Pica

by Jeff Gardiner

  ‘Where is the magpie now?’

  ‘I put it on the compost heap. Used a shovel.’

  She shivered again.

  I was relieved that she hadn’t noticed the pellet wounds in the magpie and had just put it down to nature’s scheme of things. I finished the cups of tea, which we drank in the kitchen, while discussing Mum’s cleaning plans. She had what she called ‘wacky, exciting’ ideas about rearranging the cupboards and their contents, so I had to spend about half an hour nodding and pretending to listen, worried that I’d nod when I should shake my head. I got away with it.

  Eventually, Dad returned home and I went with him to the recycling centre – really just a new name for the dump – before it closed. My life really is a never-ending rollercoaster! Funny thing was I went to find the dead magpie but it wasn’t there – perhaps Frisky had eaten it.

  Then my worst nightmare came true. I was hanging about in the locker area with Simon and Pete when Simon nudged me. I turned my head in the direction he was looking and there stood Guy. I checked the other two weren’t suspicious about his presence and gave Guy a snarling, dirty look. He just smiled and gave me a really camp wave, his elbow tucked in against his ribs and a quick shake of his floppy hand as if he was about three years old.

  ‘Who the hell are you lookin’ at, incontinence boy?’ Simon hissed aggressively. He turned to me to check my reaction. I couldn’t be seen to be anything other than against this boy who had so quickly become the laughing stock of the entire school.

  ‘Yeah! Sod off, you weirdo,’ I said with as much conviction as I could manage.

  Seeing his face redden and his eyes moisten made me angry. Something inside me really made me want to hit him. Survival instincts, I guess.

  ‘I can’t see any wet patches yet, can you?’ Pete laughed.

  ‘No,’ Simon giggled, ‘but if we stay near him much longer we’ll be paddling in his piss.’

  ‘The whole school’ll be flooded,’ Pete snorted.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said with half a smile. ‘And we ain’t got our scuba gear on. Let’s go.’

  I pulled the other two away, so that the teasing would stop and I wouldn’t have to look Guy in the face any more.

  The other two came with me as I pulled them, although Simon just could not resist having the final word.

  ‘Don’t cwy, wickle baby,’ he said in a stupid voice, pretending to rub both eyes with his fists. ‘Mummy will give oo some yummy milk and wock oo to sleep.’

  We walked off laughing, although I felt guilty about the reference to his mum. Pete kept repeating the name ‘incontinence boy’ and that’s how we referred to him from then on. Simon later took to calling him ‘that wee lad’ in a bad Scottish accent – followed by a self-approving snigger.

  Later that same day I was in the dinner queue with Connor when Guy brushed past me with his tray.

  ‘Oi, watch it!’ Connor shouted on my behalf.

  Guy looked up shyly. ‘S-sorry. It was an accident.’ Then he saw me. ‘Oh, hi, Luke. How are you?’ His whiny, high-pitched voice made the incident even worse.

  Connor stared at me. ‘Do you know this tosser? Is he your friend or something?’

  It felt as though the entire school had stopped to watch me; like I’d been sucked into a momentary vacuum of silence and anticipation.

  ‘Friend?’ I sneered. ‘He ain’t no friggin’ friend of mine. Get lost, piss-pants.’ The world carried on as usual, except for Guy who continued looking directly at me; his eyes boring into my very being. Then he broke away and walked off without looking back. I struggled to concentrate in French that afternoon.

  Chapter Six

  That night I remember suddenly sitting up in bed. I reached out gingerly for the glass of water I’d brought up with me. Lifting it to my lips I took a big gulp. Something hard rolled between my tongue and teeth, forcing me to spit out the water in a wide spray. Water dribbled down my chin, but I’d managed to eject the small, unidentified object. What was it? A spider? What would’ve happened if I’d swallowed it? It could have laid millions of eggs inside me which would hatch into creatures ready to consume my whole body slowly from the inside out. I even managed to spook myself out with the thought.

