It was odd to make your workplace a shrine to your hobby, Sep thought, stepping over a pile of Angler’s Monthly. He wondered if the walls of Tench’s fishing hut were papered with exam results and timetables.
‘September!’ said the headmaster, looking up, all pork-pie face and badly knotted tie. ‘Good, that was quick. Caroline must have run up the stairs.’
‘Caroline?’ said Sep.
‘Little girl with the message.’ Tench held his hand about waist height to indicate Caroline’s stature. ‘Fair hair. Wants to be a vet actually – she’s got work experience lined up, so you’ll see her again no doubt.’
A spool of fishing line lay unravelled on his desk. Until recently there had been a picture of Sep’s mum there too, but Sep had begged her to have it removed.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ Tench said, gesturing to the soft chairs.
Sep sat, holding his bag. The headmaster sat opposite, but the seats were too low so he perched awkwardly, knees halfway up his chest, like a man on a child’s bicycle.
‘How’s your mum?’ he said.
‘She’s fine, sir,’ said Sep stiffly, then added: ‘Thanks.’
‘Good, good. It’s a few days since I’ve seen her, what with one thing and another. She works long shifts, your mother. She’s the best sergeant I’ve ever had … we’ve had, I mean! On the island! The best we’ve had.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sep. His jaw was tight, the bad tooth digging into his gum.
‘But I didn’t call you down to talk about your mum! Haha!’ said Tench, smiling widely, his wormy lips broad and pink.
‘Haha,’ said Sep, shifting on the seat.
‘No, I wanted to discuss your school career, Sep. Is it still OK to call you Sep? I know it was when you and your mother came to dinner, but we’re in school now, and –’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Good. Now, Sep, it looks as though you’ll be finishing your schooling away from the island, which is wonderful for you, of course, a great opportunity. We’re sorry to see you go, and I’d obviously rather you stayed, but if you must leave –’
‘I must,’ said Sep quickly.
Tench gave him a quick, tight smile.
‘Well, in that case there’s a bit of glory to be had for the school: a champion’s catch, you might say. The Dale Hutchison Memorial Scholarship is a prestigious award. No one from the district has ever won it, even on the mainland – it’ll be the best thing to happen to the school since Gillian Thomson got her Blue Peter badge. You’re going to be in our Hall of Fame –’
‘What Hall of Fame?’ said Sep.
‘– you’ll establish our Hall of Fame,’ said Tench, without missing a beat.
Sep shuddered, remembering the assembly held in his honour when the college invited him to apply: the headmaster’s long, enthusiastic presentation used so many fishing metaphors Mrs Woodbank had called it the ‘I Have a Bream’ speech.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘So, what do you –’
‘I just want to make sure everything’s all right,’ said Tench, spreading his big hands. ‘Mrs Maguire says you’ve not finished your application – put the final bait on the hook, so to speak. How’s it all going? Your work, your focus … things at home?’
Sep bit some loose skin from his bottom lip.
‘Fine,’ he said, touching the pages in his pocket. ‘I want to go so much, more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I can’t … I can’t not go.’
Tench looked out of the window at the island, nodded, then turned back.
‘Some weather, isn’t it? Too hot for you?’
‘A bit, sir. I burn easily.’
‘So does your mother,’ said Tench, and Sep visibly winced as he imagined the headmaster putting sunscreen on his mum. ‘It’ll rain soon, don’t worry. This heat is building up to a storm – like a kettle coming to the boil. Brings the fish to the surface, you know. Rain like that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Tench sighed happily.
‘I’m from the mainland, originally, you know. Just outside the city. I miss it sometimes, but I wanted to live in a small town. I wanted that smallness, to know my neighbours. Living here you can share each other’s lives in a kind of … family of families. In Hill Ford I really believe that, neighbour by neighbour, we can work towards a kind of shared happiness, that we can connect to the very essence of the human animal, and all the spiritual nourishment community can bring. And this island has the best fly-fishing in the northern hemisphere. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But other people,’ he gestured at Sep with open palms, ‘they want just the opposite. The big world. And it’s yours if you want it: you’ve got all the bait you need in that box of yours, you just need to reach out your net and take your chance. We’ve never had a student as able as you. If you stayed you’d get the best results we’ve ever had. But this scholarship …’
‘I understand, sir. It’s all I think about. I’ll finish my application tonight, after work.’
