by Sam Haysom
‘Oh man, your face.’ He croaked the words out between deep, whooping breaths. ‘Your fucking face.’
When he remembered that moment later as he lay fuming in his sleeping bag, Gary thought that Tramper had stood watching him laugh for an age. He felt as though that moment, as James’ wide-eyed expression had slowly changed to one of frowning confusion and then finally to a red-faced, angry realisation, had lasted for several minutes. In reality, though, it could only have been a few seconds at most.
Gary was still doubled over with laughter when James charged at him.
It took him completely by surprise. One moment Tramper was standing there gaping, the next he was rushing across the grass with his face twisted into a furious snarl, and before Gary could move or react in any way James’ full weight was barrelling into him.
James struck him low, his shoulder catching Gary in the ribs, and Gary went down, winded. His shoulder caught the trunk of the tree and flared briefly with pain. James stumbled and went down on one knee, then regained his balance and stood over Gary, breathing heavily.
‘Fuck you,’ he shouted. His face was red and he looked as though he was about to cry. ‘Fucking bastard.’
Gary sucked in deep breaths and rolled over onto his side. He felt the cold dew of the grass pressing against his cheek. Shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain, he got a hand under himself and pushed up onto one knee.
He still felt shock and pain, but they were quickly being replaced by anger.
‘What the fuck was that?’
The words came out in a wheeze. Gary wiped his eyes and looked up at James, who was still standing over him. He still looked like he was about to cry, but he seemed unsure what to do next.
‘Why me, Gary? Why is it always me?’ James looked down at him and then his face seemed to sag and then he did start to cry, and there was something about his reddening features that made Gary more furious than ever. With his round cheeks and blotchy skin he looked like a giant, wailing baby. He looked pathetic. Gary climbed slowly to his feet and straightened up, still clutching his ribs. Standing directly in front of James, he was almost half a foot taller.
‘It’s because you’re a fat, whiny, useless shit.’ Gary put a special emphasis on every word, spitting them out into Tramper’s blubbering face one at a time. ‘You’re a fucking fat dickhead and you can’t even take a joke.’
He lashed out with his right hand and shoved James in the chest as he shouted the last word. James stumbled back, startled, and Gary was moving forward to push him again when he heard someone yelling his name.
He turned and saw Tom racing towards him through the mist, with Matt just a bit further behind him.
‘What the fuck are you doing, leave him alone!’ Tom shouted the words as he ran towards them, and Gary felt a flash of fear when he saw the look on Tom’s face.
Gary stood still, frozen to the spot while confusion and adrenalin surged through him, and all of a sudden Tom was standing directly in front of him and gripping the front of his coat in one large hand.
‘What the fuck is your problem, can’t you see he’s upset?’
‘He’s not, I didn’t…’ Gary tried to find the words to explain what had just happened, to explain that he’d just been defending himself, but nothing came. ‘It was just a joke.’
‘It’s always just a joke with you, Gary,’ said Matt. He was standing behind Tom, staring at Gary wearily. ‘It’s not a joke when you’ve made someone cry, is it?’
‘Oh fuck you,’ Gary yelled. ‘You’re always on his fucking side, aren’t you, always pandering to that fat, whiny dickhead even when he—’
Gary didn’t even see Tom swing. One minute he was shouting at Matt, and the next he caught a brief flash of movement and felt something thump hard into his mouth. At the same time he felt Tom’s hand let go of its hold on his shirt, and he stumbled back a pace and sat down heavily on the grass. He moved his hand over to touch his lip. When he took his fingers away he could see blood on the tips.
Tom stood by the tree, breathing heavily. The anger had gone from his face and he looked unsure now, almost afraid.
‘You hit me.’ Gary mumbled the words stupidly, staring from Tom to the blood on his fingers and back again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Matt walking over to James and putting a hand on his shoulder, asking him if he was okay. Then the three boys just stood there, staring down at Gary. Later he’d remember the looks on their faces, and the fact that none of them came over and offered to help him up. He’d remember that time the Year 10 boy had tripped James up in the corridor, and how he’d chased after him and punched the boy in the face. The way James had hugged him afterwards in thanks. Mostly, though, he remembered their eyes staring down at him. The mingled expressions of confusion, pity and fear.
Then Mr Stevens’ voice was floating through the mist, and a few seconds later him and Tim emerged to stand behind Tom. Mr Stevens took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve, then put them back on and looked at each of the boys in turn.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
Gary wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and climbed up onto his knees. Tom moved forward suddenly and held out a hand to help him, but Gary knocked it to one side and stood up on his own.
‘Mate, I—’
‘Just forget about it,’ Gary muttered.
Without looking back at them, he turned and began striding back to the rocky outcrop to pick up his bag.
3
He’d barely spoken a word for the rest of the day.
Matt had tried to speak to him a couple of times and he’d mumbled one-word responses, but when Tom offered him a cereal bar later in the afternoon he hadn’t even looked at him.
Matt and Tom had spent the afternoon walking together, occasionally muttering to each other in low voices. James had tagged along by their side, his head down, not saying much.
