Hate

by Alan Gibbons

  Once he saw me, the glow of victory drained from his face. There was the thunder of footsteps on the wooden stage. Voices around me. Nothing could stop me now.

  I heard him beg.

  ‘Don’t. Eve, don’t.’

  But I saw my sister. I saw that pale, perfect, upraised face. I saw her and love guided my hand.

  Eve’s arm swung from left to right and sprayed a slash across Anthony’s white T-shirt. In spite of Mr Hudson’s best efforts she twisted, the red, gluey liquid spattering his face and shoulders right to left so that there was a bloody cross marking him. Jess heard the cries of dismay rising around her. She raced towards the stage. Already, Mr Hudson and Mrs Rawmarsh were guiding a sobbing Eve away. They succeeded in escorting her to a classroom across the corridor.

  ‘Please let me in,’ Jess pleaded. ‘She will listen to me.’

  ‘Stay with them,’ Mrs Rawmarsh said. ‘I’ll check on Anthony.’

  Jess lifted Eve’s face with her fingers.

  ‘Oh, Evie, why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I had to do something. He had his moment. What about Rosie? When does she get hers?’

  Mascara tracks cut through the white face-paint. The fake blood was drying, caking her lips, forming twin paths from the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Are they laughing at me?’

  ‘Eve, nobody’s laughing.’ Jess thought for a moment. ‘Does your mum know where you are?’

  A shake of the head. Eve held out her phone.

  ‘Can you call her for me?’

  Jess found Mum in the address book.

  ‘Cath? Hi, it’s Jess. No, Eve’s OK. She’s here with me. There’s no need to worry. There’s been a bit of an incident, but she’s fine. Yes, honestly, she’s safe.’ She took a breath. ‘It’s hard to explain on the phone. Can you come home?’

  She hung up and brushed Eve’s hair from her face.

  ‘What am I going to do with you, eh? Your mum is just leaving Preston. She’s on her way.’

  Mrs Rawmarsh returned with Mr McKechnie in tow.

  ‘What kind of state is Anthony in?’ Mr Hudson asked.

  ‘He’s a bit shaken. He wanted to know how Eve was.’

  Eve stared.

  ‘He did what?’

  Mr McKechnie pulled up a chair.

  ‘He said he understood what you did. He said he deserved it.’

  Eve took a tissue from the box on the table and scrubbed at the fake blood that still smeared her lips.

  ‘Will he come forward? Will he tell the police what he knows?’

  Mr McKechnie shook his head.

  ‘He didn’t say anything else. Eve, I think that’s for another day.’

  Anthony was sitting on the settee, staring in the direction of the TV. He could hear his mother crashing the pans in the kitchen.

  ‘Do you want anything, Anthony?’

  ‘No.’

  He felt her presence behind him even before her reflection appeared in the TV screen.

  ‘That stupid girl ruined your big night. She turned it into a pantomime.’

  Anthony replied without turning round.

  ‘It was already a pantomime. Why the hell did I go along with it? She was the only honest person in the room.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? She humiliated you in front of the whole school. It was pure malice. I should have known she was going to do something like this.’

  Anthony finally twisted in his seat to look at her.

  ‘Can you hear yourself? Do you remember who she is? Her sister was murdered.’

  She sat beside him.

  ‘I don’t know why you aren’t more angry.’

  ‘I should never have entered. Something like this was always going to happen. I left that girl to die, Mum. It was always going to come back to haunt me.’

  ‘Don’t say that! You’re letting guilt poison your mind. You weren’t to know what was going to happen. You left the park before the violence started.’

  But that wasn’t what had happened.

  That wasn’t it at all.

  A BROKEN BIRD

  Saturday, 10 August 2013

  Anthony heard the knock.

  ‘That’ll be Gollum,’ he said.

  He let Gollum in.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ Gollum asked.

  ‘Don’t mind as long as we get out of here,’ Anthony grunted.

  He watched Roy’s thick fingers rubbing his mother’s back. That’s the way it was. He owned her. Anthony burned with shame that he didn’t tear the spade-like hand from his mother’s body.

