Stonebird

by Mike Revell

  “The Higgins’s . . . ?”

  Then I get it. Matt’s house. Again.

  She must see something in my face, because she smiles her whiskery smile.

  “It’s not that bad,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t be for long.”

  Matt smirks when I get back to class, like he already knows the news and has planned how he’s going to torture me. He leans back in his chair and stares at me, and I can feel his eyes on my back as I sit down at the desk.

  Tell us a story, Liam. It goes around and around in my head.

  Tell us a story, Liam.

  Tell us a story.

  So I do.

  Later on, when we’re sitting in the circle on the floor and the magic egg is soaking up words and there is quiet in the classroom, quiet except for the stories and the gasps—later on, I tell a story about Stonebird and Matt.

  I thought it would be hard, but it’s not.

  When the egg gets to me, I close my eyes.

  I remember them running after me, remember the pond water rushing up my nose. I picture their faces and hear the sound of their voices.

  Even remembering makes my heart beat faster. The egg’s warm in my hands and the words spring to my mouth. They flow easily, like they’ve always been there, like they’re waiting to be spoken out loud.

  The gargoyle smelled something on the air, I say.

  In the cold and the dark, sitting on the roof of its haunted church, it raised its great stone nose and sniffed. And what it smelt was boys. Stupid boys out too late, out in the lane below.

  I look up. They’re all staring at me, the whole class, because I’m the one with the egg. But Matt and his friends? They’re not like the others. They know what I’m talking about, because what I’m talking about is them.

  They know it.

  I can see in their eyes that they know it.

  Stonebird didn’t protect me before, so I’ve got to make sure he protects me now.

  The gargoyle sees them, I say. Sees the boys, swaggering about like they own the place. But the gargoyle is as old as the stones and the wind and the trees. The gargoyle has been in this village for longer than any kid, and it doesn’t like people swaggering on its land.

  It watches, from the rooftop.

  Waiting.

  And when the kids get too close, the gargoyle jumps, down down down, gliding on the wind under the stars. The gargoyle’s massive and its wings are heavier than cars, but when it flies it’s like a bird.

  The kids, there’s three of them, and they see something now.

  A shadow, passing over the road.

  They look at each other and their eyes are wide and they don’t know what to do.

  One of them says, “Who’s there?”

  But there’s no answer. The gargoyle can listen and understand and know, but it can’t speak. Its language is the language of eyes and beak and claws.

  “We’re not scared!” says the biggest kid.

  And that’s when the gargoyle thuds down onto the road, crouching low, glaring. Its eyes are made of moonlight and its tail swipes back and forth. The boys take a step back, and another, and they turn to run—

  But the gargoyle is faster. It chases them, beating its stone wings, chases them and catches the leader of them and the kid screams, but his friends just run. They don’t even look back.

  The boy cries out and cries out, but there’s no one left to hear him.

  No one to see him get carried off, into the night.

  27

  The class is so quiet you could hear a bug scurrying along the windowsill.

  I hold the egg out for the next person in the circle, but they don’t take it. It’s only then that I look around and see their faces. All of them, mouths open. Once when I was a little kid I was playing with Jess in her room and I saw one of those french fries on the floor. I flicked it, just flicked it like you’d flick a aphid on your clothes, and it shot through the air and straight into her mouth. I’m not even kidding: it got stuck in there, poking out as if she was trying to smoke it.

  Even if I tried a million times, I’d never be able to do that again.

  Except if I tried it now, with my class.

  Because their mouths are open caves.

  I look from face to face. I’m still holding out the egg, but no one’s taking it. Matt’s lips are so tight they’re just one long thin line across the bottom of his pale face. He’s gripping his knees and rocking back and forth. His friends nod at each other and stare back at me, and there’s a message in their eyes and the message is this: YOU’RE DEAD.

  Mrs. Culpepper stands up and takes the egg. “I think that’s enough storytelling for one day,” she says.

  She puts the egg in the drawer and slams it shut. There’s a look on her face that I’ve never seen before.

  When the bell goes at the end of school, I don’t get up. I don’t leave. I just wait, wait for everyone to push their chairs under their desks and get their bags and their coats from the pegs outside. Wait for them to go.

  Matt and his friends are first out the door as soon as the clock hits quarter past three. But they’ll be waiting for me. I know it.

  I sit until I’m the last one in the room. Just me and Mrs. Culpepper. She looks up from her desk and is about to say something when a woman pokes her head in and says, “Is this Mrs. Forrester’s class?”

  “No,” says Mrs. Culpepper. She glances at me again. I’ve never seen her look so disappointed. But when she stands up, all she says is “Here, I’ll show you.”

  And then it’s just me. I grab my bag and walk to the door. Peeking through the glass, I can see the corridor outside. Empty. That’s how it seems, anyway. They could be anywhere. But they’ll probably wait in the courtyard between the school and the playground where the parents are, because there’s a flint wall there blocking them from view.

  The door handle feels cold after the warmth of the egg.

  Once I’m out of the classroom I turn left, away from the exit, through another door toward the bathroom.

  If I can just hide in here for a few minutes, then . . .

  Then what?

