couldn't speak. Why wouldn't he just tell me what it was like? It wouldn't have hurt him. He was going to die anyway. He may as well have answered that one little question. It wasn't much to ask. He made a sudden grab for my hand. I pulled away to avoid him. I didn't want him touching me. He was talking incoherently. I listened hard, leaning in close.

"Evil," I heard him say, "You're an evil little bastard."

"And you're dying," I told him. "How'd you feel about that Mr Smart Alec?"

He spluttered like an imbecile. Then his whole body went rigid. This is it, I thought, this is the moment when the light goes out. I was right. His eyes gradually fogged over. A moment later his body fell limp. It was the strangest thing I had ever seen. I couldn't get over it. I was unable to move for the longest time.

At long last I got to my feet, went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. After I drank the tea I returned to Digby, wondering what to do for the best. At first I couldn't decide, so I passed the time playing on the stair lift going up and down on the thing like some kind of demented yoyo. In the end I managed to get my act together and phoned the emergency services, and then went and played on the stair lift some more until they arrived.

It seemed like hours before that happened. The wait was awful. I started to imagine old man Digby returning from the dead to throttle me for allowing him to die. From the hallway I could see his legs. Once, I thought they moved and nearly jumped out of my skin. I wanted to cover him up so he was more decent, like they do in the movies and on T.V, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to be anywhere near him, never did, but even more so now.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

By the time the ambulance men and the police arrived, Montgomery lay on Digby's stomach, as if guarding him. Out in the back yard Sir Winston Churchill howled endlessly. It was as if he knew his master had died and was grieving.

One of the coppers removed the vigilant Monty from the belly of his late master and dumped him outside. I watched, intrigued as Digby's body was checked for signs of life, before being stretchered away. It was hard to believe it was happening.

When the cops questioned me to find out what happened, I told them the truth as far as it went: that Digby had some kind of seizure or heart attack in front of me, and died on the spot. After they'd finished with me they phoned my school, informing McBain of what had occurred. McBain must've gotten straight in touch with Miss Nugent because she turned up at the house an hour before she was meant to looking as flustered as hell. She clucked around the place like a mother hen, going on about what a tragic business Digby's death was, as if she really cared, then she set about me, fussing like crazy and repeatedly asking if I was all right. It was like I was dying or something. I told Bugsy there was nothing wrong with me, but she insisted I might be suffering from something called post traumatic shock, and thereby be in need of a sedative. If anyone needed a sedative she did! She accompanied me down to the cop shop where I made a statement. By the time we left she was a nervous wreck.

"Oh my dear God," she wittered as she tried to get her antiquated Rover into gear, "what a truly awful business." She looked at me and shook her head. "Poor old Mr Digby: dying right in front of you like that. What a trauma, what a terrible trauma. And how are you Ricky, how do you feel?"

Stressed out by you, I wanted to say. She drove me absolutely nuts. I wanted to stuff a handkerchief down her throat to shut her up. I was the one who should've been acting hysterical. Silly bitch kept crunching the gears as we drove across town to school. One time she nearly mounted the kerb and hit a lamppost. She scared the pants off me with her erratic driving. I wondered if Digby's death might've given her some kind of breakdown. In the end I lost patience and told her to calm down before she killed us. She looked at me wide eyed with her mouth hanging open.

"How dare you," she stormed; all teeth and gums, "how dare you be disrespectful to me!"

"I'm sorry Miss Nugent," I said, "but I'm scared you'll crash the car if you don't get a grip."

She shot me a filthy look and turned her attention back to the road.

She didn't utter another word until we got to school. I suspect she knew I was right deep down.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

"Gee whiz," Will said when I explained what had happened. Matt the Prat looked shocked to death. "Wow," he kept saying over and over. Pinhead told me I was a hero to have stayed with a dead person on my own.

"I couldn't do it," he admitted.

"Nor me," Will agreed.

I accepted the compliments graciously.

"As for trying to revive him," Will said, "that was really brave, Ricky."

I'd made that little detail up of course. It would've been unwise, I thought, to confess to having stood by and watched Digby die without so much as raising a finger to help. I claimed I tried to revive him with the kiss of life after phoning for help. Another thing I neglected to mention was the fact that I waited for the old guy to pop his clogs so I could witness the light go out in his eyes. People would have accused me of being cruel or crazy, or both. I don't think I was. Digby would've died anyway. I simply made the most of an unpleasant experience. My only regret was not returning to the attic to pocket the gun and the bullets, while I waited for the emergency services.

2.

Something peculiar happened later that week while Pinhead, Will and me were on our way home from school. This gigantic dog suddenly tagged along with us. It was more wolf than dog. The sight of it turned Pin white as a sheet. He was petrified of dogs, even the small ones. Turned out that when he was a nipper, he was mauled by a stray dog. Anyway, this wolf dog teamed up with us like it was an old friend.

Everyone was too afraid to tell it to go away. We tried to ignore it hoping it would lose interest but it didn't happen. The animal followed us all the way through town to The Black Jack. While we were inside playing the machines it lay down outside waiting for us, slavering in the summer heat like it had rabies. Pinhead kept looking anxiously through the window, and asking what we were going to do about it.

"Nothin'," I said.

"Nothin!" he repeated.

"What can we do?"

Pin suggested we ask Mr Popowycz to phone the cops, so they could come and take it away.

"The police won't do anything," Will told him.

"Will's right," I agreed.

Pin looked worried sick. I tried to reassure him that the dog was all right and wouldn't try to hurt us, but Pin wouldn't have it and continued looking through the window as if willing the dog to disappear, whilst waffling on about how much he hated the creatures.

"I think it's guarding us," Will commented.

"Guarding us," I repeated. "Why would it be guarding us?"

All eyes went to the window.

"I think it's interested in Rick," Pin said suddenly.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"It keeps looking at you."

"I think he's right," Will agreed.

I looked towards the window. Sure enough Fido was staring directly at me. I was sort of flattered that it had latched onto me. That dog was a mean machine. Wicked yellow eyes flashed demonically in the sunlight. "Jaws" would've been proud of its gnashers.

"So what're we going to do?" Pinhead asked again.

"Nothin'," I said for the umpteenth time. "Now drop it before I drop you."

When it came time to leave the café I decided to take the bull by the horns and try to make friends with the Fido. Will said I was crazy but I made my move anyway. Stepping outside into the afternoon sunshine I smiled at the dog and said, "There's a good boy," and then showed it the back of my hand, just like my mom always told me to do. It stared warily however, and I suddenly had second thoughts. If it decided to go for me I'd be dead meat. As it turned out I shouldn't have worried. Fido didn't bite after all. Instead he gently licked my fingers and wagged his great bushy tail.

"How about that," I said, feeling proud of myself.

"You've made your point," Pin said uneasily, "Now let's go."

I ignored him, and fussed the dog. Next thing it was holding out a massive paw for me to shake. I took hold and gently shook, feeling like Dr Dolittle.

"Love a duck," Will said incredulously. "I never would have believed it." Egged on by my success he drew nearer, but the dog growled at him and he stopped dead in his tracks.

"I knew it, he's a man eater," Pinhead said, referring to the dog, not Will.

"He's a pussy cat," I argued and stroked him whilst speaking words of reassurance. As if to prove my point he calmed down and licked my hand again.

"What're you going to do with him?" Will asked, keeping his distance.

"Take it home," I said.

Will looked horrified. "What about your dad Rick? Say he doesn't want a dog, what then?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," I said.

Pin said he'd seen and heard enough and headed off down the street.

Will wandered off too leaving Fido and me looking at each other like long lost friends.

The dog was as good as gold, following me home without me having to coax it once. I put it in the back yard, went into the house and broke the news to dad. He immediately told me to get rid of it without even bothering to take a look at the animal.

I argued the toss with him, one of the few times I had ever done so, and was lucky not to get whacked for being insolent.

"Get rid of that mongrel before I decide to get rid of you," he snapped as he manhandled me over to the back door.

Suddenly all hell let loose outside with the sounds of barking and screaming. Me and my old man looked at each other not knowing what was going on. Then it hit us. Jimbo was being attacked by the dog!

"Christ, he's come round the back way," dad blurted, realizing what had happened.

We rushed from the kitchen and straight out into the back yard. What we saw when we got there was terrible. The dog had Jimbo by the arm and was dragging him across the ground like a piece of rag. Unbelievably, Jimbo refused to let go of the loaf of bread dad had sent him out to buy despite being savaged. He held onto that frigging loaf as if his very life depended on it.

I never saw my old man move as fast as he did that day. He was on the dog in a blinding flash, grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and lifting it clean off the ground before hurling it against the garden fence. On impact it let out an agonised howl. A split second later dad had it cornered and laid into it with a vengeance, didn't stop beating it with his fists and his feet until it was half dead with blood coming from its mouth. While all this was going on I comforted Jimbo the best I could. He'd been bitten on the face and arms and kept crying out for mom. The trauma brought on an asthma attack. I panicked and yelled for dad to come and help but he didn't hear: he was still busy knocking six bells out of the dog before dragging it unconscious to the back gate. In all the excitement I think he had forgotten about Jimbo and the fact he might be critically injured. The only thing he had on his mind was getting rid of the damn dog.

He finally came to his senses when he saw how bad Jimbo really was. He demanded to know why I hadn't called for an ambulance yet. I couldn't give him a satisfactory answer and got belted for my stupidity.

"Go do it now!" he snapped and off I went at the double. While I did that he carried Jimbo into the house and tried to calm him and fetched him his puffer.