  ‘Here’s trouble,’ Roy said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Hi, Roy,’ Gollum said.

  ‘Don’t stay out too late,’ Mum said.

  Roy was out of his seat. The backs of his bare thighs made a sucking sound on the leather.

  ‘Stop fussing. You’re turning him into a right poof.’

  He had Anthony in a head lock. Anthony flailed, trying to get Roy off him. The reek of sour sweat made him feel sick. The brief struggle was over in seconds.

  ‘Take him out, Gollum,’ he said. ‘Show him the night life.’

  Anthony’s mother tried to protest.

  ‘Roy . . .’

  He snapped his finger in her face.

  ‘Not another word! You hear me? He’s going. It’ll give us some quality time together.’

  Anthony saw Roy make a grab for his mother and pull her onto the settee next to him.

  Anthony’s cheeks burned. He caught his mother’s eye. There was a kind of wounded apology there. He followed Gollum out, stealing a glance back at the house where he had never felt at home. The last year everything that was solid, familiar, reliable had broken apart.

  ‘Here,’ Gollum said, tossing him a can of Bud. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘In my jacket.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Cartmel Park.’

  They wandered through the empty streets. Now and then somebody would stagger out of a Chinese chippy with a tray of chow mein or slowly congealing sausage and chips. Mostly, they were on their own with only the passing cars to observe their progress. Anthony glanced at Gollum and remembered the day he got his nickname. He was short, scrawny and desperately pale. He had wispy dark hair that seemed to cluster in clumps on his scalp. His eyes were wide and prominent. No one ever called him by his real name, Nathan.

  They reached the middle of the park. Silhouetted figures moved about in the crumbling bandstand. Others spilled across the surrounding lawns.

  They didn’t notice the group of lads at first. There were groups of kids everywhere, talking, laughing, messing around.

  ‘Hear about the carrot with brain damage?’ Gollum said. ‘He’s a vegetable.’

  One of the boys heard him. That’s how they came to be near him when it happened. The leader of the group introduced himself as Bradley. It was a name Anthony would have reason to remember. He wanted to go, but Gollum was already wandering across to them.

  ‘You’ll never be a comedian,’ Bradley said. ‘You want to know what I’m going to do? Here’s my master plan. Get some money, a car, find myself a fit woman . . .’

  ‘Loads of fit women,’ Gollum interrupted. He seemed to like his new acquaintance. Anthony couldn’t fathom why.

  ‘Yes, loads of fit women. Get wasted, get laid, that’s life.’

  ‘You’ll need plenty of cash then,’ Gollum said.

  ‘You want to know where the money’s coming from? Anywhere I can get it.’

  ‘He’s going to sell his body at Martendale Market,’ one of the others said.

  Bradley pushed him in the chest, obviously the alpha male.

  ‘Don’t even joke about things like that,’ he snapped. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘It was only a joke. You’re touchy tonight.’

  That’s how they spent the next hour, drinking, exchanging banter, swapping stories with the o
ther aimless groups who drifted by, or stopped for a few minutes and sat talking on the grass. They seemed to have a problem with Anthony. His silence, the way he tried to shrink into the shadows, made them single him out. Every few minutes one of them would remember he was there and blow cigarette smoke in his face. That’s how they passed the time, until they saw the freaks. The couple stopped by the group to ask for directions. That was their first mistake. Their second was choosing Bradley Gorman.

  ‘Hey look,’ he said, ‘big mosher, little mosher.’

  Anthony saw the girl’s wary look travelling round the couple of dozen youths who had been drawn to the bandstand.

  ‘Do you come to drink blood?’ somebody asked.

  The girl’s slender fingers ran down her boyfriend’s arm, trying to communicate a warning.

  ‘Yes, very droll,’ the boyfriend said, seemingly oblivious. ‘The guy at the garage said there was a taxi rank across the park. Which path do we take?’

  Bradley didn’t like the answer. He pushed off the bench where he was sitting.

  ‘You taking the piss?’ he demanded.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You called me a troll.’

