We knocked her knocker. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Old Mrs. Chittenden opened the door and stared at Bogsy. “Oh—dear!” She put a hand to her throat and started backing into the room.
Quickly I whipped off my Frankenstein mask. “Don’t worry, it’s me, Alex Meadows, from down the road!”
“Alex? Is it really? Well, that’s a relief! For a moment, I thought … ” She glanced at Bogsy, tall and silent, standing beside me.
She gave me a couple of cupcakes, iced in green, with bat-shaped sprinkles on top.
After Mrs. Chittenden, “Let’s visit her now,” said Bogsy.
“Who?”
“You know. Her.”
He never referred to Maisie by name.
“We can’t go round to The Laurels,” I said. “They’d all die of heart attacks! If that’s what we brought our bikes for, you can forget it.”
“It’s not,” he said. But he seemed to accept that we weren’t going round Maisie’s.
We wheeled the bikes on. We called at several more houses and the same thing happened at each: People were scared until I removed my mask. Then, whether or not they knew me, they calmed down enough to give us treats. It was good I was there. Sometimes we met other groups of trick-or-treaters on the sidewalk. The little kids pointed at Bogsy and the dads moved protectively close.
We were three or four streets away from our own when I started wondering how many more. It was cold.
“One more,” said Bogsy.
He led the way into the Sancton estate and stopped outside a largish house behind a high, dense hedge. He let his bike fall against the hedge and adjusted his wings. But there was no jack-o’-lantern.
“We can’t do this one,” I objected.
“Who says?”
“There’s no pumpkin.”
“No one to tell us to go away, then.”
There was a gate in the hedge, a tall one, all curly iron bars, and Bogsy was doing something—clink clink clink—to the catch.
“Won’t it open?” I asked him, hoping it wouldn’t.
“It’ll open for now,” he said. “Come on, let’s go,” and we walked up the path.
He rang the bell and we waited on the step. There was definitely no pumpkin.
A man I’d never seen before came to the door and stared at us, frowning.
I went to take off my mask, but Bogsy stopped me.
“Hey!” the man called, back into the house. “Hey! Get off the computer! This one’s for you!”
No answer.
“You coming, or what? Take those headphones off!”
And someone came. Someone in socks and a Simpsons T-shirt, padding along the passage to stand by his dad. It was Alan Tydman.
I wasn’t prepared. Neither was Alan. Neither, perhaps, was Bogsy himself. It was one of those situations where you have to see what happens and then react. For someone who’d trained himself not to react, it was hard. But then, it was hard for us all.
And for two or three seconds, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, Alan yelled, “BIRD BOY!” really loud, like he was firing a starter’s pistol—and, like somebody running a race, Bogsy was off.
Everything happened very fast after that. Alan bent down and I saw he was trying to get on a pair of shoes. Which was a mistake. It gave me my chance. I turned and ran back down the path. Bogsy was waiting outside the gate and when I got through it he clanged it shut and bent down and there was a clink and a click, and I realized he’d snapped shut a padlock.
“Bikes!” he gasped. We almost fell over each other to get them and mount them and go!
Before we reached the end of the road, we heard pounding footsteps behind us on the sidewalk. Alan must either have climbed the gate or pushed through the hedge. And when we turned out of his road, into the next, the footsteps came on.
He was gaining on us. He actually was.
I knew he was a fast runner (he was unbeatable in athletics) but hadn’t realized how fast—till that night. I wondered if Bogsy had factored it in. We were doing right-hand turns without slowing or signaling, desperately cutting corners by going on the sidewalk whenever we could. One time I took the curb badly and nearly came off. Would Alan have stopped and torn off my mask? I had the feeling he wouldn’t have bothered, obsessed, as he was, with one thing.
“BIRD BOY!” he shouted again. “I’LL GET YOU!”
But he didn’t, not that night. He kept up his speed for several streets (when we came to our own, Lark Lane, we had to go past it) but then he slowed down. And soon after that, we lost him. We wound our way back by a different route.
