‘Mum!’ he screamed. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’
They threw themselves onto him, all of them, so heavy and so dark that he felt like a body being lowered into a grave. He thrashed, but he couldn’t move his legs and now something heavy was sitting on his back. Fat fingers were tight around his neck, squeezing his windpipe so hard that his throat whistled every time he managed to snatch a breath. He snapped his head round, trying to shake them loose, seeing two more people climbing through the shattered window, nothing but silhouettes against the sun. They crowded into the tiny room, trying to punch, claw, kick, bite, no sound but their hoarse, ragged breathing and tinny laughter from the television.
Something too hard to be a fist made contact with the back of his head and a seed of darkness blossomed into full-blown night. He could still hear the sound of each blow, but he could no longer feel them. He closed his eyes, happy to let himself sink into this comforting numbness, happy to leave the pain and the confusion behind . . .
It stopped as suddenly as it had started. When he tried to breathe in he found that he couldn’t. In the last seconds before his life ended, Benny heard the back door opening and the wet patter of footsteps leaving the house, the crunch of the wicker chair as his sister sat back down, a soft whine from the dog.
Then, incredibly, he heard the sound of his mum filling the kettle in the kitchen.
And it was that noise, so familiar, one that he had heard every single day of his life, which ushered him out of the world. Then that too was erased by the immense, unfathomable cloud of cold darkness which had settled inside his head.
His heart juddered, stalled, and he felt something burn up from inside him, a surge of cold, blue fire that burst free with a silent howl. Then Benny Millston died on his living-room carpet while his mum made the tea.
Thursday
Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d
William Congreve, The Mourning Bride
Cal
Oakminster, East London, 2.32 p.m.
Everybody loved Callum Morrissey.
Captain of the lower-sixth football team. A gifted student but cool with it, not a try-hard. All-round nice guy. And he knew it, too. Right now he was belting up the right wing of the school pitch, the ball at his feet, running so fast that the roar of the wind almost drowned out the noise of the crowd. The opposition full-back, Truman – a beast of a stopper with a body like Shrek and a face to match – was dead ahead, big but slow. Cal feigned left, tapping the ball through the kid’s tree-trunk legs before spinning to his right and cutting towards the goal.
In the eighteen-yard box were two of his best friends, Dan and Abdus, both of them with their hands in the air yelling out for a cross. Cal ducked round another defender, thought about trying to put it in the back of the net himself. But he wasn’t greedy. He’d scored once already, a free kick taking the game to 3–1 in their favour. It was better when they all had something to celebrate after the match.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the way time seemed to slow down. Each second was drawn out, hanging lazily on the sunshine that painted the pitch gold. The clock mounted on the single stand of tiered seats to his right – ‘Sponsored by The Union Garage’ stencilled over the face – read 2.32: thirteen minutes left, then it would be over, one step closer to the end-of-year Inter-form Cup. They’d be paraded through their classes like they were already champions, and maybe this time even Georgia would look up from her book for long enough to congratulate him. She couldn’t ignore him forever, not when he was playing this well.
He drew back his foot, ready to launch a high, looping pass into the centre of the box. And that’s when something ripped across his ankle.
He dropped to the floor, agonising heat biting into his leg. He blinked the tears away, gritting his teeth, rocking back and forth with his ankle between his hands until his vision cleared.
Incredibly, the game was still going on. Truman, the one who had tackled him, was back on his feet punting the ball down the pitch. Everyone else was chasing after it like Cal didn’t even exist, including Mr Platt, the PE teacher, who was acting as referee.
‘Hey!’ he called out, lifting his hand to try and get the man’s attention. It wasn’t like he’d dived or anything – he could see the blood soaking through his sock, five lines raked over his ankle from Shrek’s boot studs. He called out again, but there was nobody left in earshot.
Cal clambered to his feet, trying not to put any weight on his left leg. The pain was settling into an uncomfortable throb. It could have been worse, a tackle like that might have shattered the bone, knocked him out for the summer holidays, maybe longer. Truman was going to pay. He jogged towards the action at the other end of the field, ready to kick some ass. He’d get sent off, but who cared? With a handful of minutes left it wasn’t like they were in danger of losing.