  ‘No, I said droll.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know, funny.’

  Bradley’s expression darkened.

  ‘Why am I funny?’ he demanded. ‘What, like weird?’

  ‘Not what I meant, friend . . .’

  Anthony froze.

  ‘Look who’s talking about weird. What’s your name, slasher boy?’

  The boyfriend let the comment go. ‘I’m Paul. This is Rosie.’

  ‘Row Zee,’ somebody said. ‘Like the back of a baseball stadium.’

  ‘Very good,’ Paul said. ‘You’re sharp.’

  ‘Are you patronising me? You think you’re better than me.’

  ‘No, I thought you were quick . . .’

  Tension rippled round the group.

  ‘Paul,’ Rosie said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Hey, she talks,’ Bradley said. ‘The little doll talks through her nasty, black lips. I thought she was one of those ventriloquist’s dummies. Get her to say gottle o’ geer.’

  He made a grab for her. Instinctively, Paul blocked his way. By now, menace was crackling round the group. Everything Paul said was another scrap of flesh tossed to the wolf pack.

  ‘Maybe the moshers want a gottle o’ geer.’

  Bradley tilted his can and let the contents trickle on

  Paul’s boots. Paul took a step back.

  ‘Does she want a gottle o’ geer?’ Bradley asked, approaching Rosie.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Paul protested as Rosie shrank away.

  Bradley stiffened.

  ‘Are you telling me what to do, mosher?’

  Gollum stirred. He didn’t like the way things were going.

  ‘Listen,’ Rosie said, ‘we don’t want any trouble. We want to know which way to this taxi rank.’

  ‘You not from round here?’ one of the boys asked.

  In the darkness Anthony didn’t know who was who.

  ‘Course they’re not from round here,’ a shadowy figure said. ‘We don’t have goths in Brierley.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ Paul said. ‘We’ve been to a party.’

  A slight twitch in his left eye said he had made a mistake, but he had Bradley’s interest.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where’s this goth colony in Brierley? Maybe we should drop in.’

  The gang was crowding closer.

  ‘Yes, I fancy a party.’

  ‘Let’s have the address,’ he said. ‘We’re going to pay the Brierley goths a visit.’

  ‘I’m sorry. No can do.’

  Bradley’s face twisted into an expression of uncontrollable rage.

  ‘Don’t tell my mate what he can and can’t do! The address. Now!’

  ‘Leave them alone,’ Gollum said. He stretched out an arm. ‘The taxi rank is over there. Take the right fork. When you get to the skateboard park, go left.’

  Rosie smiled a thank you and set off along the path. Paul was about to follow her when Bradley blocked his way.

  ‘Where are you going, freak?’

  ‘The taxi rank. I told you.’

  ‘I haven’t finished with you yet. You’re going to give me that address.’

  ‘No,’ Paul said, ‘I’m not.’

  That’s when Bradley threw the first punch.

  It was as if there was a veil between them. Anthony watched Paul go down. This gentle, easy-going guy hadn’t expected Bradley’s punch. At no point in the conversation had he fully grasped the coiled menace these teenagers represented. There was a moment when his face was startled and cruelly aware then he crumpled to the ground. Bradley was a predator. He saw weakness and went after it, lashing out with his foot as his prey fell. He stamped on Paul as he hit the cracked tarmac path. The boy next to him was kicking too. Together they pounded their victim like a piece of meat.

  ‘No.’

  The protests came from Rosie and Gollum. Anthony was silent as he stood beneath the trees. With each kick the events before him became more distant.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, man?’ Gollum yelled. ‘There’s no call for this.’

  One attacker spun round. His finger was in Gollum’s face.

  ‘You keep your nose out.’

  ‘He’s had enough. Oh, Christ, Bradley, you’ve got to stop. Not the man’s head. Are you crazy?’

  The others were shouting.

  ‘Yeah, bang the moshers.’

  Anthony heard the kicks. He saw Rosie trying to claw her way past them as they laughed and pushed her back. He was beyond numb, completely paralysed by the sudden explosion of violence. He could see everything, hear the whole thing, but he could no more have done what Gollum did, yelling for Bradley to stop, than he could have become weightless and flown. Gollum looked around desperately.

