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We scatter, and I’m running hard away from the sound of his counting and I’m getting out of breath, the hedges are too low and there’s always a chance I’ll be spotted and shouted at, the alley’s too obvious, you can scour it with a glance. I look at parked cars, think about hiding under them, but then wouldn’t you know it someone would get in one and I’d be run over, or driven off clinging to the bottom to who knows where, maybe to France.
I remember some garages, down a dog leg at the end of the close. Amy Spencer had dragged me down there and smeared my face with kisses, I remember her making these little noises but then Ross found us and laughed at us for kissing. Every day for the next week we endured high-pitched cooing from the rest of the class, and kissing noises. She came over to try to talk to me, the noises grew louder. I remember them and I try not to remember Amy. I can hear shouts, screams. Some have been found already, I’m not even hidden yet.
She didn’t speak to me for years.
The road to the lock-ups is pitted, there are bushes growing from the walls, long, straggly things, trailing from the walls over the ground. I slow to a jog as I round the corner, out of sight for now at least. I spot where I was looking, an empty widow frame, all the glass knocked out, someone’s put a doormat over the bottom of it.
I take a couple of steps back and run at it, one step up the wall and my hands grab the frame, the matting stinks. My feet scrabble at the side of the garage for a moment and then I’m over the gap, falling into the dark of the lock-up. A momentary feeling of triumph, certain to be last found in here. It’s only John who’d be brave enough to come after me anyway, and he won’t think this of me, not at first. I’ve got a few minutes.
I pass the time until I’m found exploring the garage’s inside. Everything’s covered in sheets, they smell old. The first one pulled away reveals can after can of spray paint. I shake a couple and they rattle. I pick one and point it at the wall, a sharp hiss and there’s a black mark. I try again, steadier, a J for James. I wonder if this is too obvious, whether one day the garage door will open and the owner will come in, see the J and go “it’s James Fletcher, it must be who else has a name that starts with a J?”. I imagine him coming to the house, dragging my mum down to the garage, pointing at the J. Imagine the look on her face. I shake the can again and obliterate it. Let him try and find a blob. I look at all the other cans, blues, greens, reds. John will love this. This is amazing. I wonder why it’s all covered up. For that matter why the window hasn’t been fixed. It’s been like that for ages. Amy had suggested we go in here. I wish we had and it’s sharp and sudden and hurts, the wish. I remember her walking right past me at school and it hurts.
I race round the garage, tearing sheets off, there’s a stack of boxes with fragile and this way up written on them, Some of the this way ups are upside down, there’s three rolls of carpet, they haven’t been covered, there’s a load of sheets of some hard, dry stuff and I’m not sure what it is, it’s a bit crumbly, flakes under my hand.
I can hear voices now, can pick a few out, I think I hear Terry, I definitely hear Andrew and Lorna and Cassie, and over and above I hear John shouting “Come out Jimbo, we’re going the park”. I stay put and keep quiet, he won’t go anywhere, not until he’s found me himself, otherwise he’s lost
The sound of their voices is nearer now and I stand completely still. It’s over, I know, and I’ve done the best. None of the others would have gone in here, but it’s a process of elimination, I’ve been run to ground. I stand stock-still and try to hold my breath. I close my eyes, the last few seconds of this place being mine.
His face at the window “Found you you wanker”, it’s an eruption of sunlight, I can hear the others scrabbling to lift him up, a second an John’s in there with me, they’ve pushed him hard and he lands on the pile of hard, flaky tiles, they disintegrate, the whole garage is dust and it’s choking. “Fuck” he says “fuck. Fucking things”. I pull my shirt up over my face to shut the dust out, it smells musty, old, a bit chemical. John punches me on the arm. “Fuck”.
It settles after a while and we’re choking a bit, my throat feels dry. John’s glaring at me, his face looks hard. “Not my fault” I say “I didn’t break them, I made it in fine. Look, there’s paints.” The hard look goes and he’s grinning.
“Skill, fucking skill, pure fucking awesome.” He shakes a can and my black blob is crossed with a stream of a brilliant pink, the boxes are marked with a pink x,the carpets get the same treatment, the only reason I don’t is what would mum say but I can see he wants to. “This is fucking amazing.”
“So I won then” I smile at him, he smiles back, then punches me sharply in the stomach, I fold, and step back, but don’t drop “you punch like a bender. Bender.” I manage. John grins, and stuff a paint can in each pocket.
