Bullets, Teeth & Fists

by Jason Beech

  He chose a desk by the window-side of Mr Tappit’s maths class, a departure from the front where he usually sat. The girl, Kim, who always looked like she ate a wasp’s nest for breakfast, usually sat there and gave a look that would often crush him. He held her stare until she took his former seat.

  Mr Tappit himself caught the confusion when he entered. He knew something differed today, but couldn’t figure what. The window distracted Anthony. The playing fields outside enticed him. Grass, mud, the sound of a wind starting to whip up and twirl leaves like dancers, took him far away from algebra nonsense.

  “One for you, Anthony.” Mr Tappit brought him back to numbers. His quizzical eyebrow about where he sat made Anthony examine that rather than the blackboard equation.

  “Sir?”

  “What,” he used his long ruler to point to each part of the sum, “is the slope of 3x + 7y = 4?”

  Anthony thought he knew it, and Mr Tappit showed his usual encouragement. He examined the question this time without his normal fear, but his thoughts shifted from the sum again and towards Samantha.

  “Geek.”

  Anthony recognised Martin’s voice without turning to look. He knew his pinched, mean eyes burned for his humiliation. Not necessarily his own, just somebody’s, as a means of entertainment. He would have made a great spectator at Roman gladiator contests.

  Mr Tappit squeezed anger at Martin out of the slits his eyes had become. “If you ever want to become the race car mechanic you keep talking about, Smithee, then you better geek up too.”

  Anthony heard Smithee shuffle as Mr Tappit turned his attention back to him. It felt cloying, unnatural. “I don’t know, sir.” He knew. He didn’t want to answer.

  “Oh come now, Anthony…”

  Anthony threw a look that dried his teacher right up.

  “Sir, I don’t know.” The assertive delivery surprised everybody. The constant whispering behind the teacher’s back stopped. Nobody shuffled a bum in constant agitation against classroom captivity. He knew all eyes consumed him. He kept his on Mr Tappit’s. The teacher flinched and asked somebody else.

  After the bell rang, Mr Tappit asked him to stay behind. As he turned his back, Anthony sneaked out and pounded the corridor to the dining hall for dinner. He took his usual slop. The dinner lady counted every baked bean and slowed the line. He sat alone as habit dictated, but instead of keeping his eyes down on the meal that barely filled him, he people-watched. He caught the odd glance and cocked an eyebrow at random looks – channelled Samantha at every opportunity. He wished she went to his school. He could sit with her. Wow, Brent also sat alone, his attention on the table-top as a way to avoid eye contact with everyone else. Is that how I look? A little contempt wrinkled Anthony’s forehead.

  “Anthony Charlton.” The frog-eyed headteacher’s voice boomed across the dining room, his voice a tidal wave which forced every head in that room towards Anthony. His loneliness stamped on him. He wished for a friend to share the impact of that explosion. He had nobody and the force shook him alone.

  “My office, immediately.”

  He fought against previous habits and refused to sink into the floor. Every step took advantage of silence to echo his situation. Each time his head lowered to the floor, Samantha forced it back up. Take your punishment, Anthony. Embrace it.

  The head decorated his office sparse. No wall furniture, nothing on his desk to remind him of home. Mr Frimley had bags under his eyes you could carry your shopping in. He looked like he hated his job, but hated home even more. Anthony found it hard to latch to those hard eyes. If I don’t enjoy life, is this how I will look at his age?

  “Charlton,” he started.

  “Sir.”

  Mr Frimley invited him to take a seat. He might once have slumped into that chair. Now, he guided himself.

  “What do you think you are?”

  “Sir?”

  “That is two sounds more than I have ever heard from you. What is happening?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You understand, Charlton. You may be the quietest kid I have ever seen, but I don’t think you’re stupid.”

  Anthony didn’t quite look into his eyes, but around them. Mr Frimley fidgeted, irritated by it, as if the boy saw a fly crawl about his face.

  The man sighed. “Do you think life is going to come to you, son?”

  Son? Anthony dreaded Mr Frimley as a dad more than his own.