Up ahead the ball was at the feet of an opposition midfielder, a kid called Connor. Cal ignored the game, jogging towards Truman. The ogre had his hands on his knees, bent double, trying to get his breath back.
‘Hey,’ Cal said, increasing his speed, his whole body buzzing in anticipation. Truman turned in time to see Cal’s fist heading for his cheek. There was a soft thud and the kid’s head wobbled like a boxer’s punch ball. It seemed for a moment like he was going down but he managed to stay on his feet, his pug ugly mug creased with annoyance.
No, it wasn’t annoyance. The look he shot Cal was way beyond that. For a second Shrek’s eyes seemed depthless, full of a hatred that Cal had never before encountered in his seventeen years. His face was so dark with anger that it seemed bloated, poisoned. It was the look of somebody who wanted to kill him.
He backed off instinctively, hearing the whistle blow again and again, its shrill pitch gaining volume as Mr Platt ran their way. Truman lunged, fists balled into boulders, his mouth hanging open like the village idiot’s but his eyes set fast, furious.
Someone grabbed Cal from behind, arms locked around his chest. Someone else was at his side, shoving him, shouting at him. In no more than a heartbeat he was being bulldozed by a crowd, their hands and arms like pistons, the sensation like being trapped inside an engine.
‘Get off,’ he yelled, feeling the fingers dig into his chest, the swell of chaos around him growing. One of the opposition team shoved him hard and he nearly fell, his legs tangled up in those of whoever stood behind him. Then the jowly face of Mr Platt rose into view, his cheeks an impossible shade of crimson as he blew into his whistle. The teacher reached out and grabbed Cal’s shoulder, stopping him from toppling.
‘That’s enough!’ he bellowed, his whistle dropping to his chest. ‘I said stop that, right now.’
‘Leave it out, Cal,’ said a voice in his ear, and he recognised Joe McGowan, their right-winger, the kid who was holding him. ‘Let it go, man.’
‘Fine, it’s over,’ he said, his voice lost in the roar of the crowd. ‘But look what that tosser did to my leg, almost took it clean off.’ He reached into his sock, then held up fingers stained with blood, waving them at Shrek. ‘See that?’
‘I said enough!’ Mr Platt barked, almost apoplectic. He blew his whistle again, waving everybody away and reaching into his pocket. He flashed the red card at Cal’s face with the enthusiasm of a priest waving a crucifix at a vampire. ‘You’re off, Morrissey, and you’re in trouble too. Get moving.’
Truman lunged again, but without conviction, happy to let his teammates hold him back. His face had softened and the expression it wore now was one of confusion, almost as though he couldn’t quite remember where he was. Maybe Cal had punched him harder than he thought. Mr Platt turned to the ogre, the red card hovering at his side.
‘Don’t push it, Truman,’ he said. ‘Or you’re off too. You’re lucky I didn’t see that tackle.’
Gradually the players were drifting away, a series of boos and jeers drifting down from the stands. Cal ran a hand down his football shirt, straightening the creases, and when he looked up Joe was stari
ng at him, one eyebrow raised.
‘You okay?’ he asked. Cal nodded, and Joe’s face broke into a grin. ‘Almost knocked him clean on his rump; nice one.’
Joe’s smile was contagious, and Cal found himself laughing. The adrenalin had dulled the pain in his ankle, and there were perks to missing out on the last ten minutes of the match – one in particular sitting in the front row of the stands. Joe held his hand out and Cal gripped it in a surfer’s handshake.
‘Stick one in for me, yeah?’ he said.
‘No probs,’ Joe replied, running off. Mr Platt had put the ball down about ten yards from where Cal had thumped Truman, and once again he blew on his whistle, gesticulating wildly at Cal to get off the pitch.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m going,’ Cal muttered, walking as slowly as he dared. He raised his hands to the crowd, shadow-boxing like Rocky, and milked a cheer from them which he rode all the way to the sidelines. He made his way over to his lower-sixth mates in the first line of folding seats, grateful to be in the shade of the stand. Eddie Ardagh clapped him on the back.
‘Douchebag had it coming,’ he said. ‘Took you out like a lumberjack.’