  After creeping out of bed, I sneered at my own stupidity and retrieved the sacred Desert Eagle, reloading it with fresh ball-bearings. Through the already open window I scanned the garden for moving targets. Nothing stirred in the large oak tree, still visible against the light of the moon and stars. Then I heard the sound I’d been waiting for, like a girl screaming. It was a vixen. That was my dream prey – a fox. I ran the film through my head; of me shooting it, cutting off the brush tail, and taking it into school to impress the lads and scare the girls. It would be like in the old days when hunters brought back the heads of lions and antelopes as trophies and stuck them on the wall. How cool would that be?

  And then … from behind the back fence I saw a shadow – exactly fox sized and shaped. Yes! Luck favoured me, it seemed. I could just make out the fox’s form slinking round the edges of the garden, sniffing out for rubbish and things to scavenge. Now it was mine. I held the pistol firmly until the shadow was squarely in my sights. Squeeze gently. Stay calm. No sudden movement. Was this what it was like to be a sniper? A cold-hearted killer? There must be no emotion, just a thorough, swift job. No trail or clue left behind. The repeater mechanism allowed me to pump half a dozen pellets into the soft flesh. No mercy … no surrender. Take no prisoners: shoot first, ask questions later.

  I donned yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt and tiptoed cautiously out of my bedroom, taking care not to tread on the two squeaky steps on the stairs. Luckily, Mum and Dad were heavy sleepers. Once I’d negotiated the stairs it was an easy job to get to the kitchen, grab the carving knife from the wooden block, pocket a small torch, and unlock the back door. I slipped on my dad’s wellies – which was a mistake as they were way too big and I had to arch my toes up as I walked to stop them falling off.

  What the hell was I supposed to do with the body? Hell! – I hadn’t really thought this one through properly. Would I get away with chucking it over the fence and pleading ignorant? Probably not. Wait, behind the shed was a whole pile of rotten waste, now a compost heap. It reeked because Dad never got round to sorting it out. It wouldn’t be found in there – or by the time it had, it would be just a skeleton. No one would be any the wiser.

  Gripping the knife tightly, I took a deep breath and shuffled in the big boots towards the back fence. I could make out a crumpled, furry body just ahead of me in the scant light of the half-moon. I felt a moment of pathos. Here was death, that big scary thing everybody feared the most. I was in the presence of death. And yet I didn’t feel scared. It was just a load of bones in a fur coat. Then I remembered that there might be blood. Would I actually have the courage to touch it? It felt like a rite of passage, one of those moments in my life when I might finally be growing up and really becoming independent.

  As I inched forward I bent down, close to the furry heap. I squinted a little in the gloom and stared at my night’s work. Something was wrong. I fumbled in my pocket for the torch and flicked it on, looked again at the body, and switched it off abruptly.

  I snatched up the soft, still-warm heap and gasped. No! Surely not! I brought it nearer to my face and cursed myself. It wasn’t a fox at all.

  Frisky! I’d killed Frisky! I fell to my knees.

  Limp and inert. Now I recognised the beautiful tabby markings. What the hell had I done? Dropping the dead cat, I jammed my hand over my mouth and silently sobbed. Convulsions took over my body.

  What was going on?

  What the hell was he doing outside? He never went outside. The family pet had been a part of my life for ten years. This was worse than terrible. My whole body shook uncontrollably. How would I ever be able to explain this? I couldn’t leave the body there – I’d be found out. I had to think quickly.

  In the shed was a spade and fortunately Mum and Dad’s bedro
om was round the front, so they wouldn’t hear a thing. Quickly finding it, I took it behind the shed where there was a metre gap between it and the fence. The sickly sweet stink filled my nostrils. Hot and hampered by the darkness, I quickly cleared a little space. As I pulled back old twigs and rotten grass cuttings, I felt something scamper over my boot. A rat? It spooked me out so much that in the end I didn’t bother digging a hole. Instead, I used the spade to open up the compost heap about halfway down, then picking up the dead cat, dropped it in and pushed the top back down again. Soon Frisky’s body was well hidden, not only in the compost heap, but by all the debris cluttering up that space, where I could only desperately hope nobody would investigate in the near future.

  Now I had to consider what to do when Frisky was discovered to be missing. Cats often disappear. I would offer to design a lost cat poster and be forced to play-act for several days.

