Nicholas Dane

by Melvin Burgess

  Still trembling. Nick began ripping up the pictures and flinging the remains in between his legs into the pan. He tried to tear the lot up, but there were too many. He got through four or five before he cam e to his senses and sat there, panting.

  Why had the little rat done this to him? But of course, he already knew the answer. It was revenge. It was standing up for yourself. Oliver was trying to reclaim his life.

  For a second, Nick had a glimpse of the kind of courage Oliver had shown. To do this! To own these pictures was to own what had happened - to remember it, to keep it with you, to make it a part of you. It was something Nick was utterly unable to do for himself.

  Oliver was braver than anyone he’d ever known.

  Nick shook his head. Amazing! How hard had it been for Oliver, stealing these from under Creaks own nose? He’d slept with these under his pillow all night. No wonder he handed them over as soon as he could.

  The little blond slip of a boy had shown them all the way.

  Nick flipped through the pictures again. It wasn’t just Mr Creal - there were other men here as well. He recognised one of the men who had raped him in the Secure Unit. Got ya! You bastard. See how they liked being locked up and raped - because sure as hell that’s what would happen to them when they went to jail. Nick had heard stories of what happened to nonces in the nick. He just couldn’t wait for it to happen to lovable old Uncle Tony Creal.

  He stuffed the photos down his pyjamas, took a breath and left the loo. He wasn’t even going to tell Davey about this. It wouldn’t be fair on him. It wasn’t fair on him either. Just to know the pictures existed was more of a weight than he wanted to carry. But he was going to do it anyway.

  They were going down Bunker’s Lane. They had to. If they failed now, God knows.

  Davey was waiting for him outside the toilet, pretending to wash his face. As soon as Nick came out, he joined him and they walked together back to the dorm.

  ‘We’re on,’ said Nick.

  ‘He got ’em?’

  ‘Three packs.’

  Davey looked at him in disbelief. Nick patted his towel and nodded.

  ‘Three packs? The little git.’

  ‘It’s this morning,’ said Nick.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Creal will know he took ’em.’

  Davey pulled a face, and shook his head.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘It’s a set-up, innit?’

  ‘No!’

  They were back in the dorm by now. Nick managed to stash the cigs under his mattress while they started to make their beds, carrying on their conversation in snatches and whispers. ‘Little Oliver nicks something off dear old Tony ? I don’t think so. Soon as we set off they’ll be on us. It’s just an excuse to get us.’

  ‘They don’t need an excuse.’

  ‘It’s a set-up,' insisted Davey. ‘It’s the wrong day Vail. Why so quick? Why can’t we wait for Friday like we planned?’

  ‘I told you, Creal will know he nicked ’em.’

  Davey snorted in disgust. ‘It’s too bloody quick, mate. You’d be mad to run on the back of his say so.’

  Nick paused. It wasn’t the fact that Oliver had stolen the fags that had him convinced - it was the fact that he’d stolen the pictures. But now it was time to make up the beds and there was no way he could attract attention by sneaking Davey back to the loos to show him those.

  ‘Trust me, mate,’ he said, looking Davey hard in the eye.

  Davey shook his head. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about, mate.’

  Nick felt a surge of anger. This was the last thing he needed. ‘You coming or not?’

  ‘Am I bollocks.’

  ‘Then we’ll go without you, mate.’

  Davey shot him a glare of sheer hatred and looked away.

  ‘Tell you what,’ hissed Nick. ‘You can stay here on your arse wanking off old men if you feel like it. I’m out of here.’

  Davey didn’t reply.

  ‘Shall I tell Andrews to leave you an’ all? Or what?’

  The whistle blew for inspection. Davey turned away. ‘Tell him what you want, I don’t care.’ He went to line up by the snooker table for Toms, with Nick following angrily behind.

  The morning rush was always the same - get to the toilet, get your bed made, wait for inspection. Most of the boys didn’t bother with a wash. Then downstairs, set out the tables, serve breakfast, clear up, then straight away off to school. The only chance he had to bribe the prefects was while the breakfast things were being put away.

