‘You’re kind of hard to miss, aren’t you? But yeah, I’ve been watching your arse in the showers, now I’m looking at your face and honestly, Keith? Some days I can’t tell them apart. I need to remind myself your arse is the one without the nose.’
Even Sonya and Manbat laughed, but they quickly turned it into a growl and moved closer to Chantelle and Stephen, right alongside Daniels. Sep glanced at Mack – saw he’d gone pale, his eyes wide.
But underneath his red Mohawk Daniels looked scarily calm.
‘You know what, Darren?’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hit you. I know what you’re doing. So I’m going to hit your little deaf friend instead.’
A weight dropped through Sep’s stomach, and the world began to move in slow motion.
‘Wait!’ said Mack.
Arkle moved as Daniels lunged forward and Sep threw up his hands, limbs blurring in the lightness of his skull; then another voice shot through the bubble and brought the world back up to speed.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ shouted Mrs Maguire, scattering the crowd like dandelion seeds, Mr Tench a few paces behind the battleship of her indignant chest.
Daniels dropped Sep and tried to look as though he’d never touched him, his hands loose and relaxed. Sep snapped his headphones on to his ears, but left them silent.
‘How dare you bring this kind of unseemly squabble into my school! Your exams might have finished, but I can still –’
Daniels cut her off.
‘It’s got nothing to do with you, Magpie.’
‘Don’t you dare take that tone with me!’ said Mrs Maguire, her eyes blazing. ‘I remember you when you were a snot-nosed little boy, Keith Daniels, crying when you skinned your knees – am I supposed to be scared of you now you’ve got zips on your trousers?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Maguire,’ said Mr Tench, easing her aside by the elbow. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
Daniels’ face had gone pink.
‘September, sir. He started it.’
Tench allowed his full height to loom over the corridor, and Sep saw that his face was different – its well-scrubbed gleam uncommonly hard.
Maguire reached up and grabbed Daniels’ collar.
‘And how many times have I told you about that haircut? It is expressly forbidden in the school handbook!’
‘You tell him, Aileen,’ said Arkle.
Maguire flared her nostrils at him.
‘Don’t you dare use my first name, Hooper. Daniels, explain. Now.’
‘It wasn’t me who started it,’ said Daniels, lip almost trembling as he conjured a picture of innocence.
‘Yes, you said it was September,’ said Mr Tench. ‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘It’s true, sir.’
‘I did not!’ said Sep.
But Daniels was warming to his victimhood.
‘And then Ark– Darren – called me names and made fun of my acne,’ he said weakly. ‘He said my bum and my face look the same because they’re so spotty.’
‘Is that true, Darren?’ said Tench.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Arkle solemnly. ‘Keith’s face looks exactly like his bum.’
Daniels’ act shattered and he lunged forward, but Tench grabbed him and turned him away.
‘Another detention for that, Darren, usual time and place. Keith – go with Mrs Maguire, please.’
‘And you’ll be with me tomorrow lunchtime,’ said Mrs Maguire, her heels clicking along the corridor, herding Daniels’ gang like sheep. ‘Mr Hope has already booked himself a slot with his lateness and cheek, so you can sort out this ridiculous squabble then.’
Daniels turned to Sep, his face lit with glee. Mack turned as well, with a look Sep couldn’t decipher.
‘Sure,’ said Daniels, fixing Sep with a hard, wild stare. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime. We’ll get everything sorted then.’
‘Great,’ said Sep, catching Arkle’s eye.
‘You all right, September?’ said Tench, once again giraffe-like and calm.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Good, good. Take no notice of these idiots – playing the hard man, that’s all. I know you’d never start anything so unpleasant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sep.
Maguire cuffed Daniels on the back of the head, and Tench raised his eyebrows.
‘You’ll have to forgive Mrs Maguire if she seems a little … even more …’
‘On edge?’ said Sep tentatively.
