Geekhood Page 12

  Suddenly, we’re apart; he must have thrown me because I’m staggering back. Instinctively my arms come up above my head and are answered by a hail of piston punches. It’s a mess; this whole thing is a mess. Not like those fights you see in films where guys are slugging at each other with long, clean punches; this is a tight, coiled, frenetic spasm of lashes and noise. But Jason’s a fighter and I’m not. With my arms protecting my head, my ribs are exposed and I feel the impact of his fist just under my armpit. It knocks the breath out of my lungs and I double over, my hands flailing above me. More blows rain on my shoulders and back. Blindly, I flail about, throwing my fists outward, hitting air, scuffing his hoodie, whimpering and yelling. Somewhere, I can hear Sarah shouting for us to stop it.

  And then I connect. My unguided knuckles meet something that crunches. The blows stop for a second as Humphries reels back, a hand to his face. He stands for a moment, then looks in his palm with something like disgust. Blood rolls down from his nose, black in the half-light. A decision flashes across his face and he looks at me.

  I’m already taking shaky steps backwards, but it’s too late; he comes at me like a bull, his arms swinging. I feel an impact to my cheek and the grind of gravel under my heel as I fall, Humphries on top of me. He growls, grunts and swears, getting in his shots wherever he can.

  IM: I’m going to be killed.

  And for a moment, I think I have been. Everything goes white and I can’t feel anything. When I open my eyes, I see that the drive has been lit up by car headlights and Tony is hurling Jason out on to the street. Mum pulls me to my feet, a look on her face that I’ve never seen before.

  “Get inside. Now.”

  Sitting holding a packet of frozen peas to my face and listening to my mother scold me about the dangers of fighting, I’ve never felt less like James Bond. It may have been a tenuous fantasy to begin with, but my sore face, sore ribs and severely dented ego do nothing to build it back up. Despite the twenty minutes of my friends and Sarah explaining to my mother what happened and how it wasn’t my fault, my mum seems to think that right now is the best time to make sure that I don’t do it again – like I’m about to go pounding the streets in search of vengeance. And I think I’m having a premature hangover.

  IM: But you did plant one on him.

  That thought does fill me with a little pride, I admit, but it also fills me with more than a little dread – my life at school’s not going to be worth living. Every step I take is going to be haunted by the psychotic figure of Jason Humphries.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

  I look up into my mother’s eyes. I could tell her about Dad leaving, but it would sound like an excuse.

  IM: Just do the apology and get it over with.

  “Sorry. It just happened.”

  Mum’s lips purse and she lets out a long breath through her nose.

  “But you’re all right? How’s your cheek?”

  IM: She can’t help herself.

  “It’s a bit sore, but it’s OK. Sorry, Mum.”

  She nods and straightens up, asking who wants a cup of tea. It’s her subliminal way of letting me know that I’m off the hook. Tea solves everything.

  “Well, I’m going to have a beer,” Tony huffs, heaving himself to the fridge. “I think I’ve earned it.” He clenches and unclenches his hand, wincing at some strain or bruise. “That kid was heavy.”

  “I know!” I laugh ruefully. “I was under him! Thanks for getting him off.”

  “No problem. Looked like you had it all under control, anyway…”

  I raise an eyebrow wryly. My friends chuckle. Only Sarah remains quiet, staring at me intently, almost as if she’s trying to figure something out.

  IM: It could just be grateful awe.

  I think not. Mum doles out mugs of sweet tea and offers round a few biscuits.

  “Drink up,” she says. “And then I think I’d better take you all home. We’ve had quite a shock.”

  “Yeah,” Beggsy manages through a biscuit. “But not as big a shock as Jason Humphries got.”

  With the adrenalin having subsided and tea coursing through our veins, we all start to relive the whole thing, comfortable and safe in our surroundings. This is a moment of camaraderie that we’ve never really experienced before – because for once in our submissive little lives – something has happened. For once, we’re part of our own story, instead of living out our fantasies with maps and miniatures. I listen to my friends recounting the various threads of the evening. It turns out that Ravi did try to call the police, but kept dialling 911 instead of 999. He watches too much television. But he did spot Tony’s mobile number on the pad and rang it, so hats off to him. Matt had been trying to work out whether to jump in on the fight or not and Beggsy comes up with some story about putting himself between the action and Sarah. Only Sarah and I have nothing to say.

