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

Ian

Ian went home to find his father pacing around in the garden, fretting.

“Don’t disturb him,”, his mother Ursula said, “he’s very concerned at the moment”.

“Why?” Ian asked.

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“The treasurer at his golf club has died, and there’s nobody to replace him.

Nobody to do the books”. Ian gave a little laugh.

“Is that it?” It was clear Ursula was slightly concerned as well.

“The club may be put in doubt until they can find a replacement, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone, especially not your father”. Ian just shrugged, uncaring.

“This’ll be why I supposedly like golf then”.

“You love golf. You enjoy it when he takes you down the club for a go on the putting green”.

“Oh yes that, I love it,” he said with loaded sarcasm, then turned and left.

The following day he sought out the others who did not know of the plan. He found Jordan out on the pitch at the back of the school. The tutor had separated the boys to play at one end, each having a go at being ‘goalie,’ with penalty kicks at the lower half of the rugby ‘H’. Meanwhile at the other end, the girls had been tasked with playing ‘rounders’.

Whenever the ball came to Jordan, he would simply kick it in the general direction of the goal.

Ian garnered Jordan’s attention who came trotting over.

“Just to let you know,” Ian muttered, even though he was out of earshot of everyone. “We know what we’re doing with Brett. I’ll get him to shoot some golf on the field at the back of the horse sanctuary. There’s a bath we can drown him in. It’ll be suicide because he couldn’t take our trauma, like survivor guilt”.

Jordan nodded.

“Right. Got to be done I suppose”.

“After school, it might be better if a few of us are there. To make sure”.

“Okay,” said Jordan, the tutor glaring at him from the halfway line.

“Okay I’d best get back, see you later”. Ian left to find Chantelle.

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After ten minutes, Jordan noticed from the entrance to the school gym hall three men had appeared and were walking towards the boys. They looked focused and determined, and the tutor saw the boys all stop and stare and looked to see what they were staring at. He went to stop them, but it was as though they didn’t see him.

“Fellas, what are you doing?” They looked formidable, gangster types. The kind the second you laid eyes on them you did not trust them.

“Which one of you is Jordan?” said the leader, tall, unkempt beard and T-shirt over a stocky torso.

Ah, Jordan thought. He suspected this might happen. Boomer’s father would appear. He owned up.

“Are you the one that gave Boomer the spider to eat?”

“Yes sir, we were playing dare, and I said there’s no way you would eat a spider.

Boomer said he would he’s not scared. He’s not scared of nothing, so I took my brother’s pet spider and brought it to him, and you know Boomer. Just picked it up and ate it. He was just so brave”.

The man looked dejected. He had nowhere else to go, wasn’t going to attack Jordan. He had reached the end of the line.

It was clear to Jordan he was still grieving, and was looking to apportion blame, or trying to find an outlet for his grief.

Yet, here was the boy who gave Boomer the spider. The boy responsible for his death.

“Look, sorry kid. I just wanted you to know it’s alright. It was an accident”.

“That sounds like Boomer alright,” said one of Boomer’s father’s friends who had a face tattoo of ‘4real’ above his right eye, and a star on his left cheek and neck.

“Little hard-knock. Just the type of thing he would do”. His father smiled slightly and said:

“It is, yes, exactly what Boomer would do. Don’t worry kid, you’re alright”. He put his hand out and Jordan shook it.

“He was a good mate”, Then they turned and walked back. One of the other children playing football joined Jordan at his side, not to ask who they were but:

“Why has that guy got a tattoo on his face?”

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“Because he’s an attention-seeking fucking idiot,” Jordan said. “Ooh look at me everyone, I’m a bloody nutjob”. He went back to the game.

“…so if you could do me a favour Chantelle,” said Ian in the corridor, before they went into their English class. “If you could grab his exercise book or something with his writing in, then write a suicide note like it’s from him and we’ll use that”. Chantelle simply shrugged.

“Alright, here he is”. Brett appeared behind them.

“Hi Brett,” said Ian, “fancy shooting some golf after school? I know a better place than that other field”. Brett’s face lit up.

“Ye, where is it?”

“It’s a surprise. I’ll show you later. I’ll give you a knock at five”. Chantelle and Brett entered the classroom.

The English teacher was another one of those people that only existed within school, and like bullies, and the class swot, there was always one in every school, a teacher that never seemed to smile, that was always annoyed at the children, a ‘nark’, and such was the case with Mr Doley, a tall, hairy, dour-faced man with a drooping moustache. Children knew what they could get away with in most classes, but when it was Doley’s English class, they mostly behaved and did as they were told.

Midway through, as they were writing down ‘compound tenses’, Chantelle got up from her chair and went and leaned over Brett.

“Can I copy yours? these are hard. I’ll give it you back in a minute”, and as Mr Doley busied himself with a newspaper crossword, not paying the children any attention, she picked up his exercise book and took it back to her desk.

“Chantelle…!” he said, and looked with fear at Doley, who was deep in thought, chewing the end of a pen.

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“Chantelle,” he whispered, but she had put the exercise book in her bag and tore out a page with writing on, then took it out, pretending to copy for a few seconds and went to give it back. However, Doley spotted her.

“What are you doing Chantelle? Back at your desk this is not break-time. Get on with your work”.

“Yes sir,” she said sarcastically. Doley thought about replying, but instead he got on with his crossword.

Meanwhile, Chantelle tore out a page of her own exercise book and concocted a suicide note as though written by Brett:

Sorry…but I cannot take any more trauma about my best mates getting lost out in the field. I felt like I was lost myself with them. It should have been me as well. I feel so guilty about it, and can’t stand how it’s making me feel. I don’t think I will ever be able to get over it. I should have been with them.

Goodbye everyone.

Brett.