THE ROAD TO KINGFISHER
Morris was not to blame. He was just unlucky enough to be in
the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was there waiting for him.
It was a Friday afternoon. I’d stopped caring whether I’d be
put away and wagged school with Sean. We sniffed glue most of the day, and
returned to the school at home time, hoping to find someone who’d “donate”
their cigarettes to us. Poor old Morris came bounding around the corner, nearly
knocking me over. You could see the fear sweep across his face, his mouth
moving but no words coming out.
“Hello wanker, got any fags?” I asked, widening my eyes in
an attempt to scare him even more.
“No, I, I smoked ‘em all at lunch.”
“Fuck off.” I took a step closer.
“I haven’t! I smoked ‘em all, honest!”
I took hold of the lapels of his blazer, “Bollocks, don’t
lie to me you little prick!”
“Leave me alone, Si’, I aint got none!”
I punched him full in
the face. He let out an agonising cry as his nose exploded. Blood and tears
began to stream down his cheeks.
When he fell to the ground, I began brutally kicking
him. He curled into a ball, attempting
to avoid the swing of my boot. Morris was howling like a baby. With every kick
I delivered the faces of Ropeman, Stuart, and Karen, flashed in my mind; and
the clearer the pictures became, the more violently I kicked.
I could hear my name being called, but it sounded as if it
were somewhere in the distance.
“Fuckin’ hell, Si’, leave him! You’re gonna kill the
fucker!” I heard Sean's voice; no longer off in the distance, but shouting
directly in my ear.
Somehow Sean managed to drag me away, tears now pouring from
my eyes as well. We ran down the hill and across the road at the bottom,
franticly dodging cars like frightened rabbits. With Sean still clutching my
arm we sped down an alley and into the garden of a derelict house, my
adrenaline pumping and the anger still very much in control.
“What the fuck did ya do that for?” I shouted, still readied
for confrontation.
“Bollocks, Si’, you’d have killed the poor little cunt!”
I grabbed Sean by the collar and pulled his face close to
mine, “You ever do somethin’ like that again, I’ll fuckin’ well do you, an’
all, d’you understand me?”
I let go of him and he fell to his knees, still gasping for
air after all the running we’d just endured. Sean knew better than to argue
with me, therefore nothing else was said.
We left the garden and peered around the corner; everything
seemed quiet, so we casually began walking down the road. I asked if we were
going to meet up on Monday morning, the usual place, at the entrance to the
cemetery. He nodded, before turning on
his heels, and we went our separate ways.
I never saw Sean again.
http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate
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