Timmy’s jack-o’-lantern had gone out. Not that I went home. I followed Bogsy and flung down my bike beside his, in his front garden. Bogsy took off his mask and poked his normal, Bogsy head in through the door to see if his mum was around.
She was upstairs, so we hurried straight through.
In the shed, he took off his wings. They must have been hard to cycle in. They’d have caught the wind: He’d done well to go as fast as he had. I wasn’t surprised he was panting. I pulled off the Frankenstein mask, which my breath had made wet and slimy inside.
It was dark in the shed, of course, but there was a moon and its light slanted in through the window. We could see that the wings were undamaged by our flight. Even the tuft of green feathers on top of his mask was still there.
We lay on our backs in the mess on the floor with our arms outstretched—like kids in the snow, making angels—and laughed and laughed.
As if everything was okay.
Just because we’d survived.
The next day was both the last day of half-term and the first of November. When I went round Bogsy’s shed, he showed me a pile of paper slips. At last I was going to find out where the show would take place.
But no, I wasn’t. When I put out a hand to turn a slip over, Bogsy shot his out and knocked mine away. It was like when I’d tried to stick on a feather, the first time we’d worked on the wing.
“You’ll get one as usual,” he said. “Except you’ll get two.”
“Why two?” The strangeness of that did away with the disappointment.
“One for you, one for her.”
“Oh!”
I wasn’t sure Maisie would want a note. She’d rejected a feather when he’d offered her one. She wanted nothing to do with the Icarus Show. But I’d give it a try.
“When will you hand them out?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. End of the day. Take hers then.”
Not Would you be free after school tomorrow, to deliver Maisie’s note? He’d never say that. But I didn’t mind. I was used to his way of talking.
And suddenly now I thought I could ask him about rebuilding Don’s shed.
“After the show … ” I began, but he gave me such an odd look that I faltered. “After the show … I was wondering … if you could help … ”
He began saying no, without letting me finish. But the very unfairness of that gave me an idea.
“Seeing as I’ve helped you!” I said loudly.
Even Bogsy must see that was fair. And he did.
“I would,” he said, “but I won’t be … ” He was the one to hesitate now! “… I won’t be around.”
Where would he be? Oh, wait—of course! He’d have flown away! I smiled.
“Ha-ha!” I said.
Our last afternoon together in the shed we spent—guess what—tidying! Bogsy, the world’s messiest person, said he wanted a clear-out! He dragged a garbage can round to the door and scooped up an armful of rubbish and chucked it in.
“Hey!” I protested. “You just threw away an unopened packet of gum! I saw!”
“Good!” he said.
After that, I didn’t try to help. He didn’t need help with throwing stuff out. What he needed was someone there watching, to make sure nothing important got trashed.
Because Bogsy went into a kind of frenzy. At first I thought he was just being careless, not checking to see what was going in t
he trash. But after a while, I came to think he was glorying in the abandon. He picked up his wonderful Halloween mask and held it above his head.
“Not that!” I cried. “Don’t toss that! You could wear it tomorrow!”
“No point. It wasn’t for real.”
“But it goes with the wings!”
“It goes here!” and he smashed it down in the rubbish, green feathers first. “Gone! History!” He seemed elated.
Next time I was quicker. He grabbed up some things, one of which, I saw, was a book. I darted forward and swiped it.
It was his English exercise book. He’d written his own and Mr. Smith’s names on the cover. I was shocked—and not just because he’d been throwing it away.
“Homework!” I gasped. “Have you done it?” I hadn’t. All that week, no thought of school had entered my head. But now I was worried.
“We had to write a poem, remember? We’ve got English tomorrow afternoon!”
“Tomorrow?” He laughed disdainfully. “Trash it!”
But the thought of homework not yet done had spoiled things for me. Mr. Smith gave out detentions to people who didn’t hand homework in.
“Let’s stop and do our poems,” I said. “It won’t take long, they don’t have to be good.”
But he wouldn’t. What’s more, he snatched back his book and this time trashed it for real.