  IM: What’s she thinking?

  In all the fantasies I’ve entertained about protecting Sarah from danger, her reaction has been profoundly different to this. Usually, I’ve been battered within an inch of my life …

  IM: Check.

  … but have emerged victorious …

  IM: Check.

  … possibly with a dramatic wound that trickles a trail of blood from my forehead and down the side of my face …

  IM: Bruised eye and sore ribs … we’ll call it a check.

  … that she tends …

  IM: Mum. Peas. Scolding. Uh-uh.

  … before falling helplessly into my arms.

  IM: Tea. Biscuits. Silence. Nope.

  Perhaps she’s disappointed in me; perhaps my Cava-fuelled display was too animalistic or even too pathetic to have won her adoration.

  “Everyone ready?” Mum says, surveying the collection of empty mugs. “Come on, then.” My friends get up and say their goodbyes to me. Ravi opts for a high-five, Matt shakes my hand and Beggsy stands motionless for a second, pointing at me meaningfully. It’s all a bit solemn. Sarah stands in front of me, then sits gracefully on her heels and puts a hand on mine. She looks straight into my eyes.

  “I’m going to call you tomorrow.”

  My EM, unable to cope with anything, allows a glowing blush to slip through the net.

  IM: *Makes trumpet noises*

  “’K.”

  She puts my number into her phone, and then they leave. I see Tony look towards the front door, listening for the revs of the car. It fires up and disappears into the night, delivering my friends and the girl who’s going to call me tomorrow to their homes.

  With the car gone, Tony turns to me, a conspirator’s grin on his face.

  “Well, well, well,” he smirks. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Arch, defending your lady’s honour. And against a thug like that. I’d have done the same in your shoes, though. She’s a cracker.”

  My EM smiles and nods. My IM groans and sighs.

  “Must’ve been the Cava,” I shrug.

  Tony stops and looks up, as though listening for something.

  “Lose the bottle before your mum gets back,” he says evenly. “We don’t need any more grief tonight.”

  “Yeah, OK.”

  As I trudge painfully upstairs to retrieve the bottle, I silently resolve never to foxtrot with Tony again.

  IM: He’ll only tread on your toes.

  The Dream is different tonight. The Gargoyle is waiting and I’m dragged out of bed and left to stand motionless in the middle of my room. For a while, it just circles, staring at me with its glowing eyes, its canonball muscles rolling under its stony carapace with every step.

  Then it stops and regards me with a snarl. Slowly, it begins to walk towards me. Again, I’m paralyzed and brimming with fear, but suddenly, there’s a flash of purple light between us and another figure appears.

  It’s Sarah, dressed in her Nox Noctis outfit. She extends one gloved hand and the Gargoyle responds, retreating slowly into the shadows. Although I can still see its eyes burning corrosively
from the darkness, I feel safe now.

  Sarah turns to me and her ice-blue eyes fix on mine as a soft smile plays on her lips. Her other hand goes to the back of my neck and she pulls me forward for a deep, lingering kiss. I feel a pulse of fire from my stomach and wake up.

  I’m going to have to change my pyjamas.

  When I finally reawaken the next day, everything decides to kick off on the wrong foot. Firstly, there’s the issue of my pyjamas. The most obvious thing to do would be to try and slip the incriminating evidence into the washing machine. However, as much as my mum knows me, I know her too; when it comes to washing, she’s like a border-patrol guard. Nothing gets past unnoticed and anything she’s unsure about gets severely questioned. Instead, I opt to beginmy day by standing at the bathroom sink with a sponge and some shower gel, hoping to scrub my DNA from the scene of the crime. By the time I’ve finished, the circumstantial evidence suggests that I’ve wet myself during the night. Strangely, I’m happier for the court to draw this conclusion than for them to discover the Awful Truth.