The ambulance came in next to no time. I recognised one of the crew from the day old man Digby had suffered his fatal heart attack. He looked surprised to see me again in such a short space of time, under such tragic circumstances.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

It was the longest wait at the hospital before we got any news of Jimbo's condition. In the meantime we sat in a dingy corridor drinking vending machine coffee. Dad's face was set like stone. He absolutely refused to speak; he blamed me for what had happened to Jimbo, just like he blamed me for mom's death, I could tell.

The doctor, when he finally arrived, said Jimbo had had to have stitches in his arms and in his face and that he'd probably have a permanent scar on his right arm to remind him of the attack.

"What about his face," dad asked, "any permanent scarring there?"

"No," said the doctor, "I'm confident it will completely heal."

I asked if plastic surgery might relieve Jimbo of the scar on his arm.

"It's possible," the doctor said.

"What about my face," I asked him. "Could plastic surgery do the same for my face?"

Dad looked at me like he was going to kill me. "What kind of question is that at a time like this?!" he growled and I shut up, quick.

The doctor went onto explain that Jimbo would be kept in hospital overnight for observation purposes.

"Can we see him?" I asked.

"Best not," the doctor advised. "He's in shock and needs complete rest: perhaps tomorrow morning."

With that the doctor walked off, white coat flapping in his wake.

My old man didn't say a solitary word on the journey home. The silence was murderous. When we got inside the house he disappeared into the front room and started drinking neat whisky. I kept well out of his way. In the kitchen I looked out of the window. The dog lay where we'd left it, unmoving. I went outside to take a closer look. It looked dead. I nudged it gently with my toe—nothing—then squatted down beside it. Its eyes were part open. They had the same glazed look as those of the dead cat, the corpses pictured in the forensic book and the late Mr Digby. The light had gone out. The dog's muzzle was caked with dried blood, as was its rear end. It was I decided, as dead as stink.

I found myself grinning all of a sudden. I don't know why I grin at morbid things, it just happens. I was being observed I realized and quickly adopted a more suitable expression. My observer was our next door neighbour, an old bird by the name of Mrs Monk. She was a beanpole with white hair and a Muppet face with saucer eyes. She had to be one hundred years old if she was a day. I got depressed being near her. She asked me what had happened to the dog. I duly filled her in on the gory details.

"Oh dear," she trilled when I'd finished, "How awful."

"Yes it is," I said, "Truly awful."

"Will your little brother be all right?"

I told her what the doctor had said.

"Oh dear," she said again, shaking her head sadly. Her neck was so scrawny it was a wonder her head didn't fall off. She promised to send Jimbo a get well card, and asked me to give her regards when I saw him next. I saw through her like a shot. She was as false as hell, I bet she didn't really give a toss whether Jimbo lived or died. She was just being concerned for appearance sake. She was as insincere as the rest of them. There aren't many sincere people in the world. I don't trust anybody. It's better that way. It's wise to be suspicious of people. If you trust them you get let down. Life's a bitch and then what happens—you die and who really cares? No one... When it comes right down to it people don't give a rats tail about each other. Mrs Monk was curious about a dead dog being in our back yard. It was the only reason for her interest. We'd lived next door to the old crow for years. She'd hardly ever talked to any of us during all that time. When she did it was usually to tell Jimbo and me off for making too much noise. Now she was suddenly all friendly and concerned. Give me a break. She depressed me with her feeble body, wrinkles and scrawny neck.

"I gotta go," I told her and headed for the kitchen leaving her standing there like an idiot. She could've fallen down dead on the spot for all I cared. She was so insincere. I was almost at the kitchen door when she called out to me, inquiring what we intended doing about the dog? I think she was scared we were going to leave it where it was.

"Don't worry Mrs Monk, we'll sort it out," I called back.

"Splendid," she said looking as happy as Larry. She was demented, she had to be; she owned a budgerigar for God's sake. Anyone who owns one of those is either senile or stark raving mad. Mrs M's budgie, whose name was Barney; took the biscuit for being annoying. During the summer months she kept it outside in its cage where it chirped non- stop all day and all night. It was like a dripping tap, Chinese torture. Mom and dad had always managed to ignore it, although I know it drove mom to distraction because she once said she wished Barney would fall off its perch and break its stupid neck, which was rather unlike mom. I hated the thing with a vengeance. It was brainless and went on and on like a broken record. It really got to Jimbo and me, Jimbo especially. He is highly sensitive to that kind of thing. Barney's constant squawking made him anxious and interrupted his sleep.

At one stage it got so bad that I decided enough was enough and sought to solve the problem myself. Late one night while everyone was asleep I stole into Mrs M's back garden with the intention of fixing that stupid bird once and for all, but it wasn't to be. I only got as far as the patio before my plan was foiled. For her own reasons Mrs M had taken to sitting outside in the dark right next to Barney's cage, muttering incoherently to herself.

Luckily she failed to see me, but it was close—very close. I never did get rid of that damned bird. It's probably still there right this moment chirping its idiotic head off, driving all the neighbours crazy while its equally crazy owner sits by its cage in the dead of night talking to herself. Elderly people—there's no hope for them. I once saw this film called "Logan's Run", which was set in the future where it was law for everyone to be put to death when they reached thirty years old. The age limit is a bit questionable, but generally speaking it's a good idea. Once people get to a certain age they go to seed. Men get beer bellies, wrinkles and go grey or bald or both; same for women, with the possible exception of going bald. It's all downhill once you reach a certain point in your life. I hope I don't live to see the day it happens to me. Growing old is the worst thing in the world. Worse even than death. At least when you die you don't get ill, feel pain or anything. It's all over. You just lie in your coffin or whatever, thinking about nothing for all eternity.

You know what, death intrigues me. Just the other day someone accused me of being obsessed with the subject. They reckon the obsession grew from my mom dying the way she did.

When I got back inside the house from talking to mad Mrs M I suddenly thought about the gun I found at Digby's house. I was so tempted to go back and get it. The house would be unoccupied now the old guy was gone.

I went upstairs to my bedroom where I lay on my bed and thought about it some more. First time I visited Digby I noticed one of the downstairs windows wasn't closed properly. It was the same on my second visit. If that was still the case it would be dead easy to break in. If I managed to get inside, the gun was mine for keeps.

From downstairs came the sound of the front doorbell ringing and then the door being opened. A short time later I heard muffled voices coming from the back yard. Curious to know what was going on I peeked through my window. I was just in time to see the dog being picked up by a big brawny man dressed in white overalls who proceeded to carry it through the side entrance to the front of the house. My old man and a cop accompanied him. I was glad the dog was taken away, I hated the sight of it after all the trouble it had caused. I hoped Jimbo wouldn't blame me for what had happened. He'd have been okay had he used the front door. It was all dads fault for sending him out on an errand. Everything was dad's fault.

I get headaches whenever I'm stressed and I was getting one right now. I lay back down on the bed and shut my eyes. I dozed off. Next thing I knew dad stood over me. He ordered me to get up off my fat ass. I sat up sharpish and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The headache was bad. Dad looked wild. He swayed on his feet reeking of alcohol. Plainly he was drunk as a lord. And that meant he was dangerous.

He pulled cigarettes and matches from his trouser pocket. He lit up. He looked a mess. His clothes were dishevelled. His hair stuck out at the sides. His nose was red from boozing. He was an insane clown. He leaned forward and prodded my shoulder with his fat sausage finger.

"You," he said, bleary eyed, "are a bloody Jonah."

I stared up at him at a loss to know what he meant. The only Jonah I knew of was the one in the bible who got swallowed by a whale. I couldn't see the connection.

"You destroy everything you come into contact with," he slurred. "Your mother, Jimmy, and you're slowly destroying me!"

"That's not true dad," I argued. But then I thought about old man Digby dropping dead in front of me, the dog getting killed, Dexter "The Pig" Dixon getting beat up and wondered if there wasn't some truth in what he said. He ordered me to take off my shirt and lie face down on the bed. Initially I refused, afraid he was going to use the belt on me again, but inevitably, knowing I had no choice in the matter, I did as he asked.

That's when he joined me on the bed and straddled me, using his weight to pin me down and immobilize me. He didn't use the belt this time. Instead he used the lighted cigarette. I think that was when I finally decided something had to change and fast. Plainly it was either him or it was me. When I started screaming, he quieted me by forcing my face into the pillow and in doing so very nearly suffocated me to death. The pain got so bad I thought I was going to die. It went very deep, so deep in fact I briefly passed out. When I came round it was still there, the pain, ripping into my flesh in hot razor sharp waves, even worse than before. I screamed into the pillow, the sound eerily muffled. At long last dad let up. Still on top of me he whispered into my ear, "Breathe one word of this to anyone and you'll be very sorry." He got off me and staggered out of the room, crashing against the door frame as he went.

I lay there, unable to move a muscle without blinding pain spreading across my back. An hour passed before I was able to get up and take a look at my injuries in the wardrobe mirror. By twisting round I could see the extent of the burns. It was bad, but not as bad as I had feared. Nevertheless, it looked ugly. What with my facial burn and bruised and battered backside and now this, I looked like a bloody war victim.

I went to bed, lay on my stomach and swore to myself that I would kill dad. With that thought in mind I fell into an uncomfortable sleep in which I dreamt I was in the churchyard where mom was buried, standing at the foot of her grave. It was the dead of night. All was quiet until out of the darkness, came this voice, kind of familiar, "Hello Ricky sweetheart," it said.

And there was mom, standing by the gravestone, dripping wet and dressed in the same clothes she had on the day she died.

"Hi mom," I said with a smile. Even though I knew she was dead I was unafraid.

She returned my smile, asked me how I was. I told her I was okay. She knew I was lying. She always did.

"What's wrong son?"

I shrugged and avoided her eyes by staring at the ground.

"I'm your mother Ricky," she said understandingly, "I can help but only if you let me."