‘Shouldn’t have hit him, Cal,’ said Megan Rao, shaking her head. One of her crimson-dyed curls popped loose and she tucked it back behind her ear. ‘He’s gonna be after you for that. You know Truman’s crazy.’
‘Let him come,’ Cal said, flopping down on the empty seat between Megan and Georgia. Georgia Cole. She had her perfectly petite snub nose in a novel, the way she always did, and when he lightly elbowed her she gave him the merest flicker of attention. Cal didn’t press the matter – it didn’t look good when you were the one doing the chasing. Instead he turned back to the daylight-drenched field as his team once again fought their way upfront. That hollow, rubbery duff of somebody kicking the ball had to be just about the best noise in existence, especially in summer. Everything sounded better in summer.
He saw Truman waddling around by himself outside the opposition eighteen-yard box, gently nursing his cheek. He’d never been scared of him, even though Truman was a year older and a hell of a lot bigger, even though he had a reputation for whaling on smaller kids. Cal didn’t feel scared of anyone, not really. He’d studied Choy Li Fut kung fu since he was eight and although he’d never had to use it in a proper scrap, he knew he could if he needed to.
In his mind’s eye he could still see Truman’s face after he’d hit him, that primeval hate in his expression, a blood-boiling rage. He’d looked like a proper psycho, the kind you get in the movies. Megan was right, everyone knew that Truman was crazy. But this was the first time that Cal had thought that maybe he actually was crazy.
‘Thirsty?’ Eddie said, offering Cal a bottle of water with the label peeled off.
‘You know I don’t drink that stuff,’ he said, pulling a can of Dr Pepper out of Megan’s open rucksack. ‘Water’s bad for you.’ He opened the can, taking a deep swig before unleashing a burp that almost blew his head off. ‘DP. Pure rehydration.’
‘Don’t know how you’re still alive,’ muttered Eddie. ‘Your insides must be glued together with sugar.’
‘Go on!’ Megan screamed, jumping about a metre into the air, and Cal saw that Ab had dribbled the ball into the box. He shot and the keeper dived for it, meeting it with about half a fingertip but enough to send it wide. Cal was on his feet, hands on his head.
‘Man, that was close,’ he said, collapsing back down hard enough to nudge Georgia’s book. This time she looked up with a forced scowl, peering at him from beneath her blonde fringe. He grinned at her. ‘Sorry, George, but this ain’t no place for a nerd.’
‘I was dragged here against my will,’ she replied, and somehow her deepening glower made her look even more gorgeous, like one of those models who pouts on the front of a fashion magazine. Cal felt his stomach fold into itself, his whole body suddenly too heavy, like gravity had just doubled. And for a ridiculous moment – despite their victory, despite the rush of what had happened with Truman, despite the sun and the promise of an afternoon hanging out with his mates – he felt like he was going to burst into tears. He turned away, his eyes prickling, his whole body tingling, and after a single, ragged breath the feeling passed.
‘Your leg okay?’ Georgia asked, smiling coyly as if she knew what was running through his head. He glanced down, seeing those parallel red lines in his crumpled socks where Shrek’s studs had raked through the skin. There was only a smudge of blood there, already clotted and drying.
‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Feels like it could be fatal. Might need some mouth to mouth resuscitation in a moment.’
‘Ew!’ Georgia protested, slapping him gently with her book. ‘Get Eddie to do it.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Megan chimed in, blowing Cal a kiss.
‘Thank God,’ muttered Eddie.
Cal laughed gently, lacing his hands behind his head and resting back in his seat. There was a worm of discomfort nuzzling at his temples, but that was nothing unusual after a match, especially one like this. It was part adrenalin hangover, part dehydration. He knew he should drink more water but he just hated the stuff. Dr Pepper, that was all the liquid he needed.
‘That guy is a total donkey,’ said Megan as Steven Abelard, their slowest midfielder, trotted up the pitch.
Cal tuned her out, tuned everything out, happy for a moment’s peace. He took a deep breath, the pressure in his head softening. Then he exhaled and the pain returned, that and a faint pulse which seemed to echo around the front of his skull, no louder than the whisper of distant bird wings.