  Once I’ve stashed the wet pyjama bottoms discreetly on the radiator, I chuck on last night’s clothes and inspect my war wound in the mirror. I have got a shiner, but it doesn’t look as heroic or as casual as the ones they get in the films. My black eye isn’t so much black, as a clash of colours, ranging from blood-red and nicotine-yellow to a dirty blue. The damaged skin looks waxy and, as I find out when I practise a smile, hurts. Rather than looking like a devil-may-care swashbuckler, I look like a bruised fruit.

  I enter the kitchen to the fading smell of bacon and the growing smell of cigarettes. Tony’s sat at the table, poring over a newspaper. As I appear, he looks up and starts singing something about “The Eye of the Tiger” and making strange noises that I take to be an electric guitar, whilst doing little jabbing actions with his fists. Which are a bit girly.

  IM: What with you being the heavyweight champion of the world and all.

  Mum reprimands him with a disapproving look and sets about sorting me out a bacon sandwich.

  “We thought we’d let you sleep in,” she says, placing some rashers into a pan.

  I look at the clock: it’s half-past ten. I must have been more tired than I thought.

  “Cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please. Sorry about last night, Mum.”

  “Well, it’s done now. But I’m going to be seeing the head about that boy; we don’t want anything like that happening again.”

  My hearts sinks. Mum’s tone pre-empts my unborn protest and tells me that it’s going to happen, whether I like it or not. Which I don’t. I understand her concern, but it’s tantamount to putting a bounty on my head. Schools work a bit like prisons – Jason doesn’t have to touch me to get me back. All he has to do is let the right word out to the wrong people and I stand about as much chance as a kitten in a piranha tank.

  “How’s your eye?” The question arrives with a cuppa and a bacon sandwich, ketchup already applied.

  “Yeah, it hurts a bit. But I’ll be OK.”

  Mum tuts to herself and starts to clear away the pans. Then she turns to me with a look as though she’s just remembered something. She couldn’t be more fake if she tried.

  “Oh! Sarah called for you this morning.”

  My EM goes from nought to sixty in about three seconds, sending a flush to my face and tightening my throat round the food that I’ve just swallowed.

  The options available to me are questions that should convey little or nothing about the fairground thrill I feel because Sarah has called, and the ghastly horror that my mum has spoken to her while I was asleep. I could go for the casual “Oh, yeah?”, the gentlemanly “How was she?” or even the non-committal “Uh-huh?” Instead, my IM takes charge and leaps out through my mouth like a laryngitic express train.

  “What did she say?”

  IM: Oops.

  Mum smiles her “I can see through you” smile and sits down opposite me.

  “She said,” she begins, as though she was reading a story to a four-year-old, “that she wanted to know if you wanted to go over and see her.”

  “What? Today?”

  “Today.”

  IM: Her house! You’ll be going to HER house!

  While I try and create some cool and blasé response, the Greek Chorus at the end of the table contributes with a jackpot-style noise: “Ker-ching!”. Mum and I both scowl in unison.

  IM: Tosser.

  “Her number’s by the phone. I said you’d call her back.”

  I don’t need telling twice, but I can’t look too obvious; don’t want to wear my heart on my sleeve. I wait a few seconds. Mum and Tony are looking at me and the silence that follows is thick with anticipation. I wait a few more. Beneath my cool, calm exterior, I’m riddled with panic. What the hell am I going to say? Unfortunately, Mum doesn’t allow me the time to consider this fully.

  “Well, go on, then!” she splutters. “Don’t keep the poor girl waiting!”

  Fighting the rising urge to go and hide under my bed until it’s all over, I go to the phone. There, in Mum’s handwriting, are the glorious numbers that will connect me with the most beautiful girl in the world.

  IM: Well? What are you waiting for?

  What I’m waiting for is for my senses to get back into line: the phone suddenly looks like a piece of alien technology. The beeps it makes as I dial the Hallowed Numbers sound off-key and the ringing tone seems ridiculously loud. And there’s a strong possibility that my heart will flatline in the next thirty seconds.

  “Hello?”

