Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

And now I was feeling sorry for Griffiths. All he wanted was for the new kid to throw him a bone but Johnny was sitting there like Whistler’s mother. Griff tried again. “Five years ago in this very city, the Melton Library was blown apart by a bomb that David left in an elevator. Over two hundred people died.”

Big silence. Suddenly the new kid sighed, like he wanted to get something out but didn’t know how. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t like talking about it, sir, but actually, yeah,” said Johnny, all solemn and still. “I remember that day very well.”

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t want to say, sir. My mom worked in the City Library. We lost her that day.”

Shit. The whole room was in shock. Griffs face turned purple nearly, and his mouth dropped wide open. Teachers aren’t meant to have feelings, but now he looked like he was about to cry. “Oh. Oh.” That’s all he said. It’s like he couldn’t move, he was paralysed.

“I didn’t want to say,” said Johnny like he was about to cry. “You forced it out of me.”

“I’m extremely sorry, boy,” said Griff. He said it like he meant it.

“Wasn’t just mom. We lost my dad that day,” said Johnny. “And my big sister. They were only returning their books, too.”

Griffiths stared, open-mouthed.

“Yes sir, Mr Griffiths, sir. My uncles and aunts all got killed, too,” said Johnny. “Along with the little dog who lived down the fucking lane.”

Griff kind of rocked on his heels and his face went all pink. Then Griffiths dragged that kid out of his chair and damn near threw him halfway across the room. “How dare you! Get out!” Griffiths was screaming.

Johnny left like he was told. He looked real happy to be going.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I told Griffiths. “Throwing kids is against the law.”

That’s all I said, but the way Griff turned on me, you’d have thought it was me who blew up the fucking library. “You too, Newton.”

“Sir?”

“I said get out!” I get a real big blast of his breath. It smelled like he’d been eating dogshit with a mayonnaise dressing.

“Hey!”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me, boy! Out!”

I looked at my friend KC, hoping he’d put in a good word for me; tell Griffiths I didn’t mean to cause offence. KC kind of shrugged with his eyes like it wasn’t really any of his business.

“What did I do?” I said.

“You’re an idiot. Get the hell out of my classroom!”

In the corridor, Johnny Seven was smoking a cigarette. I couldn’t believe it. “What is wrong with you, man? You’re gonna get yourself expelled on your first day,” I said.

He smiled at me and blew smoke in my face. “Let’s hope so.”

At lunch, Johnny wandered through the yard on his own, kids giving him a wide berth in case getting hurled across a classroom was contagious. Me and KC were smoking behind the wall. KC was a year older than me. His real name was Kevin Chester, but he called himself KC because he thought his real name sounded gay. He was fucking right.

Wasn’t just his name, either. When he got drunk, KC was always dancing and taking his clothes off, even when there weren’t any girls around. But if you reminded him of it when he was sober, he punched you on the fucking arm. KC switched schools and had to start the eighth grade all over because he wasn’t achieving his full potential. His grades were so bad his parents were afraid he’d grow up to be President of the USA.

“Maybe we should talk to the new kid,” said KC.

“And say what?”

“I dunno. Anything. Tell him you’re sorry about his family blowing up.”

“You fuckin’ idiot. He was making all that shit up about his family. That’s why Griff threw him out.”

“Oh. Really? I thought he was just lying about the dog.”

Kevin’s dad drove a limo, and I don’t mean he was no chauffeur. He worked for some big chemical corporation and smoked cigars and wore a smoking jacket in the home. When I first saw this smoking jacket I thought it was some kind of comedy robe. If I visited Kevin’s house, his dad always shook me by the hand like I was an old friend and asked about my parents. Kevin’s dad wouldn’t have known my mom and dad if he’d driven over them in his fucking limo.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” says Kevin. “Switching to a new school is the worst fuckin’ feelin.”

“Worse than what? Worse than having boiling oil poured in your ears?”

“Fuck you.”

“Anyway, you did know somebody. You already knew me when you came to this school.”

“Exactly, Newton.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever the fuck you want it to mean.”

“You already done the eighth grade once. You’re familiar with all the fuckin’ subjects. You said so yourself. What’s so tough about that?”

Kevin punched me on the shoulder.

The last school KC went to was this Catholic place run by a bunch of real monks. Except instead of being all peaceful and holy, these were the kind of monks that stank of sweat and twisted guy’s nipples when they stepped out of line. I told KC that twisting nipples was illegal. KC said that if it was in the Bible, it’s okay for monks to do it.

Kevin got a lot of shit from his mom and dad, about how he had to work real hard to fulfill his dream. What dream? Far as I know, he didn’t have a dream, apart from wanting to own a Harley someday. Kevin was a big tough kid with real muscles but when his dad told him he was letting down his family, he cried like a baby. I saw him do it once.

“You comin’ round Maya’s house tonight?”

Maya was allegedly Kevin’s girlfriend. She was twelve years old, with no tits whatsoever. That kind of thing might go down well in Mississippi, but it looks pretty sick in New Jersey.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Her cousin’s comin round. Mirabeth. Did you ever hear such a stupid name?”

“How old is she? Seven?”

This time, he tried to kick me. It was a pretty half-assed attempt, though. For an athlete, Kevin was getting a little porky. Every day, his lunchbox has about two million cookies in it. Kevin says this is because his mom used to be trailer trash and never had enough to eat as a kid. But her dad, KC’s grandpa, worked real hard until one day, he became the trailer trash that owned the trailer park. Suddenly Kevin’s mom found she could eat all the cookies she wanted. And now she made sure her little boy always had his fill of cookies too, so he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd of Americans.

“You scared?” said KC.

“What of?”

“I dunno,” said KC. “I just feel something bad is going to happen.”

“That’s right,” I said. “It’s called the rest of your fucking life.”

That night, KC called for me. We were going to hang out at the mall, spitting off of the balcony before going over to Maya’s. On the way, we saw old Johnny Seven sitting on his bike outside a house with paint peeling off the front door. There was an old fucked-up pickup truck parked in the drive.

“Yo,” I said. “What’re you doing here?”

“I live here,” he said.

A big freight train rattled by. The railroad ran past the back of Johnny’s house. We had to wait until the train had passed before we could hear ourselves talk.

“Your name’s really Johnny Seven?” said Kevin, with a big smile. “That’s one cool fuckin’ name.”

“But it’s not seven like the number,” said Johnny. “It’s got an ‘r’ in it.” He spelled it out for us. “S-e-v-e-r-n.”

“Oh. I prefer Seven,” said Kevin.

“My uncle says Johnny Seven was the name of a toy you could buy when he was a kid. It was a plastic rifle with toy grenades that you could actually fire.”