I finally looked at her, feeling angry and frustrated. "How can you—you're dead." I could tell by her expression that she found the remark hurtful. "Sorry mom, but it's true," I said. There was an awkward silence before I finally came clean. "It's dad," I said. "He knocks Jimbo and me around."

Mom looked horrified.

"Says I killed you mom: he hates me. Jimbo gets on his nerves." I started to blubber.

Now mom looked angry. "You didn't kill me Ricky: wasn't your fault."

"I know that. Try telling dad."

"Your father has no right to be cruel to you and Jimmy."

"What shall I do mom?"

"Stick up for yourself."

"How?"

"You'll find a way."

She vanished. Just like that! And I was alone in the graveyard once again, but I wasn't afraid and I wasn't blubbering anymore, because I was finally clear in my mind about what I had to do in order to make Jimbo and me happy.

I woke up. It was the middle of the night. My back killed. I rolled on to my side, thinking about the dream, wishing again that my old man was dead. I started crying with rage and frustration. With the exception of Jimbo and Aunt Josephine I was angry with the whole damn world, but dad most of all. I was sick of his drunkenness, his violence and the terrible way he treated Jimbo and me—and then I thought about the gun.

I stopped crying.

With dad gone all my problems would be solved. No one would miss him; nobody even liked him, not even Betty. I could get the gun and shoot him and no one need ever know. When Jimbo started asking where he was I would tell him dad had gone away, and wouldn't be back for a very long time.

I started crying again. It was all such a mess. Why couldn't things be simple? Why couldn't dad go away and leave Jimbo and me on our own? I could look after Jimbo by myself, no problem. I'd learn to cook properly, do stuff around the house. When I was old enough I'd leave school, go get a job. Everything would be hunky dory.

No doubt about it, dad was the problem.

My headache was back big-time. It was so bad I felt sick and couldn't see straight. I closed my eyes trying to shut it out, make it go away. Eventually I fell back to sleep, had another dream, weirder than the last. Dad was dead, mom had returned to life to take his place. Trouble was, she'd been in the ground too long. Jimbo didn't like her. He cried whenever she came near. He claimed she smelled. I wasn't too keen on her myself. Undead people, I decided in the dream, were worse even than the elderly, so I had her cremated. Mrs Monk was at the service. As mom's coffin slid into the furnace, she whispered to me that holding a barbecue was probably the best thing under the circumstances.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

The alarm clock woke me bang on six. Still half asleep I rolled over to switch it off and nearly screamed my head off. My poor bloody back! I got up, dressed, extremely carefully, and off I toddled like a good little boy to do my paper round. The weather was horrendous with heavy unrelenting rain. Boy was I depressed. I hate the rain. On the way to the paper shop I thought about Jimbo. Before leaving the house I looked in on him through force of habit. Seeing his bed empty made me sad. I hoped he was doing all right in hospital.

I was soaked by the time I got to the shop. As usual Cheerful George was there smiling like a cretin, telling corny jokes the whole world and his brother had heard a thousand times before. That morning he told the one about the dopy Hell's Angel who became a Mormon and knocked on doors telling people to fuck off; highly amusing if you happened to be a five year old. He got on my nerves. Had he not been so small and old I would have told him to shut it or risk getting my fist down his throat.

That day like many others I fancied taking some goodies from the shop. It was so easy. The stuff I thieved I then sold on to kids at school and at The Black Jack and the youth club, all at a hundred percent profit. It was full proof. George didn't suspect a thing. He was too stupid and the management simply put the losses down to customer theft. To my way of thinking the only way I could come undone was if I was careless or was betrayed. I was never careless and betrayal wasn't an issue. Pinhead was the only person who knew about my little scam. I was forced to tell him because he once had a habit of getting to the shop early himself, which made my little operation nigh impossible to execute. He was never going to tell though if he knew what was good for him.

I'd been hitting the shop hard recently. I guess I was getting greedy. In the past week alone I had taken stuff on five consecutive days. Small items admittedly, but the amount was going to become noticeable if I continued. But what the hell, like I said, no one was ever going to find out.

But when the hand fell on my shoulder that morning and a voice I recognized said, "Mind telling me what you think you're doing Ricky?" I was forced to accept that the unthinkable had happened, and I'd been caught red handed.

The voice belonged to Mr Roberts, the shop manager. Unbeknown to me, he had arrived at work early that morning, something he had never done before, and had witnessed my pilfering first hand. He told me in no uncertain terms that I should leave the shop before he called the police, and advised me never to return. The mere thought that the cops might be called in sent my blood cold. I had been in trouble, sure, but never with the law. It was a scary thought. An even scarier one was my old man finding out. If that happened I was dead meat. I thanked Mr Roberts for his show of leniency and beat it, leaving my newspaper bag on the counter, along with my newspaper delivery career.

I emerged out onto the street just as Pinhead arrived. He was sporting a new and rather ridiculous spiky hairstyle that turned him into a walking talking bog brush. I wanted to laugh but was on too much of a downer from having just lost my job. He asked me if my dad had let me keep the dog. I told him what had happened when I got the animal home. That had him shaking his head sympathetically as if there had been a death in the family. I decided not to tell him about me getting caught thieving, I was too embarrassed.

Then something suddenly occurred to me. Why wasn't Pin curious to know the reason I was leaving the shop minus my paper bag? Then the penny dropped and the answer came to me in a flash. He already knew the reason! It all started to fall into place; the reason Roberts had chosen uncharacteristically to visit the store so early that day. Of course, he was there to confront me because Pin had already stitched me up. The fact that he'd caught me nicking was pure bloody coincidence.

I came straight to the point and demanded to know from Pin why he'd betrayed me, but he denied he'd done anything of the sort and told me I was being paranoid. Me, paranoid, that was a joke! Him saying that had me convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that he'd set me up, and boy was I determined he would confess.

"You did it, didn't you, you set me up!" I ranted. "You shafted me; now admit it before I smack your ugly face into the back of your sodding head!"

He was shaking like a jelly, but stayed stubbornly silent and refused to look me in the eye, but his face said it all. He looked as guilty as sin. He was the one all right. I stepped forward grabbing him by the arm and dragged him out into the alleyway that led to the back of the shop where it was private and where we wouldn't be disturbed. I pushed him up against the wall and pinned him there.

"Why'd you do it"! I raged.

"I didn't do anything," he said, trembling like a leaf.

"You're a liar! Tell me why you did it!"

His face crumpled, tears welled in his eyes, but still he wouldn't admit it, and that made me even angrier.

"You told them Pin," I growled, my nose almost touching his, "Now just bloody admit it!"

But he wouldn't. By now he looked absolutely petrified. And why wouldn't he? He was, after all being physically threatened by the kid who had half killed the school bully! I played on my advantage and called his bluff by threatening to drag him into the shop and ask Roberts what the score was. When that didn't work I threatened to do to him what I did to The Pig. As if to push the point home I grabbed him round the throat and squeezed. It was enough to make Pin come clean. "Okay, I did it," he blubbered pathetically with tears streaming down his pock marked face, "please don't hurt me Ricky."

"You did it to get back at me for leaving you stranded at the club that night," I accused. It all made perfect sense. Man, was I mad. I was mad enough to kill. Pin's betrayal had cost me my job. One way or the other I was going to make him pay.

I completely lost it and slammed him against the wall, hard, a little too hard as it turned out, for the back of his head connected painfully with the brickwork and Pin uttered a sharp agonized cry, and would have slumped to his knees had I not had a hold of him. Next thing his eyelids fluttered alarmingly, and then his eyes rolled back.

"Oh Christ!" I said thinking I might have killed him. "Hey Pin, wake up," I said panicking. "Stop playing around."

But he wasn't playing around. He was losing consciousness. And then his body sagged and started sliding down the wall. With a kind of horrified wonder I saw the thin trail of blood marking the brickwork. Unsure what to do I ran to find help. I banged on the shop door trying to get the attention of those inside, but for some reason no one was answering. I returned to Pin, knelt beside him, wished to God I had First Aid know how, and tried my best to revive him. A groan rose up from the back of his throat. At least he wasn't dead, I thought, seriously horrified by what I'd done. I had wanted to scare him not ruddy well kill him. I lightly slapped his face hoping the action would bring him round. Instead his head fell forward and his eyes closed fully. A thin line of saliva stretched from his mouth down on to his chest.

"Christ Pin," I said absolutely panic stricken, "will you wake up!"

All of a sudden I sensed someone at my side and looked up to see Cheerful George standing there looking even more horrified than I felt. He had seen the blood and had jumped to the conclusion that Pin was mortally wounded.

"Get a doctor," I yelled at him. "Or an ambulance; yeah, get an ambulance. Where is Mr Roberts?"

Cheerful George stared at me like I was insane. I repeated the question and he suddenly came to his senses and told me Roberts had gone over to head office.

"Bloody marvellous," I said, groaning. "Look George, just get some help, will you!"

"What did you do to him Ricky?" he asked ignoring my request. "Aren't you in enough trouble already?"

"I didn't do anything," I lied. "Please George, just get help."

George finally obliged, returning minutes later with a copper. The copper ordered me out of the way; donned a pair of surgical gloves that he fished out of his tunic pocket, and checked Pin over.

"Is he gonna be all right?" I asked worriedly.

The copper ignored me. Having checked to make sure Pin was breathing he laid him on his side, and took a careful look at the back of his head.

"Will he be all right?" I repeated.

Before the cop could answer Pin's eyes half opened and he mumbled something about having a headache. The cop asked him some basic questions to see if he was compos mentis. Pinhead passed the test and the cop told him to lie still until an ambulance arrived. Then he got on his two way radio and called for one. He turned his attention to me.

"Mind telling me what happened here?"

I was so relieved Pin was going to be all right, I blurted out the truth.

