The Revenants

by Alec Dunn

  “Listen, you seem bright enough – a little curious – why would you join our reading group if you can’t read? But certainly bright enough to learn without any great difficulty. You’ll get there. We’re going to be friends. I can tell.”

  They smiled at each other, standing of the shores of friendship, having shared difficulties and confidences.

  Then her face transformed into a concerned frown, changing as swiftly as the shadows of clouds flitting across a mountain on a sunny day. “But what will you do now, Tristan? Which short story are you going to say is your favourite? And how will you describe what you like about the story?”

  He shrugged, looked down and tried to force a casual nonchalance, “Dunno.”

  Lucretia’s hand reached out again and patted his arm comfortingly, “Don’t worry, Tristan. None of the stories are difficult to understand. Let me tell you about them and then you can choose your favourite.”

  Tristan looked up in surprise and gratitude. As Lucretia stretched out her long legs, propping the heel of one boot on the toes of the other, she told him about each of the stories and he was happy. He felt like he had made a friend. And she was beautiful.

  The third reading group had been another surprise. Gregor had welcomed him affectionately, then had played the film of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Tristan had realised that Huckleberry Hound was something else entirely and hoped nobody remembered what he had said. He had sat next to Lucretia and they had talked occasionally about what was happening on the small television. He was beginning to feel like part of a group.

  It wasn’t until shortly after the fourth reading group that he truly felt like he was accepted as one of the group.

  In the fourth reading group nothing exceptional happened, nothing unusual. They just continued watching the film of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Tristan had carried on talking to Gregor and Lucretia. He enjoyed the film. He arranged to spend his dinner hour in the library with his friends and Lucretia quietly mentioned helping his reading. Tristan was feeling good, he had somewhere to go and people to be with. He was definitely feeling like one of the group.

  But it was when he was leaving the library at the end of the reading group and saying goodbye to Gregor and Lucretia that Max O’Connell walked over to him, stared at him for a moment and then nodded. Whether it was a nod of approval or of farewell, Tristan wasn’t sure. It was the first time that Max had paid any obvious attention to him and that had seemed to be a good thing. Max’s behaviour seemed aggressive, unpredictable and erratic and Tristan had kept him at a safe distance, not trying to talk to him or snub him.

  Max was walking away before Tristan could respond, before he knew how to respond; he didn’t think any more of it until two days later.

  Two days later, Tristan was walking down a corridor, already depressed at having to go to Art with Mr Sorrell when he noticed the familiar hulking shape of Ryan Sankey looming down towards him.

  Tristan’s head dropped to avoid eye contact. He tried to merge with the crowd flowing in his direction, becoming part of the shoal, one of the herd.

  “Arsewipe!”

  The shout made him look up at Ryan, directly into his eyes.

  “You been hidin’ from me, you tosser? Where you been?”

  Tristan looked away and tried to move past him. His way was blocked. Sankey’s large frame stood in his way.

  Then Sankey’s arms flew out, striking him, pushing him violently back. “C’mon, arsewipe.”

  Tristan staggered back, almost falling, his heart pounding. Dropping the bag off his shoulder, he looked down at the floor, keeping the distance between them, aware of the gathering crowd, aware of Sankey’s outline, aware that Sankey was enjoying the public attention. This was how Sankey operated. This was what school was for him. Lessons were an inconvenience. Sankey’s status was as a fighter, between lessons was where he came to life and the more people to see it the better.

  “I said, C’MON!” Sankey shouted, flinging his arms out sideways dramatically. He was giving the crowd a show, giving more people a chance to gather.

  Tristan’s heart was pounding, but he tried to stay composed and was aware of his next action. The bag was heavy in his hand, when Sankey came for him it was a quick step back, a swing of the bag into Sankey’s head and from then on he would trust to luck.

  Then Sankey moved. Tristan noticed a blur of movement from the corner of his eye, but had to focus. Sankey was upon him quickly, quicker than he had expected for someone of that size. Tristan stepped back and swung the bag. It glanced off Sankey’s large shoulder and then Sankey was knocking him over, bundling him to the floor and Tristan was gritting his teeth, still struggling, but being pushed down, forced onto the unforgiving tiles beneath, preparing himself to take a beating.