‘Good, good. And please let me know if there’s anything, Sep, anything the school can do. We all want this for you, and I’d like to think you would come and see me. I’m a friend first and a headmaster second, all right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I suppose angler comes after that.’ Tench looked thoughtful. ‘And there’s your mother, of course … I’ve never really thought about that list before.’
‘Maybe you should write it down,’ said Sep.
‘Now there’s a good idea,’ said Tench, rummaging for a pad among the tackle and line as Sep left the room. ‘That mind of yours! Say hi to your mum, tight lines – and think of the school!’
‘I will, sir,’ said Sep, and he went out past Mrs Siddiqui into the busy corridor, his application form burning like hot steel against his skin.
5
Class
The rest of the day passed like every other day: Sep finished his biology ahead of everyone else, read through lunchtime detention in a corner of Maguire’s stifling office, ate a whole stick of sugary rock, and snuck on his headphones whenever he could (New Order and The Smiths, double-sided, speckled with Floyd like cherries in a fruit cake) – and spoke to absolutely nobody.
Eventually he was slumped, sweating, in his last class: English.
The room had baked in the day’s heat until it was airless and tight, dust dancing in the fat beams of sun. Nobody moved, they just sat, wet-skinned and limp, breathing the tang of unvacuumed carpets and varnished wood.
‘Anyone?’ said Mrs Woodbank, fanning her face with a book. ‘I know it’s near the end of the day, but come on.’
Sep looked at the poem. The words shifted, and he felt a little spark in his mind as he saw the answer.
But don’t ask me, he thought. Don’t ask me again.
‘September?’ said Mrs Woodbank, fanning faster.
‘Septic, Septic, Septic,’ chanted the boys at the back of the class. Mrs Woodbank waved her hand for them to stop.
‘It’s about growing old,’ said Sep. He lifted his headphones, saw Mrs Woodbank’s face and let them snap back into place around his neck.
‘The human condition, yes, thank you,’ said Mrs Woodbank. The light wobbled in the overhead projector. She banged it on the side, and a little cheer went up from the back of the class as it winked out. ‘Wonderful,’ she said, turning to the board, chalk gripped in nicotine-yellow fingers.
‘Look, we all know Septic knows the answer, miss,’ said Arkle, swinging on his chair at the back of the class. ‘What’s the point of this? We just did exams, like, a month ago. And I won’t lie, miss, I’m all exammed out. I think my brain is full.’
Mrs Woodbank looked at him over her glasses, sweat beading on the knuckle of hair between her eyebrows.
‘The “point”, Darren, is that we have begun our study of next term’s texts,’ she said, snapping the last three words in time as she tapped her binder on the table. ‘An
d it seems unlikely your brain is full, given the mess you submitted for last week’s assignment.’
‘You mean my story?’ said Arkle.
‘I mean your story, yes.’
‘What was wrong with it? I used everything on your list.’ Arkle fumbled with the papers on his desk and produced a crumpled sheet that was stained with food. ‘Setting, characterization, dialogue, theme, plot,’ he read. ‘I did all that, like. In order.’
Mrs Woodbank took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.
‘Those are the tools of a writer’s craft,’ she said. ‘You’re not meant to do them one at a time.’
The class flickered with laughter. Arkle grinned, then frowned.
‘But I always leave my plot to the end,’ he said, almost to himself.
Sep shifted in his seat, felt the barrier between him and the rest of the class like a coil of wire. Arkle’s puzzled face made him think about what his mum had said over breakfast, and he turned to look outside. The bay was speckled with giant rocks, nibbled by the white teeth of the inward tide.