Down at the police station I waited in a small windowless room for my old man to arrive so the police could take a statement from me. I was dreading the moment he showed up, dreaded even more the certain beating I would receive from him once he got me home.

When he arrived, he threw me a dirty look and said barely a word to me the whole time we were there. The cops got their statement and informed me that Pin was all right, and that no real harm was done, and my old man drove me home, got me inside the house and gave me the biggest thrashing of my life. I was off school a week and missed the end of term exams. Next time I saw Pin I apologised for cracking his head open and giving him concussion, and he apologised to me for betraying me to Roberts, and everything was hunky dory between us again.

I wished I could say the same for my old man and me. The situation between us was getting worse. The beatings I took from him combined with the constant put downs were sending me round the twist. I didn't know if I could stand much more. I wanted to tell someone but there was no one. Aunt Josephine maybe, but she lived so far away, and although I liked her I didn't really know her very well, and wasn't sure how she would react if I confided in her. She might think I was making it up and go tell dad and then I really would be in trouble. I was so desperate I thought about telling Pringle. I got as far as asking him if I could speak to him in private one day, but bottled out when it came to crunch time.

My old man still didn't know that I'd been sacked from my paper round for thieving. If he found out about that on top of everything else I was truly a dead man. I kept up the charade of going off to do my paper round right up to the time that everything went haywire.

Each morning I would wake at six, get dressed and off I would go, pretending that I was going to the shop to collect the papers, when in fact I would just hang around the estate for half an hour or so and then go back home. When dad asked where my paper bag was one day, I told him I had taken to leaving it at the shop and he accepted it.

One particular morning while I was out pretending to do my round, I sat on a garden wall and thought about my life. I ended up crying like a big baby. I would've died from embarrassment had anyone seen me.

I walked around for a while trying to get myself under control, and suddenly found myself heading in the direction of Digby's house. I still had time on my hands and didn't want to go home anyway. The atmosphere in the house was bad. I felt strange, confused: kind of unreal. I thought about Digby's house and more particularly, the gun. I had time to go over there and take the weapon before it was time for school.

So that's what I did.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The sun was shining when I got there. It didn't improve the drab appearance of Digby's house however. Come rain or shine, the place looked like something out of a horror flick. Every curtain was drawn making it creepier still. I was afraid to enter, but I wanted the gun badly. I made sure no one was about, and then made my way round to the side of the house to the gate that led into the back yard, only the gate was no longer there. It had either been removed or stolen. Sir Winston Churchill was gone too. Only his piles of crap remained; littered around the yard in neat little brown parcels. I guessed that by now he was in doggy heaven, having been put down by the vet following his master's demise.

The old fart's damn cat was still there however, and very much alive. It was presently perched on top of the wall by the coal shed. I stood there eyeballing it, loathing its mangy disease ridden form. Like I keep saying, I bloody hate cats. I can never understand what people see in them. Cats are takers, they take your affection and your food, and don't give a flying shit if you live or die. And they're so fucking arrogant! They'll creep into a back yard, never their own, use it as a toilet, kill a bird or two, return home, eat and sleep and then do it all over again. What's the point of them? They try to get around you by purring and rubbing themselves up against you. What's all the rubbing about? If you want my opinion they're perverted. And why do their owners always let them have the run of the house, allowing them to climb all over the furniture, the worktops, their kids and babies, after they've probably spent the day killing things and burying their crap using their paws. It's said that cats are clean but how can they be when they hate water? They lick their filthy paws and then they lick you! It's like they're taking the piss. As I said, cats are perverts.

Monty took a lazy leap from the wall and ended up landing by the dustbin. He stretched with equal laziness, and then kind of sauntered over in my direction. You try it bud, I thought, you just try rubbing yourself up against me and you'll get my boot up your backside. He must have sensed my intention because at the last minute he veered off and took his diseased carcass through the opening where there was once a gate, and disappeared from view. Good riddance to bad rubbish I thought, and wondered fleetingly what would become of him? I couldn't imagine anyone taking him in, and giving him a home. He was much too old and mangy. Quite possibly I thought, he would end up like the dead cat I'd seen at the roadside, flattened under the wheels of a car or truck. He'd go from being a fat cat to a flat cat and of course, the flies and maggots would have a field day. The thought that Monty would no longer be around to annoy people made me feel quite happy.

I crossed to the window of Digby's house, which was previously open, only to find it nailed shut. That was the end of that then. I was just about to split when I saw the kitchen door was ajar. Seemed luck was with me after all. I knocked the door, wondering if an estate agent was inside. The house was up for sale. When no one answered I stole inside, paused listening, heard nothing and concluded that the door had been left open accidentally.

The living room was exactly the same as it was on my last visit. I thought that the furniture would be gone but no, even the Victorian piss pot that the old guy used remained, part hidden under the settee. Only the man himself was absent. Next it was upstairs to the attic. The gun was where I had left it, in the drawer with the bullets. I picked it up, aimed it at my reflection in the mirror on the far wall, aimed right between my eyes; squeezed the trigger. In my mind I heard the gun go off with a thunderous bang, saw my head burst open from the impact of the bullet, blood spraying the walls. I wondered if that happened in real life when someone got it between the eyes.

I transferred bullets from box to gun chamber, clicked the chamber shut. The gun didn't feel any heavier fully loaded, but it felt a lot better to hold: made me feel powerful, invincible. I looked for a safety catch on the thing but there didn't seem to be one. I decided it might be wise to unload it but then a noise from out in the hallway distracted me. I listened carefully. It sounded as if something or someone was moving around out there. I crept over to the door, looked out, but saw nothing. I told myself I was imagining things. Moments later the sound of further movement from downstairs made me regret ever returning to Digby's house. I started to imagine all sorts of things. What if some maniac with a knife was out there, waiting to slit my throat? What the devil would I do then? Shoot him I guess. With that thought in mind I grabbed the box of ammo from the drawer and pocketed it together with the gun. Cautiously I left the room, and crept downstairs and along the dark hallway heading towards the front door.

I never got that far though. The throwback with the beard and filthy dirty raincoat saw to that. He grabbed me around the neck and demanded to know what I was doing.

"Leave me alone," I shouted, trying to pull away, but he had too strong a hold on me. I looked up into his grimy face with the certain knowledge that I would be dead if I didn't manage to get away from him quickly. There was something in his manner that had me fearing for my life.

And then he grinned, and I knew, just knew what he had in mind. He started to undo his flies with his free hand. I tried to wriggle free but it was no good. He was too strong for me.

"Relax," he said. "Bobby ain't gonna hurt you. Bobby just wants to be friends."

Yeah, sure, I thought and I'm the fucking Pope. I tried to break his hold on me. He got angry and threw me up against the wall, whilst still trying to undo his trousers. I pleaded with him to let me go but that only made him worse. He seemed to enjoy the fact that I was scared.

"Please," I begged. "Just leave me alone. I won't say a word: promise."

He pinned me against the wall at arm's length and looked me up and down. "In a while, maybe," he said, "In a while."

He smiled and I saw that half his teeth were either black or missing. His breath stank of booze and tobacco. I started to feel sick with fear and revulsion. I had heard about guys like him, what fourteen year old kid hasn't? But you never expect it to be you who gets cornered by one. He demanded to know my name. He was suddenly very unfriendly. I told him.

"What're you doing here Ricky?" he asked, starting to unbuckle his belt.

I couldn't speak. My mouth was numb. I was shaking with fright. I would scream soon if he didn't let me go; I just knew it. I also knew it would do me no good. Might only make matters worse in fact. I was desperate. Then he asked me how old I was. I told him. He seemed to like the fact that I was fourteen. His eyes roamed all over me. He licked his lips almost drooling.

"Fourteen," he said. "No more than a babe; ain't that sweet. He looked around as if to check that we were alone and then said, "I'll make a deal with you Ricky my precious. I won't tell anyone about you trespassing if you agree to play a little game with me." He loosened his grip on me and stroked my hair, telling me I was pretty.

I tried to make another run for it but he was too quick on the uptake and tripped me over. I landed heavily and got the wind knocked out of me. I lay on my back trying to catch my breath, praying this was all a bad dream, yet knowing it was nothing of the sort. Suddenly the tramp was standing over me, grinning from ear to ear, with his trousers around his knees, fully exposed.

"Bobby's gonna have some fun with you," he leered and then he ordered me to strip. I looked up at him panic stricken. I could see no escape. Fight him; I thought crazily, that's your only chance—to fight!

Then I remembered the gun; didn't even consider the consequences. I pulled it from my pocket, aimed and squeezed the trigger, just like that. There was a deafening bang, the gun bucked in my hand. Next moment the tramp was staggering back with a comical look of surprise on his face. He held his crotch with both hands. Blood streamed between his dirty fingers.

"Shot me," he said with a strange kind of wonder, "you shot me you little shit!"

He couldn't believe it. I found it hard to believe myself, and I was the one holding the gun.

I didn't hang about to see whether he lived or died. I was afraid all the noise might have drawn unwanted attention. I legged it man. Ran like the wind, didn't even know where I was heading, all I knew was I had to get away from Digby's place before anyone came snooping around.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

I sought refuge at The Black Jack, ordered a coffee, paid my money and grabbed a window table. Except for the girl behind the counter and a guy sitting alone eating a sandwich, the place was deserted, which suited me fine.

I sat there contemplating what I had done. Couldn't believe it—shot someone, I'd actually gone and shot someone, committed murder. Me: Ricky Galleymore...a murderer. I know how this must sound but I felt like laughing. I felt like laughing my socks off. Don't they say there's a close connection between horror and humour, same as there is between genius and insanity? All that stuff old man Digby told me about killing not being fun was wrong, I decided. The tramp clutching what remained of his crotch with that awful look of surprise and disbelief on his face was the funniest thing I'd ever seen. As for part of you dying when you killed someone, I simply didn't buy it. I felt more alive than I ever had before. Blowing away that tramp gave me a real kick. It was absolutely the best thing ever.