Thump-thump . . .
Thump-thump . . .
Thump-thump . . .
Daisy
Boxwood St Mary, Suffolk, 2.47 p.m.
‘You’re scaring me . . .’
Daisy Brien retreated, the ice-cold wall against her back making her jump. Her two best friends, Kim and Chloe, were moving towards her, their hair in identical braids, both wearing old-fashioned puffy dresses that hid their feet and made them look as though they were gliding. Their eyes were wide, unblinking. Ghost eyes.
‘Guys, stop it!’
They had boxed her in, the overpacked clothes rails to her right and left like the walls of a hedge maze, too thick to escape through. There was only one door here, invisible in the gloom, but Daisy could make out the green emergency exit light with the little running stick man on it. It seemed a million miles away. Kim and Chloe were close enough to touch, and Kim reached out slowly with a hand draped in white lace. She ran a cool finger over Daisy’s face.
‘Stop it!’
‘See how she leans her cheek upon my hand,’ said Kim in a low, phantom groan. ‘Oh that Fred were a glove upon my hand, that he might touch her cheek!’
Chloe raised both hands, fluttering them in front of Daisy’s chest.
‘One, two, and the third in your bosom,’ she moaned. ‘Which is where Fred wants to be!’
‘Oh Fredeo,’ added Kim. ‘Fredeo, wherefore artest thou, Fredeo!’
‘Where fartest thou?’ said Chloe. And that did it, the three of them cracking up in peals of laughter which filled the dressing room like sunlight. Daisy was giggling so hard that her sides were in danger of splitting. Chloe collapsed to her knees, the dress spilling out around her in countless folds, releasing the homely smell of dust and old fabric.
‘I hate you,’ Daisy said when her air-starved lungs began to function again. She slapped Kim playfully on her arm, the blow cushioned by an enormous shoulder pad. ‘I told you, I don’t like him!’
‘But he’s your Fredeo,’ said Chloe, holding out her hands. Kim grabbed one and Daisy took the other, hauling her back onto her feet. ‘Fredeo and Daisiet, the world’s most romantic love story.’
‘He’s like so not interested in me,’ she said. ‘He’s in Year 10 for heaven’s sake.’
‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’ said Kim, wiping the tears from her eyes.
‘Wrong play, dingbat,’ Daisy shot
back. She pushed past them, escaping the labyrinth of the theatre wardrobe and walking to the huge mirror on the left-hand side of the room. It was ringed by bulbs, just like in a Broadway dressing room, and they painted her reflection in sickly yellow light. Even so, she couldn’t help but approve of the way she looked, with her long, brown hair trussed up in an elaborate plaited bun. The dress she wore was so white and so pretty that she could have been a bride, the high, narrow collar making her look taller and more slender than she actually was. It made her look older, too, maybe fifteen instead of almost thirteen.
Just about the right age for Fred . . .
She felt the heat in her cheeks and she was glad that she was already wearing her make-up, thick rouge concealing her embarrassment. She busied herself with her gloves, elbow-length strips of cobweb-thin silk that were a nightmare to put on. At first, three months or so ago, when they’d discovered their roles in the school play, she’d been mortified that the Romeo to her Juliet was going to be from Year 10. The idea was enough to make her scurry to the wings and hide in the shadows there until the whole thing was over.
But she’d bitten back her fear and soldiered on, the way her parents had taught her to. And despite her protests, she’d actually quite liked the attention. She had to keep telling herself that he was just acting, that this fifteen-year-old Adonis who already had a girlfriend wouldn’t be interested in the real Daisy Brien in a million years.
‘I still can’t remember my lines,’ said Chloe, her reflection joining Daisy’s, half a foot taller even though she was a month younger.
‘You’ve only got about three,’ laughed Daisy as she pulled the first glove on. Chloe was playing Lady Montague, Romeo’s mum, and even though she appeared in only two scenes she always managed to get her words in a muddle. Kim was Tybalt, Juliet’s cousin, who, their drama teacher had decided, was going to be a girl in this version of the play. She stood to the side, leaning against the make-up shelf, idly waving a cardboard sword back and forth.
The Fury Page 2