‘Back to the poem –’ said Mrs Woodbank, grabbing a note as it was passed along the front row. ‘What’s so important it couldn’t wait until the end of class, Stephanie?’ She unfolded the little ball of paper and held it up to the light. ‘“I really like Tony.” Well, thank you for that insight – Anthony, consider yourself warned. Now. Let’s consider the poet’s use of language here, in “the children green and golden–”’
The door opened and the athletics team trooped in, vest-clad and red, socks loose around their ankles.
‘Where have you been?’ said Mrs Woodbank.
Lamb looked down at her running gear.
‘Sports day,’ she said.
‘Nobody told me.’
Lamb shrugged her broad shoulders as the rest of the team, Mack among them, took their seats. ‘It’s sports day,’ she said. ‘All day. Till now.’
‘Go to the office,’ said Mrs Woodbank.
Lamb sighed, dropped her bag and turned to go.
‘Hey, Lamb,’ said Arkle, ‘have you ever been mistaken for a boy?’
‘No,’ said Lamb, scowling, ‘have you?’
‘Darren! What have I told you?’ shouted Mrs Woodbank as an ooooooh rumbled round the class.
‘“Try to act like a normal human being”,’ said Arkle sadly. One of his yakking crowd reached over and gave him a dead leg.
As the room pulsed with another quick laugh Sep felt his barrier break and snapped his head round.
Hadley was watching him again, eyes huge in her thick glasses. She looked away, but flicked her eyes back to his.
Then he saw Mack was watching him too.
He felt their eyes burning into his cheeks, which began to redden.
Looking down at his jotter, Sep closed his mind to the noise around him and wrote: Spring. Then, the others’ eyes still on the back of his head, he drew a circle round the word and wrote around it: Life. Growth. Change.
As he was packing up, Mrs Woodbank sat on his desk.
‘Are you all right, September?’ she said.
Sep nodded.
‘Good. You seem distracted.’
Sep shook his head, felt the ears of the class bend towards their conversation like eager petals.
‘Nothing to do with your scholarship?’ Mrs Woodbank went on.
‘I’m fine, miss, thank you,’ said Sep, grabbing his Walkman.
‘Well, I’m thrilled for you,’ she said as he stuffed the last of his books into his bag and jogged from the room. ‘There’s not much on this island for a boy with your brains!’
Sep fumbled down the play button.
‘September, my man!’ said Arkle.
Even though he was across the corridor, Sep could smell the cigarettes and deodorant. He lifted his headphones.
‘What?’
Arkle leaned forward and frowned.
‘Your earphones are broken,’ he said. ‘It’s only coming out one side, and the foam’s ripped.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sep. ‘Doesn’t really matter to me, though, does it?’
Arkle grinned and thumbed his feather earring.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘cos you’re deaf and that.’
‘Right.’
‘I said cos you’re deaf and that!’ Arkle said again, louder.
Sep felt a little twist in his chest, and clenched his jaw.
‘Ah, shit, I was just kidding … I’m sorry, don’t take us wrong,’ said Arkle. ‘How’s tricks?’
Sep screwed up his face.
‘I need to go,’ he said, turning into the dim-lit throat of the school’s main stairwell.
‘Hang on –’ said Arkle.
‘Why?’ said Sep. ‘You want to talk to me now? Today? I need to work. I’ve got no time for this.’
‘Ah, come on, why’re you –’
‘Darren, you’ve been calling me “Septic” for years.’
‘And you call me Darren.’
‘That’s your name.’
‘Not to my pals,’ said Arkle, smiling with his big square teeth.
‘Right,’ said Sep. ‘But your pals are, you know … dicks. And we’re not friends, are we?’
Arkle stopped smiling. He wiped his dripping brow.
‘I know, it’s just that –’ He looked about, saw Mrs Woodbank bustling over and whispered: ‘Later, right? Later. We want to talk to you.’
Then he ran off, the protruding tongues of his trainers clapping against his jeans, his long hair bouncing on his collar.
‘“We”?’ said Sep to himself.
