Boy A Read Free Page B

arms nearly straight in his ripped green bomber. He led
A
onwards, inwards, through the church’s doorway, left open for the poor and the needy.
    It was cool in the church, an escape from the closeness outside.
A
remembered the big brass sanctuary knocker on Durham Cathedral, with its devilish eyeless face. Churches had always been a place of safety for criminals. Not that he was a criminal, but he was beginning to feel the appeal of crime.
    Like Stonelee, the church was old and ill kept. Hanging steel lamps showed paint flaking off the walls like dead skin. A mural of Mary prayed handless, where the cement had fallen. The two boys, breathless and silent, walked around, looking for somewhere to hide. Stepping over the names of benefactors and bishops, almost erased by the shoes of centuries. They took a seat in a small side chapel, joining a plaster saint. His eyes were half-closed, like he was sleepy or stoned, and he held a coil of rosaries long enough to tie someone up.
    They grinned at each other with excitement when they heard the people come in. The footsteps sounded gruff and out of place in the emptiness. But the noises soon faded, leaving them undiscovered in their private chapel.
A
’s newest and only friend, a boy named
B
, stole a hymn book, while they sat waiting for the feeling that it was safe to leave.
A
gazed at the roof, painted a passionate blue with golden stars, looking somehow more real than the sky outside hadbeen. It was supported by pillars, thick as God’s thighs, and near their tops more anonymous saints stared down. Most bore the means of their martyrdom, some ghoulishly held their own heads.
    They shared the remains of the day. Outlaws, confirmed in petty shoplifts and pointless vandalism. Acts that nonetheless bonded them, blended them. Separation from the world brought them to each other. People who saw them, while they walked homewards, would swear they were a pair. They fitted together those two boys, with letters where their names should be.
A
and
B
, united by their difference, intrinsically linked, like pen and paper, salt and pepper, accident and emergency.
    But events flowed on, as steady and dirty as the Stonelee Byrne, and at the end of the road stood three figures.
A
recognized them as boys from his class, junior demons.
    A
had become used to long cuts: double-backs and dirttracks. Somehow
B
’s abandon had lured him into unaccustomed bravery.
    ‘Let’s go this way,’ he said, trying to pull his friend down a side-street.
    But
B
didn’t recognize the urgency in his voice. ‘Naw, it’s much longer.’ He offered
A
an Opal Fruit instead.
    And then it was too late anyway. The three boys had spotted them, and were already sidling forwards.
    ‘Haven’t seen you in school recently,’ one of them said.
    A
felt the hopelessness building inside him. These false pleasantries would slide into an attack. Sudden or slow, the pain was inevitable. All the worse because he had enjoyed the day. Now
B
would despise him, or even join in against him.
    ‘Anyone would think you’ve been avoiding us. Aren’t we your friends any more?’
    ‘No look, he’s got a new friend, haven’t you, you little shit.’
    ‘What’s your friend called, spastic, or can’t he afford a name?’ The inquisitors laughed with childish brutality.
    A
would have run for it, but already his classmates had penned them in. Trapping them against the wall of a house.
    B
looked at these older boys. His neck stretched out like a weasel’s as he stared slowly into each of their faces. Maybe then they suspected they had picked the wrong kid.
    ‘All right, you, just piss off,’ said one. ‘It’s him we want.’
    There were none of the preliminaries that usually marked fights in the under-tens freestyle event. No pushing or grabbing or wrestling.
B
punched the speaker hard in the face. A proper punch with his weight behind it. Like his brother taught and used. The boy crumpled, and as he did
B
hit him again on the back