by Ian Ayris
Weeks go by and Kenny keeps his head down, pretty much, and me and Keith and Thommo, we look out for him best we can. But I see Kenny when no one's lookin and he makes me fuckin nervous. I know it's comin. It's like something's buildin up inside him. Just sort of gazes, like he's somewhere else.
Picks his fingers all the time. Picks em till they bleed.
And it don't take a few months before it gets too fuckin rough for Kenny. I was all right. If you was half tasty kickin a tennis ball round, like I was, or funny, like Thommo or hard, like Keith, you was always gonna be all right. And if you was a fuckin swot, you was gonna be all right an all cos you can do other people's homework and stuff. You got a fuckin use, you know. Anywhere in between, you was fucked.
I keep out all that shit, me. Only thing I'm interested in is a kick-about playtimes and lunch. Like I said, though, Kenny, Kenny was fucked from the start. I mean, what's there not to pick on? He's fat, stupid, can't kick a ball to save his fuckin life, knows fuck all about football and stinks like a fuckin dustbin. And he fuckin takes it all. Everyone thinks he's a bit psycho, but he don't do nothing about it. Every fuckin kick and punch and head down the shit-house. Takes the fuckin lot.
Come to a head afternoon playtime one Thursday. I'm playin football at the top of the playground with Keith and all the regulars. Thommo's in with Mrs Henderson for chuckin a hairbrush at her in French. Kenny's at the bottom of the playground by the main doors, waitin to go back in. Me and David Watson's team captains, bein the best in our little lot. After I make sure Keith's on my team, I pick all the shit kids, you know, the real fuckin shit.
Love a game of football they do, but can't play for fuckin toffee. We lose every time we play, but scorin a goal, just one, that's like winnin the whole fuckin game itself. And in this one, our lot's playin out their fuckin skins. Well, no, me and Keith's playin out our fuckin skins. But they ain't doin bad, really tryin, you know.
There's only a few minutes left till the end of break and, some-fuckin-how, we're eleven-all. I got eight, Keith's got three. Keith passes to me and I stop it under me left foot. Only one thing on me mind. Stevie Mitchell's frontin me up, knowin there ain't long till the bell. Stevie's a big lad, and he's snarlin at me like a fuckin Rottweiler. Keith's screamin at me to pass back to him, but I'm fucked if I'm gonna do that. I'm Geoff Hurst, see, George Best, Johan fuckin Cruyff. I one-two it off the playground wall and sprint round Stevie Mitchell.
And Sissons is through, just two more to beat. He skins the first like he ain't there and passes out wide to Putsy Jenkins, the two foot midget with the dodgy teeth. But Putsy's pickin his nose. Shit. He's got no idea where he fuckin is. But just before he gets mullered by their fat second year ringer, Putsy takes a swing at the ball and sends it back across goal. Everyone stops and looks at him, wonderin how the fuck he's managed that, and here comes Sissons. His eye on the ball, his heart in his mouth . . . dives, full fuckin length, what a header, right past the keeper. Best goal this playground ever fuckin see.
I've pounded into the railings at the front of the school where the goal is, and all the shit kids have piled on top of me, dribblin and laughin and, fuck me, the smell's something fuckin awful.
As I'm pickin myself up, dustin meself off, I look up for Kenny and see him bein took away by a couple of older kids. Third year wankers. I've seen em about, and they're fuckin bad news.
At the back of the school, where they've took him, there's a way down to the caretaker's office in the basement. It's like a little fenced off corner of the playground with a gate to a load of metal steps goin down. When the caretaker leaves the gate open, kids get chucked down. Everyone calls it 'The Gobbin Chamber'. And that's where they're takin Kenny.
There's a crowd followin. I'm sprintin over. Keith's clocked it and he's followin me. We leg it round the back, but we're too late. There's like a fuckin bayin mob there already. Kids shoutin and tauntin all pressed right up to the railings. I squeeze myself through before Keith cos I'm littler than him. And I see Kenny walkin down the steps, like he's got all the time in the world. And the kids near the front, mostly third and fourth years are gobbin on him like he's a fuckin animal. When he gets to the bottom, he sits on the ground and tucks his knees up to his chin, and wraps his arms round em. Then it starts fuckin rainin gob and mud and snot like you wouldn't fuckin believe.