  Sixty ciggies. It wasn’t bad. They stood as good a chance as anyone ever did.

  He snuck up to the prefects one at time and pushed a packet into their hands. Andrews looked sharply at him.

  Nick nodded. ‘Twenty to leave me, Oliver and Davey,’ he said.

  ‘Three of you? And bloody Oliver? I’ll want more than this, Toms’ll never believe he can get away.’

  Nick shook his head. ‘That’s all there is.’

  ‘I could report you anyway,’ hissed Andrews. ‘I want more.’

  ‘It’s all there is. Report me and I’ll tell how you got ’em,’ said Nick. He shrugged. Andrews shrugged. He’d known what Nick was going to say before he asked. But it was always worth a try.

  ‘OK?’ said Nick.

  ‘Right.’ He looked Nick in the face for the first time and nodded.

  ‘Including Oliver.’

  Andrews paused, then nodded again. ‘Him, too.’

  Nick walked off to deal with Julian and then with the third prefect, Taylor, from Oliver’s side of the house. A while later, he saw the three of them together in a huddle. He would have given the world to know what exactly they were saying.

  What made Bunker’s Lane so desperate was the chase. They literally hunted you down, like wolves after the deer; and like all predators they were always fiercer, crueller and harder than you were. But there were tricks. One was to do it in herds, like the deer. At least some of you would get away. With any luck, when the other boys saw three of them set off, they’d set off too and give them more of a chance.

  And if you were small and you couldn’t run, like Oliver - then you had to use a bribe. Use a bribe and hope for the best...

  It was almost half a mile to freedom - half a mile of mud-sliding, chest heaving, lung-bursting running. If you could go fast enough to convince the prefects that they weren’t going to catch you, they might just give it up. It was the one thing the runners had on their side - they cared. They cared desperately or they wouldn’t be running. The prefects had just their pride to lose and perhaps a beating if they didn’t put up a good show. It wasn’t the same.

  Davey took his place next to Nick and gave him a scowl.

  ‘I told ’em to leave you, too,’ hissed Nick, but Davey looked away. Nick was furious. It could never work, not without Davey. And who was going to get caught with those pictures tucked down the back of his pants? And what would happen to him then?

  They lined up outside in the yard. Oliver looked as if he was about to die of fear. Nick tried to give him an encouraging smile, but it felt like a sneer on his face.

  The crocodile began to move. Davey was watching him. Nick looked away. It was too late to stop now.

  Calm down, thought Nick to himself. Keep your mind clear. He looked across at Oliver, who had gone literally green, it was a wonder no one noticed. Nick managed a wink. Oliver just stared, slack-jawed, like a fool.

  They paused briefly as another line of kids from the other side of the building joined them, then carried on. Closer. Twenty yards. Ten.

  Then they were there.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ yelled Nick. The whole crocodile jumped as three figures leapt out of the line like dogs at a racetrack, skidding on the wet grass, rushing towards the hedge that hid the mouth of Bunker’s Lane.

  ‘No way!’ yelled Davey, as he hurtled like a rocket past Nick. No way was he getting left behind. Nick’s spirits soared.

  Yes! A shout wen
t up - ‘Oi!’ The call to hunt. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw the prefects come to life, bodies flung forward, straining towards them. It meant nothing, they had to chase hard so long as they were in sight of the staff. Once they were behind the bushes they’d see if they were taking the bribes. Nick glanced quickly round. The bastards were going full pelt. And Oliver was already falling back! Please, God, let him make it to the bushes!

  He hit the leaves and twigs in an act of faith, he couldn’t see through. They lashed at his eyes and face and then he was out the other side into Bunker’s Lane. The ground broken, the cobbles slippy and he had to slow down. A few yards away Davey hit the ground with his arse and bounced back up with a grimace of pain. But where was Oliver? Christ!

  Then the bushes parted and there he was.

