Inside My Head

by Jim Carrington

  Knaggs puts the lid back on the lunch box and tosses it away. It slides across the changing-room floor till it hits the wall and stops. Knaggs has another look in the bag. This time he pulls out a pencil case and throws it across the floor after the lunch box. We laugh again. He looks in the bag, has a good rummage around. And after a few seconds he pulls a bottle out of Wood’s bag. He looks at us and smiles. We all laugh again. Knaggs unscrews the lid. He takes a sniff of the drink.

  ‘Lemon squash!’ he says. ‘My favourite!’ He has another sniff. ‘Ah, a good vintage as well.’ He takes a swig. He swills it around his mouth, like he’s a wine taster or something, then spits it out all over the changing-room floor.

  No one is changing any more – we’re all looking at Knaggs, wondering what he’ll do next.

  ‘Not bad,’ he says, gazing into the distance like he’s thinking of the best way to describe a wine. ‘Quite fruity, but it could do with something else. A bit more body, I think.’

  We laugh again.

  Knaggs stops and smiles back at his audience before he continues. ‘This should sort it,’ he says. And he makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying to cough up a greenie. He holds the bottle below his mouth and then opens his lips. A stringy, luminous greenie starts to leak from Knaggs’s mouth. It stretches down, really slowly. Until it lands, plop, in Wood’s drink.

  ‘Eeeuuurrrggghhh!’ we all say.

  Knaggs looks up. He smiles and gives us a wink. And then he screws the lid back on to Wood’s bottle and puts it back into the bag.

  .

  PE was circuit training. I think Mr Lawson must have been getting his own back after the football lesson the other day when we all walked off, cos it was knackering in there today. I go straight to my peg and open my bag. I’m thirsty as hell. I get my water bottle out and take the lid off. But before I can take a sip, I get a nudge. I turn round.

  ‘Have you checked that bottle for any, erm, bits?’ Knaggs says. He smirks.

  My stomach turns. I remember Wood’s bottle and Knaggs’s stringy greenie. I screw the lid on to my bottle and put it into my bag. I think I’ll drink from the water fountain today.

  ‘What’s up, Davey?’ Knaggs says. ‘You not thirsty?’ He reaches into his own bag and grabs his bottle. He takes a big, long swig of it, wipes his mouth with his arm and grins at me.

  I start getting changed out of my PE kit. I’m sweaty as anything. But there’s no way I’m having a shower. Mr Lawson used to force us to have showers back in year seven. But no one does any more. So I use my T-shirt to wipe up all the sweat and then give myself a good spray with deodorant. As I’m putting the lid back on my deodorant, Knaggs gives me another nudge.

  ‘Look,’ he says.

  I look behind me. Wood walks through the changing rooms with his head down. He walks over to the bench and sits. The changing rooms go quiet. It seems like everyone’s looking at Wood. He opens the drawstring at the top of his bag and looks inside. He can tell straight away that someone’s been messing with his stuff. But he doesn’t say anything. He just looks around for his lunch box and then for his pencil case and puts them back in his bag.

  I look at Knaggs. He’s got a massive grin on his face.

  Wood sits on the bench again. He looks in his bag again and then pulls out his drink bottle. Knaggs gives me another nudge. My stomach turns over again. I feel like I want to be sick. I should say something now. I should stop Wood before he takes a swig. But my mouth won’t open. I can’t. Not with everyone watching. Wood lifts the bottle to his mouth. He gulps it down thirstily. I have to look away. I look at Knaggs instead. He’s watching Wood with a massive grin on his face.

  .

  Lunchtime. We’re in the playground, having a kick-about with a tennis ball. There are about ten of us playing Wembley. Joe’s in goal. The rest of us are playing, all against all. Knaggs is the first one to score. A tap in on the line, after Dougie’s been on a long run. That’s what Knaggs always does. He’s a complete goal hanger.

  Dougie’s next through, with a screamer of a shot. He does a lap of honour before he goes and stands behind the goal with Knaggs.

