Scaredy cat Read Free Page A

to die down and the scratches on my hands started to hurt. I was hard like I never am, even when I'm thinking about the past. I don't want to embarrass you by talking like this, but if l can't be honest with you about these things then there's no point to anything. I never really told you what I was thinking when I had the chance, so I'm not going to hide things now.
    And I will never lie to you, Karen, I promise you that. Of course, you're not the only one who knows what I really am but you're the only one who can see what's inside. I'm not making excuses, I know that I deserve nothing, but at the very least I'm being open about everything. Open and honest.
    She was nothing to me, this woman from the station. She was nothing to me and I squeezed the life out of her.
    I'm so very sorry, and I deserve what is surely coming. I hate to ask a favour, Karen, but if you see her, the woman I killed, will you tell her that for me?
    *****************
    1982
    The kids called it 'the Jungle Story'.
    The victim was pinned to the tarmac with one boy holding down each arm and another sitting astride his chest. The fingers were the weapons - tapping, prodding, poking - jabbing out the rhythms of the story on the breastbone. The steps of each new animal marching through the jungle. The story was a very simple one; a straightforward excuse to inflict pain.
    The wiry, black-haired boy leaned against the wall, his small dark eyes taking in every detail. Watching as the torment began. When it was just the monkeys, or whichever of the small creatures the storyteller introduced early on, it was not really much more than a tickle. The victim would writhe around, telling them to stop, to get off; the fear of what was to come worse than anything. Then would come the lions and tigers. Heavier steps, the fingers jabbing harder, tears beginning to prick in the corners of the eyes. Everything, of course, leading up to the seemingly endless herd of elephants tramping through the jungle, the fingers slamming into the chest, the pain excruciating.
    The big kid on the floor was screaming now.
    The boy pushed himself away from the wall, took his hands from his pockets and moved across the playground to where the crowd of onlookers stood in a circle, jeering and clapping. It was time to intervene.
    The one telling the 'story' was called Bardsley. The boy hated him. He shoved his way through the crowd, which was not difficult as most of the other third formers were scared of him. He was, after all, the 'mad' one, the one who would do anything. The kid who would throw a desk out of the window or wave his tiny cock around in class, or let a teacher's tyres down. He'd had to suffer a great many detentions in his time to earn his reputation, but it was worth it in terms of the respect it won him.
    He didn't care about geography or French grammar but he knew about respect.
    He reached down, casually took hold of Bardsley's hair and yanked him backwards. There was a gasp from the crowd, which quickly turned to nervous laughter as Bardsley jumped up, furious, ready to transfer his aggression onto whoever was responsible for the terrible stinging on his scalp.
    Then he saw who was to blame. The boy, far smaller and slighter than he was, stared calmly back at him, eyes cold and dark as stones frozen in mud, hands once more thrust deep into his pockets. The crowd dispersed quickly into smaller groups. A kickabout was already starting as Bardsley backed away towards the changing rooms, promising some nasty revenge after school but not really meaning it. The boy on the floor stood up and began to rearrange his disheveled uniform. He didn't say anything, but eyed his saviour nervously while doing up his tie and dragging a sleeve across his snotty top lip. The black-haired boy had seen him around but they had never spoken. He was a year younger, probably only twelve, and the different years didn't really mix. His sandy hair was usually neatly combed with a parting, and he was