The Traitor Game

by B. R. Collins

  ‘Shut up, Thompson.’ Shitley was scowling incredulously; it was like he couldn’t believe that Michael had the guts to say what he was saying.

  ‘People like you, Shitley – you go round fucking everyone else up, because you’re so messed up yourselves. You don’t dare to admit to yourself that you’re revolting and nauseating and repulsive. And so you torture little boys and get off on it, and you stalk Francis . . . It’s like you’re obsessed. It’s all you can think about – you pretend you’re disgusted by it, but actually you’re just too cowardly to admit you’re one of –’

  ‘I said shut it, tosser!’

  ‘You’re not denying it, are you, Shitley?’ Michael met his eyes squarely; he was thrumming with an odd sort of excitement. A part of his mind said, This won’t work. This is stupid . . . but he wasn’t sure if he cared. ‘What do you do, after you’ve stubbed a cigarette out on someone? Lock yourself in the bog and toss off about it?’

  Shitley took a step forward and pushed him, hard, smacking the heels of his hands into Michael’s shoulders. ‘So you want a fight, do you, loser-boy?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sure you’re up to it?’

  Michael heard the rush of fear in his eardrums, but it seemed a long way away. He made himself shrug, although he did want a fight, sort of. ‘Bet your mates have sussed you already, Shitley. I bet they can see through you. It’s pretty obvious, when you think about it – I mean, why else would someone be so homophobic? It’s like you just can’t help thinking about it, all the time –’

  Another push; harder. This time Michael stumbled backwards with the force of it. ‘No one gives me shit, Thompson. Why don’t you learn from Harris’s mistakes?’

  ‘It’s all right, Shitley, I know what this is about. You just want to touch me, right? You can’t keep your hands off me. You may hit me, but what you really want is to –’

  Shitley’s fists smashed into his breastbone. Michael heard the breath go out of his lungs with the impact, like a sort of reverse gasp, and suddenly his legs weren’t underneath him, where they should have been, but somewhere behind him, dragging him backwards. He fought to keep himself upright. It was all he could do to stay on his feet. Jesus, there was so much force in it; not hurting, exactly, just throwing him off balance, making his feet betray him and stagger back, out of control. He was moving too fast to stop himself; he saw his hands reaching out, clutching at the air like a clown. He fell back against something solid – the wall – and his back smacked squarely against it, his feet scrabbling ridiculously on the carpet.

  Something cracked.

  No – shit, no . . . Glass. Behind him. Not the wall. The window.

  Somehow, suddenly, he was living in slow motion. Not his body, because he didn’t have time to twist, or look over his shoulder, or grab for anything; but his mind was floating in a sea of clarity, amazed at how much it could comprehend. He felt the contact of his shoulder blades on the glass of the window first: and actually had time to think, Oh Jesus, it’s going to break, before he felt the smash spreading out from his back. He had time to want to laugh. And he had time to feel the shards fall away behind him and the momentum still carry him backwards, as certainly as if he was obeying gravity. He even had time to see the door open behind Shitley and wonder if that was Father Bennett or just one of Shitley’s mates – before he was falling properly, backwards and down, through the broken window.

  Then all he had time to think was: Oh, bugger. I bet this is going to hurt.

  .

  .

  Fourteen

  It would have been a good way to go.

  If Michael closed his eyes he could see himself from the outside, falling through the window in a splash of broken glass, his arms outstretched, shards dropping into the flower beds below him. He saw himself spread against the grey sky, hanging, just for a moment, before reality kicked in and he dropped, too quickly for the eye to follow. That was how he remembered it. That was all he had: that image of himself, poised impossibly in front of the window, defying gravity, while the glass rained down around him, reflecting the light. Even if it wasn’t like that at all, really, even if it was just a flailing mess of limbs and torn school uniform and crushed rose bushes and smears of soil and blood and rain. Even if there wasn’t anything clean about it at all, anything dramatic, anything to be proud of – he still had that memory of it, the moment when he’d thought, Yes . . . The moment of flying.

  He didn’t remember landing.

  But he did. He must have done.

