Black soul rose by John Jones... - HTML preview

Ian

Swinging the 8-iron in his room, he wondered if it could take somebody’s jaw clean off.

“Guess I’m really into golf then,” he said, looking at pictures of several players on the bedroom walls, and a games console featuring sports games, mostly golfing.

43

“Hit a ball into a hole with a stick,” he muttered, then get a trophy and a shed load of cash for it, he thought, when he heard the front doorbell. There was nobody else in the house, so went down the stairs and opened it, to see Brett there with apprehension on his face, mixed with hope.

“Fancy coming the field to hit a few golf balls?” he asked. Ian felt the words:

‘Fuck. Off. Kid.’ heading towards his mouth. However, another part of his mind thought, actually, this might not be a bad opportunity to appease Brett, and throw him off any scent he may have picked up, and reassure him he was a friend after all, just got a bit confused, so the words were halted in his throat, and instead were over-ridden with:

“Yes, alright. I would very much like to do that. I will go and get the club, and some balls”.

So he did, and Ian knew he still had to play the amnesiac.

“Okay, remind me where we’re going. Actually, I’ll just follow you”.

“Do you really not remember?” said Brett, as he took him towards the field one and a half miles away.

“I’m afraid not. We were really traumatised by getting lost you know. It can do that to a ki…it can do that to me, cos I didn’t know if I was ever going to see my mum and dad again. We were wandering around for miles and we couldn’t find anywhere on those maps we had. So we just walked around, trying to get back, but couldn’t find anything…” For the duration of the walk to the field, Ian described being lost, and how he felt about it, and the relief of being found.

When they reached their destination, Brett finally asked him about the pensioners.

“Don’t you remember getting taken by those old men?”. Ian took a golf ball out of his pocket and placed it on the ground. Although he was never interested in golf, he had seen some of it over the years to make a half-decent stab at looking like he knew what he was doing.

He lined up the club.

“Of course I do,” he said with a smile, realising the opportunity he had at the moment where he could strike Brett in the head with the club. Batter him to death and no-one would know out here. See if a jaw could come off in one strike. Tempting to find out.

Very tempting indeed.

44

Yet it didn’t seem practical. Keeping Brett alive would seem the most logical move at the moment. Make everybody believe they are cured. They are eight-year old boys. That trauma is in the past, now please move on.

Doing that would mean they would be even more hidden than what they were now.

“I remember those old fuckers,” he said. “They had weapons, and bundled us all into that van and drove off. I think they said they didn’t need you. Well they were in a hurry”.

“You really remember them? You’re not messin?”

“No,” said Ian, tightening his grip on the club. “We got in the van, and they drove us all down the lane. Took us on a drive for about five minutes, ending up deep in the countryside. Then they told us to get out. So we all got out onto another lane. It wasn’t on any of our maps. So they left us there, and drove off.

Turns out it was all a big hoax by the leader. You know the one they sacked? He put them all up to it. That’s how we got lost”.

“Really?” said Brett, believing him, relief washing over his face. “It was a hoax”. Ian nodded, smiled, swung the club back, rueing the opportunity to strike Brett’s head, and instead struck the golf ball.

“I mean really?” Brett said again, a little louder.

“Yes,” said, Ian, handing him the club, and taking out another ball from his jacket and throwing it onto the ground.

Brett positioned himself in front of the ball and lined up the club.

“A hoax, really?” he repeated, a tear of relief in the corner of his eye. He struck the ball.

The following day, Ian was in science class, and the supply teacher was one of those trendy types. Trying too hard to be popular, and trying too hard to be a kid himself, and a teacher.

“Today we’ll be focusing on foods, nutrition, and its effect on the brain. Who here can tell me why we need to drink water?”

45

“So we don’t get thirsty sir,” said little Jenny with pigtails.

“Very good, what else?” Ian sighed, but the teacher pointed at him.

“You, what’s your name?”

“Ian,” he muttered.

“What effect do you think water has on the brain?”

“It produces a hormonal balance and helps with the creation of neurons. It transports vitamins and oxygen, helps blood circulation and cell production. We need to stay hydrated in order to maintain correct functioning of neurotransmitters and to stay healthy”. The tutor didn’t know what to say, simply looked at Ian for a few moments.

“Correct,” he said, “hold on have you got a phone under the desk? Have you looked up the answer?” Ian held up his hands in supplication.

“No phone. I’ve just learnt stuff over the years, you know. Experience”.

“Learnt stuff over the years. How old are you kid?” he asked, not expecting an answer, and he didn’t get one.

“Okay we’ll move on”. For around the next ten minutes, the tutor waffled on about water. Its different types and effects, occasionally glancing at Ian with curious eyes before continuing on.

“…and that’s why purified water is not the same as alkaline”. The door opened and the deputy-head looked in. He seemed to know exactly where Ian was as he ignored the teacher.

“Ian, it’s time for your therapy session”. So he was taken by the silent deputy to the same class/storeroom as before, where Glen, Chantelle and Sam were sat waiting. He opened the door to allow Ian in.

“She’ll be along soon”, he said, and walked away.

“Glad to get out of that boring class,” Ian said, sitting down, “but we’ve still got to listen to this though”.

“Don’t forget,” said Sam, “we’re cured”.

Ian nodded, and soon the others came in, and it was five minutes after that when the therapist blustered in.

“Sorry I’m late, sorry I’m late. Traffic,” none of the children looked like they cared. Five of them had their arms folded.

46

She eventually settled down with her folder and said:

“Okay before we start I must tell you that tomorrow I have you all booked in for a CT brain-scan at the hospital, just to check that everything’s normal. Nothing to worry about”.