Some kid, some horrible little fucker, starts pissin through the railings and it's landin right on Kenny's back. I'm too crushed to take a swing at the cunt, so I get in his face and knee him in the bollocks. That starts a right fuckin free-for-all. And I'm swingin and kickin for all I'm fuckin worth. Keith's doin the same a little way off. He breaks through to me and we're back to back, fightin for Kenny. Well, I'm fightin for Kenny. Keith's just fightin. Course, we don't last long.
On the edge, just watchin, there's a couple of fifth years. Graham Allerton, hardest kid in the school, and next to him, this slimy, weedy little fucker. Terry Wilkins. Older brother to that horrible cunt, Harry Wilkins. Allerton and Terry Wilkins are just watchin us, me and Keith, gettin a right fuckin pastin.
I'm in as bad a state as Kenny at the end. Gob and blood all over me, face pressed up against the railings. I look down at him, at his face. In his eyes.
And there ain't nothing left.
CHAPTER TEN
Next day, we're in the school canteen havin lunch. I'm fucked off cos it's pissin down outside, so there's no chance of a kick-about. I'm lookin at the pile of shit what they dished up on me plate. Fuckin sausage, mash and peas. Sausage, mash and fuckin peas. Same shit every week, whether it's liver and onions or faggots or shepherd's pie or sausage, mash and fuckin peas. It's all shit.
Kenny's sittin next to me, Keith and Thommo opposite. Harry Wilkins is a couple of tables up, whisperin with them two third year fuckers what dragged Kenny down The Gobbin Chamber. He's latched onto em last couple of months. Harry Wilkins, back to his old weaslin ways.
A sausage comes flyin over, just misses Kenny, bounces off the table, and lands in the aisle.
I get on with me dinner. I ain't in the mood for this. Rain's really pissed me off. Feels like I'm all caged up, you know, and I just wanna get out.
'Go on, Fatty, bit extra for you, pick it up, there's a good boy.'
Wilkins. Cunt. Another sausage bounces off the table. Kenny's tensed up next to me, hands shakin, knife and fork rattlin on his plate. It's comin. I can feel it. Ain't no way back now. It's like the whole place has gone quiet but it ain't, just I can't hear nothing cos Kenny's cut the sound off.
Teachers are chattin up top and none of em notice Wilkins and his two mates comin over. Kenny don't move a fuckin inch. Wilkins leans in close. The slimy fucker's been waitin ages for this. Thinks cos he's got his mates with him, I won't step in.
'You gonna fuckin pick em up, Fatty?' Wilkins says, sort of sneerin. 'Or have I gotta fuckin make you?'
Everything's movin slow now, other than Kenny. He ain't movin at all. Wilkins has got a face on him like he owns the whole fuckin world, and I wanna slap him so hard he'll think he's been hit by a fuckin train. But this is Kenny's fight.
Keith's lookin at me, and I'm lookin at Thommo. It's like we're stuck in our seats, stuck in a moment, and best we can do is stay with it. And there still ain't no sound. I see Wilkins’ mouth movin and I see his mates laughin and I see the teachers yackin, but I don't hear none of it.
Then . . . BANG.
Kenny's smacked Wilkins right in the face with the bottom of the fuckin dinner tray. It's like a spell's broke and the whole fuckin place goes mental. Tables goin over, food flyin all round the place, kids chuckin all sorts of shit. Mash, prunes, custard, sausages, peas.
Teachers can't do fuck all.
Thommo's pissin himself and Keith's stood up, ready for whatever's comin – teachers, fourth years, fifth years, fuckin anyone. I'd be standin with him, but I'm tryin to drag Kenny off Wilkins. He's sittin on top of the cunt, batterin his face with the dinner tray so hard it's like he's gonna
fuckin kill him. And he's roarin every time he smacks him. Like an animal. Wilkins is screamin like a tart and Kenny keeps on bangin that dinner tray straight into his face.
'Fuckin leave it, Kenny,' I shouts. 'Fuckin leave it.'
I'm thinkin he really is gonna fuckin kill the cunt, but there ain't nothing I can do about that. Ask me, I reckon he's got it comin. I'm lookin at Kenny, in his eyes, when he comes up for another smack and it's like he don't even know what the fuck he's doin or where he even fuckin is. Just keeps on bringin that tray down like he can't stop.
Mr Pugh the rugby teacher bundles through and has a go at draggin Kenny off. Big bloke, Pugh. Welsh. Told us first day football was for poofs. Fuckin wanker. But he ain't got no fuckin chance. Two other teachers jump in to help him out, and Wilkins squirms out from under Kenny, nose splattered right cross his face, lyin on the floor in a right fuckin state.
