by Shaun Allan
His hand whipped out, puncturing the left eye of his superior. The man fell backwards, screaming.
Jack advanced, blade held high.
"Everything is fine..."
Untitled
It's no longer warm
In your eyes that are a little colder
In the ocean that's no longer calm
In the face that, each day, seems a little older.
There's no longer space
In the heart that's a little harder
In the world that's, oh, so much smaller
In the void that reaches so much farther.
There's no longer peace
In the mind that's open no longer
In the soul that's fallen from grace
And in your eyes there's no longer a hunger
Joy
It's hard being me.
I'm sure I'm not the only one to have ever said that. In fact, I would think that someone is saying those exact words, or thinking the equivalent thought, right now.
Being anyone is difficult, I would think. Life is always tossing us a grenade to juggle, making us centre ring in the Big Top of our own little world. Will we stumble? Will we fumble? The spotlight is shining right down upon us, its beady eye waiting with bated breath to see what might happen.
Not that either spotlights or eyes have breath, bated or otherwise, but I'm sure you get my meaning. I'm not the weaver of words that my brother is. He can crochet a quilt of quips bedded upon a sea of sarcasm. I can't. But then, I didn't have the upbringing he did. He learned, long ago, that jokes were a better defence than his fists.
He wasn't a fighter, my brother, though he was dragged into enough scrapes to build up some small prowess. He learned to duck and to run, more than anything. And when he couldn't, he learned to block and to bounce. He could never, really, bring himself to retaliate. He accepted his fate.
With a name such as his, I'm not surprised. Our parents, our father mainly, took great pleasure in tugging at the immense weight they'd hung about his neck the day they named him. When the school bullies were bored with him and were looking elsewhere for their fun, our father, whose arse is likely not in Heaven, picked up their baton and ran with it.
I don't know about my brother, but I often wonder if they named him such just so they could keep themselves entertained for a few years.
Sometimes, I couldn't help myself. Sometimes I joined in. I'm not proud of that, but it's done now. We all do things we wished we hadn't, but sometimes that little imp gets into the back of your head and just gives you the right - or wrong - nudge. It had happened, admittedly, on more than one occasion, whilst growing up. I'd make fun of his name, goad him, even laugh as he was being beaten.
But I still loved him. He was my baby bro. We'd fall out and we'd bicker, but we were family.
Are family. Is my baby bro. Not past tense. Not yet.
I always knew I was different.
Again, that's something so many others will say and have said. But I was. People liked me.
Yes, I know. Why would that be such a bad thing? It shouldn't be. I should have enjoyed it, embraced it, but I didn't. Not that I was miserable - far from it. I was a fairly happy child. I didn't have the trouble my brother had. In fact, I almost think he sucked the problems from me before they could hit. Took them upon himself. Almost liking stopping a bullet for the president. I had an almost charmed life.
In complete contrast to his.
But it wasn't something I could control. I'd have given him some of my luck if I could have. Some of my... attraction? No, I didn't particularly think I was attractive, not particularly. Maybe pretty, but that was all. By 'attractive' I mean the way people just seemed to like me. They seemed to gravitate towards me, like I was a black hole and they were caught in my pull.
I'd have pushed if I could. Maybe my brother and I were polar opposites. I pulled, he pushed. Or was pushed, in a lot of cases.
I knew I was different. The bullies that beat my brother shouldn't have liked me. The dog that was ready to eat the postman's leg should have wanted my arm for dessert. But the bullies did and the Rottweiler didn't. And they went away with a smile on their faces. Even the dog. Not pretty...
It wasn't too long before I realised that it was the coin. The two pence coin.
See a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck. That's how the story goes, but not quite so the reality. I saw a two pence. I picked it up. And since then, since the first day, back in school, when I flipped the coin and caught it in the palm of my hand, everyone around me has had good luck.