  *

  ‘I’m fine. Really. I’m fine. I’m fine.’ He kept saying it, over and over again, because no one seemed to believe him. After a while he started to think, Maybe I should just shut up and let them work it out for themselves, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself. He tried to stand up. ‘Look. I’m fine. Watch. I’m perfectly fine –’ but someone laid a restraining hand on his arm and pushed him firmly back into the smashed flower bed.

  ‘Just stay still, Michael. You’re going to be all right.’

  ‘I know, that’s what I said, I’m absolutely –’ but Father Markham wasn’t listening. Michael raised one arm and waved it around. ‘Look. Everything’s fine. I’m fine. I’m really –’ A drop of blood rolled back down his wrist and soaked into his shirt-cuff. He thought, Oops. Mum’ll go ballistic if I’ve torn this shirt.

  ‘All right, Michael. I heard you. Calm down. We’re just waiting for the ambulance.’

  ‘I don’t need an ambulance. I’m fine . . .’ but no one took any notice. Michael dropped his head back and stared up into the rain. A crowd had gathered; someone was trying to shoo them away. He thought, This is stupid. I’m perfectly all right.

  He heard the paramedics before he saw them; conferring with Father Markham in low voices, ‘Fell out of a window? That one there, on the first floor?’ and Father Markham saying, ‘The one that’s broken, yes . . .’

  But even the paramedics didn’t take any notice of him. When they leant over him he tried to tell them he was fine, really, he was fine, and they swapped a look that said, Hmm, looks like this one’s in shock, he can’t stop talking . . . He said, ‘Look, I’m fine, I don’t need an ambulance, I’m fine, I’m just a bit –’

  ‘OK, mate, let’s just take you to hospital, get you checked over.’ It wasn’t like he had a choice. In the end he just gave up and thought, Stuff it, if they want to waste their time . . . and parts of him were starting to hurt a bit, anyway. From the corner of his eye he could see flecks and smears of blood on his shirt, a long cut across the back of one hand. And he thought something might have happened to his wrist. He closed his eyes against the rain and felt the damp soak through his hair. He almost wanted to fall asleep, right here, surrounded by idiots. In a way it was sort of restful, not having to worry, not taking any responsibility. At least no one had asked what had actually happened.

  He thought, Oh, bollocks. Mum.

  As they were putting him in the ambulance he said, ‘Have you, has someone called my mum?’

  Father Markham was obviously coming with him to Casualty. He said, ‘Yes, of course, Michael. There’s no need to worry. I’ll call her again from the hospital.’

  ‘No – I didn’t want you to . . .’ But they’d all gone deaf again. Michael stared at the air in front of his face and thought, Great. She’ll kill me. Or she’ll go to Father Murdoch and tell him I’m being bullied –

  It was like his mind stopped dead; then it started again, like a CD skipping.

  Oh Lord. Oh, Jesus Christ . . . He’d called Shitley a twisted evil bastard. He’d said . . . oh God. He’d said all that stuff –

  For a moment he felt the old panic, the old reflex of dread. Don’t fight back. And then, suddenly, he felt relief, burning down his spine like electricity, so strong it almost brought tears to his eyes. It was nearly the euphoria he’d felt as he went through the window: falling without fear, losing without minding that he’d lost. An excitement, like being high, like floating, like freedom . . . As thou
gh somehow he’d won – not against Shitley, maybe, but against himself. Against the terror. It was a weird, skewed victory: but it was still a victory.

  He was still smiling when they got to the hospital.

  .

  He was fine. He kept saying he was fine, every time someone asked him, and by the time his mum came to pick him up they’d all agreed that except for the broken wrist and superficial cuts and grazes and bruises and bits of embedded glass and flower bed – apart from all that, well, yes, they supposed he was basically fine. But they wouldn’t let him wait outside; he had to sit with Father Markham on the plastic hospital chairs, clutching the painkillers they’d given him in his free hand. If Father Markham hadn’t been there he’d have walked home on his own; he didn’t want to see his mum, much less have to explain what had happened. What was he going to say? Shitley pushed me out of a window. Shitley was taking the piss out of Francis, so I . . . I was winding Shitley up, so he pushed me . . . I was in a fight . . . And the worst thing was, he couldn’t help being proud of it. I called Shitley a pathetic sadistic shit. Me.

