A butterfly not from England fanned open and shut, inches away. Cautiously, I got up.
I’d have a couple of glorious bruises, and my pulse was still fast and broken. But otherwise I was okay.
Okay, but poisoned. The dog man despised me for not being born here. He despised me for living down Kingfisher Meadows. That’s a hate you can’t argue with. No more than you can argue with mad Dobermanns.
I carried on up the bridlepath, out of the copse.
Dewy cobwebs snap-twanged across my face.
The big field was full of wary ewes and spanking-new lambs. The lambs tiggered up close, bleeping like those crap Fiat Noddy cars, idiotically pleased to see me. The poison of the Dobermanns and their master began to thin, a little. A couple of the mother sheep edged closer. They didn’t quite trust me. Just as well for sheep they can’t work out why the farmer’s being so nice to them. (Human beings need to watch out for reasonless niceness too. It’s never reasonless and its reason’s not usually nice.)
So anyway, I was halfway over the field when I spotted three kids up on the old railway embankment. Up on the Hollow Log, by the brick bridge. They’d already seen me, and if I changed course they’d know I was chickening out of meeting them. So I set a course straight for them. I chewed a stick of Juicy Fruit I found in my pocket. Here and there I penalty-shot a poking-up thistle, just to look a bit hard.
Lucky I did. The three kids were Grant Burch, his servant Philip Phelps, and Ant Little, passing round a fag. From inside the log crawled out Darren Croome, Dean Moran and Squelch.
Grant Burch called down from the log, ‘All right, Taylor?’
Phelps said, ‘Come to see the scrap?’
From the foot of the embankment I called up, ‘What scrap?’
‘Me,’ Grant Burch squished one nostril and torpedoed a bolt of hot snot out of the other, ‘stick Ross Wankstain Wilcox the Third.’
Good news. ‘What’s the scrap about?’
‘Me and Swinyard were playin’ Asteroids at the Black Swan yesterday evenin’, right. Wilcox comes in, actin’ like King Hard Knock, sayin’ nothin’, then he goes an’ drops his fag in my shandy. Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it! I says, “D’you do that on purpose?” Wilcox says, “What d’you reckon?” I says, “You’re gonna fuckin’ regret that, Piss Flaps.”’
‘Classic!’ Philip Phelps grinned. ‘“Piss Flaps”!’
‘Phelps,’ Grant Burch frowned, ‘don’t interrupt me when I’m talking.’
‘Sorry, Grant.’
‘So anyway, I says, “Yer gonna fuckin’ regret that, Piss Flaps.” Wilcox says, “Make me.” I says, “Wanna step outside, then?” Wilcox says, “Trust you to pick a place Isaac Pye can come and pull me off yer.” I says, “Okay, Prick Cheese, you say where.” Wilcox says, “T’morrer mornin’. The Hollow Log. Nine thirty.” I says, “Better order an ambulance, Turd Burglar. I’ll be there.” Wilcox just says “Good” and walks out.’
Ant Little said, ‘Wilcox’s crazy. You’re gonna cream him, Grant.’
‘Yeah,’ said Darren Croome. ‘’Course you are.’
Great news. Ross Wilcox’s building up a sort of gang at school and he’s made it pretty clear he’s got it in for me. Grant Burch is one of the hardest kids in the third year. Wilcox getting his face kicked in’d label him as a loser and a leper.
‘What’s the time now, Phelps?’
Phelps checked his watch. ‘Quarter to ten, Grant.’
Ant Little said, ‘Chickened out, I reckon.’
Grant Burch flobbed again. ‘We’ll stay till ten. Then we’re off down Wellington Gardens to invite Wilcox out to play. Nobody gets away with being that arsey to me.’
Phelps said, ‘What about his dad, Grant?’
‘What about his dad, Phelps?’
‘Didn’t he put Wilcox’s mum in hospital?’
‘I ain’t scared of a bent mechanic. Give us another fag.’
‘God! All right. Gi’ us the Woodbines. Taylor, want a smoke?’
Ant Little said, ‘“Given up”,’ sneerily, ‘ain’t yer, Taylor?’
‘Started up again,’ I told Grant Burch, scrambling up the embankment.
Dean Moran helped me over the muddy lip. ‘All right?’
I told Moran, ‘All right,’ back.
‘Yee-HAAAAAAR!’ Squelch straddled the Hollow Log like a horse and whipped his own bum with a whippy stick. ‘Gonna kick dat boy’s ass to da middle o’next week!’ He must’ve got it off some film.
A middle-ranking kid like me shouldn’t refuse an invitation from an older kid like Grant Burch.