In the hall at school. I was hall monitor, on 'corridor duty' with my friend Zoe. I had a little yellow house badge pinned to my school jumper. We were there to try and make sure that other pupils didn't run or fight. To be honest, we were there to be ignored. That was fine, we knew that'd happen. Or we'd be stood talking to our friends. It was just something to keep us in on the rainy days, really.
The coin was on the floor at my feet. I don't know how it got there. It certainly wasn't dropped, or I'd have heard it. Neither was it there when Zoe and I arrived, or I would have seen it.
Will Bronson, not quite the leader of the school Bully Brigade but certainly wanting to be, was picking on a second year.
The Bully Brigade was meant to be for seeking out and stopping any bullying. Certain pupils were asked to point out instances of schoolyard abuse to teachers. The fact that the upper echelons of the group were filled with the very folk they were meant to be dobbing in meant that the Headmaster could say there was no such thing as bullying at his school. When a thump or a kick were on offer as payment for pointing your finger, you kept your hand firmly in your pocket.
Will was a thug, and everyone knew it. That included the teachers and his parents. The former overlooked the situation in favour of another cuppa and Rich Tea biscuit in the staff room and the latter daren't say anything in fear of their son putting his foot through the television set. Or smashing all the plates in the kitchen. Or feeding their pet dog rat poison.
Though that had only happened once.
They were, however, on their third television in a year.
Zoe had called out to Will to leave the second year alone. We were in the same year as him and he liked my friend a little more than she liked him. In fact she didn't like him, but he decided not to notice. This one-sided attraction did, though, give her the authority to try and convince him to behave. He didn't take any notice, but at least he wouldn't turn his anger on her.
As she was telling him to stop, and he was ignoring her, I was bending down to pick up the coin that hadn't been there previously. My attention was on Zoe and Will. It wasn't until I felt the coin land in my hand that I realised I'd flipped it.
For some reason, I called out.
"Wilson!" Sniggers from the other pupils at my use of his full name - a practical hanging offence (a definite black-eye offence). A thunderous look from the bully. "Leave him alone."
Zoe and, I suspect, a number of others, stared at me. I felt my face flush. I can't say what prompted me to speak out, let alone use a name that had been scratched from every register in school.
Wilson's eyes locked on mine for a long moment and I could see the cogs grind in his mind, contemplating the punishment I was going to receive.
Then:
"Sorry Joy."
A shrug, a turn, a pat on the head of a certain victimised second year.
A stunned silence.
That was the first. I didn't associate it with the coin, of course. It was nothing special. A bully who decided to not be one anymore. It happens. He was bored. He wanted to see what it was like to be liked. To see a smile instead of a frown. A grin rather than a grimace.
It happens, doesn't it?
I think I put the coin in my pocket. I don't actually remember. It wasn't in my hand, at least. Later, I'd bought a chocolate bar from the tuck shop. Crunchies were my favourite, but I'd resigned myself to the cheaper Double Decker. The price dif
ference was two pence. Thanks to my finding that coin in the hall, I had the required amount for my preferred choice.
My pockets were then empty of money.
But later, on my way home, passing the arguing couple, flipping the coin I shouldn't have had, the couple suddenly putting their arms around each other and laughing... I felt sick.
Not at the fact that a coin had mysteriously appeared in my pocket - I don't think I even noticed, as such. And not at the couple laughing and kissing where they'd been arguing and looking like one was going to slap the other.
No, I felt sick because something good had happened. I think. It was hard to pin down. I could feel a pull, in the pit of my stomach, towards the man and woman. As if my gut wanted to hug them.
It passed in a second, but I could still feel its echo for a long time after.
At home, I didn't eat much of my tea. I complained of 'women's problems' having not long started my periods, and went to bed.
I didn't sleep. I had dreams. They weren't nightmares exactly, but they did unsettle me. People smiling and laughing. Me in the middle of it all, huddled into a ball. Crying.
A shower, some toast and a giggle with Zoe on the way to school dragged me out of my subdued mood. By the time the first bell had gone, I was back to my old self.