  They’re bound to look for me. They’ll probably find me even in the bathroom. It’s not like there are many places to hide in school, and if I don’t go past them, they’ll know I’m inside somewhere.

  The bathroom smells of soap and stale pee. I can feel my shoes sticking to the floor as I walk to the nearest stall and lock the door behind me. Whenever someone hides in a bathroom on TV, the bad guy always checks under the door, so I put the lid down and sit on it and lift my feet up.

  Just a few minutes . . .

  I glance at my watch and follow the second hand as it tick tick ticks around.

  Quarter past becomes half past becomes four o’clock, and there’s still no sign of them. But I can’t bring myself to move. I don’t even dare breathe. Not properly. Not freely, in case they’re outside, listening, waiting for me to slip up.

  I keep telling myself just a few minutes, just a few minutes, but the minutes tick by until I’ve been there for an hour. The lights only go on if there’s movement, so I’m sitting in darkness now. I picture the school being locked up, and here’s me just trapped inside, with no way out and nothing to eat or drink, just waiting until some janitor discovers me in the morning. But it’s okay—it’s music club this evening. The school won’t get locked until six.

  After a while I have to cover my nose from the smell. Darkness and soap and pee, thick in the air. There’s only one small window, over by the sink, and the sun’s moved on, so it’s just this weak gray light getting darker and darker.

  To keep from getting bored I try to remember things about Grandma. I know Mom dropped Jess and me off at Grandma and Granddad’s house once when she went to a wedding in Bath. But all I can remember is feeling annoyed about it. Before you go somewhere you don’t want to go, you always make out in your head that it’s going to be pointless and annoying. But then it’s never really
as bad as you expect.

  Grandma took us to the pub. I remember now. She took us to the pub in the village and there was a Shakespeare play on in the garden. It was loud and confusing, and it went on for practically a hundred years, and I couldn’t really understand what was going on. But Grandma and Granddad loved it, so I pretended to enjoy it too, because they were really trying to give us a good time.

  They can’t have a good time anymore.

  Granddad is dead, and Grandma has got a demon in her head making her forget everything.

  I wish Matt and his friends would forget me.

  Just this once.

  Just now, so I can go home.

  But they don’t.

  CRASH! The outside door swings open. Footsteps on the sticky floor. Quiet voices. I try to breathe as quietly as I can. The bathroom light flickers on, and I can see shadows moving under the door. My heart drums louder than their voices, so loud that I know they’ll hear it.

  The stall’s door’s locked, but could they break through? I’m fast, but there are three of them, and I’ll never get out before they grab me.

  I don’t usually pray very much, but I’m praying now, praying to God and Jesus and Zeus and King Arthur and Robin Hood and praying to Nancy Wake the White Mouse, just praying praying praying that they don’t hurt me.

  “Oh, Liam!” Matt calls, in a horrible baby voice.

  “Come out, Liam!”

  “We won’t hurt you. We just want to give you a little wash.”

  Giggling. Another crash as they kick open the end stall.

  There are only three stalls. They’ll kick my door next and find it’s locked and know I’m in here and there’s no way, no way I’ll be able to get away. I keep picturing the rush of water on my face when they shove my head into the bog and trying to breathe but finding no air, no air, no air.

  I need to get out of here . . .

  BANG! They kick on the door.

  BANG!

  “Liam, we know you’re in there!”

  Rattle-rattle-rattle-rattle. I check the hinges, but they’re thick and metal and not moving. There’s no way they can break through. Surely.

  BANG!

  “Open the door!”

  I don’t say a thing. Don’t move my mouth, even though there’s nothing to lose anymore. Then I get an idea. I have to do something. So what I do is this.

  I crouch on the lid of the toilet. I reach out my right hand, slowly, slowly and as quietly as I can, until my fingers touch the cold metal of the lock.

  And then I unlock the door.

  Bit by bit.

  Clenching my teeth, straining so hard not to make a noise, easing the lock open.

  Every now and then I stop and listen.

  Every now and then they kick the door with another BANG! and it rattles on its hinges and I draw back, chewing my lips. But every time it goes quiet again I tug lightly on the lock.

  Slowly slowly slowly slowly . . .

  One more centimeter and it’s open.

  One last little bit.

  They kick on the door again, and this time it swings in. I ram it with my shoulder, and it smacks Matt in the face and he falls back into the sink. The other two don’t even know what’s going on. Without looking, without even thinking, I run.

  28

  When I was five I used to want those sneakers with red flashing lights on the soles.

  I thought they would make me run faster because they look Amazing, with a capital A. I know they don’t actually make you run faster. I know that now. But, even so, I still wish I had them. Anything, anything to help me get away.

  “It’s him!”

  “Grab him!”

  A door slams, and there are footsteps behind me, pounding, chasing, hunting. Across the hall and out the door I go, up the stairs over the bank, and into the big playground.

  The gate is so far away.

  I don’t stop for a second—just charge on.

  It’s dark now, and I can see my breath puffing in the air. Every breath stings my lungs. My ears are burning. I try to rub the sweat from my eyes, but it makes them water more. Ahead of me, an orange glow from the streetlights flows over the gate, painting it golden.

