Having stayed under the covers until the new clothes were warm, he climbed out and carefully made his bed so as not to offer any opportunity to earn a punishment. He gently kissed the soft stuffed toy lamb which had been his sister’s, hid him gently under the pillow, and went downstairs.
His mother normally didn’t surface until after he had to leave for school, but that morning he found them both up and staring at the television set. Like all young boys his age, he was obsessed with the new colour television in the lounge. There was talk of there being a fifth channel soon, and he just hoped that there would be some programmes he would be allowed to watch.
Seeing both of his parents still and inexplicably silent, he helped himself to a piece of toast from a chipped plate and leaned around their legs to see what was so interesting.
“…have confirmed reports of violent behaviour and cannibalism in those affected by the mysterious disease. Our correspondent in London has more…” said the woman sitting behind her desk on the screen. The picture changed to shaky filming of something he couldn’t make out, like a riot, and his need for information blinded him to the risks of speaking aloud.
“What’s going on?” he asked, feeling the air rip in two with the simultaneous scream and yell of fright that tore from them both. Fearing instant physical reprisal, he threw myself clear and, sure enough, a meaty hand whistled though the air to miss him by an uncomfortable margin. Evidently deciding that he was too far away to be worth the effort of leaving the television screen, his mother satisfied herself by flicking the ash of her cigarette towards him with an accompanying vicious glare.
“Go to school, now!” she shrieked and turned away to reach towards the set to twist the volume dial up high.
Retreating to the kitchen, he looked around for his lunchbox, finding it still bearing the mouldy crusts and wrappers from the last time. His heart dropped with the reminder that his sister wasn’t there to look out for him anymore, and it both saddened him and strengthened his resolve.
Snatching up more toast before he could be noticed again, he opened a kitchen cupboard to grab crisps and the last chocolate biscuit, all crunchy goodness nestled inside its foil and paper wrappers. Then he pulled open the unlocked front door to put his shoes on in the porch. Still being ignored, not that him telling them he was half an hour early would make a difference, the young boy left his parents to their TV and snatched up his parka to head up the lane as he ate the toast.
After walking half a mile past all the farm buildings to his right and open fields to his left, he continued past the three small houses nestled in a side road and surrounded by tall pines. They were called The Pines, ingeniously. Normally there would be some activity there, but today there was nothing. Ignoring the sense of unease he felt, he trudged onwards to pass the only other entrance off the lane before it met the main road. That track always seemed dark and foreboding to him, and together with his sister, he had made up stories about the dark deeds which had occurred there.
Legend had it, or at least the legends they had conjured, that an old woman lived there. Alone in her mansion, she protected the money she had inherited against anyone who came to steal it. That inheritance had cost her family dearly, as she had killed everyone who was ahead of her until it was all hers.
They had laughed about her, not that either of them had ever seen her or even knew if she truly existed, and they took turns in scaring one another when they passed by the overgrown entrance twice a day.
Eventually reaching the wider road, which to his child’s eyes seemed like a motorway because there were white lines painted on the pitted surface, he settled down with his backside on the top bar of a wooden gate to keep the rest of him out of the dewy-wet grass. The toast had long been finished and he considered tucking into the two items which constituted his entire lunch but disciplined himself to hold out.
It wasn’t as though he could beg food from his friends at school at lunch time; with his sister gone he had nobody to speak to now anyway.
As that harsh reality finally convinced his brain of the recent facts and what they meant, his tears flowed to fill the time until the tired coach pulled up to hiss its creaking door open.
TWO
The long coach ride was uncomfortable, as he’d already passed two boys who he knew would pick on him as soon as they were kicked out into the warzone of the playground. Not having his sister to talk to and keep the others away, he knew he would be in for some trouble even before the first bell sounded.
The seats were usually half-filled by the time they climbed on board, but that day there seemed to be fewer children there. He considered this as he stared out of the vibrating window, looking through the shroud of condensation and over rolling fields passing by at speed outside.
All he saw were flashes, glimpses, of the world beyond his control. Sheep in one hilly patch of fenced hillside. Black and white cows in another, a flatter enclosure, a small stream that blinked by, replaced by a pub with a slide and swings in the garden beside it. His journey passed by like this, in reflective loneliness, as he dreaded arriving at school to spend an uncomfortable day in the relative safety of being away from the reach of his parents. As the coach hissed to a jerking stop, he sighed in tired resignation and gathered himself to endure what came next. Stepping down and keeping his eyes on the ground, he made straight for the cover of a massive tree near the entrance, where he just hoped he could avoid any interaction. Kicking his feet in the soft, brown pine needles which had fallen from the high branches, he waited for the bell, but he also waited for what came whenever his sister wasn’t with him.