Mr Stevens and Tim had carried on pretty much as normal; they obviously knew something had happened, but Mr Stevens appeared to know better than to ask. Tim was his usual, quiet self. When they’d finally stopped to set up camp, Gary sat a few metres apart from the rest of them, eating his Wayfarer meal on his own.
He chewed every mouthful hard, not really tasting what he was eating, concentrating instead on the anger and sense of injustice that was pulsing through his head like a migraine.
They’d all gone to bed early that night, and Matt had wandered over to Gary as he was about to climb into the tent.
‘Mind if I bunk with you?’ Matt said. He grinned uncertainly, and Gary could tell he was testing the waters to see if Gary was still angry.
Well, let him fucking test.
‘Whatever,’ Gary muttered. He climbed into the tent and unrolled his sleeping bag without making eye contact with Matt. Five minutes later, when Matt had crawled in after him, he hadn’t said anything.
Now it was God knew what fucking time, and Gary was still too angry to even feel tired.
Fucking Tom. Fucking Matt. Fucking Tramper.
He thought of the way Tramper had charged him and knocked him down, just because he couldn’t take a prank. Gary had reacted as any normal person would do, defending himself, only to get punched by another one of his so-called friends. He remembered how they’d all huddled together that afternoon after it had happened, the three fucking musketeers, talking about Gary behind his back and shooting sneaky glances at him that they didn’t think he’d notice.
But he did notice. He noticed and he was going to get them back.
Saying your mantra before bed was okay, that was fine, but getting revenge was an even better way to get rid of anger. Gary had learned that lesson as a little kid. Whenever his dad had done something really bad to him – hitting him or making him cry, for instance – Gary had filed the memory away. And every one of those times he’d paid the old man back in some secretive way.
Sometimes it was something small, like hiding his cigarettes or pouring some of his
whisky down the sink – normally when the old bastard had gotten drunk and passed out, that way he never remembered how much he’d actually drunk and Gary never got caught. Other times it was something more creative.
One time he’d gone into the bathroom, locked the door and then run the bristles of his dad’s toothbrush under the rim of the toilet, making sure there were no visible lumps of shit when he put the thing back. Another time, when his dad was out, he’d pissed against the side of his car.
They were small victories; nothing his dad would ever find out about. But that didn’t matter.
Gary knew about them.
Gary leaned over and checked his watch once more, pressing one of the buttons on the side to light up the digital display in a yellow glow. 01:38. Even later than the fucking witching hour, ha-ha.
Gary lay back against his shitty inflatable pillow – God knew why he’d ever even agreed to come camping in the first place, everyone knew camping was a fucking nightmare – and thought about how he could get them. Images of revenge swam in front of his eyes. He saw himself silently unzipping his tent and creeping over to the tent Tom and Tramper were sharing, then carefully opening the flap at the front, being sure not to wake them. He’d slip in barefoot, not making any noise, then find their bags and take out the most important stuff. All the things they really couldn’t do without. Maybe their coats or their food. Shit, maybe he’d even pick up their shoes. He’d gather it all together and then take it outside of the tent – maybe go for a little walk with the stuff so he was a safe distance from the camp – and then he’d set fire to the lot. Burn, baby, burn.
Gary saw fire dancing in the darkness in front of his closed eyes, flames licking against the night sky as Tramper’s North Face coat twisted and crumpled into a black ball. He saw the whole lot go up. The flames spread in front of him and he could actually hear them, he could hear them starting to whisper.
Gary smiled, finally drifting towards sleep.
He was standing in front of a huge bonfire, watching his friends’ possessions burn and listening to the flames murmur. It was cold, even by the fire, and he was moving closer to try to get some heat into his skin, he was stepping closer and the whispering of the flames was growing louder, an insistent mutter that sounded like low voices, and—
Gary jerked awake in his sleeping bag. He’d been on the edge of sleep, drifting through that limbo between thinking and dreaming, but something had brought him back. Some noise. Gary lay in the dark and strained his ears.
For a second, so brief he thought he might have imagined it, he heard whispered voices below the sound of the wind.
Gary held his breath and sat up in his sleeping bag. He glanced over at Matt, but he was nothing but a bulky shape curled up in the darkness. It hadn’t been him that had made the noise.
Gary was pretty sure it had come from outside.
Was that what I was hearing just now, as I was drifting off? he thought. People speaking outside the tent?
For the second time on the trip, Gary felt a faint hint of unease. He shut his eyes and strained his ears once more, but now there was definitely nothing. Just the wind.
Jumping at ghosts, sunshine, whispered his dad’s voice. First you let a boy hit you, and now you’re getting scared of old wives’tales. Maybe you’re turning into your fat little friend.
Gary shook the thought off and lay back down. Stupid. There was no one outside the tent, of course there wasn’t. He’d just drifted off and started dreaming, that was all, and the dream had stayed with him after he’d woken up.
Or maybe you did hear something, and it was just one of the others, he thought to himself. But then if it had been one of the others, what were they doing awake and chatting at this time in the morning?
Maybe it’s your fat friend and Tom, talking about you again, whispered his dad. Maybe they’re lying in their tent right now laughing about the way you went down like a sack of shit after Tom hit you. Big tough Gary’s not so tough after all, is he?
