“They hit you or threatened you until you shoplifted a CD for them. Then they told you that unless you handed over your pocket money to them, they’d tell on you. What did they do, film you doing it?”
Paul nodded.
“Just say no,” said the boy. “Don’t do it.”
“They’ll kill me. And they said…”
“Tell them that you think the police and school authorities could be a lot more interested in a couple of kids who are getting younger kids to steal for them and then forcing them to hand over their pocket money than they ever would be in one kid forced to steal a CD against his will. That if they touch you again, you’ll make the call to the police. And that you’ve written it all up, and if anything happens to you, anything at all, if you get a black eye or anything, your friends will automatically send it to the school authorities and the police.”
Paul said, “But. I can’t.”
“Then you’ll pay them your pocket money for the rest of your time in this school. And you’ll stay scared of them.”
Paul thought. “Why don’t I just tell the police anyway?” he asked.
“Can if you like.”
“I’ll try it your way first,” Paul said. He smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was a smile, right enough, his first in three weeks.
So Paul Singh explained to Nick Farthing just how and why he wouldn’t be paying him any longer, and walked away while Nick Farthing just stood and didn’t say anything, clenching and unclenching his fists. And the next day another five eleven-year-olds found Nick Farthing in the playground, and told him they wanted their money back, all the pocket money they’d handed over in the previous month, or they’d be going to the police, and now Nick Farthing was an extremely unhappy young man.
Mo said, “It was him. He started it. If it wasn’t for him…they’d never have thought of it on their own. He’s the one we have to teach a lesson. Then they’ll all behave.”
“Who?” said Nick.
“The one who’s always reading. The one from the library. Bob Owens. Him.”
Nick nodded slowly. Then he said, “Which one is he?”
“I’ll point him out to you,” said Mo.
Bod was used to being ignored, to existing in the shadows. When glances naturally slip from you, you become very aware of eyes upon you, of glances in your direction, of attention. And if you barely exist in people’s minds as another living person then being pointed to, being followed around…these things draw attention to themselves.
They followed him out of the school and up the road, past the corner newsagent, and across the railway bridge. He took his time, making certain that the two who were following him, a burly boy and a fair, sharp-faced girl, did not lose him, then he walked into the tiny churchyard at the end of the road, a miniature graveyard behind the local church and he waited beside the tomb of Roderick Persson and his wife Amabella, and also his second wife, Portunia, (They Sleep to Wake Again).
“You’re that kid,” said a girl’s voice. “Bob Owens. Well, you’re in really big trouble, Bob Owens.”
“It’s Bod, actually,” said Bod, and he looked at them. “With a D. And you’re Jekyll and Hyde.”
“It was you,” said the girl. “You got to the seventh formers.”
“So we’re going to teach you a lesson,” said Nick Farthing, and he smiled without humor.
“I quite like lessons,” said Bod. “If you paid more attention to yours, you wouldn’t have to blackmail younger kids for pocket money.”
Nick’s brow crinkled. Then he said, “You’re dead, Owens.”
Bod shook his head, and he gestured around him. “I’m not actually,” he said. “They are.”
“Who are?” said Mo.
“The people in this place,” said Bod. “Look. I brought you here to give you a choice—”
“You didn’t bring us here,” said Nick.
“You’re here,” said Bod. “I wanted you here. I came here. You followed me. Same thing.”
Mo looked around nervously. “You’ve got friends here?” she asked.