  ‘Will somebody help me here?’ His gaze fell on Anthony. ‘You?’

  When Anthony didn’t move, he started to plead with some of the other onlookers. A girl detached herself from the crowd and called 999. Nobody else moved. Some were curious. Others grimaced or cried out, but they didn’t intervene. Gollum threw himself at Bradley, tearing at his back.

  ‘You mad bastard! You’re going to kill him.’

  ‘Bang the moshers! Smash the freaks!’

  ‘Yes, have some, you slasher.’

  That’s when Rosie joined Paul on the ground. Anthony didn’t see how it happened. He heard her cry then saw her black clothing flutter. She struggled into a kneeling position and cradled Paul’s head on her lap.

  ‘Please stop.’

  Gollum echoed her words.

  ‘Bradley, stop now. Just stop, man!’

  Bradley did not stop. He cast Gollum aside like a piece of rag, drew back his foot and drove the dirty white trainer into Rosie’s head. She lay like a broken bird, black wings folded on the ground. That’s when Anthony ran. He pushed himself away from the wall of his own fear and ran. Voices followed him. Were they screams? Were they the sound of the pack egging Bradley on as he unleashed hell?

  Tears burst from Anthony’s eyes as he pounded through the gloom. The oaks formed a tunnel. The darkness sighed and simmered. Then he was on the main road, sobbing and gasping for breath, each lungful of air roaring in his chest like a storm. His only thought was that he had to escape. He ran out into the road. Tyres squealed. A man’s voice yelled.

  ‘Idiot!’

  The car was gone, screaming off towards Brierley Top, the brooding hill that lowered in the distance. By the time he reached the estate he was walking, his breathing returning to normal. Only now, a mile from the crime, did he replay the events in his head. He could have yelled the way Gollum had. He could have joined him trying to pull him away. Later, as he fled from the park, he could have called 999 on his phone. That girl called the police. He’d done none of those
things.

  THE MARKING OF FLESH

  Saturday, 10 August 2013

  ‘Eve! Eve, wake up.’

  Mum’s voice wailed in the night. She ripped the door open. She was standing barefoot, her dressing gown clumsily knotted round her waist. Her hair was wild, her eyes wilder still.

  ‘Rosie’s been attacked.’

  ‘Attacked? Attacked how?’

  ‘She’s in intensive care. Paul was with her.’

  ‘Was he hurt too? I don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s in a bad way. They’ve taken him to a different hospital. I’m in pieces here, love. I’ve been trying to get through to your dad at work. He’s on nights and there’s nobody on the switchboard.’

  ‘What about his phone?’

  ‘I keep getting his voicemail. It’s a nightmare.’

  Somehow she eventually got hold of him. He swung into the hospital car park moments after we arrived. We were by the main entrance when we heard him shout. He was hauling the bike up on its stand. They went in first, leaving me sitting on a red plastic chair in the corridor, still confused. Why would anybody attack Rosie? I heard a draught excluder purr and leapt up.

  ‘How is she?’ I asked.

  ‘Eve, you’ve got to be strong. She’s really swollen. I could hardly recognise her.’

  A nurse led us into the ward. I don’t even know how we got there. I don’t remember going through any doors. I don’t remember my footsteps. Rosie was such a mess. Her hair was in dreads the way she always wore it. Some of the locks had been torn from her scalp. She had two black eyes. There were marks on both arms and on her legs where they must have dragged her across the ground. Worst of all, there was a footprint in the bruising on her face. You could actually see the distinctive pattern of a training shoe sole.

  ‘What did they do to her? How do you make a mark like that?’

  Bewildered. That’s the best description of how I felt. One minute I was lying in bed, warm, comfortable, half-awake, looking forward to going to the new dance class with Jess. Then I was trembling in the aftershock of an unspeakable wrong, staring at my beautiful sister lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Something occurred to me.

  ‘Has she got her contacts in?’