My heart beat twenty to the dozen; my head was spinning out of control. I was high as a kite. It was as if I was on drugs. Knowing I had the power to kill at will made me feel special; made me feel invincible. With the gun in my pocket no one; absolutely no one, could tell Ricky Galleymore what to do. The gun turned me into some kind of Superman.

I sipped my coffee and stared through the window, watching people go about their early morning business, all the while having to stop myself from laughing my head off. I wondered how the tramp was fairing, whether he was rolling about on the floor in agony or if he was lying dead; the latter most probably I decided. No man would be able to live long after sustaining the injury he had. I was tempted to go take a look but that would have been suicide. Pity. It would have been interesting to observe his eyes as the light in them flickered out.

I was suddenly aware of someone standing over me.

"Ricky," said a familiar voice.

I looked up to find Will standing there. He was frowning at me.

"You okay Ricky, only you look kinda strange."

"Never been better," I said. Somehow it didn't sound like me talking. I felt disconnected. I felt as if I was in a dream. Will looked around seemingly at a loss to know what to say next. In the end he said, "I'm worried about you Rick." I ignored him. He drew up a chair and sat down next to me. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah, I heard you Will. You're worried about me."

He nodded his head. "I think a lot of people are."

"I'm fine," I said, "Everything's hunky dory."

"I was watching you through the window before I came in."

"Congratulations."

"You looked—"

"Out with it Will," I said. "Say what's on your mind."

He either wouldn't or couldn't. I never did find out what he thought he had seen. Who knows, maybe I'd been laughing and was unaware of the fact. More importantly, who cares: certainly not me! I was well and truly fucked the moment I shot the tramp. Maybe I was fucked before I shot the tramp. Maybe I was always fucked. Maybe my old man was right, I thought, and I really was a Jonah.

Will asked me if I intended going to school. I shrugged and said I hadn't decided; which was a bare faced lie. I intended never to go to school again. I think Will sensed what I had on my mind because he said, "You're gonna get in big trouble the way you're going Rick?"

"Tell me about it," I said.

He stood up. "I'll be off then."

"I'll catch up with you later," I said, but it was something I never did. That was the last time I ever had contact with Will. He walked out of my life, just like that.

After he had gone I grabbed another coffee and deliberated what to do. I remained in The Black Jack the whole morning, sat there, thinking. At one point an old guy joined me. Bald headed with rheumy eyes and a nose like Cocoa the clown. He asked me why I wasn't at school. I was sorely tempted to tell him the truth just to see his expression. Instead I said I didn't feel well. For some inane reason he started telling me about how he'd served in the army and what a marvellous character building experience it was, how I should maybe consider it for a career myself. He reminded me of Digby—the late though none so great Digby—not only was he old, he was pompous and utterly boring.

"Tell me something," I said as he got up to go. "Did you ever kill anyone?"

"Kill anyone," he repeated as if he wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly.

"When you were in the army, did you ever kill anyone?"

"What sort of a question is that?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," I said. And off he went. I reckon he was just like my great granddad, all talk and no substance.

I bummed around town for most of the day, didn't know what else to do. I got so bored I half wished I had gone to school.

I wanted to visit Jimbo in hospital but couldn't take the chance of dad finding out that I'd done so in school time.

Instead I went down to the river, thought about my mom, got depressed, and wanted to kill myself, but didn't have the guts.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

A note from dad greeted me when I arrived home. It told me to get my own tea and make sure I washed the dirty dishes afterwards. He didn't even say where he'd gone or what time he'd be back. Just like him, inconsiderate to a fault.

I phoned the hospital to ask how Jimbo was. I spoke to the Ward sister; she seemed in a hurry to get rid of me. She reported that Jimbo was in a satisfactory condition. She thought he would be discharged the following afternoon. I decided to visit him that evening. I couldn't bear to think of him alone in hospital with no one to talk to while all the other patients got visitors. There was no chance dad would visit, visiting time would probably see him holed up in a bar somewhere.

I stopped off at a newsagent's on the way to the hospital where I bought a collection of comics, a bag of wine gums and a bottle of pop.

Jimbo was pleased as punch to see me, all the more so because I'd brought him presents. He was quite perky considering. He looked better than I thought he would. His face was puffed. Stitches crisscrossed his cheek and bottom lip though he was far from being the Elephant Man. One arm was heavily bandaged; the other had a big plaster on it. Right little war victim he was. When I told him he would be allowed home the next day he was elated. Then he frowned.

"What about the dog Ricky," he asked worriedly. "The dog won't be there, will it?"

"The dog's gone," I said.

"Where'd it go?"

"To doggy heaven."

"Where's that?"

"Somewhere where it'll be happy, and won't hurt little boys anymore."

He seemed satisfied with the explanation.

A nurse came over and made a fuss of Jimbo, fluffing up his pillow and suchlike. I think she favoured him for some reason. I guess it was because he was cute looking and polite and quite frail. The nurse noticed the stuff I had brought along for him.

"No sweets," she said sternly and explained that Jimbo had to be careful what he ate until his stitches were taken out.

"Make sure he doesn't eat anything chewy or sticky," she told me. I nodded. She went away happy. When she had gone I sneaked Jimbo a wine gum, which he chewed carefully, trying not to move his lips too much. Then he asked me where dad was. I made up a suitable excuse so his feelings wouldn't be hurt, but I don't think he believed me. He picked up a comic, which had a picture of Superman on the front cover.

"Can Superman really fly?" he asked studying the picture.

"Of course he can," I lied.

"How's he do it?"

"Magic I suppose."

"What kind of magic?"

"I don't know. Magic is magic isn't it?"

"I guess." He studied the picture again.

"Guess what Jimbo. I've got some presents for you when you get home."

His face lit up. "What kind of presents?"

"It's a surprise," I said. The truth is I didn't know because I hadn't bought him anything. I'd made up the story because I suddenly felt very sorry for him and wanted to cheer him up. Now I would have to think of something.

Visiting time was nearly up. I said my goodbyes.

"Don't go," he said.

"Got to," I told him.

"Why?"

"Because I have things to do."

"What kind of things?"

"Cleaning the house and getting food," I said, "in readiness for your homecoming."

"Okay," he said, appearing to accept the explanation, but he looked devastated at the prospect of my departure. I turned and headed for the exit. It almost broke my heart to leave him there, lying in hospital, alone and injured.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

I cleaned the gun when I got home. I didn't have any proper gun polish so I made do with furniture polish. Afterwards, I hid the gun in my wardrobe beneath a pile of underwear. It was late. I wondered if dad would come home or not.

I watched T.V. At ten o'clock the news came on. There was no mention of any tramp being found shot dead. There was nothing worth watching after the news so I went to my room to look at the pictures in the forensic book.

Eventually I got too tired to read and put the book away, and went to bed. As I was about to turn off the bedside lamp I happened to glance at the photo of mom that stood on my dresser. Next thing I knew I was crying. I told myself I was being a sissy, tried to stop, but I couldn't and sat there like a great fucking baby, bawling my eyes out. I was so ashamed. All I could think of was the way mom died. I wished it'd been dad instead. It wasn't fair that mom was dead and a bastard like him was allowed to live. I was angry, the more I thought about it the angrier I got.

I switched off the light and tried to sleep, but it was no good. I was too upset. I lay in the dark, hands tucked behind my head. At last I managed to stop crying. I got to thinking about the tramp. One shot, that was all it had taken to stop him hurting me. It's so easy to make people do what you wanted when you had a gun.

I could hear rain. I could hear raindrops splattering against the outside of the windowpane. The sound made me sad.

I thought about the gun again. One shot, one miserable shot, and the tramp was as dangerous as a slug in a jug.

I tried to get off to sleep again—but still no joy. To ease the boredom I fetched my old man's bottle of Whisky from downstairs and had a tipple.

I got carried away. When I heard him come home some time later the bottle was half empty. My head spun like a top. I felt sick and wanted to use the bathroom, but didn't dare leave my bedroom. Then my stomach started to rock and roll and I retched but somehow managed not to throw up. Dad heard me and called up the stairs demanding to know what all the noise was about. He sounded as drunk as I felt. I said everything was all right, but he didn't believe me and started up the stairs.

I quickly hid the bottle under the bed, switched off the light and pretended to be asleep, but I started to feel very sick indeed, and opened my eyes hoping the feeling would pass. Instead, the room started spinning out of control. I sat up and took deep breaths. I had just managed to get myself back under control when my old man burst into the room. His eyes went straight to the foot of the bed and he frowned angrily.

"You've been drinking!" he stormed.

"No dad."

"He pointed. "What's that—Scotch mist?"

The neck of the Whisky bottle peeped out from beneath the bed making me a liar. The sight of it sent him ballistic. He only needed the tiniest excuse to have a go at me at the best of times. He charged across the room and let fly, whacking me across the side of the head using the flat of his hand, almost knocking me senseless. And it didn't stop there. He piled it on until it reached the point where I was afraid that this time he'd go too far and kill me. I tried to defend myself but he was too strong. He dragged me from the bed and down onto the floor and tried to use his feet on me, but I managed to scramble away and fled to the other side of the room. That was when Dad tripped and fell, and I retrieved the handgun from its hiding place in the wardrobe.

"Leave me alone dad," I said aiming it at him.

When he saw the gun he actually laughed out loud. He didn't think it was real. He rose unsteadily to his feet and took a faltering step towards me. I warned him to keep away, telling him that if he didn't I would shoot.