  “It isn’t.” Mr Frimley’s bags wobbled a little in frustration at the quiet boy with the critical stare. “You have to grab it with both hands. Mould it to your will.”

  “Are you talking to me? Or yourself?” Anthony’s cheeks burned red. Where did that come from?

  Mr Frimley laughed, a harsh growl which came from the bowels of his experience. “Anthony Charlton… you do have some vim after all. I’ll be straight with you.” His voice turned to a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean both of us. Take your education seriously and make sure you enjoy its benefits. Now get out of here, don’t upset Mr Tappit anymore, and don’t let me see you between these walls again.”

  “Yes sir.” Anthony scurried out, mystified at himself as much as Mr Frimley. He enjoyed the stares from everyone in the dining hall as he left. His look of defiance drew a whole bunch of attention. He savoured it.

  3. Breaking the Shell

  He had gained a few “Hiya’s” by the next week. Some asked what Grim-ley had said. He told them the Head gave him a proper roasting, but he took it and left the headmaster scratching his head at his lack of impact. Some laughed like a violin scrape, nervous at this new Anthony. Some patted his back at his show of cool. Others acted confused, as if they feared he drew attention from them.

  Kim asked if she could sit by him in maths. He nodded, all casual. “Deffo.” She leaned across to copy some of his work and rest her shoulder on his. It made him warm right up.

  He ventured out every night. Sat on the garden wall to watch people pass by. Examined mopey faces on the buses. He still had no friends, but he felt his life expand. Recognised possibilities. On the Thursday, Trevor’s gang walked by. He looked at the pavement as his first reaction, but he took control of his heart and chose a spot to stare at, his head up. Across the road a neighbour added more lights to his Las Vegas collection. Anthony focused on him as he tingled at Trevor and his gang’s attention. They slowed a little. They hesitated, as if they expected to feast on fear, but instead received unexpected defiance.

  Samantha had chinked Trevor’s cogs. They walked on as if he didn’t exist. Anthony smiled at the triumph and ran inside to make his mum a cup of tea. His dad watched in amazement.

  Friday morning he sat on the school steps to rummage in his rucksack for the science book he swore he’d forgotten. He found it and puffed a “phew,” stood and found his space dominated by John.

  “People are talking about you,” he said.

  A siege built as Trevor’s gang approached and hung a few yards behind John.

  “It’s true,” Anthony said. “I hear them.”

  John frowned, as if the weirdness he’d heard about had underestimated Anthony. “Not nice things.”

  “Some nice things, some bad things. That’s life.”

  An open mouth accompanied the frown – waited for words to formulate. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “It has been a while. You’re right.”

  “You owe me money.”

  Anthony kept Trevor and his boys peripheral and stared at John with fish eyes. “Fuck off.”

  It’s the only word which mattered. Persuasion wouldn’t help. Only geeks used persuasion. Words spelled weakness to people like John. “Fuck off” equalled a smack in the face, especially from somebody you least expected.

  John’s mouth dropped further. What now? Who is John, anyway? He didn’t have a gang to back him up. Anthony had never seen him fight. He didn’t even have the physique to enforce anything. Anthony knew his advantage.

  “Either fi
ght me for the money, or fuck off.”

  John’s Adam’s apple quivered. He gulped his words up and croaked, “Next time.” He rushed away, head down.

  Trevor and his merry men stayed.

  “You the kid who laughed at me the other night?”

  No point in denying it. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that girl's got balls.”

  “My balls.”

  “Yeah, I heard you scream.”

  The pause of a pregnant whale hung in the air as the boys judged each other.

  “You’re a cheeky bastard.” Trevor grinned.

  “Thank you.”

  “You should join us.”

  Anthony grinned back. “I’ll do that.”

  *

  Trevor and his boys, Darren, Glenn and Andy, took him in as an apprentice. Anthony had not known what to expect. Did it mean becoming a gangster: racketeering, gambling, excessive drinking, fights with rivals? None of it happened. They played football. Anthony lost the ball all the time. They climbed trees, built dens, knocked on the odd door and ran away, and shouted rude things to girls they fancied. Anthony didn’t feel the glamour he expected, but it beat his bedroom. He felt the sting of banter, but found his voice and fought back. Earned respect from the gang.

