Page 15 of The Cut
‘Shot!’ Catherine wipes her fingers on her gym shorts and hugs her legs into her chest to keep warm.
‘We should get back, although I’m not sure I can run on a full tummy.’ Mark lunges into a gangly leg stretch.
‘I thought you had a sick note?’ Catherine stands, nudging her head into him and knocking him off balance.62
‘I did, but Branchflower recognised my handwriting. He hates me.’ A grin spreads across Mark’s face as he spots the exhausted group staggering around the corner of Chapel Street. ‘Come on, let’s tag on the end, he’ll never know.’
‘You still up for orchestra practice later?’ Catherine jogs ahead, calling over her shoulder as they approach the school gates.
‘Always.’ Mark feigns his limp as the silhouette of Mr Branchflower miraculously appears in the science lab window, just in time.
The last days of the late balmy summer have given way to the grey gloom of October downpours. But the occasional bright autumn morning with crystal-blue skies and plunging temperatures promises the coming of Halloween, Bonfire Night and then Christmas. The darkest months of the year are illuminated with many beacons of light. The playing field would be cleared of leaves for the village bonfire and kids would stuff clothes with newspaper and wheel ‘Guy Fawkes’ around the village in a shopping trolley, begging a penny before chucking him on top of the blaze.
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
They’d burn their lips on baked potatoes in foil and drink hot flasks of oxtail soup to ward off the chill. When that was over, all that remained was the final sprint towards Mark’s favourite holiday of all: Christmas.
The hood of Mark’s petrol-blue parka is now hooked over his head, trailing behind, billowing in the wind as he and Catherine head home along the motorway path towards Blackstone Mill.
‘Too lazy to change out of your gym gear again?’ A freshly showered Cat is polo-necked under her school blazer, long woolly socks slowly drifting down to her ankles.63
‘Yeah.’ Mark buries his head into the fake fur of his snorkel hood. He doesn’t ever admit the boys’ changing room is a ‘no-go’ for him. The taunts and the jeers, the ‘don’t bend down when Cherry’s around’ little sing-along that always happens at the end of PE, are becoming too much to bear. His radar for danger has grown acute; he can sense it.
Boys in blazers leaning against a fence? Turn around and walk the other way.
The footsteps in the alley behind him? Just run.
Check over the door before you walk into a room. Check your pencil case. Check your bag. Check everything for dog shit, chewing gum and all the other hilarious ‘booby traps’ that were always being set for him.
Oh, how they laughed.
A deep cavern of resentment was building inside of Mark and he vowed that one day they’d be laughing on the other side of their faces. All of them.
‘I just didn’t want to be late for practice.’ Mark clutches the cello slung over his back and smiles at Catherine.
There is a sadness in her eyes as she smiles back. ‘Well, you stink. You can shower at mine, if you want.’ She knows the truth.
The lights from the motorway cast a sickly yellow hue over the line of leafless skeleton trees at the end of the footpath that turns into Cheney End. As they round the corner into the lane, Mark’s feet halt before his eyes can even focus.
A group of eerie figures silhouetted against the tree line: Dave Patel, Chris and Lynette Davis, Benjamin Knot and Annabel Maddock. The Gang of Five, the usual suspects. Standing in a line, they block the exit and seem to grow taller in the streetlights. It’s too late to turn and run.64
‘All right, you two lovebirds? Gonna play us something?’ Ben leers at them both.
‘Oh, leave them alone, Ben!’ Annie Maddock is leaning in, his arm clasped around her waist. ‘Hey, Cat, you walking home?’ She makes a move towards her sister, but Ben pulls her sharply back and holds her tight.
He presses his lips to her cheek. ‘Oh, leave them alone, Annie,’ he parrots, tickling her ribs.
‘Yeah, come on, Marcello, giz a tune.’ Chris shoulder-barges Mark as the two younger kids attempt to sidle past. Mark stumbles against the larch lap fence, refusing to respond. Keeping their heads down, Mark and Cat continue towards the end of the lane and down an incline to the car park, unfortunately named Doggers Dive.
‘Where do you think you’re going, mardy?’ Lynette’s jarring voice taunts them. ‘Oi, queer! Are you deaf or what?’
Mark suddenly stops in his tracks. A furnace of rage rises within him. Just one more time. Just one more. He closes his eyes and exhales, trying to calm himself. They want him to break, they want a reason to hurt him, but he won’t give it to them. Not tonight.
Mark turns and smiles at Lynette’s angry red face. It’s not a pretty sight. Chris, chewing and bouncing nervously on his heels in an attempt to seem taller, spit forming on his lip, is even uglier. Dave hangs back, passive as ever, behind Ben and Annie. Very slowly and deliberately, Mark unhooks the strap of his cello and begins to unzip the case, glancing at Catherine. She looks stunned for a second.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispers to him, but as she realises his game, a smile spreads across her face.