I tread on his bollocks as he's lying there. Thommo tips a plate of dinner on his face and Keith coughs up a greeny and flobs it on top.
Meanwhile, Kenny's in right fuckin lumber. They're draggin him out the canteen, Pugh and the others, arms up his back, head down like he's a fuckin serial killer.
***
School writ a letter home after the canteen fight. Mum was fuckin fumin. But when I tells her about Kenny, she just sits down. She don't say nothin. Dad don't even read the letter.
Kenny gets shifted out to some Borstal in Kent. Mum takes his old girl on the train to visit of a weekend. I go once, but Kenny's so monged out he don't even know who I am.
Fuckin cried all the way home, I did, sittin on that train, lookin out the window tryin to make sense of it all. Weren't like we was even mates, or nothing, me and Kenny. Not really. I mean, he hardly said a fuckin word to me all them years. But we shared a life. And that sort of means something to a kid, you know.
***
A few months later, Kenny's moved to some nutty kids’ place in the sticks. Mum says it's for his own good. Reckon they can help him better out there.
No one to help his old girl, though. She's took a right turn for the worse. Poor fuckin cow. See her at night, at his bedroom window, tryin to put his curtains back up. Don't get halfway before she breaks down. Drops the whole fuckin lot and starts over. She's at it for fuckin hours sometimes.
And every now and then, she has a go at draggin Kenny's old carpet back in the house. Covered in shit and soaked right through it is. Can't even shift it one fuckin inch. Dad keeps sayin he wants to go over and help her out, put the curtains back up and sort out a new carpet, but Mum says to leave it. First thing that's brought Dad to life for fuckin ages, though, seein Kenny's old girl like that. He's right worried about her. But Mum says she was gonna be all right. Just take a bit of time is all. It's like Mum knows what's goin on in the old girl's head and won't have Dad interfering.
Dad tells me on the sly, he reckons Kenny's old girl needs lookin at, like she's goin off her rocker or something. I see him starin out the window sometimes, just like Kenny used to do and that's when I know it's rippin him to bloody pieces seein Kenny's old girl like that.
***
Things settle down pretty quick at school after Kenny goes. Wilkins is off for ages and when he comes back, he's a fuckin shell. Kenny really made his mark on that cunt. No fucker wants to know him, and he got chucked down The Gobbin Chamber twice in the first week – first time by his own fuckin brother. Ain't sayin he never had it comin, but I never went near when they threw him in. Couldn't look down that pit without thinkin of Kenny.
Terry Wilkins said to let him know if the little wanker's givin us any grief and he'll sort it out. But he ain't no fuckin better than his little brother. Two peas out the same fuckin pod, if you ask me. That's what I reckon.
Teachers got it right in for the rest of us all year. Can't even fart without em draggin you down to Jacko's office. Bit of a problem for Thommo, what with his performin arse. Jacko has a fuckin field day with him.
The weeks go by, and the months. I'm keepin me nose clean best I can. And before you know it, end of first year's come round. And the whole of the last term's about just one fuckin thing, ain't it.
The Queen's fuckin Silver Jubilee wotsit bollocks. Load of fuckin shit.
They got us makin flags and banners and streamers, even writin letters. As if she's gonna open anything with a fuckin 'Bethnal Green' stamp on it. Me and Keith and Thommo writ we wanted to shit on her throne and eat her dogs. Can't think what Jimmy Lawson writ, the mad bastard.
Never knew neither. It's round this time he gets his cock out in maths and they cart him off to the same nut-house Kenny's banged up in. What are the fuckin chances of that, eh? Same fuckin nut-house.
Back home, Mum's helpin out with the street party stuff and tryin to get Dad off his arse to give her a hand. But Dad ain't havin none of it. Hates the Royal Family, Dad does, just like Grandad before him. Always made us stand up for the National Anthem, mind, when England was playin. But he reckons that was about supportin the lads, Queen's got fuck all to do with it.
Mum's more traditional. Buys all the shit. Jubilee tea-towels, stupid fuckin Union Jack hats, mug each for me and Becky.