  Joe kicks the ball out again. Mills controls the ball and takes a couple of people on. He goes past them and then takes a shot at the goal. Joe sticks out a foot and the ball rebounds off it, straight to me. I control it. Swing my left leg.

  GOAL!!

  I raise my hand in celebration and then go and stand behind the goal with Dougie and Knaggs. We watch the others running around after the tennis ball.

  But something else catches my eye. Wood. He comes out of the double doors from the school building. He doesn’t notice us. He just starts walking across the playground, head down.

  ‘You looking at what I’m looking at?’ Knaggs says.

  I don’t answer him.

  ‘Watch this . . .’ he says. And he walks over to Wood. ‘Hey, Gary,’ he says.

  Wood looks up at Knaggs.

  ‘That was a tiring PE lesson, wasn’t it?’

  Wood doesn’t answer him. He just stares at Knaggs, like he doesn’t trust him.

  ‘Don’t know about you, but I needed a good long drink after that, didn’t you?’

  Wood still doesn’t answer. He just looks at Knaggs like he doesn’t understand.

  ‘What drink did you have today?’ Knaggs says.

  Wood just stares back at him.

  ‘Lemon squash, wasn’t it?’

  Wood looks away from Knaggs, down at his shoes.

  ‘Did it have bits in it?’

  Wood looks back up at Knaggs. He’s going red. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Just asking,’ Knaggs says. Then he smirks. ‘Cos I flobbed in someone’s drink earlier. By mistake, of course. Thought it might have been yours. Was it a bit stringy? A bit flobby?’

  Wood stares at Knaggs. Knaggs just smirks. And then Wood starts to look all pale and clammy. His cheeks puff out. His eyes bulge. And then his mouth opens and he chucks up everywhere.

  And I’m standing here, just staring. Next to me, Knaggs starts wetting himself laughing. So does Dougie. But I can’t. I watch Wood as he walks away and I feel guilty. I should have stopped Knaggs.

  .

  Zoë

  When school finishes and we all go to the field to get the bus, I see Gary. He’s on his own, staring silently at the ground again.

  ‘Hi, Gary,’ I say.

  He sighs and says nothing.

  I sit next to him on the bus anyway. He doesn’t say a word to me. He sits there and stares out of the window. He looks really angry and fed up. Kind of like how I feel.

  As soon as the bus stops in Wallingham, Gary takes off without saying anything. He’s round the corner and out of sight before most people are off the bus. Something must have happened today. I don’t know whether to go after Gary or to leave him. But as I’m standing at the bus stop, wondering what to do, Paul Knaggs comes swaggering over towards me.

  ‘He looked angry, Zoë,’ he says. ‘I wonder what all that was about?’

  I stare at Knaggs. He has a smile on his face. He knows exactly what’s happened to Gary. ‘What have you done to him?’

  Knaggs makes an innocent face. He pretends to be hurt that I could think he’s done anything. Then he smiles again. ‘What? Me? I didn’t do anything to him. I just topped up his drink bottle for him, that’s all!’

  I have no idea what he means by that. But the smirk on his face says enough. ‘You’re such a pig!’ I say. ‘What’s he ever done to you?’

  Knaggs lifts his cap up ever so slightly and points at the bruise on his cheekbone that’s beginning to fade. ‘Well, duh!’ he says. ‘That was completely unprovoked!’

  I don’t believe a word of it.

  ‘I’m telling you, Zoë,’ he says. ‘The guy’s a psycho
! When are you gonna listen?’

  I turn to go.

  ‘I s’pose you’re gonna go and kiss him better, are you?’ Knaggs says.

  I walk off, towards the farm.

  Gary’s there, in the barn. He’s not on the tractor, though. He’s on the floor, leaning against the wall. He’s sitting with his head buried between his knees and his hands on the top of his head. His bag’s next to him, on its side. The pile of cider bottles is still there, where I tidied them the other day, but now there are more bottles scattered around. I put my school bag down and sit next to Gary on the floor. I look at him for a few seconds, in silence.

  ‘You all right, Gary?’ I say. It’s a stupid question. I only need to glance at him to realise he’s pretty far from OK.