  Once Sankey had his victims pinned down he liked to take his time, punching them again and again in the face.

  It was as the first blow landed and the pain exploded in both the front and back of his head, getting hit by Sankey’s fist in the face and the back of his head thudding into the tiles, that Tristan felt the weight shift. Sankey’s bulk was no longer forcing him down.

  The dazed Tristan looked up with confusion.

  He focused on Sankey. Sankey’s face was shocked, his mouth was open and filled with blood. Blood was pouring from his nose. Blood was dribbling over his chin, dripping onto the floor, onto Sankey’s clothes, onto Tristan’s shirt.

  A flash of movement, fists, knees, elbows crashed into Sankey, toppling him from above Tristan, who wriggled away. And as he crawled away, hearing sickening crunches and soft, ripe thuds of flesh, he looked back to see the angry – very angry – face of Max O’Connell staring down at the huddled form of Ryan Sankey.

  As Tristan regained his feet, feeling the adrenaline surge of shock, his legs were shaking. He watched the violence he had escaped, he looked over at Max O’Connell giving one last vicious stamp to the Ryan’s twitching outstretched leg.

  He heard the animal scream of pain rend from Ryan’s lips.

  Tristan was breathing heavily, looking at the unexpected scene before him and met the eyes of Max and for the second time, Max nodded at him and turned and was walking away before Tristan knew how to respond.

  Six : A Fresh Fresh Start

  Seeing Ryan Sankey lying broken and bleeding on the floor was a turning point.

  The ambulance had driven through the school gates to stretcher away his crumpled body and the whole school seemed to buzz with the news, buzz with rumours of what had happened. Everyone had heard something from someone who had seen something.

  Gaskill, right, the psychopathically violent History teacher, had finally lost it and beaten Sankey up because Ryan had spat in his face and James Tooley, the tool, sits next to Ryan, right, and was knocked off his seat when Gaskill went for him and Tooley’s father is just out of gaol and is going to come in to beat up Gaskill.

  Ryan had been sayin’ stuff about that Brad Johnson, the lad who stopped coming to school and died and this Year eleven, yeah, who was Brad’s mate got well ticked off and had broken his arms, one at a time, and then both his legs. He would have broken his neck but a bunch of teachers came and jumped on him and stopped him.

  This new kid had started on Ryan, yeah, ‘cos Ryan had poured petrol on his dog and set it on fire. This new kid just lost it, he was like a complete nutter and smashed his face into the floor.

  Ryan had gone home, embarrassed. Ryan was in hospital. Ryan was on life support. Ryan was dead.

  It was weeks before Tristan saw Ryan again and then the bully struggled past him on crutches, complete with neck brace, a cast on his arms and a leg cast completely up to his hip.

  It amazed Tristan that the name of Max was not mentioned once. His own name had been thrown around as the person responsible for ending the reign of Sankey. While he had never claimed it was true, he didn’t deny it either. The talk in his form time centred around him and although he deflected most of the questions, he ad
mitted to being there. At the end of Form time, the golden haired Stephanie had smiled at him, fixed her wide, luminous eyes on him and asked if he was doing ok.

  He smiled back and mumbled that he was doing alright.

  She wasn’t interested in whether he had hurt someone else. He liked that about her. When he had asked her how she was, he only half listened, distracted by her finger twirling a strand of golden hair around it as she answered him. The other half was thinking about some programme on TV he had seen that was on about body language, and when a girl played with their hair it sometimes meant, sometimes, that they liked the person they were with. And not just liked, but liked them, like really liked them. She said goodbye and she was gone.

  It couldn’t be, could it? Stephanie was stunning. He looked down at himself and his slightly bulging shirt, covering his slightly podgy waist. No, he decided, probably not.