He could always retrieve it and write his poem when I’d gone, when he’d come to his senses. I hoped he would, but I never found out if he did or not.
Too late I remembered that it was Bogsy’s birthday. The fact it was Icarus Day had eclipsed the birthday, in my mind. I’d meant to get him some peppermint gum, for a joke—it would have been good—but I couldn’t now. It was halfway through Monday morning and even if Year 7s had been allowed down the shops, I’d got no money.
Well, I’d got my money for lunch, but what was the use of that when we weren’t allowed out? (It was true, there were Year 11s who’d buy you things if you paid up front; but often they kept the change, and sometimes even the things themselves.)
And then I had a clever idea. I could use a bit of my lunch money to buy sweets off Alan.
Buying sweets off Alan on Icarus Day you might think would be risky. What’s more, my plan had been to not buy anything off him ever again. My plan had been to hang out with Bogsy and not mind who saw. But we hadn’t sat together on the bus because there were only single seats left, and we hadn’t sat together in homeroom or math because then our places were fixed. Break would have been our first chance to hang out.
But at break time I went off with Alan and Rob: for the very last time, it would be. Bogsy would understand as soon as I gave him his birthday present. I don’t even know if he saw me go off.
My main concern, in approaching Alan today, was to keep my head on. Others obviously felt the same way, and were not approaching at all. Which meant that at least he’d have plenty of sweets to sell.
I considered handing over all my money, but decided not to. The amount you paid had little or nothing to do with what you got back: that depended on other, unknowable things. And today was Icarus Day, after all. Anything could happen. When I gave him my money, I kept enough back to buy pizza at lunch.
And so I was doubly amazed when he brought out a bag so full that it wouldn’t even close!
While Rob and Jack stood by—and poor Andy P looked longingly on—he held it out with his two hands cupped, to prevent things spilling from the top. I could see cola chews and one end of some rock candy and a blue-and-green gummy snake. And as he put it in my two hands, another amazing thing happened. He winked! He looked right into my eyes and winked one of his: There could be no mistake. I wasn’t sure I could wink back, so I just said, “Thanks! Thanks, Al.”
And he said, “No worries—Al!” and laughed. “Hey! Al! You and me both!”
It was overwhelming. One minute I was Bed-ows, the weirdo who couldn’t get up in the morning. The next, I was in there with Alan Tydman—right in, right up there, like Rob Bone and Jack.
I never found out why he did that, that day. Perhaps the tension had made him go funny. Or maybe he’d guessed it was me in the Frankenstein mask on Halloween night and thought I might lead him to Icarus if he invited me in.
Whatever it was, it had the effect of dragging me back. Like a swimmer at sea being dragged off course by the tide. The tide—Alan Tydman. Ha! Mr. Smith would perhaps have a word for that.
I had two: bad luck. Alan had tipped me the wink just when I thought I’d put him behind me, made up my mind that Bogsy was best.
Bogsy was best, but the little white bag overflowing with sweets was exciting, too. True, it would make a good birthday present, but that wasn’t all. I had to admit, I wanted to taste—just taste—what properly being in Alan’s Battalion was like.
At lunchtime, Alan and Rob and the rest took their food to the science wall. I took my slice of pizza. Tomorrow I’d find out where Bogsy spent lunch, and go there (even if it was Chess Club). After today, I’d never set foot in Tydman territory again.
But when we came round the corner of science, it was occupied already. There, where he shouldn’t have been—where he never had been before—was Bogsy. He was leaning against the wall.
He was whistling and looking about him in a casual kind of way, like he was waiting for a bus. When we drew nearer, he just kept on, as if we weren’t there.
I was glad about that. He might not notice me.
And Alan and Rob exchanged a glance. This is it, I thought, Alan’s fuse: It’s been lit. It was always going to be, someday or other—and this was Icarus Day. I could have lit it, Jack could’ve, Peter Horn could’ve, or Andy P. The fact it was Bogsy meant nothing. The only odd thing was the way he had made it be him.
