SLIPKNOT

If only he could reach the gate. He’d tried to slip across the schoolyard, running across the quadrangle, shoulders low, head down, staring at the ground as though this would render him invisible, zigzagging like a pursued hare but one of them had spotted him and alerted the others. Then they had all come streaming towards him, jeering and shouting, dropping their schoolbags to join in the chase. Five of them. While others watched, doing nothing. He put an extra spurt in, tried to outrun them but it was hopeless. His chest was tight and he couldn’t breathe. Then he knew he would be beaten. Again. They easily outflanked him. Screaming as they ran like Zulus or Indians or the dreaded Hun. Three on one side, two on the other and he knew they would bring him down, kick him on the floor, lay into him. As they’d done before and before that and for as long as he’d been at this damned school.

 His chest tightened and he panted, pursued and terrified. Then a soft calm stole over him. He wasn’t a victim or a hunted animal but a human being who could fight back. Afterwards he might think that he hadn’t wanted it to happen, that he hadn’t wanted any of it to happen but he could never be quite sure that that was the truth. Ahead of him, tantalisingly, stood the half open gate. The promise of escape. A glimmer of hope, waiting for him. If he could only reach it, pass through to the other side, to the world outside the school, he would be safe.

Until the next time.

But they were gaining on him. He heard his own breath catching in hoarse, rasping pants, their jeers ringing in his ears, blocking out any other sound now apart from his own heart, pounding.

They were almost upon him.

Just as he reached his hand out, almost touched the gate someone gripped his shoulder and yanked him back. He tried to shake it off and keep running but he knew it was useless. It was all useless. He was beaten.

Two hands were on him now, one on each shoulder, spinning him round and he stared into the hated face.

“Hey, Wilf. How’re you doing?”
They always started like this, with a false friendship only meant to mock.
“All right,” he cast back. “I’m all right.”
It was the wrong answer. The wrong answer because there was no right answer.
They were all wrong.

But he stopped running now, mumbling instead into the ground. “Leave me alone, will you?”

Another of them had reached him now, Will Morris, who pushed his fist into his chest. “And why would we want to do that? You’re our sport, Wilf.”
Even the name was meant to mock.

Then, quite suddenly, almost without him being aware of it, the worm turned. His fright melted, sizzling, like ice in a fire. Red mist swirled in front of his eyes and he knew he had finally had enough. He swung his rucksack down from his back, fumbled in it, found the knife. Then, brandishing it in his hand, for once feeling powerful, he turned around and faced them, holding it, like Bernado in West Side Story, jabbing.

Without fear.
He gave them fair warning. “Because it’d be better for you.”
But they still jeered, unimpressed by his fight-back.

“D’you hear that? Wilf’s threatening me. Well. What about that then? Oh I’m frightened,” DreadNought mocked. “I am so-o frightened. My heart is going boom bo de boom and my knees are knocking together. I am like jelly.” He did a mock shivery shake and his gang all laughed.
Callum searched the ring of faces, was vaguely aware in the background of open mouths, held breath.
He felt powerful. He could do this. He had practised.

He lunged.

DreadNought moved back. “Get lost, you psycho.”
His face was filled with derision.
Callum knew then that DreadNought never would take any notice.

So he lunged again.