“What?” said Sam, “no fucking way”.

“Now, don’t be like that. See, it’s this type of behaviour that’s unbecoming of you. I understand you’ve all had major behavioural changes and this will help us understand…”

She didn’t see Dorothy approach her from the side, so focused was she on talking to Sam.

Didn’t register the metallic click, nor the loud bang as a bullet ripped through her skull, splattering half of her head on the ground.

Her body slowly slumped and collapsed from the chair, the rest of the contents of her head spilling on the floorboards. Some blood, brain matter and bits of skull had sprayed across Jordan.

The others said nothing for a few moments.

“Didn’t know it has such recoil for a little gun”, Dorothy said.

The others all stood up and all basically said the same thing. Something along the lines of: ‘Fuck!’ and ‘what the..?’

“Jordan,” said Sam, get to the door quick, “keep watch”, and Jordan ran across and opened the door, watching for any movement.

“D’you realise what you’ve done?” Sam said, his voice raised.

“They were getting closer to finding us out,” said Dorothy. “We don’t know what they would find if they examine our brains. We can’t get scanned”.

“They’ll never leave us alone now. We’ll never be out of therapy”.

“Rather that than have them finding us out through actually looking into our fucking heads”. Dorothy stepped across and pressed the handgun into the therapist’s hand.

“She committed suicide,” she said, “because our trauma was too much for her.

Which means that we are even more traumatised and will need further counselling which will mean talking therapy, and not a machine probing into our heads”.

47

“All brains look the same,” said Glenn, “chances are they would just see a normal brain if they scanned us”.

“A chance we cannot take. What if it’s not a normal brain? Who knows what it would find”.

“Damn it!” Sam shouted, “you’re right, but you know the whole shitstorm coming our way now. We’re gonna be in talking therapy for evermore now and if they suggest probing our brains, well that won’t be a good idea. Okay, now we’re traumatised by her suicide, so turn on the waterworks and look panicky.

We’ve just witnessed our therapists suicide okay?”

“Someone’s coming,” said Jordan, rushing back to his seat and trying to cry, rocking back and forth, similar to the others.

The person coming however, simply walked past.

“Fuck’s sake,” said Sam, “Jordan, go and get someone”.

“Hang on,” said Chantelle, “Dorothy, were did you get a handgun from? And why did you bring it to school”.

“Yes”, said Boyd, “I’m guessing handguns are not allowed in schools”.

“Well,” Dorothy said, “my so called ‘brother’ came in the other day and pointed at and shot at me with an empty barrel. I nearly beat fuck out of him. Anyway, turns out he has this friend whose brother is a kind of wannabe gangster. You know the kind. Follow the leader type. Idolises his Dad and his mates. Dad’s a nutjob with thick-headed mates. Criminals basically. So this kid is asked to mind a gun in his room because who’s gonna look for a gun in a kids room? So this kid is so excited to have a gun, and a little bag of bullets that he just had to show my brother. Kids eh? What are they like? So my brother asks to borrow it, and the bullets for fucks sake, but under instruction to bring it straight back in the morning with no bullets fired. But a kid’s just excited to have a real gun. It’s like a toy, so he comes in and can’t help but show it to me, and the daft cunt tells me he’s going to sleep with it under his pillow. So I knew we were coming here today, and that the therapist was maybe getting onto us. She gave that impression last time. I guessed maybe she would take us to get tests or something, so I came in with the gun in case, and it turns out I was right”.

“What about your brother,” asked Sam, “is he in trouble?”

“I think so. A gang of bone-headed criminals wanting to know where their gun is, well he’s not going to be too popular is he if he’s lost it? But I don’t care.

Children shouldn’t play with guns”.

48

“Okay folks, we’re traumatised even more now,” Sam said, “Jordan, you’re nearest the door”. The boy sighed and muttered something, but did it anyway, going out to find a teacher.

While he did that, Boyd stood up and crossed over to the body of the therapist and reached down by her cracked skull, picking up a piece of brain matter, examining it curiously, blood running over his fingers,

“I’ve missed studying this,” he said. The others nodded in agreement.

“The most complicated organism in the universe,” said Glenn, “a mystery, even to itself”.

“Brains studying brains,” put in Chantelle. Boyd dropped the segment back down by the exit wound, then out in the corridor they heard heavy running footsteps.

So school was closed for the rest of the day, and the field trip children were to be given more counselling, and assessed as to whether they needed to be taken into care.

It was decided that they would be better off at home in the comfort of their friends and families, even those with dysfunctional homes, and told to take as much time off as they needed. They all however, said they would prefer to remain at school, saying it would be good for them to be around friends, and with a nurse on site for any issues they have, said they would perhaps come to terms with their therapist Theresa, whom they had called a friend, so another child trauma counsellor had been assigned to them. Ben, who was in his late twenties, bald through choice with a stud earring and light brown suit.

The children all found themselves in the same room, and the difference being, as well as part of the floor stained slightly darker, the new therapist sat in front of them.

All except Boyd had their arms folded.

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like,” said Ben, “to have your therapist so traumatised by what you went through, that she committed suicide”.

49

“Yes,” said Chantelle, “she couldn’t hack it any more. Too much for her, but you’ll be alright won’t you? You won’t make us do anything we don’t want to do”.

“Absolutely not,” he said, “and I thought a great way to make you all feel better, and feel good about yourselves, is that we all have a sing-a-long”.

Glenn’s eyes widened, and he wished at that moment he had the handgun, because he would have used it, and shot him in the face.