And I'd left the coin on my bedside table, next to my alarm clock. It was about the only surface in my room that I kept clean. The clock, a simple digital affair with a huge (much used) snooze button held pride of place. I didn't want to accidentally hit anything else when I was woken, bleary eyed, by its insistent beeping.
So the coin was honoured to share that space, in a way. Plus, I didn't KNOW, but I had a funny feeling. It was a bizarre notion, but one I couldn't shake. I didn't want the coin with me. I wanted to leave it behind. I'd get rid of it later. Give it to my brother or something.
Morning register passed with the usual suspects making jokes or staring out of the window, wishing they were somewhere or someone else. The day itself bimbled along at a leisurely pace, not wanting to rush and be done with before it had had a chance to enjoy itself. By last period, I was walking in a daze, the insipid attitude of the day seeping into my bones to lull me into a zombie state. All that I lacked was a shuffling walk, arms outstretched, and a thirst for blood.
The only thing I did have a thirst for was orange Lucozade. Not for the sporty energy filled boost it might give, but for the taste. I liked it, and drank it by the gallon at home. I'd been given my pocket money the day before. It was hit and miss whether we'd even get it, let alone it be a regular Friday thing, so I was always pleased to receive the £5 I was allowed. I say allowed - my brother could often be thrown a few coins, as if to a homeless tramp in the street. Even though I didn't get pocket money often, at least it was an amount that I could deem worth having.
That makes me sound selfish. I should have been pleased to have anything. I was, honestly. It was just that my friends would have money in their pockets all the time. I would have to make excuses and jokes to hide the fact that my parents were, in my friends' eyes, poor, but in reality forgetful and uncaring. So I was grateful, I really was. But peer pressure could be suffocating sometimes.
The corner shop was on my way home. It wasn't actually on a corner, but everyone called it that. It was a small newsagent that served the few surrounding streets. I'd thought about taking a job delivering papers but... well... I didn't. Laziness, perhaps, but again, the thought of comments from my friends - who would never be tied to a job when they can be watching TV or having fun (jobs were for adults) - was enough to never actually take up that particular form of employment.
Mr. Kirman was the owner. He was an old man, past retirement by a millennium. Though a schoolgirl such as myself thought anyone above the age of 21 or so was old, I realised Mr Kirman was far older than my parents and was quite probably a grandparent in his own right. He had a fuzz of grey hair that circled his head like a fluffy halo and wore a permanent smile that had etched crows' size nines in the edges of his eyes.
As I walked in, I could hear raised voices. A group of boys, Will Bronson's acquaintances (minus Will), were throwing a can of drink between themselves. Mr Kirman was asking them to stop their messing and either pay for the drink, put it back, or leave. They were laughing, calling him 'granddad' and tossing the can, every so often waving it in his face so he'd grab at it, then snatching it away again in a fit of laughter.
Mr. Kirman saw me and shook his head, telling me to turn around and leave. It was a kind gesture but one of the gang saw the signal and turned to me.
"Joy!" His name was Craig. I didn't know his surname but his nickname was Limb. He had a habit of telling his victims he'd tear them limb from limb and enjoyed the notoriety such a moniker gave him. My insides sank and felt like they wanted to crawl out of my toes toward the door.
"Craig," I said quietly.
"What are you buying me?" he asked, stepping forward. The other boys had stopped their game and were watching, their expressions those of hyenas circling a dying prey.
"Nothing. I just want a drink, that's all."
He imitated me in a stupid high-pitched voice I doubted he could make if his testicles had dropped. I just looked at him, not saying anything. Mr Kirman told them to leave me alone and get out, but they ignored him. So did I, for that matter. All I saw was the mighty Limb and his pack.
"Give me your money," he said, holding out his hand. "Your money or a kiss."