  He doesn’t answer. He just sighs and runs his hands through his hair.

  ‘I had a crappy day today, as well,’ I say. ‘I officially hate Wendham High School.’

  I look over at Gary. He doesn’t say anything. He grits his teeth. I think he’s crying, but he’s not making a noise.

  ‘Everyone thinks I’m weird,’ I say. ‘It’s horrible. Everyone’s avoiding me. I think they’re all talking about me behind my back.’

  Gary still doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I don’t know what to do about it,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t like this at my last school. I used to have loads of friends . . . What do you think I should do?’

  Gary lets out another sigh. He takes his head out from between his legs and looks at me. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Go back to wherever you came from. Stop hanging around with me! Leave me alone.’

  His face is red and tense and angry. He stands up. He looks around the barn, spots the plastic bottles and marches over to them. With a swing of his right leg, he smacks three of them into the air. They land with a hollow thud. He looks around again, sees the bucket and kicks it across the barn. Then he kicks a box too. I feel a bit scared.

  ‘Gary, please, don’t,’ I say. I sound feeble.

  He ignores me, walks over to the big back wheel of the tractor and kicks it hard. It hardly makes a noise, doesn’t move, but I think he’s hurt his foot cos he winces.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Gary nods and then takes a deep breath. He leans against the tractor.

  ‘Did something happen today?’

  Gary nods.

  ‘What?’

  He doesn’t answer. He climbs up on to the tractor and sighs again.

  ‘You can tell me,’ I say. ‘You don’t need to be so angry with me. I didn’t do anything.’

  He looks at me. He kind of half smiles, I think, but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says. ‘Leave it.’

  So we don’t talk about it, we leave it. Gary sits there, on the tractor, and stares at nothing. And I walk around the barn, thinking that maybe he’s right, maybe I should just leave him here. Maybe I should pretend I never met him, as if I don’t like him.

  I pick the bucket up and put it back where it was and then I do the same with the box and the bottles. I go and stand near the entrance to the barn and I lean against the wall. I stare at the farmhouse. It looks different from last time. The door’s open a bit, like it’s been kicked in. For a second, I wonder if Gary did it. But then I think about what he said – about the farmer’s family and how we shouldn’t go in there. I don’t think he’d have done something like that. Not even when he was angry.

  ‘Have you seen that door?’ I say. I turn to look at him.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘The farmhouse. Look, the door’s been kicked in.’

  Gary jumps down from the tractor and walks over towards me. He wipes his face and stares at the door. ‘Someone’s been in there,’ he says. He carries on walking, past me, towards the farmhouse. ‘Come on,’ he says.

  .

  Gary disappears into the darkness of the house. I look around outside, check no one’s looking. There’s no one around – we’re probably a mile away from the nearest human being. So I grab the door and follow him into the house. And straight away the smell hits me. I don’t know what it smells like, but it’s not very nice. Kind of sharp and stale, rank and meaty. I cover my nose and mouth with the sleeve of my blazer and carry on walking.

  It’s gloomy inside. I have to really peer at things to make out what they are. This room’s a kitchen. There’s a big table near the window, the one covered in dust and empty bottles. Gary stops and looks at it.

  ‘Someone’s definitely been in here,’ he says. ‘Look.’ He points at the bottles.

  ‘Who do you think left them here?’

  Gary shrugs. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Other kids?’ I say.

  Gary shakes his head. ‘Doubt it,’ he says. ‘They all get pissed up in the churchyard.’

  ‘Then who?’ I say. ‘The farmer’s family?’

  He shakes his head again. ‘Why would they have forced the door?’ He steps back from the table. ‘I’m gonna have a look upstairs.’ And he marches up the steps.

  For a second I think about following Gary upstairs. I don’t want to be down here on my own. I’ve seen horror films. I know what happens when people split up to look round old houses. But when I look up the stairs, I can’t see where Gary’s gone. And it looks even darker up there than it is down here. So I start having a look round the downstairs instead.