  As soon as he saw her come through the doors he stood up and started walking; behind him Father Markham struggled to his feet, putting his vending-machine coffee down sloppily on the floor.

  ‘Michael!’ She half ran towards him, one hand clutching the strap of her handbag. ‘Are you all right? What happened? Your teacher said –’ She turned and saw Father Markham. ‘Oh, Father, thank you for looking after him. What happened? I was so worried.’

  For a horrible moment Michael thought she might burst into tears. Jesus, no, please . . . He felt his whole face – no, his whole head – start to go red.

  Father Markham said, ‘Apparently Michael fell out of a window. We haven’t got to the bottom of it yet.’ He gave Michael a sharp, but not uncharitable, look. ‘I can assure you it will all be sorted out tomorrow.’

  ‘Fell out of a window?’ Her face was shocked, then suddenly guarded, deliberately blank. There was something unreadable in her gaze as she looked at Michael. It made him uneasy.

  ‘I’m sure Michael will be able to enlighten you further.’ Father Markham smiled at her briefly. ‘He was very lucky to get away with only a broken wrist. Now, I’m afraid I should be getting back to school.’

  She nodded; Michael saw her make an effort to smile. ‘Can we give you a lift?’

  ‘Thank you. That would be very kind.’

  Michael sat in the back seat, listening to them making strained small talk, and was glad he didn’t have to join in. But after his mum had dropped Father Markham at the school gates and done a three-point turn in the driveway, she didn’t say anything at all. If she hadn’t been driving he’d have wondered if she’d died. In the end he almost said, ‘OK, Mum, why don’t you just stop the car and have a go at me now?’ The silence filled the car like snow, smothering, bitterly cold. He could feel how furious she was; he tried not to care, but he did. The euphoria had gone.

  When they got through the front door he started to count in his head. One, two, three, four, five . . . he walked up the stairs. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve –

  ‘Michael. Come down here, please.’

  He paused. Then, slowly, heavily, he stumped back down the stairs again. She was sitting at the kitchen table, hands flat in front of her. He sat down at the table and focused on her wedding ring; it was easier than looking at her face. He thought, What can she do? She can’t actually do anything. Ground me? Stop my allowance? Hate me?

  She swallowed; it sounded very loud. ‘What happened, Michael? And I want the truth.’

  But the truth was too big, too complicated, even if he’d wanted to try. The best he could do was not to lie. He said, ‘It was kind of a fight.’

  ‘Who with?’

  He almost said, No one. ‘Just someone in my year.’

  She was staring at him; he could feel it, even though he wasn’t looking at her. ‘Kind of a fight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not a proper fight, then?’ She was getting at something. There was an edge to her voice. Michael raised his eyes to her face, in spite of himself, but it didn’t make it any clearer. She said, ‘What kind of a fight was it, Michael?’

  He thought, If I say, Shitley pushed me, she’ll think I’m being bullied again. She won’t listen, even if I try and explain. He said, ‘Just a – what do you mean, what kind of fight? It was just a fight. It wasn’t anything serious –’

  ‘Not serious? Michael, you could have been killed. You’ve got a broken wrist as it is! How dare you try to tell me it wasn’t serious!’ She had half risen to her feet; he saw her knuckles whiten as she sat down again, as though she was anchoring herself with her hands. ‘Don’t lie to me, Michael. I want to know. Whatever happened. I don’t care how bad it was. You have to tell me.’

  He met her eyes. It was that look: I know you’re being beaten up and I am going to your headmaster and I will make sure he Sorts This Out once and for all. He looked away, tried to bite down on the anger. He didn’t have to tell her anything. Why should he? So she could muscle in on his life and screw it up even more than he had already? He said, ‘I’m not being bullied, if that’s what you think.’

  ‘Then what, Michael? Am I supposed to believe that you just fell out of a window?’ She stopped, suddenly, oddly, as though she’d given something away.

  He thought: No. I didn’t just fall. Shitley pushed me because I finally had the guts to tell him what I thought of him. And I’m glad I did. I’d be glad even if he’d killed me. He muttered, ‘It was a fight. I said.’