  At dinner with his parents, he did all the talk. His dad looked at him in a new way, as if the beam that shone from him spelled pride. His dad was alright after all. This is all he wanted from his son: to make some mark on the world.

  “I took your ten pounds, mum,” he felt compelled to blurt out between mouthfuls of chips and beans.

  His dad’s laugh came out like a dog’s bark. “I told you it wasn’t me,” he said, triumphant over his wife.

  Anthony eyed his mum, all meek. His dad seemed as impressed with his son as he gloried in his proven innocence. His mum gave him such a glare that he shrank inwards: mad at her little boy for doing such a thing as thieving, as well as making her look stupid in front of her husband. “Get to your bedroom you little bleeder, and stay there for a week.”

  “I’m grounded?”

  “Until you can find a way to get that money back … yes.”

  His room, his former sanctuary from the world, imprisoned him. What a stupid, boyish room it appeared, now. His mum had changed his bed, and now the duvet wore his old Spider-Man cover. Ridiculous. He’d outgrown the thing.

  He played I Am the Walrus loud and leaned out the window. The dark did not hide the white coat which approached from his right. The sight alerted him and conjured a sliced-melon smile.

  He waited … “Samantha.”

  She stopped and looked up, squinted to make out the silhouette.

  “It’s me, Anthony.”

  “Oh, hi, Anthony…”

  The silence verged on awkward. Their mum’s always talked. While they did so, the two children had always hung back separately. Anthony now knew his own awkwardness had kept a barrier between them. Her shyness never existed.

  “I saw you crush Trevor’s balls… it was funny.”

  She slowly remembered and let out a giggle, music which floated to Anthony’s ears like an orchestra. “Ah yeah … I’ve seen you hanging out with him.”

  “Have yer?”

  “You’re denying it?”

  “No,” he spluttered. “No. We’re friends now. He’s alright, really.”

  “He’s an arsehole.”

  “Yeah, he probably is.” He glanced down the street. Checked it remained empty.

  “So why hang out with him?”

  “Something to do.”

  “Okay… well…”

  "Yeah, see you then.” He wanted the last word. He wanted to say goodbye. Hearing it from her might pull something sorrowful from him.

  “Yeah, see you then… great song by the way.”

  He smiled and it seemed bright enough to light his silhouette – she smiled back and walked on.

  4. Moth

  He enjoyed the attention, and often played up to it. The company of others relaxed him, spurred him on. Trevor’s gang fought themselves, hated each other, and then got back together as if nothing had ever happened. They clubbed together to get him the ten pounds he owed his mum. His dad took him places and they talked – about fishing, films, music, and football. Anthony told him his flirtation with Manchester City.

  “You continue that, son... and I will kick you from here to kingdom-come. You’re from York and you will be a York City fan.”

  “But they’re rubbish.”

  “What if I thought you were rubbish? Can I discard you and support somebody else’s son?”

  Anthony pondered the analogy – harsh. But he decided he was York City to the bone.

  *

  “Have you ever had a girlfriend?” Anthony asked Trevor as they built fortresses from wooden debris they collected for Bonfire Night.

  “Millions,” Trevor said. He opened his arms to the field around them, as if it could not contain all the ladies he had romanced.

  Anthony bit his lip, recognised the exaggeration, but understood Trevor had probably kissed plenty of girls.

  “Have you?” Trevor said.

  “Nah.” Anthony tried to brush it off as if it didn’t matter.

  “Virgin.” Glenn laughed.

  “Shurrup.” Anthony cackled. He didn’t know what virgin meant, but the way Glenn said it, he knew he needed to avoid it.

  “Says you.” Trevor pushed Glenn.

  Glenn failed to hide his annoyance. Anthony realised Glenn’s jabs had become more pointed recently. He didn’t know why.

