The Other Killer

It didn’t take me long to realise that secondary school wasn’t for me. My little sister Lily had been dead two years and her dad, Breck, mum’s ex, had gone back to Ireland. It had been a better two years at home than the six before when Breck was living with us. He was a prize arsehole—angry, drunk, and he hit me. Hated me being around Lily. Now they’re both gone life is easier, kind of.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I thunder down the stairs making sure mum can hear me. She shuts herself away in her office most of the time, working, and we don’t talk a lot, not since Lily. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened, and she doesn’t want me having any counselling, I guess because she is worried I’ll slip up and tell them what really happened. Wasn’t her fault, not exactly. Lily wouldn’t come down from the tree, and mum tried to grab her to stop her climbing higher. She was only five, and I was supposed to have been looking after her. I wasn’t going up that tree, no way. Maybe burying her in that log pile then lying to the police wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Mum’s been funny with me ever since.

“Bye, Mum.”

She doesn’t respond, so I jump off the last step and open the door to her little office at the front of the house. She doesn’t move from her desk, clicking away on the keyboard.

“I’m going to school.”

She turns on her swivel chair. “OK, Mason. Have a good day.”

“Yeah.” I force a smile.

I like being in the house, safe and comfortable, mum leaving me alone most of the time to play my games and watch stupid clips on YouTube. She makes me dinner most nights, and sometimes we watch a movie together. She runs a lot, does yoga. Not sure if she’s got any friends, no one ever comes over. She had a boyfriend last year, but he was awful—weedy and quiet and always sucked his teeth when he looked at me.

Outside feels unsettling, like there’s a monster about to pounce or a cyclone about to suck me into it. Might have something to do with Hendrix and his meathead mates who hang around on the corner waiting for me. I try to leave late to avoid them. It’s raining today, so I pull up the hood on my camo puffer coat and fix the popper so it doesn’t blow off. I take a breath and gear myself up for the fifteen-minute hell walk to the building of doom. Here I go!

I walk down the path, open the gate, close it behind me, and look along the road. It’s clear. The rain is getting worse, and I can already feel water dripping down my nose. I get to the corner and turn left to walk to the main road and there it is. A torrent of water shoots up into my face, up my nose, in my mouth, and soaks my trousers. While I splutter and wipe the filthy water from my eyes, I hear the laughter and the triumph from Hendrix and his cronies.

“Brilliant.”

“Worked like a dream.”

“My shoes are wet now.”

“Not as wet as the siblicidal dweeb.”

One of them has obviously looked up the word siblicide and decided this will be my title for the duration of secondary school. It’s caught on in class. I haven’t told mum, ‘cause she’ll go straight into school and complain and make my life even worse.

The terror-squad run off, laughing and jeering, high-fiving each other for their genius plan to jump off the wall into a puddle just as I round the bend. They are almost as wet as me, so not all that genius. Twats.

Trudging the rest of the way, it doesn’t matter much about the rain anymore as I am already soaked. My shoes squelch, and my trousers stick to my legs. Most of the class laughs when I walk in, so I take off my coat and shake it as hard as I can right beside the four kids closest to the door, before going back outside and stuffing it in my locker.

Mrs Vintner follows me back into the classroom. “Did you really think puddle jumping was a sensible choice before school, Mason? You’re going to spend the whole day wet and cold now.”

Hendrix laughs loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Did mummy hold your hand and jump with you?”

“Unnecessary, Hendrix. Pipe down.”

“Sorry, Miss.”

He isn’t.

I am only a term and a half in, but already I hate school and I know I can’t face another four and a half years. Not with Hendrix. I did well in primary school, got OK grades and loved art and DT, but something has changed, and now it’s all going wrong. I blame Hendrix, mostly, and the teachers—who don’t seem to care what’s happening to me—and I also blame mum and Lily, because that whole thing is just eating away at everything, like a shadow constantly looming over me, sapping away anything good. Sleep, art, friends, schoolwork, me, and mum. Like a happiness leech.