‘On edge,’ nodded Tench. He leaned down slightly. ‘She got some bad news this morning, I understand – an old friend of hers in New York passed away during the night. Accident on the subway. Very unexpected.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
Tench clapped Sep on the shoulder.
‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. On time, I hope, Hope.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sep, and he forced a smile.
When he turned back the others had already gone, and the crowd had vanished.
Sep was sure Mack had tried to stop Daniels from punching him, but that didn’t make sense. He shook his head, pressed play on Morrissey’s warbling voice, then unclipped his skateboard and left, taking the stairs three at a time, emerging into a throng of tar-smell and chatter and juddering engines, all broiling under the blue-white marble of a summer sky.
7
Roots
In the distant forest, shadows moved, the ground twisting with unseen things. The split skins of mice and birds pulsed with bacterial growth, and the dirt was studded by the prints of midnight beasts.
A wind blew, and weeds gathered in the dappled sunlight. Narrow roots writhed in the shade, searching the ground like blind fingers.
At the centre of the clearing, the stone box lay open.
A crow flew to a branch, and was joined by another, then another, which settled on the ground. Presently a worm broke the earth’s surface and twisted for a moment, a twinkling bud of pink in the gloom. It found feathers, and burrowed slowly through the third crow’s skin.
Minutes passed.
The worm reappeared, dropping through the bird’s belly, then wriggling into the earth. Above its vanishing tail, the crows stared at the sacrifice box with eyes like beads of oil, and the roots crept into the stone.
8
Mario
Music-filled cars puttered along the streets, limbs like wilted leaves spewing from their windows. Bikers and roller skaters cluttered the pavements, while spit puddles formed below panting dogs and sweating hands held freezing sodas to hot skin. Even the children moved slowly, no hurry to be anywhere except in the sunlight that bleached the world like an old photograph. Summertime Hill Ford smelled of sea spray and seaweed, of grass and the green tang that spilled from the forest. But it smelled mostly of heat – of baking asphalt and dry earth – and Sep lifted his shirt to catch the breeze as he rolled down the hill, the last few songs of his Smiths’ side wobbling as the batteries began to die and the wheels’ grind swamped the music.
The tide was in again. The dog-sized crabs, driven underwater by the heat, were gathered on the shoreline. Their submersion was summer’s big plus as far as Sep was concerned – he hated their terrible, reaching legs, their shining eyes, flickering mouthparts and shells the colour of old blood. When he was younger his mum had called them ‘stone spiders’. It hadn’t helped.
He flipped up his board as he approached the little row of shops and carried it through packs of sticky children, clicking off his tape and opening the door as Morrissey was finishing his third plaintive ‘please’.
It was cool in the silence behind the blinds and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the reception’s gloom. A small, fair-haired girl was standing at the counter, damp-eyed and trembling. She had a kitten badge pinned to her pinafore, and was clutching her bag like a lifebelt.
‘Hi,’ said Sep. ‘Caroline, right?’
She flashed him a look, eyes wide and staring.
‘You brought Wobie a message about me today. Ar
e you all right?’
She shook her head.
‘Are you on work experience?’
She nodded.
‘Did something happen?’
She nodded.
‘You don’t need to wait for him, don’t worry,’ said Sep, sighing. ‘I’ll tell him I let you go, OK?’
She tried to speak, but only inhaled in a series of quick, mucal gasps.
‘I-I-I –’ she managed.
‘It’s OK,’ said Sep, strapping up his board. ‘I know.’
‘He ki– he k-killed – that dog –’
‘It’s tough, I know. Off you go.’
Sep held the door for her as she ran, tearful and wheezing, into the heat. An interior door opened and a broad, moustachioed face leaned out.
‘Hello? Cathy? Katie? Are you still – oh, September, is you! Come inside, you are early.’
‘Hi, Mario,’ said Sep. ‘Was she all right?’
Mario waved his hands.
‘Fainted, you know: bleugh,’ he said, rolling his eyes up and lolling his tongue. ‘Is always a dead dog, and I kill dog so, you know, she upset.’