He kept laughing and kept coming. "Go on," he said. "Shoot me." He jabbed a finger at his chest. "Right here: shoot me right here. I dare you, you little shit."

"I mean it dad."

And then, without warning, the gun went off by accident, the bullet missing him by a whisker and embedding itself in the wall opposite. The report brought him to a sudden stop. He stared at me with his mouth hanging open in disbelief. If he didn't believe the gun was real before, he certainly did now.

"I warned you," I said trying to keep my voice steady. "Come any closer—I'll shoot you!"

I shook so much I had to use both hands to keep the gun steady, but I meant every word I said. I was ready to shoot him if he tried anything. My old man sensed it too. He was suddenly a changed man, politeness personified.

"Now calm down son," he said in this friendly voice that sounded as false as hell. "You mustn't do anything silly."

"Like kill you," I said. "As a matter of fact dad, I personally don't think that would be silly at all."

He made to come closer but I was ready for him.

"Stay where you are!"

He stopped dead.

"I want you to leave me alone," I repeated, but I already knew that that was impossible. I had gone too far. My old man wouldn't forgive and forget, not when I'd threatened him with a loaded gun, and actually took a shot at him.

I stood with my back to the window pointing the pistol at him like I was Billy the Kid, not having the slightest idea what to do next. I guess it was what they call a standoff. My dad didn't have a clue what to do either. I could tell just by looking at him. He was scared to death, not knowing whether to try to disarm me or turn heal, and run for it. My old man's eyes were everywhere, on me, the door: the window, every-bloody-where. He looked really shifty. He was looking for a way to disarm me I finally decided. He was scared, certainly, but he had no intention of running, he wanted to get the gun away from me and then beat me to death. Just when I thought I had got him sussed he threw me by promising we could work things out, that life could be better, said he didn't really think I was a Jonah, and he was oh so fucking sorry for all the times he had hit me.

I was nearly taken in by all that crap, I really was. Then I remembered all the cruel things he'd said and done to me since mom died. I realised it was bullshit. My old man wasn't interested in me; he fucking well hated me.

"So, what happens now, Richard," he asked.

"Shut up," I said. "I'm thinking."

But he wouldn't. He started telling me this sob story about how hard it had been to cope without mom. He said that he loved Jimbo and me more than anything in the whole wide world, and that he had never meant to hurt us: that it was just that things got on top of him every now and again. He took me for an idiot if he thought I was going to swallow all that nonsense about love and him being sorry.

By now I was getting the worst headache of my entire life. His chattering only served to make it even worse. I told him to shut up again, this time aiming the gun at his head instead of his stomach. He did as I said and stood there as good as gold whilst sweating like a great big fat pig.

That was the moment I got distracted by the sound of a neighbour's car drawing up outside. When I turned to look out of the window to see who it was it gave my old man the chance he'd been waiting for, and everything got out of control.

Before I could so much as open my mouth to speak he was on me, pushing me up against the wall, trying to make me give up the gun. In the ensuing struggle we fell with me ending up underneath him with all the wind knocked from my lungs. That was when the gun went off.

The gunshot wasn't loud like the first one. Our bodies muffled the sound. I felt my old man go rigid on top of me. He gave a loud moan and then his whole body went limp. I began to wonder if I was experiencing dead weight in a literal sense.

I got out from under him. Blood poured from a ragged throat wound, and his bottom dentures had popped out of his mouth and lay on the floor. It didn't take a genius to see that he really was dead.

I went and sat on the edge of the bed, and for a while I just stared blankly at him, unable to think straight. All the time I kept thinking, killed him, I've killed him, he's dead—dead—dead—he's—

And then it really did sink in—the fact that I'd killed my own father. I felt panicky and sick, took deep breaths to stop myself from vomiting. I suddenly felt sober as a judge but I still couldn't think clearly. In the end I put the gun back in the wardrobe, went downstairs and made myself a cup of coffee. I laced the coffee with whisky: not too much mind, I needed a clear head. Then I drank it, slowly. It made me feel a little bit better.

A second cup of coffee and I was able to make a decision about what to do with my old man. Get him into his own room, I decided. I wouldn't be able to sleep with him lying dead a few feet from my bed, Christ no. In the morning, after a decent night's sleep, I'd be in a better frame of mind to deal with the situation.

So I returned upstairs and started work. Dragging my dad from one room to another was a harder job than I'd expected. Talk about dead weight. He weighed a ton. I hauled him feet first. His head caught the doorframe a really good one as I pulled him out onto the landing. There was an almighty thud. I winced though I don't know why, it didn't hurt me and it certainly didn't hurt him. His shoe came off as I got him into his own room. He had a hole in his sock, I noticed, his big toe poked through. I put his shoe back on, not that he would be walking anywhere, before somehow managing to haul his body up onto the bed. He looked a mess. Dark blood covered his face and neck. His shirt was covered in the stuff. It was hard to believe one little bullet could do so much damage.

After I got dad comfortable, so to speak, I returned to the kitchen where I drank more coffee laced with whisky. Despite, or maybe because of what'd happened, I felt good. I guess it was the adrenalin rush. I eventually got bored drinking coffee, and concentrated on downing the whisky neat. I was starting to get a taste for the stuff.

As I swigged the whisky back I wondered what would happen to my old man now he was dead. There would obviously come a point when he'd start to go bad. The question was, when? I consulted the forensic book, read through it trying to find the info I sought, but was too drunk to concentrate and had to give up on the job. What I did manage to discover was that dad would probably be in the grip of rigor mortis within a few hours, which would make him as stiff as a board for the next couple of days or so.

I went to bed and slept like a log.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

I overslept, not that it matters; I didn't intend going to school anyway. I had a stinking hangover from the booze. My head and body ached from the punches I had taken from dad. I wanted to go upstairs to see how he was, but the thought of how he might look was too much. I stayed downstairs out of harm's way and watched morning T.V.

Later I phoned the hospital for news on Jimbo. The person I spoke to informed me he was ready to be discharged. I was over the moon. I said I would collect him after lunch, and busied myself getting the house ready for his homecoming.

I went into town and with money I found in the kitchen bought a Shrek and a Simpsons DVD and some presents for Jimbo, just like I had promised. I bought him two colouring books and some crayons and a box of water colour paints, and a couple of brushes. Jimbo was into painting and drawing that particular summer. He liked doing cartoon characters the best. Mickey Mouse was his favourite. He was good too, though he could never quite get Micky's nose right, which frustrated the hell out of him.

Back at home I finally plucked up the courage to go see dad. What a sight he was. All that blood, man! I checked to see if rigor mortis had set in by trying to raise an arm. It had. His arm wouldn't budge. It was frozen in position. His skin felt cold and clammy. I rolled back his eyelids to take a look at his eyes. They looked flat and eerily blank, the light had gone out. I studied them closely, and decided that my old man was more interesting dead than he ever was alive.

I was hungry. I had a peanut butter sandwich, chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk. I listened to the radio as I ate. I tuned into a local station wondering if there'd be some news about the tramp, but there was nothing. I assumed his body hadn't been found. There was no way he'd be alive, not after losing his middle wicket.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

By two that afternoon Jimbo was back home. He was in high spirits and wouldn't stop talking, and kept on saying how nice everyone at the hospital was. To hear him go on you'd have thought he'd been in the place a year instead of a couple of days. I guess he was simply excited about being home.

He was happy as Larry with his presents, said he'd paint pictures of dad and me. The mention of dad got me jittery. I had my story ready to explain dad's absence, but the idea of lying to Jimbo made my skin crawl. I hated having to lie to him but I had no other option. I certainly couldn't tell him the truth.

"Hey Jimbo, guess what, I shot dad in the throat last night; he's lying upstairs dead as stink. If you don't believe me, go see for yourself."

So I told him the story I had concocted. Said that dad had gone away to start a new job and wouldn't be able to come home for a while. Jimbo wanted to know who would look after us. I told him I would. He seemed happy with that. I made him promise not to tell anyone we were on our own.

"What would happen if I did?" he asked.

"We'd get separated," I said, "and you wouldn't want that, would you?"

He shook his head, fear written on his face. For a second he reminded me of a frightened old man. I gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

"You want to see a film?" I asked in an attempt to cheer him up.

He nodded but his mind seemed elsewhere.

We went into the front room and watched "Shrek." I felt good. Dad was out of the way forever. Jimbo was happy and I had the gun, which meant no one could ever hurt us again. While Shrek was doing his thing on the television, I did some serious thinking. How to get rid of dad? That was the million- dollar question. The door to his room was securely locked so there was no way Jimbo could accidentally stumble over him, but even so, I couldn't keep him in there indefinitely. With the weather being so warm he was going to be a problem pretty soon. I could imagine Jimbo asking awkward questions.

"What's that funny smell Ricky?" he'd say one day, and I'd make up some cock and bull story about it being the drains and he'd say, "But Ricky, it's coming from dad's room," and I'd tell him he was imagining it but he would keep insisting, until finally I'd lose it completely and tell him to shut the fuck up before my head exploded!

Even dead, dad was a problem. It was a shame it wasn't wintertime, he would've stayed fresh longer. In the end I decided he'd be okay left in his room for a couple more days, provided the windows were kept open.

Money was the next thing on my mind. I estimated that the cash I'd found in the kitchen would keep Jimbo and me in food for about a week, maybe two at a stretch. Then it would be a case of digging into my personal savings and selling whatever I could pilfer. I was determined we would manage though.

After I put Jimbo to bed I got a shock. Betty telephoned. I thought she and dad had split for good. When she asked to speak to him I told her he wasn't in, but it only made her suspicious. She demanded to know where he was. I said I didn't know. She accused me of lying. I denied it.

