Authors: Cathy MacPhail
The weather too seemed to add to the mood. A leaden sky, and rain dripping from the railings. A mist hovering above the roof of the school. The day growing dark again before it had a chance to be light.
Murmurs of vampires wound through the school all day. It was all they seemed to talk about.
Patrick was waiting for Mosi when the school day ended. Mosi had almost hoped he had forgotten. His eyes darted round, looking for his mother. Patrick held out his phone. ‘Called my granny, told her you and I were walking home together, there would be a whole crowd of us.’
‘Do you always lie to your granny?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘One of them white ones.’
Mosi fell in beside him. No choice. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere we can talk and not get disturbed.’
‘Is there such a place?’
Patrick laughed. ‘You bet there is, and I’ve found it.’
Buildings still smouldered. ‘Look at that,’ Patrick tutted his disapproval. ‘Pure vandalism.’
He began walking backwards, talking to Mosi as he went. ‘Have you been listening to the rumours, Mosi?’
Mosi didn’t answer him. He had been too caught up in his own thoughts to care what others were saying. They came to an old deserted garage with a broken door.
‘In here, come on. Nobody’ll see us talking in here.’ Patrick pulled a steel panel open, and squeezed inside. Patrick lowered his voice. ‘He’s been here before, you know.’
Mosi’s head began to swim. What was Patrick talking about?
Patrick closed his eyes in a look of exasperation. ‘The vampire . . . the whole school’s been talking about it.’
Mosi shook his head. ‘I didn’t listen.’
‘You’re always in your own wee world, aren’t you, Mosi?’ He paused, waiting for Mosi to say something. But Mosi stayed silent. ‘Why are you so scared of Mr Okafor? Who is he? You called him a monster. Tell me the truth, Mosi.’
How much could he tell Patrick? Where would he begin?
But there was no time for Mosi to think how to answer. There were footsteps behind them. Both boys turned at the sound. A group of boys were pushing their way through the broken door, one by one, sending their long shadows along the floor. Mosi recognised Cody, almost the last to come through. The other boys were older and in an instant Mosi knew who they were. The other boys who had been in the underpass that night. Grady McManus’s gang.
‘Hey, Cody, what’s this?’ Patrick called out. His voice was full of bravado, but it shook just a little.
The old garage seemed to grow even darker. Mosi looked around for an escape. There was only one exit, that broken door, and those boys were blocking it.
Patrick hoped his voice didn’t shake when he called out. He recognised Cody, and Cody’s brother, JD. He’d only seen the others around the estate. Rough and hard. Friends of Grady’s. And that was what made Patrick afraid. Afraid for himself, but afraid for Mosi too.
He shouted to Cody’s brother. He wanted them all to know he knew them. ‘Hey, JD, how’s it going?’ JD was usually a laugh. He wasn’t laughing now. None of them were. Even Cody looked scared.
JD called back to him, ‘Get out of the way, Patrick.’
The boy at the front suddenly produced a machete. Patrick felt his skin crawl. Now he saw what they intended. They were out for Mosi. He began to sweat. ‘I didn’t know they’d come after us.’ He said it softly, to Mosi, didn’t want him to think he had led him here, that he’d lured him into an ambush.
Mosi’s voice was soft. ‘I know you didn’t, Patrick.’
Patrick took a step closer to Mosi. To let him know he was on his side. ‘Leave him be,’ he shouted now and he didn’t care if his voice did shake, because even Cody was shaking, as if this had gone further than he had expected or wanted. ‘He’s on his own. He’s never done anybody any harm.’
Mosi was saying nothing. He looked tense. Patrick shouted now. ‘JD, tell them not to touch him. Just let us go.’
But JD rushed at Patrick, took him completely by surprise. He grabbed him like a rag doll and threw him aside. Patrick landed against the wall and crumpled to the ground. He saw one of his best drawings on this wall. He remembered the night he’d done it, with Cody, remembered them laughing as they sprayed the paint on the walls. He didn’t want it spattered now with blood. Mosi’s blood, or his.
