Ian’s, Mum has made excuses about not being able to take me because of work. Seeing the few pathetic badges sewn on Cynthia’s sleeve makes me indignant. I know my own sleeve would be crowded with them if I were allowed to go.
‘What badges have you got?’
I approach to have a look. Cynthia flinches, which makes me want to get the bit of wood from Pauline and hit her hard. I don’t, obviously. I just want her to talk normally. The black badges have emblems stitched with green and yellow and the names at the bottom of each: housekeeping, music, sport. The last one sounds extremely unlikely. It has a sewn tennis racquet crossed with something I think is supposed to be a golf club.
‘Sport?’ Hearing this, Pauline comes to have a look.
‘What did you have to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ She’s stupid to be so terrified of me. And she must know.
‘You’ve only got three, you must be able to remember.’ I make my voice like Mrs Bream’s. Cynthia twitches more obligingly.
‘Running,’ she admits.
‘Running?’
Pauline produces more laughter. I don’t blame Cynthia for not liking it, it’s getting on my nerves even though it’s not directed at me. Although the thought of Cynthia getting any kind of badge for running is ridiculous. It isn’t fair, either. Pauline twists the sleeve of the uniform, pretending to get a better look at the badge and pinching Cynthia’s arm as she does it.
‘Go on, show us then.’ She releases the sleeve. ‘Run.’
Cynthia’s head jerks between us, to check she’s understood. ‘She wants you to show her your running,’ I reassure her, still being Mrs Bream.
She’s careening and aimless, like a daddy-long-legs released from a jam-jar. Even by her standards, it’s rubbish. Her body’s still arched at one side where Pauline hit her, as though she has a stitch. Pauline gives her yards and yards of head start, then takes off after her and catches up in about two seconds flat. This time she aims the plank more, square between her shoulders. I’m expecting Cynthia to go down like she did before, weightlessly, uselessly, but there’s an odd moment as she and Pauline stagger forward together and then fall, Pauline more or less on top of her. This time Cynthia’s squeal is thin and high, and there’s no apology in it, only pain. It gets louder as Pauline wrestles herself away, and the struggle as she pulls her weapon free makes delayed sense of their dance to the ground: one of the old nails has stuck into Cynthia’s back, and it’s hurting her more as Pauline tries to pull the wood away.
After that she does what we say even if she isn’t up to much. We don’t need to hit her to get her into the pavilion. Pauline breaks more of the boards off and we climb through the low window, with a bit of contemptuous coaxing from Pauline because I’m worried about the broken glass I can see framing the gap like shark’s teeth, its danger disguised by the ancient muck inside. Going in feels wrong and exciting. The air smells old and pissy. I think of Howard Carter and the tomb of Tutankhamun, with its curse. As I climb in, the dusty tunnel of light from the window illuminates something heaped on the floor, further back by a wall. It can only be clothes over a skeleton. I shriek. While I back up to the window, careless now of the hidden glass, Pauline strides up and kicks it. The body’s mound shifts, and I see it’s a torn badminton net, rolled around metal poles.
‘Give me heart attack!’
Cynthia plays no part in either the fear or the laughter. She cries on, huddling her wounds, snot and tears coating her chin. I’m sick of her now. I hate her now. It’s all too late. Because of her, I’m going to get done.
‘Shut up!’
I push her, forgetting it’ll make her fall. My hand comes away with blood on it, and I’m curious to see, in the light from the window gap, that it’s standard red. We’re all the same under the skin, as Mr Scott has told us. The blood is a smear, not drops, and to get rid of it I wipe my palm on Cynthia’s Brownie dress. As she lies there, a sudden hot stink makes me jump back, just in time to avoid the tide of wee spreading from under her thighs. I yelp with disgust, and Pauline laughs again. There are no