  IM: Oh, God. It’s her.

  I cough nervously, trying to clear my throat before I speak. For some reason, my body – which may as well belong to somebody else right now – decides it’s a good idea to bring a little bit of bacon sandwich up with the cough. The result: more coughing. In fact, it’s one of those coughs that just won’t stop and gets your eyes watering with it. Between racking hacks, I manage to choke out a word or two.

  “Hell—Cough—o?” I think I might be dying.

  IM: From shame or oxygen deficiency. Either’ll do.

  “Hello? Who’s that?” Sarah sounds a little worried. And after last night, that’s pretty understandable.

  “Sarah!” I splutter, before gaining control of the cough. “It’s Archie!” Unfortunately, these last two words come out as a hoarse, post-cough wheeze.

  “Archie? Are you OK?”

  “Yeah,” I manage to say, whilst clearing my throat for what I hope is the last time in my life.

  “You sound awful.”

  “No, no,” I say, in my normal voice. “Had something stuck in my throat.”

  IM: Well, at least that’s the awkward hello taken care of…

  “How are you?” I throw the spotlight back at her, hoping to make my phone-retching a distant memory as soon as possible.

  “I’m fine,” she says. “It was a really fun evening and thanks for my figure. It’s on my bedside table.”

  IM: …!

  “I’m sorry Jason saw my Facebook page, I’ve blocked him now. And I’ve changed my privacy settings. What a creep!”

  “Well, he obviously likes you…”

  IM: Attempt at comedy! Abort! Abort!

  “He needs to work on his chat-up lines!” Sarah giggles. “But I was really starting to enjoy the Game. I’d love to do it again sometime.”

  IM: *Sound of wedding bells*

  “Yeah, sure, yeah,” I rattle off. “That’d be cool.”

  “So. D’you want to come round? We could just hang out.”

  I can think of nothing in the world that I’d like to do more, but I don’t want to frighten her off with what might sound like desperation.

  IM: Best keep your mouth shut, then.

  “Yeah. That’d be cool.”

  “Great. I live on Davenport Road. Number seventy-eight.”

  “Oh, I know – the road just down from the shops.”

  “Yeah. D’you want me to post it on Face
book?” There’s a tease in her voice that sends the butterflies in my stomach into a multicoloured flurry.

  “Maybe next time,” I quip, planting the seeds that there might even be a next time.

  “See you in about half an hour?”

  “’K.” I don’t want to be the one to put the phone down first.

  “Cool. Bye.”

  IM: She obviously doesn’t have the same problem…

  “Bye.” I stand, looking at the receiver for a second, perhaps hoping that she’ll come back on the line.

  IM: That wasn’t too bad, was it?

  Surprisingly, it wasn’t. Talking to a girl I’m hopelessly attracted to wasn’t too bad at all. It was almost like talking to a mate.

  IM: Weird.

  Mum appears in the hallway, no doubt having heard every word.

  IM: You really need that mobile phone.

  “Perhaps you’d better go and get changed. You can’t turn up in the same clothes you wore yesterday.”

  I dumbly agree and head to my Lair, clutching my bacon sandwich. As I climb the stairs, I hear Mum saying something to Tony about it being nice to see me so happy.

  “Packing my pants” would be more accurate.

  Rather than accepting Tony’s offer of a lift in “the Beemer”, I decide to walk to Sarah’s. It’s not too far and, after last night’s debacle, I’m done with being ostentatious; now it’s a case of what you see is what you get. Having said that, I did submit to Mum’s orders in choosing what to wear. I’m currently sporting jeans, the new trainers and a black shirt. All of which were ironed at Mum’s insistence – just after she’d noticed my sodden pyjamas on the radiator. I explained it away as a toothbrushing incident where I’d turned the tap on too hard, but I’m not sure whether my mother, the human polygraph, bought it.

  My Grunt DetectorTM is on overdrive; everyone who appears round a corner or out of their house or on the horizon is marked out as a potential threat. But there’s no sign of Humphries. Which is sort of more worrying than seeing him; it gives my already over-active imagination plenty of time to think about what he might do next.