“Give us a bunk”. I cup my hands, he steps on them and is up onto the window, shifts round so he can offer his hand, I step and hold it and I’m up, back into the sunlight. John comes roaring down from the window, spraying paint from each hand, to everyone’s delight. They’re all laughing. It’s only when I hit the ground I realise I forgot to take some myself
We scatter, and I’m running hard away from the sound of his counting and I’m getting out of breath, the hedges are too low and there’s always a chance I’ll be spotted and shouted at, the alley’s too obvious, you can scour it with a glance. I look at parked cars, think about hiding under them, but then wouldn’t you know it someone would get in one and I’d be run over, or driven off clinging to the bottom to who knows where, maybe to France.
I remember some garages, down a dog leg at the end of the close. Amy Spencer had dragged me down there and smeared my face with kisses, I remember her making these little noises but then Ross found us and laughed at us for kissing. Every day for the next week we endured high-pitched cooing from the rest of the class, and kissing noises. She came over to try to talk to me, the noises grew louder. I remember them and I try not to remember Amy. I can hear shouts, screams. Some have been found already, I’m not even hidden yet.
She didn’t speak to me for years.
The road to the lock-ups is pitted, there are bushes growing from the walls, long, straggly things, trailing from the walls over the ground. I slow to a jog as I round the corner, out of sight for now at least. I spot where I was looking, an empty widow frame, all the glass knocked out, someone’s put a doormat over the bottom of it.
I take a couple of steps back and run at it, one step up the wall and my hands grab the frame, the matting stinks. My feet scrabble at the side of the garage for a moment and then I’m over the gap, falling into the dark of the lock-up. A momentary feeling of triumph, certain to be last found in here. It’s only John who’d be brave enough to come after me anyway, and he won’t think this of me, not at first. I’ve got a few minutes.
I pass the time until I’m found exploring the garage’s inside. Everything’s covered in sheets, they smell old. The first one pulled away reveals can after can of spray paint. I shake a couple and they rattle. I pick one and point it at the wall, a sharp hiss and there’s a black mark. I try again, steadier, a J for James. I wonder if this is too obvious, whether one day the garage door will open and the owner will come in, see the J and go “it’s James Fletcher, it must be who else has a name that starts with a J?”. I imagine him coming to the house, dragging my mum down to the garage, pointing at the J. Imagine the look on her face. I shake the can again and obliterate it. Let him try and find a blob. I look at all the other cans, blues, greens, reds. John will love this. This is amazing. I wonder why it’s all covered up. For that matter why the window hasn’t been fixed. It’s been like that for ages. Amy had suggested we go in here. I wish we had and it’s sharp and sudden and hurts, the wish. I remember her walking right past me at school and it hurts.
I race round the garage, tearing sheets off, there’s a stack of boxes with fragile and this way up written on them, Some of the this way ups are upside down, there’s three rolls of carpet, they haven’t been covered, there’s a load of sheets of some hard, dry stuff and I’m not sure what it is, it’s a bit crumbly, flakes under my hand.
I can hear voices now, can pick a few out, I think I hear Terry, I definitely hear Andrew and Lorna and Cassie, and over and above I hear John shouting “Come out Jimbo, we’re going the park”. I stay put and keep quiet, he won’t go anywhere, not until he’s found me himself, otherwise he’s lost
The sound of their voices is nearer now and I stand completely still. It’s over, I know, and I’ve done the best. None of the others would have gone in here, but it’s a process of elimination, I’ve been run to ground. I stand stock-still and try to hold my breath. I close my eyes, the last few seconds of this place being mine.
His face at the window “Found you you wanker”, it’s an eruption of sunlight, I can hear the others scrabbling to lift him up, a second an John’s in there with me, they’ve pushed him hard and he lands on the pile of hard, flaky tiles, they disintegrate, the whole garage is dust and it’s choking. “Fuck” he says “fuck. Fucking things”. I pull my shirt up over my face to shut the dust out, it smells musty, old, a bit chemical. John punches me on the arm. “Fuck”.
It settles after a while and we’re choking a bit, my throat feels dry. John’s glaring at me, his face looks hard. “Not my fault” I say “I didn’t break them, I made it in fine. Look, there’s paints.” The hard look goes and he’s grinning.
“Skill, fucking skill, pure fucking awesome.” He shakes a can and my black blob is crossed with a stream of a brilliant pink, the boxes are marked with a pink x,the carpets get the same treatment, the only reason I don’t is what would mum say but I can see he wants to. “This is fucking amazing.”
“So I won then” I smile at him, he smiles back, then punches me sharply in the stomach, I fold, and step back, but don’t drop “you punch like a bender. Bender.” I manage. John grins, and stuff a paint can in each pocket.
“Give us a bunk”. I cup my hands, he steps on them and is up onto the window, shifts round so he can offer his hand, I step and hold it and I’m up, back into the sunlight. John comes roaring down from the window, spraying paint from each hand, to everyone’s delight. They’re all laughing. It’s only when I hit the ground I realise I forgot to take some myself
posted by Matt at 7:36 AM
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