‘You didn’t – you need to stop saying that. You put the dog down – there’s a difference.’
‘Dog is dead,’ said Mario, spreading his palms. He was washing the rubber table, arms sheathed to the elbow in rubber gloves. A fat, knot-furred dog lay on a trolley under a plastic sheet, stinking of disinfectant and its last, terrified shit.
‘I know, but the wording is kind of important,’ said Sep. ‘People won’t bring their animals to a vet who kills them.’
Mario frowned.
‘But sometimes this is exactly what they bring dog for,’ he said patiently. ‘For death.’
‘To be put – oh, never mind,’ said Sep as Mario scraped the suds into a bucket and stripped off his gloves.
‘Always like this with little volunteer from school. They want brush ponies and make happy time with animals. But I hurt the animals. I kill them; every day I kill them and see eyes in their heads looking at me, so sad, you know? But I kill them because it’s my job – sometimes death is great kindness, and you must be brave. I am vet – this mean I kill all the animals.’
Sep closed his eyes.
‘Maybe I should write down some phrases you could use to talk about this stuff.’
Mario laughed and clapped him on the shoulder with a massive hand.
‘My customers, they love how I am speaking. Is business.’
He reached through a doorway at the back of the room, and as strip lights buzzed into life the chip shop’s Formica and chrome flickered into view.
It was true. Mario – born Christos Papadopoulos in Heraklion – had won friends with directness that bordered on insulting, cheerfully telling people their haircuts were a mistake, that their pets were ugly and that, when the time came, the ugly pet would ‘die by my Greek hand’. And people loved him for it. He’d opened The Ford Fry years ago, but when Nintendo got big in ’85 he’d picked up the nickname and renamed the shop in his new image. He’d even painted an Italian flag on the door.
‘What about your business, clever-shoes?’ he said, tying on an apron. ‘The school on mainland?’
Sep shrugged.
‘I haven’t finished my application form yet – I’m kind of stuck on the last bit. But the school recommended me, so it should be fine. I can’t wait.’
‘Then I am sad,’ said Mario. He shook his head. ‘This is your place; is beautiful place where you were born a beautiful boy. You belong here – so stay, become vet, train with me. Is right job for you. Also money.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sep. ‘I’m not really an animal person. Besides –’
‘But that is perfect!’ said Mario, clapping his hands together. ‘Vet who hates animals is perfect.’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘Remember what I have told you. There is no more beautiful thing than looking into the eyes of tiny puppy who is squeaking his first little barks and knowing that, one day, you will kill him.’
Sep laughed.
‘I remember.’
Mario nodded.
‘Being vet is … is OK. I mean, is too many dogs, too many cats. I would love the big beasts, all the deers and the cattles, but the people from the big estate tell me go away, chip-shop man. And that is another thing to be staying for,’ said Mario, lifting the baskets over to the fryer and turning on the heat under the oil. ‘Make chips. I run two jobs so I can buy big, big house back home – and there is money in chips. Lot of fat people here. A lot of them. And fat people love chips.’
‘I know,’ said Sep, looking at Mario’s chins.
‘Is why they are fat in first place,’ said Mario, with the air of one confiding a great secret. ‘Because of chips.’
‘Thanks,’ Sep laughed, ‘but I’ll stick to the engineering thing. I’ve got a maths head. I want to build stuff. What’s the code for the cold store?’
‘Always you are forgetting,’ said Mario, reaching across him and punching in the steel buttons. ‘Two-five-zero-three. Greek Independence Day! And my birthday numbers, forgetty Seppy.’
He turned and waved his arm towards the giant windows and the view of the bay.
‘If you must build things, build things here! Oh, my brilliant friend, do not go to the faraway school. I will miss you too much. Who will watch the comets with me if you go?’
‘Halley’s Comet won’t be there,’ said Sep, heaving a bag of crab claws from inside the big fridge. ‘It only appears, like, once a century.’
‘But is here now,’ said Mario. ‘We were going to climb on to the roof with telescope. It was going to be a special thing for me to do with my best friend.’