This made his brethren laugh. I didn't think any of them had touched lips with a girl, or touched anything else, either. Still, I didn't want to find out how far they'd go to experience it. I didn't get my pocket money often enough to have come to rely on it, so I decided to simply hand it over rather than risk a mauling or it being taken.
I reached into my coat pocket. My hands wrapped around the five pound note, and something else. I pulled them out. Laying on top of the note was a two pence piece. THE two pence piece.
I frowned. Craig snatched. The note and coin fell to the floor, the coin rolling to his feet. He bent to pick it up, leaving the fiver were it lay.
"Two pence? Who has five pounds and TWO PENCE? You been saving up, Joy? Charging tuppence a kiss?"
With a crooked smile I would happily have slapped off his face, he said: "Heads you go, tails you kiss."
I went to protest, but the coin was in the air before the first word was out of my mouth. I saw my hand reach out and grab it before it could land. Someone else must have pushed my arm because I certainly didn't catch it intentionally. Both my own eyes and those of my tormentor went wide.
Then my stomach pulled. Stronger this time, with a twist as if my intestines had suddenly knotted.
Then Craig spluttered.
Then he turned, took the can from the boy who was holding it and placed it carefully on the counter.
"Sorry, Mr. Kirman," he said. "I've changed my mind. I don't want this now."
Without waiting for a reply, he walked out of the shop with his entourage following.
Mr. Kirman stared, speechless. I bent to pick up my five pound note from the floor and ran before he could ask any questions. It wasn't that I didn't want to answer those questions, but saying anything about what had just happened would have made it something when it was nothing. It would have given it a substance and that would have meant it was real.
The Bully Brigade had turned right out of the newsagent. I turned left. It wasn't the way to my house - for that I would have had to have gone in the same direction as the boys - but I didn't care. I just need to be moving. A direction would have meant I was thinking and I SO didn't want to do that.
Another left turn and another brought be to Cambridge Road. It was a long street that had shops at one end and my school at the other. On the opposite side to the school were the Seven Hills. Rats the size of dogs were meant to roam free and only the brave dared to go in. Granted only a low fence, a horizontal metal bar held in place by knee high concrete posts, serve
d to keep the unwary out and the beasts in, so I didn't exactly believe they existed.
But everyone said they did. So I had always chosen caution and had yet to venture inside.
Caution required thought, though, and I had left my thought on the counter next to the discarded can of drink.
I stepped over the bar and entered the domain of the Drat. Well, what would you call a creature that was part rat and part dog? A Rog? Talk sense.
I expected a chill to sweep over me, bristling the hairs on my arms even though they were hidden beneath the sleeves of my coat. It didn't happen. Neither was I attacked where I stood by other-worldly animals desperate for a piece of my leg or my throat. Nothing changed. Outside of the Hills was the same as inside.
I started to walk. I just needed to walk. I wanted the air to be crisp and the sounds to be muted. Neither was the truth. But I was, at least, alone.
Apart from the coin that should have been lying on my bedside table keeping my clock company but was now still held tightly in my palm.
Why would that make me feel like I was not alone? It was a piece of metal, not a person or a pet. It didn't have a voice or a soul. It was just two pence.
Sure it was.
I dropped the coin on the floor, not looking where it landed. I ignored its fall, letting it hit where it wanted. I was nonchalant. Uncaring. Otherwise occupied. And that took a lot of effort. My mind kept wanting to turn my head, to direct my focus to the dirt at my feet. I forced myself not to. I forced my feet to move and my eyes to remain fixed ahead. If I couldn't see it, then perhaps it could be left behind.
Perhaps it would leave me alone.
I didn't know what to expect in the Seven Hills. As such, my footing was unsteady and my sense of direction erratic. I almost felt like a ship in the Bermuda Triangle, my compass spinning out of control.
Get a grip, I told myself. It's a bit of wasteland. I looked back towards the road to get my bearings. As I walked further away, I calmed down. The cars and the people were ruffling my feathers and the solitude of the coinless Hills was smoothing them back down.