Come the day, there's a load of street races outside, you know, egg and spoon, and shit, and a big old party. All right for the littl'uns, I suppose, but I'm gonna be thirteen in a few months. What do I want with all that shit? Mum makes me do the runnin race, though. Feel like a right bleedin idiot. Come second behind some eight-year-old with a fucked lip. Mum said I weren't even tryin. Fuckin right. Gives me a clip round the ear for me troubles and sends me inside to sit with Dad. He ain't comin out for nothing. No fuckin way.
Sittin in his armchair, he is, can of Skol in one hand and the Union Jack hat on his head what Mum's made him wear. Starts bangin on about how come the revolution all the bastards'll be up against the wall. Get rid of the fuckers in one hit, he says. Reckons the Russians had the right idea. Pissed already, he is. That's why Mum's stayin outside. She can't stand seein him like this no more.
He's down the boozer most nights, my dad. Just so's he can get out the house, I reckon. Never really talks much at home and always got this look on his face like everything's too much. With Nan and Grandad gone, it's like he's turned into a little kid. Always sulkin. Him and Mum rowin all the time, when they can be bothered to say anything to each other at all.
Fuckin ain't the same no more.
Dad still watches the Hammers of a Saturday, mind, but even that ain't like it used to be. Used to be like he couldn't give a fuck about the result, other than the big matches. Always used to say, 'As long as the lads put a fuckin battle up, that'll do me'. Now it's like every match is fuckin life and death. If we lose, he don't talk to no one for fuckin days. Win, and he's over the fuckin moon twice over. But none of it's real, you know.
Becky's out in the street havin a blindin time. Little flag in her hand, wavin it mad as anything. Bless her. She still asks after her Kenny, you know. Really misses him. He's been gone about eight months come the Jubilee. I think about him all the time.
Street party ain't finished for hours yet. No way I'm goin out there again. Mum'd only drag me into another fuckin stupid race. So I'm stuck inside, and Dad's still bangin on about the fuckin revolution, sittin there in his Union Jack hat cos he's too scared to take it off. Mum's spent a load of dough we ain't got on shit and stuff for the fuckin Queen's fuckin Jubilee, and the Queen don't even fuckin know cos she's up at Buck-fuckin-House sippin tea with the rest of the fuckin inbreds. And I'm lookin at the flags outside, all them little flags, and all them people laughin and cheerin, and Kenny's old girl up at his window tryin to put his curtains up for the hundreth time, and I'm thinkin of Kenny, wonderin which one of us is in the real fuckin nut-house.
Jubilee dies a death soon as it's over. Couple of months after, I'm havin me tea when it comes on the radio Elvis is dead. Dad's at work, so least I don't see his face. Don't think I coulda stood that. When he comes in, he goes straight in his
chair, holdin tight on the arms like it's the only safe place in the whole fuckin world.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dad's still wrecked over Elvis, so when he comes home one day, more pissed than normal, I don't think nothing of it.
We're havin our tea, me, Mum, and Becky, and when Dad comes in he's got his face all red and blotchy and he ain't walkin straight. Ain't even coverin up for Mum, which ain't a good fuckin sign. He throws his coat over the settee and leans on the back to stop from fallin over.
Mum's sittin at the table with her back to him. They ain't hardly said a word since they had a big barney after the Jubilee about his drinkin. And Becky's too busy tryin to stop Mum feedin her peas to notice Dad's even walked in the front door.
'Come on, Becky,' Mum says, 'just eat a few up, there's a good girl.'
Dad's squeezin his eyes with his thumb and finger like he's tryin to push all the tears back in.
'No want peas,' Becky says, and zips her mouth shut and folds her arms.
'Dad?' I says. 'You all right?'
Mum sees the look on me face and turns round. Me and her both know it's more than Elvis. Dad takes a deep breath and blows it out long and hard, and tells Mum the factory's gone to the wall. She gets up and goes over to him, and holds him tight.
What with Grandad, Nan, Elvis and now this, I dunno how much more Dad can take.
'Come and sit down, Bill.' It's the softest I've heard Mum speak to him in ages. 'I'll put the kettle on.'
And with that, Mum and Dad was speakin again.
Mum asks me to sort Becky out with her dinner, and her and Dad go and sits down on the settee. I sit in Mum's seat at the table so I can hear what they're sayin.
Becky's bein a pain in the arse. Won't eat nothing. Soon as I take me eyes off her, the little mare scarpers in the front room. Runs up to Dad and jumps on his lap and holds him tight like Mum. Just wants to make it all right for him. Whatever it is. Just wants to make it all right. Bless her.