James Munkers (6 page)

He can say that again.

He sits on the edge of a sink, slips off it, then opts for standing while he waits for me to respond. I don't know what to say. He's being very nice and all, but I'm not about to give him my life's history. Not a recent history, anyway. I don't think a clumsy headmaster is up to solving my problems.

‘It just all happened kind of fast,' I say eventually. ‘I guess I'm still working it out.'

‘Well,' he says, moving to the door and opening it for me, ‘don't feel you have to work it out alone. Remember, there are people looking out for you.'

I know there are people looking out for me. One of them is called Martin Hacker. The other one's called the Rambler.

I go back out into the endless corridors to try to find my French class. I manage to avoid detention by explaining in French to Madame Rousseau that I had to talk to the headmaster (almost true), and lower myself carefully into the seat next to Jem. He gives me a funny look. He obviously realises that something painful has happened.

‘Rambler?' he whispers in awestruck horror.

I shake my head. ‘Just some dickhead. He's in the year above us, I think.'

‘Jeez,' he says, ‘I take a break from protecting you for an hour and you get your arse kicked.' His eyes go wide. ‘Pippa Green is going to kill me with her laser eyes.'

Somehow I don't think this was what Pippa Green was talking about. This was a petty schoolyard fight – one that I lost and spilled blood over, but petty nonetheless. I accidentally pissed this guy off, and he's taking it out on me. It's nothing that hasn't happened before. And it has nothing to do with protectors or crazy girls or men with leather jackets launching themselves through my windows.

I've got bigger enemies than Martin Hacker. And I don't think they're done coming after me.

It happens on Thursday. I knew they were evil, but I didn't think they'd come at me like this, so cold-blooded, so ruthless.

‘Compulsory extra-curricular sport?' I ask, aghast.

‘That's right, Munkers,' says Mr Barrack. ‘Every student must participate in some team sport outside ordinary physical education classes. Helps to promote team spirit, co-ordination and getting beaten to a pulp. Very useful life skills right there.'

I happen to know that being beaten to a pulp is something that you can pick up without any prior training, and who the hell wants co-ordination? I'm capable of doing things like eating and walking; surely that's enough co-ordination for anyone.

‘It's either football tonight with me or rugby tomorrow with Mr Hooper, Munkers,' Mr Barrack says, obviously tired of waiting for my sullen silence to end of its own accord. ‘Take your pick.'

Munkers picks football, on the understanding that the ball will be more likely to be flying at his ankles, and not at his face.

Or so I thought. I think I just broke my nose, and I keep seeing black and white polygons hovering before my eyes.

‘That's the idea, boy,' Mr Barrack is saying from far away, almost a yard. ‘Kill the ball's energy with your head or chest, then pass it on to your teammate, over there, see?'

‘Id wath by fathe,' I try to explain.

‘What's that?'

‘I kild id with by fathe.'

‘Oh.' He peers into my face. ‘You're not bleeding, you're fine. You might not want to do that again though. Try to get it on the top of the forehead or chest next time it's coming at you.'

Yeah, like that's going to happen. The next time something comes hurtling at my face, I'm going to duck. This sport defies reason.

‘Okay, pass it to Warren.'

Warren. Where is Warren? Oh, that must be him, standing over there looking bored and waving at me. Here you go, Warren, have a nice rock-hard ball to play with. I kick half-heartedly at it and it dribbles vaguely in his direction.

I cross my arms, trying to will some of the sudden warmth of my nose into the rest of my freezing body. Hopefully I can stand here for a whole two minutes without the ball coming near me again. The other guys in the team are certainly trying to keep it away from me, since I accidentally booted it into Jerry Tomlin's ear.

I thought this kind of activity was supposed to help you
make
friends?

I look longingly over to the other side of the field where my only friend is. Jeremy's in the upper division for strong, graceful people. Look at them all, slinking about in front of the goal like panthers. I don't see how they can be so much better than me. It's not like they've got extra legs or anything…

Whoops. Ball in the shin.

‘Wake up, lad,' Mr Barrack calls. ‘Okay, everyone, grab a ball each. I want you weaving in and out of these markers. Fast as you can, but keep control of the ball. No, Campbell, that's
not
what the markers are intended for. Put them back.'

Weaving, huh? I pick the set of markers at the end and start nudging my ball around the first marker with my foot. Not too hard.