Gary felt another small flare of anger, but this time it was dampened by the unease that had settled into his stomach like a bad meal.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember which direction the whispering sound had seemed to be coming from. He thought it might have been behind him slightly, somewhere outside the little camp ground they’d set up, but he really couldn’t be sure. If it had been behind him, though, then it definitely wasn’t coming from one of the other tents; James and Tom’s two-man was over to his left and in front of him, and Mr Stevens and Tim were set up over to his right.
Gary suddenly realised he needed to pee.
He lay still for a while, trying to work out how bad the urge was and if he could hold off until morning, but he quickly realised it was a losing battle. He was wide awake, and now that he’d started thinking about it he wasn’t going to be able to put the thought out of his mind. It was going to keep bugging him.
The thing was, he didn’t want to leave the tent.
It was stupid of course, and he was sure it was mostly just the thought of how chilly it would be outside his sleeping bag – between the fog, the wind and the near-constant fucking drizzle, summer didn’t seem to have touched Rutmoor. But whatever the reason, the idea of unzipping his tent flap and stepping out into the night suddenly felt like a very bad idea.
Matt grunted and turned over in his sleep. Gary thought about waking him up, but dismissed the idea. He wasn’t going to show weakness in front of that fucker.
Gritting his teeth, he reached a hand out and eased the zip on the side of his sleeping bag down. Outside the tent the wind gusted, and Gary heard tree branches rustling against each other in the distance. They’d set up camp in a slight valley between two tors, and there was a small copse of pine trees not far from their campsite; they were a good 50 metres or so away, but in the silence of the night the sound carried easily.
I’ll just step out of the flap and piss straight in front of the tent, Gary thought as he pushed aside the material of his sleeping bag and lifted himself up into a crouch. I’ll make it nice and quick, and I’ll be back inside in less than a minute.
He was barefoot, dressed in just his boxer shorts and his black Helly Hansen under-layer, and he thought briefly about putting something else on but then decided against it. If he messed around putting on trousers, socks and shoes he’d only have to take them all off again. As an afterthought, he grabbed his digital watch – his dad had bought it for him specially for this weekend, probably because the bastard was feeling guilty for some shout or slap Gary couldn’t even remember, and it had a torch function on the side. The light was weak and it only came in short bursts, but it should be just enough to see by.
Gary worked his way over to the flap of the tent on his knees, glancing once over at Matt’s sleeping form before he unzipped the inner lining of the tent.
Beyond the light netting was a small bit of space – Matt always called it ‘the porch’ because it was where they left their shoes and stuff – and then the outer tent layer with the main flap leading outside.
Gary stepped through the first bit of netting, still in a crouch, and felt the temperature drop as he neared the outer surface of the tent. He could see drops of dew glistening on the canvas. In the distance, the wind howled.
In and out, that ’ s all, in and out.
Despite the fact that he was doing his best to ignore it, Gary felt the unease in his stomach grow as he reached out for the tent’s main zip.
You’ll open that zip up and the first thing you’ll see will be an eye staring back at you through the gap, whispered an alien voice in his mind. Then she’ll reach in and grab you.
Gary shook his head. That was stupid stuff, fucking kids’ stuff. He gritted his teeth and pulled the zip across the arching flap of the tent in one quick, fluid motion. Then he reached out a hand and snatched back the canvas.
Damp night air flooded in through the gap, but nothing else. Gary let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he�
��d been holding, put one foot out through the gap (he winced slightly at the cold feel of the dew against his toes) and then stood up straight through the tent flap.
Without the light from a fire, the darkness was almost total. The night sky above Gary was like a yawning black throat. Thin light filtered down from the patches of stars which weren’t covered by cloud, but the moon was nowhere to be seen. Gary thought the stars in those hollow patches of sky were impossibly dense, like hundreds of tiny, winking cats’ eyes. Looking around the camp, Gary could just make out the shape of the other tents – one in front of him and over to the left, the other on his right – but apart from that the world was nothing but blackness.
Somewhere out in front of him he heard the pine trees whispering to each other. Gary felt a light chill against his back.
Not wanting to waste any time, he lifted his other foot out of the tent and stood with his legs apart. He pushed down the front of his boxers with the hand that was still clutching the watch, then reached down and pulled out his cock.
As an afterthought, he thumbed the button on the side of the watch to make the torch light up so he could see where he was pissing, and it was as he shifted the watch into position that he saw the rabbit’s foot illuminated on the grass in front of him.
Gary froze.
The foot was small and grey, and a tiny sliver of white bone was jutting out from the place where it had been severed. The bone winked and sparkled in the yellow light from the watch. Next to the foot Gary saw a few beads of blood, still wet and clinging to the dewy grass.
The light from his watch flicked off automatically, and without thinking Gary thumbed the button again to turn it back on. He found himself staring down at the foot as if in some kind of trance, his mind blank for now as he took in the matted fur and the tiny droplets of blood.
He slowly adjusted his boxers and went to take a step backwards, but his right foot struck the edge of the tent and he wobbled, fighting to retain his balance. The light from the watch flicked off again, and this time it jolted Gary out of his shock.