  ‘Off the path, Oliver, get off the path,’ gasped Nick over his shoulder. If he stayed on the Lane the prefects would have to pass him to chase the rest of them - it was asking too much. He waved his hand to show the way. Oliver gasped and skidded off behind the bushes. Behind him he could hear the prefects, Andrews and Julian, shouting and cursing - shouting too loudly perhaps, to convince the staff. Nick prayed they’d slow down or even stop once they were through the trees, but they were still coming on strong. He skidded - looking back over his shoulder like that was making him lose his balance. He hit the ground, splashing into a puddle, jumped up and ran off again, full pelt.

  They were gaining! He’d lost vital seconds helping Oliver. He knew the prefects would have to get at least one of them. It couldn’t be Oliver, it couldn’t be Oliver! It couldn’t be him, either, not with what he had in his back pocket.

  And it couldn’t be Davey because Davey was his mate. But Davey was miles ahead already. Nick could see his white face glancing back at him.

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled. Nick redoubled his efforts - but the footsteps he expected to hear behind him weren’t coming. He risked another look back - they were falling back! The prefects were falling back, the bribe was working. He was as good as free.

  It just occurred to Nick that he hadn’t seen Andrews the last time he looked when he heard a shout—

  ‘Oi!’ It was Andrews. He was off the path - after Oliver, the bastard! Nick swerved, jumped over a fallen log and ran into the trees and stopped, gulping for breath, trying to listen. He could hear the sounds of running.

  ‘I’ve got you ...!’ sang Andrews.

  ‘Leave him, Andrews,’ screamed Nick.

  ‘Nick, you twat!’ yelled Davey ahead, not breaking his stride. Nothing was going to make him stop running, but Nick held back. The other prefects had turned off the trail to go for Oliver, too, now. He could hear them somewhere behind him, cracking a joke.

  Nick doubled back. He heard the chase - heard the thump and the wind knocked out of the smaller boy’s throat. He rushed back and burst out of the trees almost on top of them. Andrews was heaving Oliver off the ground by his hair.

  ‘Please! Please!’ yelled Oliver, his face a mask of panic. Nick took a step forward towards them.

  Andrews watched him closely. ‘Oi, over here!’ he yelled. There was an answering cry. Reinforcements. Nick paused unsure of what to do - unsure of what he could do. But already he could hear Julian and Taylor coming through the trees.

  ‘You’re dead,' Andrews told him quietly; and he nodded his head, meaning, get out quick, run!

  ‘Let him go,’ demanded Nick. Andrews smiled slightly and shook his head. Nick glanced longingly at the way to freedom.

  ‘Don’t leave me, please, don’t leave me,’ begged Oliver, in a voice of pure panic.

  Andrews slapped him hard. ‘Shut up,’ he commanded.

  The other prefects thundered up and Nick’s legs made up his mind for him.

  ‘I got the package, Oliver - I’ll be back. Tomorrow!’ he swore. He had a flash of Oliver’s white-green face; then he fled.

  But now, of course, Julian and Taylor were between him and freedom. He’d thrown away his chance as far as they were concerned, and they were really after him now. He could hear two of them coming up fast. There was no way. There really was no way. They were bigger, faster and stronger than him. He was stuffed. Already they were right behind him.

  Nick redoubled his speed - and then suddenly crouched down in the mud and leaves. Julian couldn’t brake in time and tripped headlong over his back and went flying into a tangle of brambles, with a scream of pain.

  The other prefect was right behind him, but Nick jumped up and seized a branch in his hand without even thinking about it. A good big stout stick a couple of metres long. As Taylor came running up, he swung it. He could see from the older boy’s face that he really wasn’t expecting Nick to actually do this. He froze and stood there a picture of surprise, watching the end of the stick whistle towards him. He turned his face away at the last minute so he never got it across the front of his face, but across the side. It made a sickening crack and down he went like a dummy.

  Julian was back on his feet by this time. He was a big lad, but he paused when Nick waggled the stick at him.

  On the ground, Taylor was rolling from side to side, clutching his face and groaning. There was blood all over his hands and face.

  ‘What have you done?’ yelled Julian.

  ‘I’ll ’ave you too,’ hissed Nick. Julian got down to look at Taylor, who was bleeding thickly from his scalp and ear.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Julian told Nick.