‘Pick up the pace, lads.'

I assume that comment is meant for me as all the others are a good few yards ahead. I shuffle faster and have just made it to the middle without disaster when a giant blue cat pounces on my ball and I trip over its tail. By the time I've pulled my face out of the mud it's taken my ball to the sideline to snarl at it.

I knew there were panthers out here.

‘What're you doing, Munkers?' Mr Barrack calls. ‘On your feet and go get your ball back. That's the ticket.'

Get it back from the vicious jungle cat? Can't someone else do it? I stand up and edge towards the glowing creature, and watch the muscles rippling down its back as it opens its jaws and tries to puncture the football with its teeth.

‘Um, excuse me?'

The panther looks up and assesses me. It licks its lips.

‘Can I have my ball back, please?'

I know having a polite conversation with this thing probably won't work, but I can't think of anything else to do. I'm certainly not going to get any closer. The panther looks from me to the ball between its paws, then over to the other players. At last it nudges the ball with its nose, making it roll towards me. Success!

‘Thanks,' I say and dribble the ball back towards the markers. I don't like turning my back on the panther though, so I check over my shoulder to make sure it isn't following me.

It's following me. Only a couple of steps behind. I quicken my pace and try to meld in with the other players.

The panther ends up settling itself down next to the goal to watch the rest of the training. It watches me as I slip over in the mud, get a couple more footballs in the head, and miss shots at the goal entirely. It watches one of my attempts fly out into the car park, a confused expression on its face. Then it looks back at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to ask for its help.

‘Alright, everyone. Bring 'em in.'

Finally.

‘Well, that wasn't too bad, tonight,' says Mr Barrack encouragingly. ‘Try to get as much practice in as you can over the weekend, so we can move on to new stuff on Monday. Gibson, remember to keep your head up and notice what's happening around you; you lost the ball several times by not paying attention that way. Hays, work on your dribbling some more. Control is key. Munkers…'

He pauses, probably wondering what he can tell me to work on that's more specific than “everything”.

He sighs. ‘Just try to make friends with the ball, okay, son? You act like it's a weapon being thrown at you. You want to come out and meet it, not run away from it.'

Could have fooled me.

Everyone else starts to scatter away into the evening, taking balls and markers and jumpers with them, with the exception of the panther. Jem has come over from the other side of the field and is flipping the ball up into the air with his feet and bouncing it on his knee.

‘Nice try,' I say as he misses the fifteenth.

‘Nice nose,' he says.

‘Shut up.'

He grins. ‘Come on. You help me with maths and I help you with football. Stand over there.'

We work on passes first, and he teaches me to stop the ball with my foot rather than jumping over it as it comes towards me and slipping in the mud. ‘Hey, that's like what the others do,' I say, impressed with my efforts.

‘Well, now, you don't want to go around doing something just because that's how other people do it.'

‘How about doing it because it looks cooler?' I ask.

‘Yeah, that's a noble reason for doing something.'

Suddenly the field lights flicker off, and we're plunged into darkness. The only light now is from a few street lamps over by the road. The sound of Mr Barrack locking the equipment away floats over from the gym. A car door slams. Then there's silence.

The panther blinks at me through the gloom.

‘Um, Jem?'

‘What?'

I haven't told him about the blue creatures. He seems to like it that crazy things happen around me, but I don't want to scare him off.

‘Can you see anything over there? Just to the left of the goal?'

He peers about. Under his watch the panther yawns, gets to its feet and pads right past him to sit on the field next to me. I wonder whether I should be backing away, but instead I slowly stretch out my hand towards it. The blue light pulses through my fingers as they inch closer to its head, and a buzzing sound fills my ears…

‘Bring those balls back tomorrow, will you, lads?' Mr Barrack yells from the other side of the field. I snatch my hand back to my side. The buzzing stops.

‘Okay,' Jem calls, and turns back to me. ‘What am I looking for again?'

‘Nothing. Doesn't matter.'

He shrugs and takes a shot at the goal. It soars straight in and he goes flying around the field, yelling with victory.

‘Very nice,' I say, ‘but it would be even more impressive if there was, like, a goalkeeper or some other obstacle.'

He hoots at me, takes a run-up at my abandoned football and lobs it towards my head. I duck but it clips me on the shoulder as it passes.

The panther snarls.