At lunch I get a sandwich from the counter, after spending most of the break standing in line being pushed back by older kids or Hendrix or his mates. They come back several times and even queue in front of me until they are about to get served and then just leave and laugh. I find a quiet place at the edge of the field, a kind of gap in the bushes, where I can sit and eat in peace. No one notices me. I hear Hendrix, loudly ragging out another kid, or kicking a ball around, probably at other kids. I just don’t get why those other boys hang around with him, what’s in it for them? Pussies. Can’t think for themselves. Shitting their pants more than I am, I reckon. Hendrix’ll get his one day, that’s how karma works.

When that final bell goes at the end of the day, my lungs fill, and I can breathe again. I take big gulps of air as I pull on my coat and hoist my backpack over my shoulders. The torture-squad can do their worst at this point, I’m outta here.

I take a detour to the park, it’s a bit old and rusted, but it’s quiet, and I like sitting on the swing. When I arrived home on time at the beginning of the year, mum worried that I wasn’t making friends and kept wanting to talk about it, so now I go home later, chill in the park, tell her I’ve been hanging out with mates. I make up the names, tell her we go to the river and paddle, or play in the park, or get sweets at the shop, and she buys it, happy that I’m getting on OK, keeping my head under the radar, not causing her any trouble.

There isn’t usually anyone in the park, occasionally a mum and her kid, but there’s a better park near the primary school, newer. Today, there’s a man sitting on the bench under the big oak tree. He’s not very big, sandy coloured hair, and he’s got a huge, puffy scar all the way across one eye. Pretty cool. He looks up and smiles at me. I nod, once.

Dropping my bag on the ground, I start swinging. I like the feel of the wind on my face, and I don’t even notice the rain now. The clouds are thick and dark, and I bet there’s gonna be a storm tonight. I can feel it, heavy and brooding. I love lightning, might even try and draw it, if I see it tonight. Holding the chains, dropping my head back, I let the rain hit my face as I swing higher and higher. I imagine Hendrix coming up to me while I’m swinging and kicking my legs out just as I whizz forwards, catching him under the chin and sending him flying backwards across the park, giving him rubber burns all up his back and arms.

Something stops the swing with a jolt, and I wrench my head up.

“You OK there? Pretty wet to be out here. You’ll catch your death.”

I stare at the man with the scar.

“How’d you get that scar?”

“Glassed. Other guy came off worse.”

I swallow. “Oh.”

“Need a coke?” He hands me a can.

I look at it. I shouldn’t accept things from strangers.

“It’s a can. It’s sealed. If I wanted to drug you, I’d have given you sweets or used that chloroform stuff on a rag. Besides, what am I going to do in the rain, carry your body all the way across the park, out in the open? Not exactly covert.”

Lifting the catch, I open the can and slurp the coke. Mum doesn’t let me have fizzy drinks in the week. It tastes so good—sweet and bubbly and delicious.

“Thanks.”

“Guess you must be having a bad day, too, if you’re out here, in the rain, on your own.”

“I guess. Every day is a bad day, except the weekend, although they aren’t great, either.”

“Mum and dad at home?”

“Mum.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“Nah. Have you got any?” Figure I should ask some questions, as well, so he doesn’t just know stuff about me.

“A brother. We work together. I just got some news I wasn’t expecting. Could be OK, maybe not. Bit of a shock.”

“What was it, the news?”

“That’s for another time. I gotta get going, it’s far too wet out here for me. Just wanted to check you were alright. See you around.”

“Thanks for the coke.”

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Mason.”

He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mason. I’m Gunner.”

“Cool name.”

He smiles and leaves. I walk home drinking my coke. Gunner. It feels good, someone asking if I’m alright, noticing me, giving me something.

“Good day?” Mum calls out from the office after I shut the front door.

“Best day in ages.”

I dump my bag and my shoes and go upstairs to watch the thunderstorm from my bedroom window.