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

Boyd

He was not unique in many ways. Not the tallest of schoolboys, but ‘stocky’, a little ‘heavyweight,’ if he was ever to go into boxing, but by the same token, could easily let himself go and become over-weight.

Perhaps it was a sixth sense, but on the way home that evening Boyd found himself behind three other schoolboys who clearly knew each other as they seemed to be quite conspiratorial, whispering and looking round, heading towards the side of a row of shops behind some over-flowing green wheelie-bins.

Those little fuckers are going for a smoke, he thought, and he was right.

He caught one of them putting a cigarette in his mouth and they looked at him, caught in the act. The boy, tall and thin, eyed him with suspicion, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, a lighter in one hand.

Boyd held out his hand.

“I’ll have one of them thank-you”.

“No, these are ours,” said one of the other boys.

“Just give me a ciggie. You don’t want me to tell the teachers or your parents do you?” They all looked at each other, wide-eyed, seeking answers which never came. The boy with the cigarette reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet with several still inside.

“Someone’s been in daddy’s pockets,” said Boyd. He was handed a cigarette, then the lighter. The boys watched as he expertly lit up then took a long drag and blew out smoke.

“Fuck, I needed that, thanks lads,” he said, throwing the lighter back, walking away, savouring it as he walked the two miles back to his semi-detached house.

27

His mother and father always insisted that he eat at the table with them, and talk about what he’d learned that day, but since he had been traumatised by being lost out in the countryside, they had allowed him some leeway to ‘recover’.

His parents were quite staid and neat, obsessed with cleanliness and manners, and Boyd knew he had to try and behave around them. His father didn’t seem all that strict, but the type you didn’t want to upset as there could be some underlying tension that may result in something he did not want to see.

Perhaps that would not result in being struck across the face, but maybe locked in his room, or denied food. The threat of ‘something’ was there beneath the surface if he misbehaved, but Boyd was only working out his place in the home, and found, like the others, that being a child was hard.

“So, we have some good news, don’t we Barb?” his father said with the face of somebody with a secret, impossible to keep. “I’ll let your mother tell you,”

“Shall I tell him?” she asked.

“Go on,” his father Neale said, slightly red-faced.

“We’ve secured the deposit for the new house in Australia. It just needs a patio fitting, and in about three months we’ll be able to leave”.

“What? A holiday,” said Boyd, tucking into his mushy peas. His parents glanced at each other, unsure if he was serious.

“No, we’re moving, remember?” said his father, “starting a new life. That house we wanted in Adelaide has been secured. It ours. We’re moving home”. Boyd just stared at them for a few moments.

“You were looking forward to it remember? The weather, the animals. The education over there,” said Barbara, his mother.

“For a moment there. I thought you said we were emigrating to Australia,”

Boyd said.

“We…we are”.

“Well good-luck with that. I’ll have this house to myself”.

“Boyd,” Neale said. “We’re all leaving in a few months”.

“No, you’re leaving. I’m staying right here thank-you very much”.

“We’re all going,” his mother said. “We’ve been planning this for a long time”

Boyd shrugged and continued eating.

28

“Stay in touch won’t you”.

“Boyd!” Neale said.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Boyd said, a slight split-second smile on his face, unnoticed.

“Look, I’m staying here, I’ve got all my friends in school. I’m settled here. I’m fine. You go to Australia if you want. I’m staying put”.

“Now, Boyd…” Neale said, pointing an authoritative finger at him, but then stopped.

“Have you..? I can smell…is that smoke?” Boyd sighed, his shoulders slumped.

Neale leaned forward. “Breathe out,” and Boyd knew he wasn’t getting away with this one, so he breathed out.

“You been smoking!” his father shouted.

“Yes,” said Boyd. His mother screamed and stood up, backing away as though she had found a live insect in her food.

“Smoking?” she shouted. “Smoking! That’s a vile vile vile habit. Horrible”. His father also stood up.

“Boyd that’s unlike you,” he said, half angry half confused. Boyd stood up also, annoyed.

“Look, I had a cigarette okay, and I’m not moving to fucking Australia”.

“Boyd!” his mother shouted, “language. What is wrong with you?”

“Oh fuck this,” he said and walked out into the hallway with the express intention of walking out, but when he was confronted with the closed door, and window sills rattling with rain and darkness falling, he realised walking the streets would do him no good whatsoever. It would be better for him to stay, face the music, and be a child. He looked at himself in the hallway mirror and shook his head.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, then turned and slowly walked back.

With a pained expression on his face, and tears trying to escape his eyes he held out his hands to his mother in a ‘hug me’ gesture.

“I’m sorry mummy. I was confused. I got lost in the fields. I can’t remember what happened what I’m doing”.

“Oh my…” Barbara said, and the family hugged, and tears flowed.

29

“You were really traumatised by getting lost out in those fields, weren’t you?

More than I thought”.

So Boyd was taken into the front room and sat down as though he was in a dentist having had his first tooth out and was still feeling the after-effects of the anaesthetic.

“Sit here love,” she said, and Boyd did his best to feel traumatised.

“I’ll have a word at school with the counsellor or the psychiatrist,” said his father. “He’s clearly not well”.

“I’m fine,” said Boyd, “I’ll be alright”.

“Obviously not,” said his mother, “and smoking and swearing. That’s very unlike you”.

“Is it?” he muttered, “fuck”.