  Still, the idea left Tristan more breathless than after Sankey had knocked him to the floor. He also felt elated. He stood there for a moment caught by the idea of it. Stephanie and him: it was a lovely dream. But it was a dream. Nothing more. Better than his usual nightmares, but far less real. He didn’t stand a chance with her. She was out of his league. So reality and lessons – now in mainstream classes – had to intrude and he brought his mind back to the here and now.

  Back to reality, he thought with disappointment. Then he saw Sankey, lurching awkwardly on his crutches and his face broke into a great big smile. Even reality wasn’t too bad at the moment.

  Tristan had already found a place to spend his time and with the absence of Ryan Sankey it was definitely a choice to spend his time there, rather than finding a place to hide.

  So, at dinner he went to the library: to be with his friends.

  Gregor welcomed him to the often empty library and would ramble on about different books and ideas. His topics for conversation were frequently strange, dealing with the ancient world, ancient beliefs, arcane laws, insane facts, making them interesting or amusing or confusing by turns.

  There seemed no distinction for Gregor between the reading group and dinner time in the library. It was the same people who came to both, although Max was rarely seen at dinner hours. Gregor blithely put it down to truancy.

  There were sometimes interlopers, non members of the reading group who came to the library at dinner for homework or research or even, on the rare occasion, from a genuine interest in reading. Tristan expected Gregor to be as charming to them as he had been when he first met Tristan.

  He was not.

  Lucretia Beaumont had seemed to adopt him. They talked at dinners and she told him about her parents and the illness in her youth that stopped her going to school. He told her about his childhood, growing up, he even told her about how much he liked Stephanie.

  Tristan started to notice Lucretia in the school’s grey corridors and she was popular. He saw her with different groups, goths, smokers, chavs, geeks, even the teachers. She knew everyone and seemed to be friends with everyone. She was always surrounded, in a crowd, and most often it was a crowd of boys. Whenever she saw Tristan she would greet him and introduce him to people and soon it seemed that he became popular in his own right. Kids whose names he couldn’t even remember called out just to say hello to him. He felt like some sort of minor celebrity, basking in her shadow.

  She had helped him to read and was one of the main reasons he had been moved to mainstream classes.

  And that was perhaps why he had got the wrong idea, because she took such an interest in helping him. They got along so well that Tristan had thought there was more to it and, forgetting his feelings for Stephanie, during one of their ‘private’ after school reading sessions he had moved to kiss her. She had put her finger on his lips and purred to him that she had a boyfriend and she only had one boy at a time so he would have to wait for his turn. Then she slapped his arms playfully and Tristan wasn’t as embarrassed as he might have been.

  He was disappointed though.

  The first time he saw her boyfriend, Tristan was even more disappointed she had turned him down. He was a thin, or scrawny, goth type, all black clothes, moody poses and eyeliner – never right for a boy, Tristan thought – with cuts trickling blood and marks all down his arm. Attention seeking, self harmer, Tristan summed up to himself in disgust and then had the unpleasant thought that this was the boy Lucretia had picked over him.

  Perhaps she had some sort of mothering instinct. She had certainly taken to him quickly enough once she realised he couldn’t read.

  While things at Hillcrest were improving for Tristan, the reading group was not without its own strange annoyances. Although Gregor was welcoming to Tristan and Lucretia was now his closest friend, there were times he realised that he was left out, times when the three original members of the group would talk without him. Their whispered conversations in a library empty apart from Tristan reminding him of how he felt when he first arrived at Hillcrest.

  Alone.

  Empty.

  It was only a short time before Tristan found out that he was not a full member of the group. He was not invited to everything the reading group did. The winter nights stretched out like the hand of death, announced Gregor, and the time for another ghost walk was come. In fact it was to be, dramatic flourish, tonight!

  Max and Lucretia nodded with serious faces.

  Tristan was quite excited at the prospect. He had never been on a ghost walk and had always thought they looked like fun. Hearing ghoulish tales of murder and mishaps at the dead of night would certainly add to the atmosphere. And one thing that Gregor could do was talk. The old man told a tale well.

  He asked Gregor at the end of dinner when the ghost walk was, only to find that he was not invited.

