Underdog Read Free Page A

his eyebrows lifting sharply as his bottom lip dropped, a shocked expression on his acned face. ‘Look at those.’
    He gawped at the raised welts and scars on Tom’s arm, horrified yet intrigued by the blood that started to seep from the most recent cut. He let out a nervous laugh as he spoke.
    ‘What you done that for?’
    ‘Done what?’ answered Tom aggressively, not taking his eyes off Chris.
    ‘He’s a fucking loony, that’s why he’s done it.’ Chris’s face was a picture of mock revulsion. He  laughed. ‘No wonder his mum topped herself.’
    Without warning, Tom rushed forward, throwing a powerful punch that just missed Chris’s chin and caught him on the throat. Chris reeled backwards, instinctively grabbing at his neck with both hands, gagging as he stumbled. Tom was instantly on him, beating him to the floor with a flurry of punches.
    ‘Bastard!’
    Tom spat out the word as if it were poison in his mouth, repeating it as each punch landed, his attack frenzied. Lost in the moment, he vented his anger and pain.
    And then as suddenly as he started, Tom stopped. He withdrew, gasping for breath, fighting to hold back the tears as he looked down at Chris, pathetic and beaten at his feet. An unexpected feeling of remorse broke over him and he felt ashamed for having lost control so easily, angry for having given too much of himself away. For letting them see. He quickly pulled his shirt sleeves down and hid his arms, hoping they wouldn’t tell anyone.
    ‘I’m … I’m sorry.’
    ‘You fucking well will be,’ wheezed Chris, wiping a drip of blood from his mouth.
    Tom unchained his bike and threw on his jacket. All he wanted to do was get away. As far away from them all as he could.
    He turned his bike around and wheeled it to the shed doors, glancing back at Fraser helping Chris up off the floor. Taking a second to look out onto the playground, he made sure the coast was clear. A rush of blood and he was away, cycling back out of the school gates as fast as he could.
    ***
    By the time he reached the isolated clearing near the top of the hills, Tom was sweating, his shirt clinging to his back. The last part of the climb had been hard, and his lungs were burning and tight in his chest. Slowing to a stop, he took a moment to catch some breath before dismounting his bike, laying it down beside him. He took off his jacket and threw it down onto the grass. His hand pushed the sweat from his forehead into the tangles of his thick, dark hair as he sat down and stretched out his legs.
    The damp grass sparkled, the refracted sunlight making the hill look silvery as it rolled down and away from him. It didn’t take long for a cool, refreshing damp patch to seep through the back of his trousers. He raised his knees and rested his head between them, listening to the pump of blood rushing in his ears as his heart gradually slowed to a less intense rhythm.
    He bit the inside of his mouth as he looked over the town spread out below him, taking in the mess of red and grey brickwork scorched into the green of the surrounding hills. He hated it all: the town, the house, the school. They should never have come. His dad had said it was what they needed, promised it was going to be a fresh start. But Tom didn’t need, or want, any of it. His dad had lied. They had run away. They were still running.
    He picked out the school, set back in the distance from the sprawl of the town. The C-shaped arrangement of prefabricated buildings looked so insignificant, made miniature and unreal by his elevated position. He closed his left eye slowly and centred his view on the flat-roofed classrooms and empty playing field, picturing the vacant space filled with teachers and kids. He took aim with his finger and from his sniper’s view fired a couple of warning shots into the imaginary crowd, happy to cause an immediate panic that sent them all scurrying for cover.
    Tom lay back on the grass and looked up at the morning sky. It felt good