  *

  Anthony peeked from behind a tree to remain unseen. He watched Trevor laugh at Samantha. She had her back to Anthony, and he couldn’t see her face. Glenn stood by Trevor’s side leaning against the chipped brick wall as if he’d rather watch York City try to play football. They ate chips from the chippy they socialised beside. A violent surge infected him. Trevor teasing Samantha again? What’s his problem? He held his head up and joined them. How would he stop Trevor bullying her?

  As he closed in, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. Trevor offered him a welcome grin. Caused Samantha to turn. She sparkled, her face barely settled from laughter.

  “Hi, Anthony,” she said.

  “Hi.” His glum face made her eyes squeeze. Her liveliness angered him.

  “Anyway …” She brushed off Anthony’s scowl and turned to Trevor “I’ll see you later.” She jabbed a playful punch on Trevor’s shoulder.

  Anthony tried to dilute his scarlet. He nodded as she left. Noted her confusion. He ignored Trevor’s “What’s going on?” He entered the chippy and asked for a bag of chips and scraps. Brent played on the arcade machine, so intense and lost in the game’s mechanics he might have been inside it. A fishcake sandwich lay half-eaten on the dashboard. Anthony’s lips curled down at the sight of him.

  His thoughts moved back to Samantha. She had called Trevor “an arsehole.” What had changed for her to become playful with him all of a sudden? Did she like arseholes?

  “One pound fifty, love,” said the woman behind the fryer. He blinked at her. She repulsed him.

  “I’m not paying, these chips aren’t warm enough.” He walked out as he ate the chips. Outraged, the woman waddled the best she could from behind the counter to intercept him.

  Anthony shouted “Run,” and ran down the street.

  Trevor and Glenn heard “Run” as the usual siren and ran without a thought as to why. They kept up with Anthony down the side streets and over garden fences.

  “What did yer do?” Trevor laughed, trying to get his breath back as they reached safety.

  “I nicked the chips.”

  Trevor grinned, all admiration. “You do know Gladys lives on your street?”

  Anthony pretended his spasm had not happened and shrugged his shoulders. “Who cares? What can she do? Let’s do something.”

  They followed Anthony, curious about what he would do next. He sensed
he’d unnerved them a little – that he showed a driving force they felt compelled to follow. They smashed greenhouses at the nearby allotments, carried each other on wheelbarrows across freshly ploughed and seeded patches, and set fire to a shed. Anthony wondered how quick Trevor would burn, and if Samantha would put him out.

  *

  “What?” His dad growled.

  Anthony peeked over the back of the sofa and saw the woman his dad argued with on the doorstep.

  “He ran from the fish and chip shop without paying.”

  “I expect you to turn around and leave … Gladys … and think about your eyesight. Now piss off.”

  “I’ll call the police,” she shouted through the closing gap as his dad shut the door. “I have a witness,” she persisted through the letterbox.

  Anthony had seen old black and white werewolf films and thought them a bit stupid, but in the low light of the telly, his dad did look like one in the process of change.

  “Son.”

  Anthony felt the demand, not the question. He returned the best look of confused innocence he could muster, bore the mind-probe of his old man’s silent investigation, and then felt a hand scuff his hair in satisfaction. One hair got snagged in his rough builder’s palm. Anthony smiled the wince away.

  What witness?

  *

  If Samantha wanted an arsehole, a bad boy, he could do that. He glued drawing pins on gate latches and wiped dog shit on them – laughed along with the boys as people felt the prick as they pressed down and sucked their thumbs to ease the pain. The stench and taste made some almost keel over. Others swung around ready to kill.

  It got close to Bonfire Night. Trevor continued a tradition in which Anthony had been oblivious, where they stole bagfuls of apples from a nearby orchard and brought them back to the field. Anthony stayed beneath the branches too long and had to scramble over the fence and jump the river to avoid capture by the fit old man who chased.

  They sat within their makeshift fortress on battered sofas and armchairs salvaged from the front of Mr Williams’ house, and shared the spoils, placing each pile of apples in each fortress. The fortresses stood about twenty feet apart, within range of the other. More kids from the area joined in, and the teams formed.