The boys were all circling around Mosi. He didn’t stand a chance . . .
There was hate on their faces, so much viciousness. Mosi watched the machete, its long curved blade, its edge honed sharp. The boy waved it around. It gave the others courage. One of them giggled nervously.
‘Look at the wee guy,’ the boy with the machete said. ‘Nearly wetting himself.’
‘My wee brother said he was a coward. Even his own kind hate him,’ another boy said.
This must be Cody’s brother. Mosi could see him jumping from one foot to the other. Though his words were harsh, his voice trembled. He looked scared.
Mosi’s eyes darted round for an escape route. He imagined himself ducking under their arms, leaping over their heads, darting one way, then another, till he was behind them. And then he would run like the wind and they would never catch him because no one could run as fast as he could. All these thoughts whirled through his mind like a tornado.
He had to get away, because he couldn’t fight them. He wouldn’t fight them.
But they were blocking the only escape route from this old garage. Mosi stepped back, and felt the wall behind him. He could go no further.
The boy with the machete drew in a deep breath. His voice was a snarl. ‘It was your kind that killed Grady. With your voodoo.’
Patrick shouted out. His voice shaking. ‘No . . . it wasn’t him. Leave him!’
They weren’t listening. Mosi recognised what was happening. He had seen it often before. Once the bloodlust was up, nothing could stop them from what they planned to do.
‘Come on, let’s get him.’ Mosi didn’t even know which one said it.
And they moved in.
This couldn’t be happening. Patrick’s legs were like jelly. He lost sight of Mosi as the pack closed in on him. Cody stood beside him; he was trembling. ‘We’ve got to do something, Cody.’
But Cody was almost close to tears. He couldn’t handle it. He shook his head, put his hands over his ears to blot out the sounds, and then he was running, out of the garage.
Patrick wanted to cry too. Mosi was darting one way, then another. The boys were laughing. In a moment they would strike.
He couldn’t let this happen, but what could he do? He was only one boy. And then, it was as if some primal instinct took over. He didn’t even know
what
he was doing. He began to yell, like some ancient Celtic warrior. He was roaring, ‘Leave him be!’ And he began to run.
He leapt on the boy with the machete. He jumped on his back just as the blade was lifted again. The boy yelled, ‘Get him off me!’ He tried to shake him off, but Patrick wasn’t letting go.
The others grabbed at Patrick. He kicked out at them, sent one of them stumbling back and knocking into another. One of them grabbed at his hair and pulled. The boy with the machete twisted, reached back for him, tried to grab for him with his free hand, but Patrick dug his fingers into the boy’s eyes. He let out a yell, but still he could not topple Patrick. But Patrick knew he couldn’t keep this up for much longer. He shouted, ‘Run, Mosi! Run!’
Mosi began to move, leaping behind the boys. The boy with the machete was swearing. He reached back again and grabbed Patrick by the hair. Someone else grabbed his leg. Patrick kicked out, and his foot hit someone’s face, but he was still held fast. Patrick’s eyes nipped with tears as his scalp was pulled hard. But he could see at least he had given Mosi the chance to run past them. Patrick couldn’t see him, but he hoped by now he was out of the garage. Then he could run. And he had never seen anyone run as fast as Mosi. They would never catch him.
He felt a punch to his side that took his breath away, then the boy with the machete lifted him up and over his shoulder and threw him against the wall.
He cracked against the ground, looked up and realised that now they had no Mosi, they had turned all their attention on him.
‘You’re gonny be sorry you did that, Patrick Cleary.’ The boy with the machete swung it in the air. There was a glint of steel and something seemed to click in Patrick’s head, something he should know, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The boys around him all became dark shadows, he couldn’t make out any of their faces. All he could see was the machete as it was lifted high above him.