The rest of us—me, Jack, and two or three others (me trying to keep myself hidden behind them)—came to a stop, but Alan and Rob threw their chips on the ground and moved forward. The two of them went to stand next to him, one on each side, very close, pressing shoulder to shoulder. Standing shoulder to shoulder with someone usually means you’re on their side. But Alan and Rob were a hostile force, crushing Bogsy between them. It must have hurt. They were leaning against the wall, but also leaning inward, hard. Bogsy looked small. But he carried on whistling.
“Bit noisy here today,” said Alan.
“Bit smelly,” said Rob.
“Bit crowded,” said Alan.
Bogsy hadn’t moved while they spoke—and then, all of a sudden, he did. He bent his knees to release his shoulders and stepped away from the wall. It happened so quickly that Alan and Rob fell in on each other, clunking heads. It could have been funny, but wasn’t, and nobody laughed. Bogsy started strolling away.
“Oi!” bellowed Alan. “Disturb you, did we?”
Bogsy didn’t reply.
“What’s your problem?” Alan tried again.
“My problem?” said Bogsy, over his shoulder. “My problem is finding a place to go where there aren’t Neanderthals!”
“I’ll tell you where you can go,” said Alan, “if you come back here.” He nodded to Rob. Rob went after Bogsy and grabbed his collar and pulled him back. He marched him to Alan and made him stand still by twisting the collar, tight. Bogsy tried to get him off by thrusting back with his elbows, but Rob held on.
“What you said just now,” said Alan. “Say it again!”
Bogsy didn’t break. “Neanderthals,” he said, hoarsely but clearly, “in this school—are—my—problem.”
And Alan hit him. Punched him low, in the stomach. Bogsy cried out with the shock and the pain. Alan punched him again, then clutched his shirt to stop him falling. Then Bogsy was trying to hit back, but he wasn’t a fighter, as I knew: The movements he made with his arms were more like the panicky movements of someone fighting their way through a field of tall grass with a snake in it—somewhere.
Rob stood back to give Alan space. Which made me think of someone delivering an animal for slaughte
r.
And Alan worked efficiently. He was doing what he did best. Bogsy had been wrong to write him off as a moron, I thought, because in this he was highly skilled.
It was horrible; Bogsy was squealing like a pig.
But as I watched, I realized this: that Alan was beating up Icarus. He was doing what he’d always wanted, and he didn’t even know! Mr. Smith would have called that irony. He’d have loved it. (Well, not the fight.) And the most ironic thing was that when it was finished and Bogsy was hammered, even then, Icarus would have won.
I didn’t think to run for a teacher till Alan hit Bogsy right in the face and suddenly there was blood. It’s against the rules to go for the face; if somebody does, they’ve gone too far. Bogsy dropped down with his arms round his head to try to protect it and, just as I left, I saw Jack nip in and kick him—hard—as he lay there, curled up, on the ground.
Oddly enough, the first teacher I spotted in the playground was Mr. Smith, and before I was even halfway through my story, he’d started running. He ran to science so fast that he left me behind. I heard his furious shout, round the corner, before I’d gotten there myself, and by the time I had, thanks to him, everything was over.
Bogsy could stand, he could even walk, though he looked a mess.
“Who’ll go with David to the medical room?” said Mr. Smith, but no one volunteered.
I wanted to, I really did. I could hear Maisie’s voice in my head: Someone who’ll stand by you. And what made it worse was that Bogsy was staring at me.
Ever since he’d gotten back up on his feet, he’d been doing it. Even before, from the moment he’d first thought it safe to uncover his head. Staring and staring. Nobody seemed to notice, with Mr. Smith shouting, and Alan still high as a kite.
And when, in the end, Mr. Smith led him off to the medical room himself, Bogsy twisted his head round to look back over his shoulder, one last time. I couldn’t interpret the look. But it made me feel really, really bad.
And he wasn’t in school in the afternoon. He must have gone home.
The Icarus Show Page 11