‘Er, Jem?' I say, looking nervously at the creature beside me. Visions of claw-marked corpses fill my head. ‘I wouldn't do that if I were you.'

He laughs and starts zooming about the place in his triumph, grinning at me. Then he stops, turns and runs straight at me.

Only he's not smiling anymore.

‘JIM!' he yells, staring wildly away to my left.

I turn. A dagger is flying through the air towards my head, glinting in the lamp light.

It's a few feet away from me. Jem is ten yards. He's not going to make it. It's nice that he's trying, but he can't save me this time. The knife is going to bury itself in my forehead, and he's going to be running at a corpse lying on a football field in the middle of nowhere.

I'm about to die.

As the dagger slices through the cold air before me, something warm brushes my fingertips.

Suddenly there's an explosion right in front of me. I catch a glimpse of the dagger flinging away before I'm blown off my feet in the opposite direction. For a moment I have a magnificent view of the night sky, waves of blue light ripping across it like lightning, before I smash into the ground five yards away from where I was.

The air is knocked out of my lungs so fast that my vision goes blotchy. I try to move but all the energy has been drained from my body. It takes a few seconds before I can pull myself up into a sitting position, gasping, to look at the scene in front of me.

He's back. The Rambler's back. He has someone down on his knees in front of him, and jerks his own knee up into the guy's face with a resounding crack. His victim slumps to the ground, nose broken. For one horrible second I think it's Jeremy, but then I see Jem further away near the goal, yelling and cursing – something about a complete bastard and a right horse's arse.

He's safe, thank God. But then who's the other guy?

Whoever he is, he's a-goner. The Rambler bends over him, hands outstretched. Just as he's about to grab him, though, the other guy kicks up into the Rambler's chest, making him stumble back. He's fighting back! The man jumps to his feet, and suddenly I can see who it is.

It's Mr Barrack, my football coach. He must have heard something and come running over to help. He's got blood all over his face, but he's still moving, keeping his eyes fixed on his opponent. I wonder whether the Rambler's going to take off, like he did when Jem attacked him the other night, but he looks Mr Barrack up and down and stands his ground.

‘Come on, beautiful,' Mr Barrack jeers. ‘Give us a dance.'

The Rambler snarls and launches a fierce right cross.

Mr Barrack deflects the blow and chops down hard on the back of the Rambler's neck as he hurtles past him. The Rambler stumbles but twists around just as Mr Barrack jabs at him. The Rambler grabs Mr Barrack's wrist and, holding it up, lands two punches to his ribs. The coach cries out, grabs the front of the Rambler's jacket and yanks him forward into a headbutt. The Rambler stumbles back, dazed. Mr Barrack doesn't hesitate. He grabs the Rambler, lifts him up, turns him upside-down and smashes him head-first into the ground.

Jeepers. I didn't know teachers could do that.

Now the Rambler's lying stunned on his back. Mr Barrack is on top of him in an instant, his hands around the Rambler's neck. I think I'm about to watch a man being strangled to death right in front of me when the Rambler's outstretched arms fly up and clap Mr Barrack's head between his palms. Mr Barrack screams out in pain, they roll, and suddenly the Rambler is on top of him instead, fighting for control.

‘Hey!' Jem yells from the sideline. He's holding the dagger up. It must have flown towards him when the explosion went off. He leans back and throws it with all his might straight at the Rambler's head. I have a chilling moment of satisfaction in thinking that this murdering bastard is going to be killed by his own weapon.

My satisfaction turns to horror as the Rambler snatches the knife out of mid-air, twirls it in his hand and slams the glinting point down into the chest of my coach. There's a sickening, sucking sound as the knife buries itself and Mr Barrack gasps in surprise and pain. A salivary globule of blood falls out of his mouth onto his chin.

The Rambler climbs to his feet and looks down at the corpse, back stooped. His shoulders heave up and down as he breathes heavily through his nose.

Then he turns to me.

He walks towards me, slowly. He's in no hurry. He knows that in my present condition – probably in any condition – he can take me. Jeremy can't even help me now, not without the weapon he just gave away. The Rambler is still clutching the blood-stained knife in his right hand, and I can see his fingers flickering over it as he readjusts his grip.

He stands over me, and for the second time in the space of a few minutes, I know I'm going to die.

He leans down and holds out his empty left hand, palm up.

‘Are you alright?'