Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,94

say about me? In my panic, I looked at Tracey. Perhaps this was enough for her, too. Perhaps she hadn’t thought that things would go so far. Surely, now she saw that Stan might really hurt Ken, she would want it to stop? But when I looked into her face her features were energized, ravenous, like someone watching a late-night suspense film, utterly transported, thrilled. She put the whiskey bottle that Greg had handed to her to her lips, tipped it back, and took a swig. Her face twisted as she drank down the copper liquid, then, as she let the bottle drop to her side, her eyes blazed wider and her cheeks were bathed in a sudden flush.

Stan took another puff on his cigarette and then, this time, as he exhaled a breath of thick gray smoke, he moved the cigarette deliberately, slowly, until its burning end was just a couple of inches from Ken’s cheek. “Feel the heat, Kenny?” he said, easing the cigarette closer still to Ken’s face.

There was a single snort of awkward laughter among the surrounding boys, and then an empty perilous silence against the insistent beat of disco music coming from down the hall. The beat merged with the throb of my pulse in my temples. My mouth felt dry, my whole body frozen and breathless, as I watched Ken’s horrified eyes blinking rapidly, his eyelashes fluttering like tiny, nervous wings.

Stan pulled the cigarette away and everyone sucked in a breath. As he took a drag, I noticed a couple of the boys shuffle awkwardly, eyeing Stan and then the door. “Hey, Stan,” one of them said warily, “maybe you should take it easy. I mean, the vicar’s only just down the hall.”

“Yeah, Stan,” said another. “You don’t want him to chuck us out.”

Ken, apparently sensing a shift in the mood of the room, began to back away.

“Like I give a fuck,” Stan said as he reached out and grabbed Ken by the arm. “Not so fast, Kenny boy.” And then, in a swift and unexpected movement, he plunged his cigarette toward Ken’s face.

I stood motionless, unable to move. Ken let out a sound like a bleat, and, his face crumpling like a piece of balled-up paper, he stumbled backward and began to heave out jagged, thunderous sobs.

“Shit, Stan,” one of the boys said as the room was filled with the acrid scent of burned hair. “Did you burn his face? You’ll get the fucking cops on you if you burned his face.”

For a moment, Stan’s face was a mask of joyous fury, his eyes narrowed and still and filled with delight. Then, as if pulled from a dream, his expression changed. “He’s all right,” he said, eyeing Ken. “You’re all right, aren’t you, Ken?” He put his hand on Ken’s shoulder and pulled him upward. “See, I didn’t touch him,” he said, pointing at Ken’s damp but apparently undamaged cheek. The cigarette must only have burned a wayward strand of hair.

At that moment, the door swung open and everyone turned to see who had come in. Even Stan bore a look of alarm. I had a sudden jolt of hope, desperate for rescue by the vicar or one of the other adults supervising the evening’s activities. My hope plunged as Malcolm and Dizzy walked into the room.

Oblivious at first to the scene they had intruded upon, they were talking in fast and excited tones, their features animated. They were all blazing color, Dizzy in a knee-length red velvet dress that settled over her body like a billowing crimson cloud, Malcolm in a pair of pastel blue trousers and a shocking-pink satin shirt. In that first moment I saw them, I felt a streak of envy as bright as their clothes—for the normality that they still occupied, while I stood there horrified. But I saw their faces plummet as they took in the scene around them, and I felt the dread inside me swell.

“Oh, look,” Tracey sneered. “It’s four-eyes and her little fairy friend. What you two doing here? Close the freak show early, did they?”

Greg chuckled. “Hah, freak show—yeah, that’s a good one.”

Tracey beamed. Malcolm and Dizzy exchanged looks.

“You all right, Ken?” Malcolm asked.

“He … he … he tried to burn me. With his cigarette.” Ken gestured shakily toward Stan.

Malcolm looked at Stan, his expression a mixture of confusion and anger. “Jesus Christ!” He began to move toward Ken, past the line of silent onlookers. “Come on, Ken,” he said, his voice soft