  I can get there. I know I can get there.

  I leap over the gate and run up School Street, toward my lane. Toward home.

  No—

  Not home. I wasn’t even thinking about it, but now I know it’s true.

  The church. I need to get to the church.

  I glance over my shoulder. They’re closing in, faces set in anger. They look like gargoyles themselves, or demons.

  Come on, Liam . . . run!

  But as I turn back my foot catches, the toe of my shoe scrapes on the road, and the pavement rises up to smack my face.

  Black. All I can see is black. Black-and-gray flecks. I can’t see a thing, can’t hear anything apart from my own heart. Apart from the blood in my ears.

  No. That’s not right.

  Because if I can hear that, then I should be able to hear their footsteps.

  Unless they’ve stopped.

  Unless they’ve . . .

  “Hello, Liam.”

  It’s Matt’s voice. I blink and rub my eyes, trying to clear them, but it doesn’t work.

  Someone grabs my shirt and hauls me up. I try to find my footing, but I can’t get a proper grip on the floor. My legs feel stringy and weak. They buckle beneath me, but hands on my collar hold me up.

  “We’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” says Matt, flecks of spit hitting my face. “We wanted to have words, didn’t we, boys? We wanted to have a little chat.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” I say. My voice sounds as if it’s coming from someone else. “It was just a story. It didn’t mean anything.”

  Laughter rings in the cold and the dark.

  “Did you hear that?” says Matt. “‘Just a story,’ he says. This is just a story too.”

  I’m falling before the pain hits.

  I crash onto the road and hear someone groan—was it me?—and then there’s just burning, the burn in my stomach where he punched me.

  “Nowhere to run now, little Liam,” says Joe. He sounds close. He’s probably standing right over me. “Nowhere for you to escape. No—” He stops suddenly.

  I look up out of instinct, but still all I can see is darkness.

  There are no hands holding me now. I shuffle back. Their voices have gone so quiet they’re just frightened whispers. Shivers race up and down my neck.

  A retching scream rips through the air, and at first I think it’s one of them, but it can’t be, because it’s high, high in the sky. Cold air blasts me from above, and I can hear the thump thump thump of heavy wings.

  The next scream definitely is one of them.

  The others soon join in. Screams and shouts and wails.

  Someone cries, “Run!” and the footsteps pound louder than ever as they tear away from me. I rub my eyes, desperate to see. I need to see this moment, need to see Stonebird, because it is him, I know it.

  When my sight finally returns I just sit there in the road, blinking. There’s blood on my knees where I fell. My hands are throbbing and scratched. I lie back for a second. I’ll get up in a minute, but it hurts . . . everything hurts so much.

  That’s when I see it.

  There’s something in the road. No, not something. Someone. Matt!

  His body’s so still. Just a dark lump in the middle of the road, and all of a sudden I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I glance around, up and down the road, but we’re all alone.

  What if I’ve killed him?

  Pain rips up the side of my body as I rush over to him. I crouch down and look at his face. There’s a swollen red lump on his forehead, oozing blood. Quickly I put my fingers up to his neck, like I’ve always seen on TV.

  Please don’t be dead . . .

  His pulse beats gently against my fingers.

  He’s alive.

  He’s alive!
/>   But what am I going to do? Did the others see what happened? No, it was their scream tearing at the air, their footsteps pounding away into the night. They must have left before this happened. My heart’s thumping in my chest and the air’s stinging my throat and a thick fog fills my head and I can’t think, can’t think . . .

  They’re going to kill me.

  Mom.

  Gary.

  The police.

  I’m going to be arrested. I’m going to go to jail.

  I could run. I could run like Matt’s friends did, leave him here, get away. No one’s seen me. No one knows. I could run home and explain it all away and—

  A smear of Matt’s blood on my hand clears my head. Rivers of red are trickling down the side of his face. And that’s when I know I can’t run. I can’t. Cheesy and Joe left him, but I won’t.

  He must have his phone on him. I dig inside his coat pocket, and there it is. Three missed calls flash up from his dad, but it’s not him I need to call. Not yet.

  Okay. Come on, Liam. Breathe.

  I’ve never called 911 before, but I know what to do. I jab the buttons on the phone. My chest feels heavy, and the cold air stings my throat. The phone rings twice, and then a woman’s voice answers.

  “Emergency—what service do you require?”

  Matt’s eyelids flicker. The blood’s dripping off his cheek and onto the road. The words are on my lips but they don’t come out.

  “Hello?”

  “Um, ambulance, please.”

  “I’m connecting you now. Please stay on the line.”

  “Come quickly, he’s—there’s a lot of blood.”

  “Okay, I need you to stay calm and tell me where you are.”

  “We’re in the road. He’s lying in the road.”

  “I need an address.”

  “Swanbury. School Street in Swanbury.”

  “Stay calm. Is anyone else with you?”

  “No, it’s just me and Matt.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Liam.”

  “Listen to me, Liam. Where’s the blood coming from?”

  “His head. It’s all down his face and on the road. You need to come quick.”

  “Help is being arranged as we speak. Just stay calm and keep an eye out for the ambulance. It’ll be with you soon.”