As he watched Arkle go he saw Mack and his gang in the corridor beyond. The six were gathered round the lockers like wolves round a kill, their Mohawked thug-in-chief, Daniels, tripping everyone who walked past. Sunlight festered in the tight air, and violence shimmered in its haze.
Daniels, snake-eyed and beef-skinned, saw Sep watching and turned to face him – shoulders aggressively set, chin jutting. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt over a vest, and muscles bulged on his arms like sacks of flour.
‘Hey! Asshole!’ he shouted. Then he mouthed more words, pretending he was shouting and that Sep couldn’t hear, gesticulating wildly. The rest of them laughed the noisy, fake laugh of the henchman.
Sep clicked in a new tape and turned to go.
‘I’m talking to you, deaf-boy!’ Daniels yelled, and before Sep could move Daniels was on him, pressing him to the wall and scattering the tapes from his open bag.
6
Daniels
‘Can’t you hear me?’ whispered Daniels. ‘Can you not hear me shouting?’
‘Let me go, Keith,’ said Sep, looking at the ground and gritting his teeth. A circle was beginning to form around them.
Daniels’ breath was hot on Sep’s cheek.
‘Or what?’ he said.
‘Daniels, why don’t –’ said Mack.
Daniels grabbed Mack’s arm and held it clear, the skin white under the points of his fingers.
‘Can you hear me, queerdo?’
I can hear you breathing out your fat mouth, thought Sep, leaning against Daniels’ iron grip, frustration and shame tearing at his guts.
Hadley was in the crowd, her lips pursed like she wanted to shout.
‘Maybe you’d rather talk about your mum and Tench?’ Daniels growled. ‘How long’s he been fishing in her stream, queerdo? Does she grip his rod?’
Sep’s fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles ached.
‘Do they do it in your house? Are you in the next room, pressing your shit ear to the wall?’
Hadley looked away. The heat felt like it might split Sep’s skin, and he prayed to God the tears pricking his eyes wouldn’t fall down his face.
He opened his mouth to scream.
‘What are you doing, Daniels?’ said Arkle, leaning against the wall.
Daniels whirled on him, eyes wide, keeping his grip on Sep’s neck.
‘There he is,’ he his
sed, ‘the boy with the teeth.’
‘Killer burn, Keith,’ said Arkle, rolling his eyes. ‘I heard you running your mouth when I was halfway down the stairs, thought I’d pop back and check it out. It’s always fun to see a monkey dance.’
Daniels’ nostrils flared.
‘You starting something, teeth-boy?’
Arkle grinned.
‘Maybe,’ he said, waggling his eyebrows.
‘You really want a go?’ growled Daniels. ‘You and me?’ He squared his shoulders and cracked his neck. ‘I’m older than you.’
‘Yeah, you got held back a year cos you can’t read properly,’ said Arkle, cocking his head sympathetically. ‘Does that count as a self-burn?’
The crowd laughed, and Daniels’ hand tightened. Sep choked and coughed, watched Arkle stare back at Daniels with cool, collected defiance.
Then he saw Arkle’s hands were shaking.
‘Why don’t you just piss off?’ Sep shouted hoarsely, prising Daniels’ fingers away, waiting for the onslaught to start.
But Daniels ignored him.
‘Are you really trying to start something? For this deaf queerdo?’ Daniels asked Arkle. ‘Try it. See what happens.’
‘Shit, no – I don’t even want to touch you. I’m just telling you to get your big spotty face out of here.’
The crowd gasped silently, and Daniels’ face – already livid and red – darkened.
‘Who are you calling spotty?’ he said quietly.
‘Are you kidding?’ said Arkle, playing with his lighter. ‘The state of your face? And, by the way, I’ve seen you getting changed – so I know your arse is just as bad.’
The crowd wobbled with hysterical laughter, and Daniels’ face went an even more threatening purple. Sep, still pulling to free himself, began to feel light-headed, the heat pressing on his airless head.
‘You been looking at me in the shower, faggot?’ said Daniels quietly.
Arkle looked him up and down, then pulled a face.
The Sacrifice Box Page 3