He was then subjected to a half hour lecture by his parents about the dangers of smoking and why you shouldn’t swear, and about what they were going to do at the school and if they couldn’t heal him then they would seek out other professional help. They would move mountains to get him to be their good little boy again, and if that field-trip supervisor isn’t brought to justice then they would hire a lawyer and take him to court and get him sent down and throw away the key. He will pay for what he put our little boy through. We’ll take this to the highest court in the land if we have to. We can’t have our little boy smoking and swearing. He’ll end up rough like the other boys at his school and if he doesn’t end up going to Australia and getting a good education and a good well-paid job then we’ll sue the school and we’ll take this to parliament. I’ll write to the government. They won’t get away with this.

When they had exhausted themselves out, Boyd simply said:

“Okay, I’m going to bed”. Then he stood up, and made his way upstairs, closed his bedroom door behind him. He fell back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his ears still ringing from the lecture.

“Alright,” he muttered, “I’ll be a good boy”. He smiled slightly, and went to sleep.

30

In the school playground the following mornings break, the temperature had dropped and a lot of cold children either stood complaining about how bitter it was, or were running around oblivious. In one corner Boyd stood with Ian.

“There’s no chance I told them. I’m not going to Australia”.

“No, you can’t go there. We need to stick together, so you’ll have to fight tooth and nail. Well they can’t force you can they?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll throw a tantrum,” they both laughed slightly and then heard raised voices coming from the middle of the playground. A tall blonde boy had grabbed another pupil in a headlock and was trying to wrestle him down. The victim was trying desperately to push him off as the tall boy seemed to dominate. He was clearly loving it.

“Ah, looks like we have the school bully”. Then when the rest of the playground twigged that a fight had started, they all forgot what they were doing, and that they were cold, and swarmed around, jeering and shouting, egging them on. The poor teachers on duty had no doubt experienced this many times, and did their best to wade through the excited children trying to see the fight.

The fight however, was very one sided. The victim tried to fight back by taking a few swings, and when he was pushed to the floor tried to kick and lash out, but the other boy was too strong, and pinned him down, gave him a few punches, and the victim just capitulated. Tried to get in a foetus position whilst receiving blows. When he had clearly ‘won’, the bully stood up and cheered, smiling around at everybody. The teachers had not got to them in time, and the children dispersed, leaving the victim still on the floor, ignored.

The bell sounded the end of break as Ian and Boyd walked by the boy who was slowly getting to his feet. He’d probably been in that position before. A born victim. A punch-bag. A doormat. A kid who always took it but never gave back, not even insults.

“See him,” said Ian, “he’ll grow up one day to be a doctor, or some brainy science geek, and bully boy in there will end up in prison”.

“So a genius and a prisoner. That sums us up,” Boyd said smiling.

En-route to their respective classes they were about to part ways in the main school corridor, when down wide stairs came Brett, who saw them and slowed down.

31

“Hello again,” Ian said, “I remember you, but because of my trauma, I can’t remember your name”.

“Nor me,” said Boyd.

“I’m…Brett, you know me”.

“Yes, I remember you being chased by some old guy”. Brett’s eyes widened.

“You remember?” he said loudly, “you remember?”.

“Keep your voice down. Yes kid. I remember alright, chasing you with a knife.

You’re quite safe now, unless you annoy us. Thing is. No-one believes a dumb little lying boy do they? They believe the ones who actually went through the trauma, and that’ll be us. See ya round”. Ian walked away. Boyd simply grinned, and went along to his class.

Boyd settled in his chair in the classroom and smiled across at Dorothy, who grinned back, history a traditionally boring subject, and it was down to the teacher to pique the children’s interest. However, Mr Brookhouse was a boring tutor who genuinely loved the subject but couldn’t portray that to the children.

Once the class had settled down after five minutes, he finally took his que.

“Okay class, today we’re going to look at the origins of the police and law system”.

Boyd couldn’t help himself. “Really sir, ah yes, I remember it well. I was there”.

“Really Boyd? you were there in the 18th century were you?”

“Sir,” piped up Dorothy, “so was I”.

“You were there too?” said Boyd to Dorothy with loaded sarcasm.

“Why yes I was, when the metropolitan police act was brought in and later along with the Irish constabulary, giving rise to national policing and the good old British bobby”.

“The bobbies who never did us any favours did they? especially when they were snooping around where they weren’t wanted. Nearly catching us with that homeless guy we were taking across a bridge to the basement of the abandoned pub”.

32

“I know, I know yes. He was an idiot. I fed him some line about losing my way to the church, and wouldn’t you know it he offered to take me. So I had to walk a mile with him as he chatted nonsense while I made a show of thanking him and walking to church where I headed back to you didn’t I Boyd? where you had taken the guy into the wine-cellar, and started without me. You’d cut off his hands and feet”. The whole class was looking at them, the teacher with a confused frown.

“I had yes, that experiment we were doing to see how much can a person lose and still be alive”.

“Yes, that’s it. Then we cut off his legs, then his arms so he was a just a big stump with a screaming head”.

“I know. We had that saw didn’t we? and it took a few of us to saw through his stomach, so he was just half a body and a head”.

“Noisy fucker though wasn’t he?” said Dorothy. The teacher was still too confused to object.

“So we started taking out his ribs”.

“Yes, but then as we got closer to the heart, he stopped screaming then didn’t he? He was still alive though. You only need a pumping heart and a brain to receive the oxygen and you can still be alive”.

“Then he died of shock didn’t he?” Dorothy said.

“He did, yes, and that concluded that experiment”. One of the children burst into tears.

“Look what you’ve done to little Billy with your tall tales,” said the tutor,

“honestly what nasty films have you been watching? I hope you haven’t been watching things you shouldn’t”.

“No sir,” Dorothy said, “we go from memory, and experience”.

“Experience? Right okay. Honestly Dorothy you’ve changed since your trauma, and not for the better I might add. Okay class, turn to page 62, and come on Billy, stop crying”.