  Nick backed off and shook the stick at Julian. ‘You want some, you fucker?’ he asked. ‘You want some? I’ll break your neck.’

  Julian just goggled at him. Nick was breaking all the rules. Men hit big boys and big boys hit smaller boys. But smaller boys never beat up big boys with a stick.

  ‘You’re mad,' said Julian again; but he stayed where he was. Behind him, Andrews appeared, holding on to Oliver. He stood watching impassively among the rhododendrons. Nick stuck the stick under his arm, and half walked, half ran towards Bunker’s Lane. A second later, when he looked back and saw Julian helping Taylor to his feet, he knew he was free.

  He broke into a trot. He reached a wall higher than his head and had to jump up to peer over it. There was a road, hedges and a row of semi-detached houses looking back at him. He clambered over the wall, looked around him - and there was Davey, jumping out from the cover of some overhanging bushes. He ran to him. They stood there together looking at each other and shaking their heads and grinning.

  ‘I’m lovin’ it! I’m lovin’ it!’

  ‘Yeah...’

  ‘Ran like a tornado, mate.’

  ‘Leaving like a bleedin’ jet plane, wannit?’

  ‘Oliver?’ asked Davey, pulling a face.

  ‘Bastards got him. But I got... ’ Nick patted his back pocket. It was only then that he found that the photos had fallen out of his pocket as he ran, every single one of them. They were scattered all through the woods up and down Bunker’s Lane for anyone to see.

  ‘The pictures ‘What pictures?’

  Nick shook his head. He didn’t even want to think about it. It was too late. And Oliver was going to have to face the music alone.

  20

  Hiding

  There wasn’t time to worry about Oliver. They weren’t out of trouble yet. As they stood there, the staff would be on the phone to the police. They had to get away, back to North Manchester and their own ground. So far, they didn’t even know where they were.

  They were hiding under an overgrown weeping willow tree that cascaded down onto the pavement beyond the wall that marked the boundary of the Home. It was early, about eight in the morning. The day was speeding up - cars, cyclists, but fortunately not many people on foot. Those that were stayed on the other side of the road, as there was no pavement on their side.

  ‘We’re bloody stuck in this bloody tree,’ said Davey.

  It was right. They were in their Meadow Hill school uniforms, dark blue with bright yellow stripes on the jumper, blazer and the tie. Everything about i
t was designed to attract attention. Not only that, but the clothes were all ancient hand-me-downs. The two boys looked like a pair of badly dressed wasps looking for trouble.

  ‘You might as well write, “On the run”, on the front of yer head than go out in this lot,’ said Davey. So the first thing they did was chuck the lot - tie, jumper and blazer. It was a cool morning, and they weren’t at all warm in their shirts, but it was better than going around like a living advertisement for runaways.

  They hid the clothes in some bushes, stepped out into the morning sunshine and walked bravely down the road. A woman out walking her dog took a good long look at them and then turned her head away, her lips pursed.

  ‘What you looking at?’ shouted Davey.

  Nick nudged him with his elbow. ‘Twat,’ he hissed.

  ‘I didn’t like the way she was looking at us.’

  ‘Everyone’s going to be looking at us like that. You’re attracting attention.’

  ‘Who gives a toss? We’re out, aren’t we?’

  But Nick wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t forgotten the scoutmaster. The police would have their eyes peeled looking for them, and any one of the people walking past could pick up a phone and give them away. He watched them, the cars driving past, the kids on their way to school on their bikes, their eyes flicking over them and then away...

  ‘This is hopeless. People know as soon as they see us,’ he said.

  ‘We could nick some clothes off a washing line,’ suggested Davey. Back in Ancoats, that was how he and his brothers and sisters had kept themselves clothed the whole of their lives. They kept a watch on the back gardens for any washing hanging out, but it was early yet, no one had had time to do the washing and the lines hung in the morning sunshine with nothing on them but a few sparrows and pegs.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Davey.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Nick. They had to get all the way back home and they didn’t even know where they were. He didn’t even want to have to think about food. But a moment later, they had their first break of good luck - a road sign.

  ‘Manchester, 5m,’ it said. The sign pointed down a broad, busy road.