  Remembering to replace the spade in the shed, I picked up the knife and returned to the kitchen, locking the back door carefully. I washed and dried the knife, then crept stealthily upstairs. Back in my room I realised I’d stupidly left the BB gun openly on my bed. Thank God neither Mum nor Dad had come in. I scrambled out of my jeans and T-shirt and climbed back into bed, cradling the Desert Eagle to my chest, having switched on the safety catch.

  My head began to throb. A pain behind my eyes slowly spread to my temples and then to my neck. The pain became more acute and stopped me from sleeping. I just lay there in a panic. How stupid am I? There was nobody else to blame this time. Frisky’s death was my fault. I’d have to live with it, haunting me forever.

  So I lay awake all night. By the time the radio alarm went off I felt drained and ached all over. I heard Mum coming to check I was awake as she always did on the way to the shower. As the door opened I realised I still held the air pistol, so I rapidly shoved it under the pillow.

  ‘I don’t feel too good today,’ I croaked, attempting to sound pathetic.

  ‘Come on, Luke, you can’t miss school just because you feel tired. Your father and I have got things to do and we can’t stay at home to look after you. You’ll be fine once you’re up and washed. Please don’t give us hassle.’

  ‘You need to man up, son,’ came Dad’s voice from the landing.

  I heard Dad go downstairs. I waited. Had I left any clues of my night-time adventure? But I could only hear Dad whistling above the noise of the kettle.

  Once I got into the shower, I heard through the open window Dad calling for Frisky and my heart sank as I thought through the potential consequences of my stupidity. Then I heard Mum and Dad had an animated discussion about the cat. I scrubbed my face and got ready for my award-winning performance in the role of ‘innocent young kid’.

  I’d never told quite so many lies before breakfast, but I held my nerve as so far, no clues could possibly lead to me. Could they? I’d covered my tracks pretty well. When Mum started crying I felt truly awful and considered blurting out the truth, but I knew I mustn’t weaken and that things would soon blow over. Not yet, but in a few days’ time I might suggest the possibility of getting a cute, fluffy little kitten. That should distract my parents’ attention away from me.

  Pulling my school bag over my shoulder, I resigned myself to another day’s complete boredom in the classroom. I turned to say goodbye.

  ‘Oh, it looks like another sunny day today. I think I’ll wash the bed sheets. Can you make sure all whites are in the basket, please.’

  The image of Mum stripping my bed suddenly made me panic. The gun! It was under my pillow!

  ‘Oh, I’ll do my bed for you, Mum.’

  Mum was, understandably, taken aback. ‘Oh, thanks. That would be kind.’

  ‘Well, I know you’re busy and I’d hate to cause you extra trouble.’

  ‘Sure. You carry on. I’ll be up in a sec to help.’

  I’d never run up the stairs so quickly. I dashed into the room, slid my hand under the pillow, grasped the gun, and slotted it into the small opening in the zip of my schoolbag. Once that was done I wheeled round just as Mum reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘Wow. This is a first – someone helping me to do some housework. More than your father does.’ She’d already ripped off the duvet and untucked the fitted sheet. I pulled the pillows from their cases and helped to peel the duvet from its covering.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Mum in her still-surprised tone. ‘Please feel free at any time whatsoever to help me again.’

  I saluted, patted my bag, and scarpered.

  Chapter Seven

  No Guy at school. In fact, he didn’t come in for the rest of the week. It could have been because he was ill, but more likely it had something to do with what Mum said – that he was school-phobic. Phobia means fear, so that must mean Guy was scared of going to school, which sounded a bit wimpy to me. Sometimes in life you’ve got to get a grip; man up, grit your teeth, and get on with it. Then I wondered if I could be school-phobic for a while and have some time off, because on the face of it, it actually sounded like a good plan. Maybe Guy wasn’t such an idiot after all.

  As usual Simon was waiting for me by the front gates, slightly away from the older group of stoners who stood by the tree on the corner smoking. As I walked past them, I saw the roll-up being handed around, and wondered what it was like to sit through double science in a stoned haze. Perhaps it made Mrs Blewitt’s lessons slightly more interesting. After all, they usually ruined my Friday morning. She even managed to make sex sound dull; according to her, human reproduction is merely functional and slightly unpleasant. It almost put me off thinking about it.