‘We will. It’ll be closest in a couple of days.’
Sep pushed his bad tooth with his tongue and wondered if the comet’s proximity would make it worse.
‘Am I making you embarrass?’ said Mario.
‘No, it’s just –’
Mario laughed, hugged Sep into a headlock and pulled a Dictaphone from his trouser pocket. He clicked the button as Sep tried to wriggle free and spoke clearly into the microphone: ‘You are my great friend, September. Mario loves you. And he knows you will do brilliant things, because you are clever and brave. The bravest person I know.’
He grinned at Sep.
‘Now you must hear it repeated,’ he said, rewinding the tape with a squeal. He pressed play, and his far-off voice hissed through the little speaker.
… dead tortoise, is been maimed by cat, eyeball torn out and is missing … most likely eaten by cat who also is dead … the intestines of the tortoise have been …
‘Wrong part of tape. Too much rewind.’
He pushed more buttons.
… great friend, September. Mario loves you. And he knows you will do brilliant things, because you are clever and brave. The bravest person I know.
Sep relaxed himself out of the headlock and stepped back, tried to breathe away the stone in his throat.
‘I don’t have any friends here.’
‘I am your friend.’
‘I know, but at school I mean … friends my own age. And you work all the time, and –’
Mario held up a hand to stop him.
‘I understand, of course.’
‘I need to get away, Mario. I have to, or –’
‘I say I understand.’
Mario watched Sep fuss with his Walkman and tilted his head.
‘Something happened today?’
‘No. Nothing. Just … It doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, my Sep,’ said Mario, propping his big head on his hand. ‘Is difficult for you. You are skinny, messy hair, are bad at sports; sometimes your skin is not so good, also –’
‘You can stop any time you like,’ Sep cut in.
‘I only mean –’
‘No, I get it: they hate me. It’s fine – I hate them too.’
Mario frowned.
‘Do not hate, Sep. The only thing th
ere is in the world, at the end, is love. When I was at school I was a target because I liked the boys, you know?’
‘I know, you told me.’
‘Sexually.’
‘I know, Mario.’
Mario nodded.
‘So everyone has stuff to be dealing with. Just know, no matter the happenings, that love will win in the end: “Always goodness and light win out,” my father say. He say many other things, like: “Sometimes life lands in the stool of an animal.”’
‘So, like, “shit happens”?’
Mario beamed.
‘Exactly! Is international.’
Sep looked around the shop, at the neon price tags, the cracks on the fridge doors, the sticky bottles of sauce shaped like tomatoes.
‘I’ll still come back sometimes.’
‘For shift in chip shop?’ said Mario.
‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe if –’
Mario laughed.
‘Joke only! Big things are heading at you, no problem. But fat people love chips. Remember that. Always money. Now I must try to fix broken bloody fridge. Working yesterday but today – bleugh. You, forgetty Seppy, can wash my windows.’
Sep filled a white bucket with soapy water and heaved it over to the glass front of the shop. He snapped his headphones on again, slid new batteries into his Walkman and chose a different cassette – a Cure double side – then turned up the volume to drown out Mario singing Demis Roussos in the back of the shop.
As he scrubbed he watched the town passing by, already full in summer voice: music, laughter and the gurgle of boats. A gang of kids flew past on bikes, and Sep watched them until they were out of sight.
The mainland was just visible through the heat, but the sun was too bright on the water, bouncing on to the ceiling in shimmering ribbons. When the glass was dry he began lowering the blind, and it was only then he noticed that the forest looked different. The mossy lump of trees seemed bigger somehow. Swollen.
He pressed his face to the glass.
A fist smashed into his eyes, followed by the gawping face of Daniels – tongue out, Mohawk spikes touching the pane.
9
Broken
A few miles away, someone was running. The face was hidden in shadow, the hands streaked with earth and algae and filled with old, forgotten things: toys and tapes and secret objects.
The Sacrifice Box Page 4