Mosi wanted to run. He tried to. He heard Patrick tumble in the darkness behind him. Heard the triumphant yells of the gang of boys. He was almost through the door. Safe. A few more steps and he would be free of them. But he glanced back into the garage, and he could make out Patrick on the ground, scrambling back against the wall, while the boys surrounded him. He was looking up at them defiantly. He had done this to save him. Braver than he had ever been, he thought, and he knew in that instant, he could never leave him.
No matter what it cost him, he could not leave.
Some instinct took over. Mosi stepped back inside the garage, silent as a panther. He stood straight. Then he took a deep breath, he yelled like a soldier going into battle, and he ran towards them.
He took them by surprise. They all turned as one, their eyes gleaming white in the dark garage. He gave them no time to think. He swung his leg high and kicked at one of the boys, knocking him to the ground. In the same instant he swivelled round and aimed a fist at another. It hit flesh and bone and the boy screamed and fell backwards. In a flash, Mosi had kicked again, another boy’s leg cracked and as the boy stumbled Mosi drove the heel of his hand into the boy’s Adam’s apple. He let out a scream, but Mosi had already leapt in the air and come down hard on another of the boys, sending him sprawling across the floor. The garage was all shouts and swearing. Mosi dropped to a crouch, grabbed someone’s leg and pulled him down, then he was on his feet and a kick sent one of the others to the ground. They were all yelling, trying to understand what was happening. He was too fast for them. It was as if they didn’t recognise the small black boy they had been tormenting only a moment ago. Mosi didn’t stop. The boy with the machete was on his feet again and coming at him fast. Ready to bring it down on him, slashing this way and that, not caring who he hit. The other boys saw him, rolled out of his way. Mosi leapt away. He swung himself round and punched hard into the small of the boy’s back, heard the breath pulled from his body. Mosi kicked his legs from under him, and the boy collapsed face down. In the same split second Mosi snatched at the machete, and pulled it from his hands.
The boy was on the ground. Mosi stood above him. Now he was the one with the machete. He backed away from them, one cool step at a time. The other boys, some standing, some still on the garage floor stared up at Mosi.
He swung the machete in an arc around his head. He twirled it, threw it from one hand to the other. Then he beckoned them towards him with his curled fingers. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. He held their gaze. ‘Any time you’re ready,’ was what that look said. ‘Any time you’re ready.’
They stood for a moment, watching him, disbelief and fear flashing across their faces. And then, they turned and ran.
Patrick lay back against the wall, his mouth hung open. Had he really seen what he thought he had? It all seemed like a scene from a movie. One second they were coming at him, that slash of steel all he could focus on, and the next . . . It was like a whirlwind. Mosi was suddenly there, leaping and kicking. Swinging his fist into one, then another, bringing them all down. Where had he learned to fight like that?
And then, just when he thought he could not be more amazed, Mosi had snatched at the machete and it had come alive in his hand. He stood, silhouetted against the dim beam of light from the street behind him. He looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a Hollywood movie.
The next thing, JD and the rest were gone, running scared, almost bursting through the broken door, their feet splashing in the puddles, not daring to look back. Patrick could still hear their footsteps racing into the darkness.
Mosi stood for a moment, straight as an arrow. Patrick couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything. He still couldn’t get himself to stand up or take his eyes from Mosi.
He only jumped when Mosi suddenly threw the machete from his hands as if it had given him an electric shock. He fell into a crouch on the ground, buried his head in his hands and . . . was he crying?
That was what made Patrick move. He crept closer to Mosi. ‘You saved my life,’ he said.
Mosi didn’t answer him. He only clutched at his head as if he was in pain.
‘Are you OK, Mosi? Did they hurt you?’
Mosi shook his head and Patrick began to get scared because he couldn’t understand what was wrong with Mosi. He had just won a battle, single-handed, against the toughest boys in the neighbourhood. Five against one. He should be whooping with joy.
Patrick would be.