She got angry. "I know you're lying," she said, "I can tell by the tone of your voice."

I denied it a second time and that made her even worse.

"Okay, let's try it another way," she said through gritted teeth. "Where the fuck is he you little shit."

I stuck to my guns and told her I didn't know. By now I was worried to death. The last thing I wanted was Betty coming round snooping.

Her voice rang in my ear again. "Your father promised faithfully to call me at seven sharp. It is now eight. So, for the very last time, where is he?"

She was like a terrier; once she got her teeth into you she refused to let go. I don't know what possessed me to do it, I think I must've panicked—before I knew what I was doing I was giving her some stupid story about dad having taken up with someone else. She got hysterical, called me a lying little prick, said she knew I was lying because only the other night dad had told her he loved her, even promised to marry her as soon as he got the money together.

"Well he's come to his senses and changed his ruddy mind," I said finally losing my cool.

"You wait!" she screamed back. "You just wait till your father hears about this!"

Some chance I thought and slammed the phone down on her. I sat at the foot of the stairs worried to death that she might take it upon herself to pay a surprise visit to see what was going on. Well, if that did happen I simply wouldn't answer the door.

I felt strange, sweating and shivering like I had the flu or something. I couldn't think straight. I went into the lounge, drank some whisky, in fact I drank quite a lot. Eventually I fell asleep in an armchair and suffered extremely bad dreams.

In one I was being chased along the street by old man Digby. He was a walking dead. I was scared stiff. You could say I was scared stiff of a stiff! He accused me of being responsible for his death. He suddenly tripped and fell over and decomposed like vampires are supposed to do, by dissolving into the ground until all that was left of him was an evil smelling cloud of steam.

The tramp along with my old man chased me in another dream. They were members of the undead too. "Gonna have some fun with you," the tramp kept on saying as he struggled to unzip his trousers while my old man repeatedly shouted, "You're a bad boy Richard!" at the top of his stupid voice.

Suddenly I could hear this other voice—awful it was—calling for my old man.

"Mickey Galleymore!" it screeched. "Where are you! I want to speak to you, right now!"

And that was when I woke up. At first I couldn't understand what was going on, whether the voice was part of the dream or if it was real. Then it came again.

"Mick, I want to talk to you this instant!"

Betty! And she was in the house! My old man must've given her a key. I panicked like fuck. Before I knew it I was fumbling around in the wardrobe for the gun. After rummaging around for what seemed like an eternity I finally located it under a pile of old clothes. Holding it with both hands I sneaked out onto the landing where it was as dark as soot. I couldn't see a blasted thing. A split second later, Betty's voice came up the stairs at me.

"Is that you Mick?"

"It's me, Ricky," I said, keeping my voice low, fearful of waking Jimbo. "Go away Betty, dad doesn't want to see you anymore."

"That's what you say."

"It's the truth. Now for the last time, go away."

She ignored me and shouted for my dad. "Mick," she bellowed, "come down here, we have to talk!"

I told her to shut up, but she wasn't listening.

"Mickey: do you hear me?!"

And then she started up the stairs: not a good idea. I switched on the landing light. She saw the gun. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. I aimed it straight at her. She stepped back without thinking, lost her balance and fell heavily cracking her head against the skirting board at the bottom of the stairs. I waited for her to move but she remained motionless. Suddenly a door opened behind me. I turned to see Jimbo emerge onto the landing, and managed to shield the gun from him just in time.

"What're you doing out here big boy?" I asked as calmly as I could.

"I heard a noise," he said rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"It was nothing. Now go back to bed."

"I'm thirsty Ricky," he said. "Can I have a glass of water please?"

"Sure," I said and promised to bring him one up if he went straight back to his room. I just wanted him out of the way. I was terrified he'd see Betty, and that the shock would bring on an asthma attack.

He did as I asked and I heaved a big sigh of relief. I went downstairs, checked on Betty and did what they do in the movies, felt for a pulse and heartbeat, but didn't find either. She's dead, I thought, which meant I was a triple murderer, me, Ricky Galleymore! I thought hard about what to do next: finally deciding to get her up to dad's bedroom, lock her in there with him. I thought I'd be able to carry her but she was heavier than she looked. Instead I dragged her feet first like I did with dad. Her head bumped sickeningly over the stairs as we ascended, but there was nothing I could do about that. The job had to be done.

I was exhausted by the time I got her into dad's room. I took time to rest up and that was when I noticed the smell. Fishy, it was, extremely unpleasant. Seemed the heat was already starting to have an effect. I opened the windows wider and hauled Betty onto the bed, next to dad. They lay there like contented lovers. Having re-locked the room I got Jimbo his drink. After he had drunk it he went back to sleep like a good little boy. I stayed with him for a while, feeling the need for company, and as I sat crossed legged at the end of his bed the house fell completely silent, but that silence didn't last long for it was suddenly shattered by a bloodcurdling scream that came from the direction of dad's bedroom. Jimbo woke with a start and clung to me for dear life.

"I-I'm scared Ricky," he stammered.

"Me too," I wanted to say but instead hugged him close wondering what on earth to do. It didn't take an Einstein to work out what had happened. Betty hadn't died in the fall she had taken, but merely knocked herself unconscious. Now she was in hysterics having just come round to find my old man lying next to her stone cold dead and as stiff as a board with a rather large bullet hole in his throat. If she didn't stop her confounded noise she was going to wake the entire neighbourhood and probably give Jimbo a chronic asthma attack into the bargain. I rushed from Jimbo's room, retrieved the gun from the landing and went to deal with the matter in hand. I threw open the bedroom door and ordered Betty to be quiet but she ignored me and carried on screaming like a banshee. She was plainly frightened out of her wits. Who could blame her—it must've been terrible waking to find a corpse lying next to her—but the commotion she was making didn't exactly help my cause, and I knew that one way or the other I had to find a way of shutting her up. She sat cowering in the corner of the room with her eyes bulging from their sockets, and her hands held to her tear streaked face. She reminded me of a hammy actress in a silent movie.

I yelled at her to be quiet but she was so far out of control I don't think she even saw me, and went on screaming for all she was worth. She was going to scream the frigging house down if she persisted. I was fast developing a thumping headache, and was finding it impossible to think straight. Betty finally clocked the fact I was in the room but it only made her worse, and she screamed even louder if that was possible. She would drive me nuts with her endless din.

I can't actually recall shooting her, but that's what must've happened because the next thing I knew she was sliding down the wall with blood streaming from her chest. I heard a noise behind me and spun round to find Jimbo standing in the doorway. He was gazing around the room with this terrible stunned look on his face. Then he saw the gun I was holding. I guess it must have dawned on him what had happened. He suddenly began to bawl his eyes out. I rushed over to him, knelt and held him close.

"It's all right, Jimbo," I said into his ear, "no one's gonna hurt you."

He repeated the word daddy over and over, and tried to struggle free, but I held on tightly, refusing to let go of him just like I refused to let go of the gun. I spoke reassuring words whilst stroking the back of his head using my free hand. "It couldn't be helped Jimbo," I said. "There was nothing I could do."

And then he started wheezing and fighting for breath. It was enough to make me put down the gun so I'd be able to carry him into his own bedroom. There I searched for and found his inhaler, and made him suck on it. After a few worrying moments his breathing returned to normal and I breathed a huge sigh of relief, whilst at the same time praying that he at least wasn't going to end the night dead due to my actions.

"Everything's going to be okay," I assured him for the thousandth time. At long last he started to doze off until finally he fell into a peaceful sleep. I remained with him for a while longer until I was quite sure the danger of another asthma attack had passed. And then, deciding it was safe to leave him on his own, I crept out of the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Downstairs in the kitchen I drank whisky and smoked cigarettes in an effort to calm myself. I didn't know what else to do. I started to fall asleep, but was soon roused by wailing sirens that seemed to draw closer by the second, until eventually it sounded as if they were right outside the house.

Full of apprehension I wandered into the front room, peeked through the window and saw not one, but two police patrol cars parked at the bottom of the drive. Close by stood a small crowd of people, most of whom wore night attire. I was in the grip of an alcoholic haze and consequently, was slow on the uptake. Nevertheless it quickly dawned on me that they were gathered there on my account. One of the neighbours must've heard all the commotion and phoned for the police I surmised. Why the hell couldn't people mind their own business! I stood there feeling panicky and deeply afraid, though not entirely surprised.

I thought about running for it, but that would've meant leaving Jimbo stranded. I had promised to look after him for always. I returned upstairs to dad's room where I retrieved the Smith & Wesson. I crouched by the window that overlooked the front garden, and spied two cops making their way over to the crowd of onlookers. I opened the window wider and peered out. A man in a dressing gown and slippers spotted me, and pointed. Suddenly all eyes were on me.

One of the coppers called out, instructing me to leave the house immediately. He promised that I wouldn't get hurt if I did as I was told.

"Go away," I shouted back, "and leave me alone!" I panicked and fired a warning shot into the night air hoping to scare them. It worked. The neighbours fled back to their homes, the cops sought the safety of their cars. They were like frightened mice, the lot of them.

I waited to see what would happen next.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

While I waited, I wondered what would become of me. Truth be known, I didn't have a ruddy clue. Get my name in the papers and on T.V because of what I had done more than likely, and end up in youth custody. I had heard the expression "youth custody" used on T.V once when two kids, both older than myself tried to rob a petrol station, and in the process blew a woman's face apart with a sawn off shotgun. I never imagined I would end up where I did, where I still am today.

