the central arena. Nathan accepted both vastly differing regimes with an effortless shrug of his shoulders.
They now slept on immeasurably more comfortable beds than those mattresses outside. They had their own tent of sorts - a camouflage net draped across an ‘A’ frame of metal rods. It was perched on a stretch of terrace between two large sections of arena seating. Other tents, similar to theirs, were clustered in groups around the vast stadium, in spaces where rows of plastic bucket seats had been pulled out.
They’d only been awarded this privileged level of comfort and privacy a few days ago, after Maxwell had said they could join the praetorians. So far the nights had been noisier than outside with the boys trash-talking each other, calling out crude exchanges across the cavernous stadium from one tent to another. All good natured, and usually things quietened down when the night lights were dimmed.
Tonight, though, he’d been awoken by something going on.
Noises had percolated into his sleep and become part of his dream - the one he often had. Too often. Him and Leona in a dark house at night, lit up by the flames of a burning car outside. The shifting silhouettes of intoxicated teenage boys larking around, jeering and laughing at the families hiding in their homes down St Stephen’s Avenue.
‘Oooo are ya? Oooo are ya?’ several of them chanting like supporters at a football match.
‘Weeee comin’ to part-eeeee!!’ another voice sing-songing over the top.
Jacob shook away the last tendrils of sleep and the nightmare. He could feel the coolness of sweat drying on his bare skin. Another stuffy night inside. Even though the dome’s roof was an opaque canvas, when the sun was shining much of its energy permeated through and built up inside throughout the day.
He heard the noises again. Voices in the distance; voices that had taken part in his dream. He sat up and looked out through the drape of netting. Between the gaps in the webbing, down across the endless sloping rows of bucket chairs, on the arena’s stage, he could see a couple of torch beams flickering around amongst the dark and silent outlines of the arcade machines. Some of the praetorians were down there, messing about.
He could hear their banter, hee-hawing laughter as several of them pretended the NASCAR machines were switched on and that they were mid-race. They sat in bucket seats and yanked their steering wheels one way then the other as they stared up at the large blank screens in front of them. A scuffle broke out between a couple of boys watching, both wanting to sit in the same booth. It was no more than pushing, shoving and posturing and snarled words exchanged. Jacob settled back in his cot, once more looking up at the webbing and the distant dark pall of the dome’s canvas, and found himself wondering whether he could really fit in as one of them; they all seemed so aggressive and intimidating.
Tough talk. That’s what Snoop called it. Because the boys were so young, they had to appear to be tougher, meaner, than they were for the adult workers to accept them being in charge.
It’s mostly just hot-air bullshit, Snoop had said with a grin. They’re good boys.
Jacob desperately wanted to be a praetorian. He’d caught a glimpse of party night: the arcade machines; they had a cinema room with a big projection screen and a library of DVDs; there was another room full of Xboxes and plasma screens all linked up and playing ‘Call of Duty’. And the big light show from the lighting rig above . . .
If heaven was powered by electricity, this had to be it.
You’ve got to learn to act like they do.
He closed his eyes, trying to get back to sleep, but his mind restlessly hopped from one thing to another.
Not only did he not think he’d make a very good praetorian, he had a sneaking suspicion the other boys didn’t think too much of him. Oh, yes, they put up with him because he was Nathan’s mate. They liked Nathan because he made them laugh. Like he could everyone else. Been here a few weeks now and all the other boys let on to him as they passed by with a grin and pressing of fists.
Jacob barely got a nod from them.
Why? Because I’m not funny enough?
The injustice of that skewered him painfully. Why did popularity amongst these younger boys boil down to the simple ability to tell a