‘One’ll do. What yer need is one of these little beauties.’ A lethal Bowie knife suddenly rotated in front of my eyes. ‘Sneak up on King Turd,’ Norman Bates’s voice softened, ‘and slice – his – tendons. One slit, two slit, tickle him under there. If he fucks around with you after that, just puncture the tyres on his wheelchair.’ Norman Bates’s knife disappeared into thin air. ‘Army and Navy Surplus Stores. Best tenner you’ll ever spend.’
‘But if I sliced Wilcox’s tendons, I’d get sent to borstal.’
‘Well, wakey fucking wakey, Sunbeam! Life’s a borstal!’
Knife Grinder
Autumn’s fungusy, berries’re manky, leaves’re rusting, Vs of long-distance birds’re crossing the sky, evenings’re smoky, nights’re cold. Autumn’s nearly dead. I hadn’t even noticed it was ill.
‘I’m back!’ Every afternoon I yell it, just in case Mum or Dad’d come home early from Cheltenham or Oxford or wherever.
Not that there’s ever a reply.
Our house is bags emptier with Julia gone. Her and Mum drove up to Edinburgh two weekends ago. (Julia passed her driving test. First time, of course.) She’d spent the second half of the summer with Ewan’s family in the Norfolk Broads, so you’d think I’d’ve had time to get used to sisterlessness. But it’s not just the person who fills a house, it’s their I’ll be back later!s, their toothbrushes and not-being-used-right-now hats and coats, their belongingnesses. Can’t believe I miss my sister this much, but I do. Mum and Julia left first thing ’cause Scotland’s a day away by car. Dad and me waved her off. Mum’s Datsun’d turned into Kingfisher Meadows, when it stopped. Julia jumped out, opened the boot, ferreted through her box of records and ran back up the drive. She thrust her Abbey Road LP into my hands. ‘Look after this for me, Jace. It’ll only get scratched if I take it to halls.’ She hugged me.
I still smelt Julia’s hair lacquer, even after the car’d gone.
The pressure cooker sat on the cooker, leaked stewing-steak fumes. (Mum starts it off in the morning so it cooks all day.) I made a grapefruit Quash and risked scoffing the last Penguin biscuit ’cause there was nothing else in the tin but Ginger Nuts and Lemon Puffs. I went upstairs to change out of my school uniform. Waiting in my room was the first of the three surprises.
A TV. Sitting on my desk. It hadn’t been there this morning. FERGUSON MONOCHROME PORTABLE TELEVISION, said its badge. MADE IN ENGLAND. (Dad says if we don’t buy British all the jobs’ll go to Europe.) Brand-new shine, brand-new smell. An office envelope with my name on it stood propped up. (Dad’d written my name in 2H pencil so the envelope can be reused.) Inside was a file card, written in green Biro.
Why? I was pleased, for sure. In 3KM only Clive Pike and Neal Brose’ve got TVs in their bedrooms. But why now? My birthday isn’t till January. Dad never gives things like this for no reason, not just out of the blue. I switched the TV on, lay on my bed and watched Space Sentinels and Take Hart. Watching TV on your bed shouldn’t be odd, but it somehow is. Like eating oxtail soup in the bath.
TV deadens worrying about school, a bit. Dean was ill today so the seat on the school bus next to me was empty. Ross Wilcox took it, acting all matey to remind me we’re not. Wilcox kept on at me to get out my pencil case. ‘G-g-go on, l-l-l-lend us yer p-p-protractor, T-t-taylor, honest, I want to do m-my m-m-m-maths homework.’ (I don’t stammer that badly. Mrs de Roo says we’re making real progress.) ‘Got a sh-sh-sharpener, T-t-taylor?’
‘No’, I kept saying, flat and bored. ‘No.’ The other day he got hold of Floyd Chaceley’s pencil case in the maths room and tipped its contents into the Quad.
‘What d’yer mean, n-n-no? What d’yer do when your p-p-pencils get b-b-blunt?’ Question after needling question, that’s the Wilcox Method. Answer, and he’ll twist your reply so that it seems only a total twat could’ve said what you just said. Don’t answer, and it’s like you’re admitting it’s okay for Wilcox to be ripping into you. ‘S-s-so d-d-d-do girls find your s-s-s-stutter s-s-s-sexy, T-t-taylor?’ Oswald Wyre and Ant Little do this jackal laughter like their master’s all six Monty Pythons rolled into one comedy thug. Wilcox’s power is that you think it’s not him speaking but public opinion judging you through him. ‘B-b-b-bet