I got bored sitting by the window with nothing happening. I amused myself by bad mouthing dad and Betty, knowing that I could say what the hell I liked to them now that they were dead. I really let them have it too, and was shaking like a madman by the time I finished. Suddenly, inside my head, I could hear dad speaking, telling me I was a wicked child who would go straight to Hell when I died. Then I could hear Betty's voice, agreeing with dad, calling me all the names under the sun. I don't know what got into me, but I went over to the bed screaming my head off and emptied the gun into their lifeless bodies. It had the desired effect and the voices stopped. I fetched the box of bullets from my bedroom, reloaded the gun and re-positioned myself at the window. Every so often I would glance at dad and Betty half expecting them to rise up from the bed. I told myself I was being paranoid, that they were stone cold dead, but I couldn't shake the feeling off.

Not long after I reloaded the gun things started to liven up outside. Two more police cars arrived, followed a minute or so later by an ambulance. And then, without warning this amplified voice instructed me—it referred to me as "the individual with the firearm"—to give myself up.

"Throw down your weapon and come out quietly with your hands in the air," it said. It was like being in a cops and robbers movie. By this time I was utterly confused. To stay put and shoot at the cops would provoke retaliation. If that happened there was a very real danger that Jimbo might get hurt, and no way did I want that. The alternative was surrender, which to my way of thinking would most certainly mean being locked up somewhere, and be separated from Jimbo, and there was no way I wanted that either. All I wanted was for Jimbo and me to be able to live together, and be happy.

The smell in the room was worsening by the minute, or so it seemed. Dad reeked. It would be Betty's turn pretty soon. Before too long the whole house would start to smell like an open sewer pipe. I regretted not dumping them both in the cellar. The fact that it was so cool down there would have eliminated the problem.

The amplified voice came at me again, startling me out of my preoccupied state.

"We have you surrounded. In your own interests, give yourself up!"

What-to-do-what-to-do-what-to-do? The words kept spinning round and round in my head, but I couldn't reach a decision.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

In the end Jimbo made it for me: he suffered a life threatening asthma attack. Never before had I seen him so ill, not even his inhaler offered him relief. I was so worried. Self- preservation went right out of the window at that point. Jimbo was going to die if he failed to get proper help, and I simply couldn't allow that to happen. He was my baby brother and I loved him.

So I gave myself up.

"I'm coming out," I announced as I chucked the pistol out of the bedroom window. I watched as it landed soundlessly on the front lawn, and then called out to those standing below saying, "My little brother's sick, he needs a doctor, urgent."

"Leave the house with your hands in the air," the amplified voice instructed sternly. So that's what I did, feeling strangely like an actor in a western film. I was no sooner out of the house than I was restrained and handcuffed by two burly coppers. Then I was questioned by a couple of ambulance men as to the exact whereabouts of the casualty. I gave them the information they wanted, but neglected to say anything about Betty and my old man. There didn't seem to be much point.

While all this was going on the neighbours slowly re-appeared from their houses, courageous now that the danger was passed and happy enough to witness my arrest. Old Mrs Monk was there in her dressing gown and curlers, minus her teeth. It wouldn't have surprised me if she was the one who called the cops, nosy old witch that she was. In a funny way, I wish I'd shot her instead of Betty. At least Betty wasn't old and senile. Old people are the pits. And they're a complete menace to society, always taking up people's time and patience with their problems and their stupid health issues. They truly depress me. Once a person becomes forgetful and starts creaking around the place moaning about their health, they are old, and should be sent off to a special place where they can't bother people that aren't old.

The cops were very nice to me considering. Not rough, they didn't shout or bully. Being told off by my old man was a more scary experience than being questioned by them. I told them how I had come to shoot dad and Betty, and then I surprised the hell out of them by mentioning the tramp.

"What tramp?" asked this tall skinny cop called McCreadie.

So I explained.

"Are there any others?" he asked when I had finished.

"No," I said. "There are no others."

"Are you sure?" this other, younger cop with spiky hair asked.

"Yes; absolutely."

McCreadie eyed me as if I was poisonous. Then he said, "What possessed you to do it, what made you kill three innocent people?"

"They weren't innocent," I insisted.

He asked me what I meant but I refused to answer, and stared at the floor avoiding eye contact. I didn't feel like talking any more, not to McCreadie and his pal, anyway. They thought I was some kind of monster, I could tell. It annoyed me that they could think that about me. I was a fourteen year old kid for Christ's sake. Okay, so I was a bit mixed up and had done some stupid things, but I wasn't any monster.

They persisted with their questions doggedly. When I didn't play ball and give them what they wanted they got annoyed and started raising their voices at me. In the end they gave up and left me alone.

This shrink interviewed me. He thought I was a monster too. I could tell by the way he looked at me. Interviews with a couple of other shrinks followed. The whole exercise was a pain in the neck—or should that be, head?

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Jimbo lives with Aunt Josephine and Uncle Arthur nowadays. I haven't seen him in quite a while. Last time was about a year ago. He looked as frail as ever, but he seemed happy with life, and that's the main thing I guess. At least he doesn't get beaten up or locked in a cellar, which is what I suspect would have happened had he stayed with dad.

And where I am: well, it's kind of a clinical place, but it's okay. It's not as bad as I thought it would be when I first arrived.

Doctor Morgan has just been in to see me. He's a youngish guy with dark curly hair and silver rimmed spectacles. He looks more like a student than a doctor. He has a faint scar running down his left cheek, but it's not a burn mark like mine. I asked him how he got it. He just gave this funny little smile and said it was a present from a patient who liked razors. He shrugged it off as one of those things. I wish I could be as laid back as him about my burn. Doctor Morgan is a pretty decent fellow. He seems a lot more sincere than most. He's a damn sight easier to talk to than the other doctors I have seen since the night the cops came for me. I've told him he can read this when I finish it. He said he would love to. I think he meant it.

Tonight he told me he thought I was beginning to find myself. I'm not sure I know exactly what he meant by that. I guess what he was really saying was; I'm less confused than I used to be. I told him I was feeling a lot better lately, and asked when I would be allowed out. He was a bit cagey, all he would say was, I would have to be patient, and that all good things come to those who wait.

I must be getting better. If I weren't, I wouldn't be able to write about what happened. Doctor Morgan says writing about it is good for me. He says it's therapeutic. He also claims that writing down the experience is akin to punching all my anger and frustration out on a punch bag, only it's a better release because it makes me sort out my thoughts, so it isn't simply a blind undirected outpouring of rage. He reckons that if I'd started writing earlier, there's a chance I may not have committed the violent acts, because I would have written them all out as fantasies instead. Who knows, maybe he's right?

I must say; there are some very weird cases in here with me. There's one guy who is convinced he's sane when in fact he's a total fruitcake. For ninety percent of the time he seems right as rain, and it's only when he lapses into his alter ego that you realise things aren't quite right in the Land of Oz. For some strange reason he thinks he's Adolf Hitler, and will think nothing of goose-stepping around the place firing off Nazi salutes at all and sundry and then, next thing you know, he's behaving perfectly normal again. Then there's this other guy who sits by the window all day, counting to himself. That's all his life consists of, counting. He'll count forwards up to a thousand, maybe two thousand, and then he'll reverse the procedure. And he does it day in and day out. Someone told me he used to be a mathematician and that he cracked up after his mother died, and his wife left him. I felt quite sorry for the bloke until I discovered he took revenge on his wife by kidnapping and then drowning their young son in a duck pond. Makes you wonder who's sane and who isn't.

At least I don't do loony stuff. I hallucinate sometimes, but that's about as near to crazy as I get. I imagine seeing my old man and Betty and old man Digby and the tramp in my room at night. They don't say or do anything; they just stand there and stare at me. It only lasts a few seconds, but it really freaks me out. When it first happened I would scream the place down. Sometimes I was so worked up Doctor Morgan and his pals had their work cut out getting me back under control. I handle things a lot better nowadays. I still get jumpy however, and occasionally I shout for help. When that happens I'm given medication. It's not a serious problem though. At least I don't think I'm Mein fucking Fuehrer.

I don't think there's a lot more I can say. I'm pretty pleased with myself for managing to get the whole sorry business down on paper after all this time. I dare say Pringle would be proud of me if ever he gets to read this. I haven't seen him since before I got locked up, the same goes for Will and Pinhead and all the others, although I did get a letter from Will not long after I got put away. In it he said he couldn't believe I'd done the things people accused me of. He mentioned something else too, that shocked the hell out of me. He told me Matt the Prat was dead. I couldn't believe it. Poor old Matt was found dead in the school toilets by a third former. What a place to die. Will didn't say what he died from, but I suspect smoking was the cause. Matt might only have been fourteen but he got through more cigarettes in a day than anyone I've ever known. He was asking for health trouble.

I haven't written back to Will yet. I know it sounds crazy, what with him being my best friend and everything, but I can't think of anything to say to him. Maybe I'll think of something after I finish writing this.

One final point before I close: I heard it said that the media branded me "evil" because of the things I did. I don't think I'm evil. Dad and Betty got what they deserved; so too did that pervert of a tramp. And so did old man Digby, come to that. How can I be evil when all I did was let an old fogey die when he had no chance of living anyway, and killed three people who never did fuck all for anybody except themselves? To my way of thinking I did the world a favour. And I'll tell you something else—I'd do it all again if I had to.

THE END

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.

Dear Reader,

I'd just like to thank you for taking the time and trouble to read my novel, BARK AT THE MOON. I only hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Why not let me know either way by using the "review" facility on Smashwords.com. If you did enjoy BARK AT THE MOON why not check out my other novels, entitled, A CRY FROM BEYOND and HELL PIT, both supernatural horror stories, together with one of my short stories, THE UNINVITED, which is free and is taken from a paperback collection of mine entitled, THE LITTLE BOOK OF DARK TALES, signed and dedicated copies of which can be purchased by visiting my website at www.wrarmstrong.com

Thanks once again,

W. R. Armstrong.