  The smokers, older kids I didn’t really know, approached me with snarls and vicious expletives, generally translating as advice to move away swiftly and not return in the foreseeable future. Simon and I gladly obliged them.

  ‘Got something to show you, Si,’ I gestured secretively, as we dawdled into the school grounds. Simon looked round in the manner of a spy scanning the area for enemy agents.

  ‘What is it, mate?’

  ‘Here,’ I said, opening my bag surreptitiously. ‘Look but don’t touch.’

  Simon craned his neck and peered into the darkness of the sports bag.

  ‘Bloody hell, Luke! You going to shoot the teachers? Bit of a drastic way of avoiding doing work, isn’t it?’ Simon’s face contorted comically. ‘Have you lost the plot or what?’

  ‘I’m not actually going to use it, you prat.’ I frowned, upset by this negative reaction.

  ‘Why’d you bring it school then?’ Simon still looked at me in disbelief.

  ‘It’s a long story. Cool though, eh?’

  ‘Er … suppose so. Yeah,’ Simon replied. His continued lack of enthusiasm was really irritating.

  ‘But it’s a Desert Eagle … Magnum.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, flippin’ hell man, you’re no good. All the big Hollywood action stars use this gun – Arnie, Stallone, Van Damme, Will Smith. Angelina Jolie. Haven’t you seen The Matrix? Agent Smith uses one.’ I took a position and changed my expression as I attempted an impression of the character. ‘Mr Anderson – we meet again.’’

  Simon laughed politely to show his recognition and when I pretended to shoot him with his fingers Simon performed the classic slow-mo ‘bullet-time’ reaction – bending backwards until almost in the crab position.

  ‘What are you two nonces up to now?’

  I zipped up my bag and slung it swiftly over my shoulder before spinning round to see Connor approaching.

  ‘You wusses working out a dance routine, are you? Come and play football … or are you too scared to join in a real man’s game?’ His laugh sounded like the hiss of a punctured tyre.

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ Simon said, nodding in resignation. Connor always enjoyed tackling the opposition heavily on the tarmac, usually winding them and bruising a few ribs with his pointy elbows. Well, we’d have to give back as much as he gave. I nodded wryly.

  ‘Great,’ C
onnor chuckled. ‘We need your bags as goalposts.’

  I hoped I’d remembered to put on the safety catch.

  Science was predictably dull. Mrs Blewitt showed us the different parts of an insect: head, thorax, and abdomen. We labelled an expanded picture of a stag beetle; a gigantic beast – which I thought would look great in a jam jar. I copied the word ‘antennae’ from the text book, then, freehanded, drew a shaky line towards one of the feelers protruding from the photocopied beetle.

  ‘Miss,’ I called out without putting up my hand. ‘Why can’t we have real insects in the lab? You could keep them in a tank, you know, breed ’em. Then we could pin one down and dissect it.’

  ‘Yeurgh!’ shrieked two of the girls, turning around to scowl at me.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked shrugging. ‘My dad said he used to dissect rats, frogs, and fish in his science lessons. Why can’t we do something cool like that?’

  ‘Oh, gross!’

  ‘Be quiet, Luke,’ Miss Blewitt called out from her desk. ‘If you don’t like the way we teach you then write a letter to the Minister for Education. I’m sure he’d be fascinated by your proposals.’

  With a tut and sigh, which the teacher ignored, I sat back on my stool and looked around at everyone else working diligently.

  Eventually, the bell went and I scarpered to my locker to grab my French book and sling in the science stuff.

  Chapter Eight

  As I trudged through the doorway of the Languages classroom, my way became blocked by the tall, dark-suited figure of Mr Saddler, the Deputy Head.

  ‘Go and wait in my office,’ he told me, then muttered something to the French teacher, who nodded earnestly and tapped something into the register on his laptop. Somewhat bemused, I turned slowly around and trudged back, then left towards the front offices. I’d done nothing wrong today, there was no need to worry. I stopped outside the door bearing his name and rank.