  The kitchen’s really scuzzy. The old sink is stained and looks like it might fall off the wall if anyone turns the tap on. And the little electric cooker is the old kind, like in my grandma’s house, but filthy. Brown-stained, flower-patterned wallpaper hangs off the walls. It looks like the sort of kitchen that an old man has used. That sounds sexist, doesn’t it? But I can’t imagine a woman in this kitchen. Henry must have lived alone.

  On the wall near the stairs there’s a box. It has KEYS on it in faded lettering. There are two sets inside. One has a fob on it. I take them from the box. The fob has a badge on it. DB, it says. I recognise the badge – it’s the same one as on the front of the tractor in the barn.

  Then there’s a noise, a rumbling, coming from upstairs, like someone falling over. I take a step to my left and look up the stairs, into the darkness.

  ‘Are you all right, Gary?’ I shout.

  There’s no answer. Just another rumble.

  ‘Gary?’

  Still no answer.

  I grab the rail and start to climb the stairs slowly, staring into the dark. And straight away I realise that the bad smell’s coming from upstairs, cos with each step the smell gets almost unbearable.

  ‘Gary?’ I say again. ‘Are you OK? Where are you?’

  It’s silent for a few seconds. Then there’s a voice. ‘In here.’ Gary’s voice. Only flat.

  I climb the rest of the stairs quickly. And then to my right, I see Gary standing in the doorway of a room, looking into it.

  ‘Anything up here?’

  Gary doesn’t look round. He’s got his hand over his mouth. He nods his head slowly. ‘You shouldn’t look,’ he says.

  I walk towards Gary. ‘Why? What is it?’

  As I get closer to him, the smell gets stronger. It’s foul. I put my hand over my mouth and nose.

  ‘Medal man,’ Gary says. He turns to me with a solemn face.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  Gary shakes his head. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What? Are you sure?’ I say.

  I push past Gary. And then I wish I hadn’t. Because there he is, the medal man, lying on his side on the bed, covered in sick, purple in the face. There are more bottles scattered round the bed, and some cans too. And a blue plastic bag. The smell’s disgusting. I retch and run out of the room.

  ‘Oh my God!’

 
Gary sighs. ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ he says. His voice sounds really flat. Sad.

  We walk down the stairs, me covering my mouth, trying not to be sick, Gary holding my arm. He leads me to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair for me to sit on. I put my face in my hands and try to take some deep breaths, to get that smell out of my lungs, to get the picture of the purple face out of my brain. Gary doesn’t sit down. I can sense him standing over me, looking at me, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Do you want a drink of water or something?’ he says.

  I shake my head. I don’t want anything out of this kitchen, out of this house. I just want to go. I take my hands away from my face. ‘Can we go outside?’

  Gary nods.

  We leave the house. Me first, almost running, and Gary behind.

  ‘Jesus!’ he says. ‘What shall we do?’

  I take a couple more deep breaths. But I still feel sick. I keep seeing the medal man’s purple face and that blue bag. I know I could have done something. ‘We should call the police, I suppose.’

  And then I retch. I throw up in the grass, crouch over and spit it out. Try and get rid of the smell from that room, of the picture in my head. And I retch again. I think I’m gonna be sick again. Deep breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let it pass.

  Gary puts his hand gently on my arm and leads me a few steps away from the house. ‘Have you got a phone?’ he asks.

  ‘In my bag,’ I say. ‘Over in the barn.’

  .

  The police and ambulance take ages to turn up. And when they do, it’s like none of it’s really happening. Like it’s in a film and I’m just watching it. They go and check the body first of all, and tell us what we already know: he’s dead. Died from choking on his own vomit, they say. Then they start to give us a lecture, about trespassing and stuff. I can’t really take on board what they’re saying. All I can think about is the body lying there. And the fact that I could have saved him yesterday, if only I’d gone and found him. Or told someone. Anything. And the smell. Sharp and stale and . . . oh, I can’t think about it any more.

  Halfway through the lecture, the policeman looks at me and stops talking. ‘I think you should get home,’ he says. ‘Are your parents at home?’