“Oi, Pee Wee,” came the voice of the boy who had been his tormentor since his first day in school, “where’s your mummy?” he taunted, meaning his sister. That was one of the vagaries of rural life; schools combined on single sites with some classes only holding a handful of kids. Often, school years even combined if there weren’t enough children of the right age, and that varied greatly due to the fact that half of the kids there were from the military base nearby. Whenever vast numbers shipped out, their kids would often move with them and affect the number of empty seats in the school.
The boy who approached him now, yelling out in his high-pitched voice the cruel nickname he had branded him with years before, was called Edward.
And Peter hated him.
He looked up, unwittingly making eye contact with the small, sunken dull eyes buried in the fat, rosy cheeks of the bully walking his way. As always, Edward was flanked by two more boys who enjoyed the humiliation of others. After all, where was the fun in bullying someone without an audience?
“I said where’s your mummy, Pee Wee?” he said again, too loud to be just for his victim’s benefit and obviously planning a display.
“Not coming,” Peter muttered, eyes glued to his shoes as they shuffled uncertainly in the soft, pine-covered dirt.
“Speak up,” Edward barked, emulating the military bearing he saw in others but possessed none of himself. Edward’s father was another farmer, but pigs instead of dairy like the milk farm he lived on. Everything about the boy seemed to get Edward’s back up, and not a day at school had ever gone by without him hurting him in some way.
“She’s not coming,” Peter said slightly louder as he began walking away. Coming out of the warm cover of the tree’s shelter he felt the light rain sting his face just as the sound of footsteps echoed behind him. Edward was chasing him down, his followers easily matching pace with the overweight, pugnacious bully.
“Oi,” he snarled, “where are you going? I haven’t finished talking to you yet!”
Something in the way he spoke reminded Peter of his parents, of the cruelty of having someone in your power and forcing them to endure the expectation of pain before it came. He stopped and turned, seeing the evil glee in Edward’s fat face before he lined up to hit him.
He didn’t know if it was the hunger he felt making him angry. He didn’t know if it was the pain of loneliness and seei
ng his sister taken away, whether it was the air of tingling fear that something bigger was wrong, or whether he had just been pushed too far by a combination of these things.
Acting on instinct, he kicked out, hitting the fat boy in his shin and dropping him to roll around the concrete wailing in high-pitched agony. His followers stopped, both looking at the boy in shock. Neither of them made a move to do anything, not even to protect their fearless leader and certainly not to step into his place.
Peter stood rooted to the spot, holding his ground and wearing a teary-eyed look of determined rage as Edward cried at his feet. The others glanced behind him and backed away, melting into obscurity expertly just as Edward sat up and rolled his trouser leg up to expose a graze and bruising which was already beginning to spread.
“What’s going on here?” said a stern voice from above their heads. The teacher who had seen the altercation, or at least had his attention drawn by the end of it, took one look at the scene he was presented with and grabbed the neck of Peter’s coat roughly. Finding himself hauled round and forced to run on tiptoes to keep pace and not strangle himself, he was whisked away from the danger of instant reprisal towards the school office.
“Peter,” said the voice above him as he was thrust through the wooden doors, “I’m very disappointed in you.”
Me? He thought, why do I get the blame for that?
Those thoughts stayed in Peter’s head, because he had learned long ago never to argue, or the punishments were doubled. He sat in a chair as he was told, eyes fixed on the floor past his dangling shoes which caught the occasional tear falling from his eyes, and he waited for the punishment. He didn’t have to wait long, as he was called in to the headmaster’s office.
“I don’t have time to deal with this today,” he started before Peter had even closed the door behind him. “You will be punished for that,” he went on distractedly pointing a finger at the wall which eventually led towards the playground and the scene of the crime, “and I will write to your parents. With that said,” he went on in a more careful tone, “I am also informed of the circumstances surrounding your sister. So today, instead of having lunch, you will write a letter of apology to Edward.”
The indignation of unfairness combined with the knowledge of her fate stung Peter into looking up, a fire burning inside him that made him want to rage against the teachers and the bully, but he managed to suppress that just in time before he earned more punishment.
“As I have said,” the teacher went on in a lower voice as his eyes darted over papers on the expansive desk, “I have more important things to deal with today, so you can leave now; be back here at lunchtime.”
Peter stood, taking his dismissal stoically, and walked out of the office to the blessed sound of the bell ringing. He shuffled his way towards his class, climbing the single flight of stairs to the first floor of the huge, square building.
Something seemed off; just as the bus had been less populated than usual, so was the school almost half-empty. Pushing through the door into the classroom, he saw too many empty chairs, and the buzz of chatter was higher than normal. He feared the consequences of that noise, evidently alone in that fear as everyone else was talking loudly. Edward hobbled in, emphasising the ridiculous limp he had employed for sympathy, and fixed Peter with a glare that spoke of copious amounts of painful revenge. Pushing that unwelcome thought away, he glanced around at the half-filled desks and was struck by a realisation.
Not one child from the army base was there.
