Christopher Tiller

Excerpt taken from the upcoming novel

Reagan drones on, making notes on the blackboard - The Epistle of Paul - The Apostle to the Galatians.

What am I doing here, with all these other boys? I’m not the same. I don’t belong; don’t belong anywhere.

I think of Gary, he sits next to me. Today is his thirteenth birthday, but today he’ll be next to his mum as she lies on a bed dying of cancer. Knowing soon, she won’t feel anything anymore, that she’ll leave everything behind; won’t exist, ever.

I see myself lying there; no one with me. Just fading out, everything going away into a distance. Nothing’ll matter then, everything will go. It’ll be just me. No one else.

The tingling starts to go as fast as it came. Now there’s something different, a numbness creeping over, covering my body, yet it doesn’t scare me.

I glance through the window, to a grey summer sky. 

It’s lunchtime. My best friend Timmo finds me by the fence and asks if I‘m ok. I look at him, past him. His smile disappears.

‘Didn’t know what to do when they got you at playtime. They made me go away, but I waited for ages…  Well, till the bell went. Did they hurt you? Are you all right? You don’t look right. What did they do?’

I shake my head and walk away, wanting to be left by myself. Timmo catches up.

‘Why don’t you tell Doogan? Just tell him they keep pickin’ on you. Every day they do it and you just let ‘em.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘What’s with you? I couldn’t do anythin’, could I? They told me to fuck off. What was I supposed to do?’

‘Nothin,’ I answer, staring ahead, no longer caring.

Walking off, heading out the main gates, I cross the pavement stepping into the busy main road, stopping in the middle of the black tarmac and close my eyes, wanting everything to stop, to go away forever.

Car horns blare, tyres screech, angry words shout from passing rolled down windows.

I’m grabbed, pulled and dragged to the pavement.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, boy?’ Doogan, my form teacher, shakes me. ‘What's got into you?’

I’m dead. No one can see me. I’m just seeing something that’s not real anymore.

‘What in God's name is the matter with you?’

Across the road, young sapling trees dance to slow soundless music. Don’t remember them ever being there.

‘Bennett. I’m talking to you, boy?  Get to the headmaster’s office, this instant.’

Heavy hands land on my shoulders, pushing, marching me towards Main Block.

Our headmaster, Brayburn, leans forward staring intensely through thick rimmed glasses. He turns a silver pen in his fingers, rolling it over and over. I look to the window, past the dying plants with shrivelled brown leaves and the piled up books on the windowsill, look to the front of D block with its dark green doors and broken waste bin leaning to one side as though it’s had enough, enough of being kicked and sat on. The chaotic sound of kids shouting, screaming in the far playground compete with the ticking clock - the only sound in this room.

‘Mr Doogan tells me he found you standing in the middle of the road. What on earth were you thinking, boy?’

A leaf drops off a plant; It’s crying out for water. Isn’t that what matters most?

‘You could have caused an accident, or much worse. You could have been killed! Look at me when I’m talking to you.’

The hairs on his eyebrows curl out, creep over the lopsided rim of his glasses like ivy growing over a wall. Thick rashy skin hangs over the collar of his shirt. Is this what happens when you get old? Your body gets misshapen; eyebrows go wild like grass that’s never cut.

‘I can only presume you were showing off. Your form teacher tells me you’re one of the best behaved in his class. What you did was very irresponsible and out of character. Unlike you at all, according to Mr Doogan.’

Beads of sweat break from my forehead. I don’t try to wipe them - let them run down my cheek, let them go where they want, they’re on a journey. Dizziness interrupts the pleasant numbness. I’m going to be sick. His tight lips relax; his glasses rise with his brow. Concern replaces annoyance as he gets up leaving the room.

I’m lead, guided across the hallway to a door opposite.

‘Sit there,’ he orders, pointing to the same chair I'd sat on five minutes previously. I look to the floor, to my shoes. One shines brighter than the other. They should be the same. Both shiny, or dull, it doesn’t matter.

The school nurse lifts my chin, looks in my eyes as though searching for something. Her powdery white face smiles. She can’t see.  I’ve hidden it, so no one will ever see.

They lift me out the chair, propping me up so I don’t fall through the floor. I know this room. If you’re ill you come here. If you’re too ill your mum comes to take you away.

‘Steven… Can you tell me how you’re feeling? Do you feel sick?’

My head sinks deep into the soapy smelling pillow. The room tilts side to side. I shake, yet I’m not cold.

They talk between themselves. Brayburn nods then leaves the room. Nurse stays, lifts my head, placing a silver bowl near my face.

‘Try to sit up, let it out and you’ll feel a lot better.’

Looking into a faded reflection, staring at the circular scratches, she rubs my spine. I want to lie back down, sink into the floor. My stomach tenses, moves, bringing up brown phlegmy liquid. I heave again. The rubbing intensifies. Drained, exhausted, I fall sideways, head hitting the starchy white sheet. The room and face disappear. Everything’s going black.

I’m awake, feeling cold and shaky. A grey course blanket covers me. I lie there not wanting to move. Closing my eyes, I sink back into a restless sleep.

The sound of a voice calling my name drifts through. A grey outline forms the shape of Mum standing by the bed. The nurse stands next to her.

‘She’s come to take me home.’