  She stood up; for a weird horrible moment Michael was sure she was going to lean across the table and hit him. But she walked stiffly over to the kettle, picked it up, walked to the sink, filled it with water, took it back, turned it on . . . Everything was very deliberate. She turned round to face him. ‘Michael. For God’s sake, why won’t you talk to me?’ There was a kind of desperation in her voice that shamed him. He didn’t know what to say. In the silence he heard her heave a great unsteady breath. ‘I wish – oh Lord, Michael . . . why don’t you just tell me? I promise I won’t judge you for it. I promise –’ She swallowed. ‘Please. Whatever you did, whatever you were trying to do . . .’

  He looked up, met her eyes. God, her expression. Like she couldn’t speak the right language, and knew it. Like there was something she couldn’t say.

  Whatever you were trying to do . . .

  He said slowly, ‘You think I jumped.’

  She didn’t answer. But then, she didn’t need to. It was enough, just the way she looked down, away from him, and pushed her hair away from her temple.

  ‘I didn’t. Oh, Mum . . . I didn’t.’ Silence. ‘Mum. Dominic Shipley pushed me because I called him a – because I was winding him up.’ He tried to smile. ‘Anyway, come on, Mum, if I was going to jump out of a window I’d at least open it first.’ She snorted. ‘And I wouldn’t choose one on the first floor. I’d go up on the main-building roof and do it properly. I’m not an idiot. If I was really trying to kill myself I wouldn’t end up in a flower bed with a broken wrist, like a tit.’

  Then he realised she was crying. She brought her hands up to her face and turned to face the wall, sobbing, leaning forward as if she could hide between the bread-bin and the kettle. Oh, bollocks . . . He watched her shoulders shaking, heard the jagged wet noise of her breathing.

  ‘Jesus, Mum . . .’ He went up to her carefully, the way he would have approached a damaged animal. ‘Mum, I didn’t. It’s OK, please, I’m sorry, Mum, please don’t cry, I’m really sorry . . .’ He was scared she’d push him away, but she let him put an awkward arm round her. His other hand was in the sling; he patted her shoulder and then pulled a bit of kitchen towel off the roll and offered it to her. ‘Mum, please, I didn’t, I promise I didn’t, Shitley pushed me, that’s all . . .’ He carried on, not listening to what he was saying, until she took her hands away from her face and sniffed emphatically.

  ‘Sorry, darling.’ Sh
e took the square of kitchen towel and blew her nose. She had strands of hair clinging to her cheeks and her nose was red, so that for a second Michael felt older than her. Then suddenly she turned to hug him, holding him tightly like he was a little kid. ‘I was just so worried that you might have –’

  ‘No, I didn’t, I really didn’t . . .’ And suddenly he felt a wave of relief, gratitude, almost, that it wasn’t like before. This time she’d just got it wrong. ‘It’s OK. Really. Mum, it’s fine.’ He closed his eyes and let his chin rest on the top of her head. It was strange, the way he could feel the guilt dissolving, like ice melting. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t because he was a victim or a loser.

  She said, ‘Thank God,’ and looked up at him. ‘But you would tell me, wouldn’t you? If things ever got so bad that you felt that you – that you wanted to do something to yourself? You’d tell me?’

  Michael hugged her back with his free arm, as hard as he could. ‘Yes. You know I would.’ He wasn’t sure it was true, but it didn’t matter.

  The doorbell rang. Michael didn’t move. His mum gave him a final squeeze and then detached herself briskly. ‘I’d better get it, darling.’

  ‘Right.’ He let her go and stood where he was, listening.

  ‘Francis! Come in. Yes, he’s fine, well, he’s broken his wrist, silly boy, but he’s all right apart from that, and cuts and grazes and so on . . . It’s sweet of you to come round.’

  Francis was a lot of things, but Michael wasn’t sure he’d ever call him sweet. He felt a kind of approximation of a smile happen in his head somewhere. Then Francis said, ‘Thanks, I just wanted to check he was OK,’ and Michael really did smile, because of the voice, the politeness, the way he didn’t say, Wow, you think I’m sweet, gosh, thanks . . .