Not sure what that meant, he sat in silence and waited for the teacher. After five minutes, according to the large wall clock that usually ticked noisily but couldn’t be heard over the din now, they were still without a teacher. That had never happened before, and almost as though the children grew collectively bolder by their lack of overlord, the noise rose once more. Just as anarchy threatened to overcome the group, the door burst open and the headmaster stood in the threshold. He looked drawn and stressed, and he declared loudly that all pupils must attend the assembly hall.
As with all creatures of habit, they lined up by the door as a class in register order, like they always had done. The thought that nobody was enforcing the rules never even occurred to any of them. As one, they traipsed back down the stairs in a slow-moving caterpillar-like approximation of their inward journey, then waited as they filed in to sit cross-legged on the polished parquet floor. The noise subsided as the headmaster stood in the centre of the stage and called once for hush.
He spoke only once, then followed his instruction with a glowering look which he fixed on the younger children in the front row. That look silenced them as quickly as his words had, and the silence spread like a disease that rapidly infected the entire room.
Risking a glance around, Peter saw that the back half of the hall was empty when it would normally be full, and that half of the teachers who hovered at tactical points along the outer walls to watch for unruly behaviour were also not there.
“I have an announcement,” the headmaster said loudly, before a screeching, rumbling sound ripped the air as it grew in intensity. The children were all accustomed to the sounds of heavy tanks moving, but this convoy seemed bigger, louder and longer than any they had ever heard before. The seconds stretched into minutes, until finally the roaring din of heavy metal began to subside and fade into the distance.
“I have an announcement,” the head master intoned again finally, holding up a piece of paper and restoring his reading glasses to the end of his nose with his right hand. “School will be closed from now until further notice. All children are to go home until the school instructs them to return.”
The hall erupted into talk, answered by the raised voices and shouts of teachers trying to restore order, which was achieved shortly afterwards. One class at a time they were shepherded out and back to their classes to await their collection from the chilly playground.
After what seemed like an impossibly long time for Peter, spent avoiding Edward and his accomplices whilst maintaining a watchful eye on his whereabouts, the coach returned with a very confused and annoyed looking driver at the wheel. Grateful for the relative safety from persecution, Peter returned to stare out of the same steamed-up windows on the return leg of his daily journey.
Unsurprisingly, he found nobody waiting for him at the end of the road. Occasionally, if the mood took either of them or when there was a false sense of affection towards him and his sister, one of them would bring a vehicle to the end of the road and sit smoking until the coach dropped them off on the far side of the fast stretch. Had there been more traffic, his sister had told him, the road would be very dangerous. As it was, only sporadic cars passed that way even if they did drive fast, and they could be easily avoided.
With a sigh, he looked both ways twice, listened carefully for the sound of any approaching engines, just as his sister had taught him, and carefully stepped across the road to the grass-covered central reservation. Repeating the process for the second road that bore cars coming from his left this time, he crossed again and began the trudge home. Peter hoped that school had telephoned his parents, otherwise he would be accused of missing the bus and lying to get a day off school. Quite why they ever thought he would choose their company over the bullies and the teachers, Peter could never understand.
Opening his lunchbox on the move, he took out the only food he’d had chance to steal and ate it before he returned home and ran the risk of losing it.
THREE
Finally rounding the last bend in the road, the one where his sister had disappeared around, going the other way in the ambulance, Peter came in sight of the farm buildings and the house he called home. Getting to the front door, he put his hand on the handle to turn it, finding it uncharacteristically unyielding.
The doors are never locked, he told himself, trying to fathom why today he couldn’t get back in. His sister would know what to do, but that thought was as useless as the tears he had shed already. Rolling back
the heavy cabinet which held boots and a film of dust and dried mud, Peter found the small leather key fob which was attached to the spare. He wasn’t supposed to know about it, but it had been there for years since his mother had once left her keys in the pub before getting a lift home.
It wasn’t that she was being responsible by not driving their car back, but more that she was so drunk that she didn’t remember driving there, and so abandoned the car by accident. Instead of addressing the larger problem, she had made sure she had a spare in case his father chose not to let her in like he did that time. Having long given up on drinking in public, she had spent the last year drinking cheaper spirits at home, where nobody dared judge her or pass comment on her, bypassing the glass entirely some nights.
Sliding the key into the lock, Peter hesitated before opening it in case it attracted punishment. Leaving the door locked, he replaced the key and the cabinet carefully, then walked a lap around the house to look for something, anything, to explain the strange day’s occurrences.
The car wasn’t on the driveway; not entirely uncommon but less common nowadays since the drinking began at breakfast and carried on through. The dog wasn’t in the house, otherwise she would be barking at his return, but that too wasn’t uncommon as Peter’s father would likely have her at his heel on the farm somewhere. Sitting on the step in the overgrown back garden, Peter tried to think of the best thing to do that wouldn’t get him in trouble.
Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 2