  Gregor looked at him coldly and told him bluntly that he was not invited. Then he added “yet” and a smile twisted upon his wrinkled face. “Sorry, Tristan, you’re just not ready, my young disciple. You need to be able to read the signs. Perhaps next time.”

  Ready?

  What did he need to be ready for?

  The smell coming from Gregor? he thought angrily.

  Read the signs?

  He had guessed that Gregor knew he couldn’t read well when they carried on watching films and talking for most of the Reading Clubs meetings.

  Did the old man resent him coming?

  What kind of ghost walk went in a group and then had to individually read signs?

  Yes, the reading group had its difficulties, he thought, Gregor. But they were his friends, his friends, and he could forgive them. After all, his life was much improved by the reading group.

  The next day at dinner Tristan walked into the library, as usual, to be greeted by the tired and wrinkled face of Gregor, who leaned heavily on his walking stick and seemed to take great pains in his slow shuffling movement around the library. With some reluctance, Tristan forced himself to politely ask if he had enjoyed the ghost walk.

  “A triumph, young Tristan, a triumph,” Gregor smiled smugly at the thought.

  Tristan moved on, towards a table to sit down. He saw Max and Lucretia.

  He stopped.

  He stared.

  Max was slumped in the chair, blood seemed to cover him. It was dried on his shirt, smeared above his lip which was split. And his nose, it wasn’t normally at that angle. Down the side of his face blood still flowed from a gash in his eyebrow, wet and sluggish. Lucretia’s back was to Tristan and she was placing her hands to either side of Max’s nose.

  “Ok, sweetie pie, on one, two, THREE!” and her delicate hands twisted the bent nose straight. The sound of gristle and cartilage shifting about sounded like styrofoam and breaking walnuts.

  “What the…” Tristan said.

  Max looked at him and smiled. Blood seemed to spill from the smile itself, although Tristan knew the blood was from the freshly, re-broken nose. Max sat there smiling, the blood running down his lip, into his mouth and out over his chin.

  “Well,�
�� Gregor wheezed, “a triumph for me. Unfortunately, Max disgraced himself, didn’t you Max? Our young pugilist got into a fight.”

  Max looked at Tristan and hoarsely said, “You should see the other guy.”

  Lucretia was laughing. “You’re a bad boy, Max,” she said mockingly.

  Even Gregor seemed to think it was funny. “Quite so. Quite so. Now, away home with you, Max. I’ve a feeling we’ll be on another ghost walk before long.”

  Tristan didn’t know what was going on, but it was strange. The elderly librarian showed no remorse for letting a school student get into a fight with a member of the public. And now he was sending him home with a broken nose and blood all over him. What the hell was going on?

  Tristan had never completely understood the humour of the others, but this was twisted.

  He tried asking Lucretia what had happened. She just laughed at him and told him not to worry, that Max would be fine and that no-one got hurt, no-one that didn’t deserve it, anyway.

  He was going to ask more questions but Lucretia asked him about Stephanie. She asked him what stopped him talking to her more, asking her out, kissing her. The teasing purple black depths of her eyes twinkled.

  He told her about Stephanie’s golden hair and then waved at himself. This is what stopped him. Himself.

  She laughed at him and like a knife cut straight to the heart of his fear. He was overweight and lacked confidence, she said he could talk to Stephanie and win her if he only had the confidence.

  The problem was he didn’t.

  She summed it up. She had already helped his reading and the reading group would help him in all sorts of ways, she said, but to be more confident he needed to be physically confident. She said he should talk to Max.

  Since the outburst of violence on Ryan Sankey, Tristan had not really spoken to Max and after what he had just seen he didn’t want to go anywhere near him.

  Max simply arrived, sometimes at dinners, always at reading group, sat down, listened, got up, took a stroll, picked up a book, put it down, came back, sat down, made a comment that showed he had been listening, got out a pen, drew on himself, broke the pen, scratched the skin on his arm, got up, walked, made a comment from wherever he had wandered to – how could he even hear from there? – came back, opened a window, even if it was freezing outside, sniffed the air, came back, pushed a book around the table, and so on.