C.J. Skuse - The Deviants

Max poked his head through the gap in the French windows. ‘Did I just hear right? You put your cat on your skateboard ?’

I threw Max a death stare and turned back to Corey.

‘OK, so you put him on your board. Then what?’

‘The board went too fast. He got to the bottom of the close where there’s that hilly bit and then the kerb. And it flipped him up and he crashed into the wall.’

I felt bad for Corey, but not for Voldemort. I couldn’t stand that cat. It was always wailing outside our French windows, waiting for my dad to make a fuss of it. He even bought tuna for it – from the Finest range. I didn’t really like animals, anyway, and cats were the worst of all. And Mort was the worst of all cats. He hated me. His yellow eyes were full of it, like it was thinking, I know your secret.

‘Right. Well, we better go and scrape him up then. I’ll help you bury him.’

Corey pulled back, wiping his nose on his jumper sleeve. ‘No, he’s not dead,’ he said. ‘He got up straight away and ran off. I haven’t seen him since. But he could be injured, Ella. Dying somewhere. We need to look for him.’

‘Why didn’t you start looking?’ said Max, poking his head through again. ‘Why wait for Ella?’

Corey didn’t respond to that. ‘Can you help me, Ella? Please? I don’t know where to start. What if Zane’s found him? He might do something to him.’

Then I knew for sure who the figure was, standing under the lamp post. It had been Zane. I’d seen him a few times in our road, or thought I’d seen him. He didn’t live round here, though. He lived on the seafront.

‘OK, Corey, let’s get looking. We’ll find Mort, I promise.’

Corey leaned in for a hug. ‘I knew you’d help me,’ he said.

‘Max’ll help too,’ I said. ‘Won’t you, Max?’

Max rolled his eyes, but flicked his fag butt outside onto the flagstones. At once, I barged past him and went to stamp it out, just in case the world burned down.

‘Why did you feel like you had to help?’

5

An Old Friend One month earlier – 9 July

Corey’d had a crap life. Not only had he been born with a disability but his junkie dad died of an overdose when Corey was months old; his junkie mum killing herself a year later. He’d got lucky with his grandparents. They took him in, wrapped him in home knits, organised physio and speech therapists and treated him like a little prince. But at school, he was one of the loners; one of ‘those’ kids with an aura of stay-away about them. The last few years had leached something out of him. He looked like Kurt Cobain gone wrong, with his shaggy, dirty-blond hair, baggy jeans and cardigans. He had this low, almost apologetic voice. We’d barely spoken in months.

I still saw him around town, though; a headphone zombie skulking in doorways, sitting on walls eating pasties from a Greggs bag, or in the churchyard, reading comics and fantasy novels. He worked at the computer shop in town, had about six Twitter followers and idolized his cat, Mort. All his Instagram posts were pictures of Mort reaching up to paw at a toy mouse or wearing a little sombrero next to a stand-and-stuff taco.

Everyone knew what Zane was like with Corey. We’d seen the spit glistening in his hair, the bend in his glasses. I was afraid Zane had done something to Mort. And it would be my fault if he had. Our last day of school, I’d been in the girls’ changing rooms when I heard noises outside:

‘Please, please don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t, I swear, I promise. No! Pleeeeease!’

‘Go on, have it!’

Cough Cough. Nggghhhhhhhhh.

‘Do it!’ A burst of laughter.

Cough. Aaaarggghhh. Nggghhh.

It was coming from outside, by the wheelie bins, so I stood up on the bench and peeked through the top-opening window. There were three of them around Corey, who was on the ground, curled up like one of those little cellophane fish you get in Christmas crackers. His cries echoed off the bins – muffled, because he had a banana skin in his mouth. Zane Walker kicked him in the stomach. Then the other two joined in, and I felt every kick like it was ricocheting back onto me. A fire started to glow in my belly.

‘Streak of piss. You wet your pants yet? Let’s have a look,’ came Zane’s unmistakable Essex twang. One of his mates yanked down Corey’s trousers.

Without any more thinking, I grabbed a hockey stick from the pegs, ran to the fire exit and banged down on the bar, bursting through into the open air.

‘Get off him!’ I yelled, gripping the stick with both hands to stop them shaking.

Corey squirmed away to yank up his trousers as the other boys turned to me. Three pigs – Zane Walker, Danny Leech and Andrew Tanner. Danny Leech did rugby and was a good shot-putter. He was also a wuss. He ran off straightaway, sunshine bouncing off his highlights.

Andy Tanner’s mum was a receptionist at our GP surgery. I also happened to know her pet name for him; I’d heard her call him once.

‘Run along, Piglet . Unless you want me to call Mummy and rat you out?’

Tanner went violently puce in both cheeks, gobbing on Corey’s hair as a parting shot. ‘Hit me up when you’re done, Walks. See you in town.’ They fist-bumped and Piglet swaggered off, giving me a finger on each hand as he went.

And then there was Zane.

He was a big guy these days; all hench and shaven-headed with a scowl in his eyes that could shatter glass. But I knew all his weak points. Fear of horror stories, horror movies, bees. Fear of being fat. But he wasn’t afraid of me. He’d taken me out in our judo bouts on Max’s living room carpet a million times. And he was a superstar fly-half on the rugby team now. He looked me up, then down, and laughed. ‘What do you care, Estella ?’

The fury took over, and I ran forward, ramming my whole body into him until his back hit the wall. I was strong, but I couldn’t hold him – he laughed, grabbing the stick and throwing it to the ground. Then he got right up in my face, so I could smell the Germolene on his zit scabs. Rage ran through my body like a bush fire. I got my stance, levelled my fists and swung my right arm back into a punch that I could hear sweeping the air. But I missed.

‘Ha! Try again, babe. You got a good action there.’

To my horror, I found myself doing the exact same thing.

‘You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,’ he said, killing himself laughing.

It was then that I saw the kitchen slop bucket by one of the bins.

‘And you’re lucky these are today’s leftovers.’ In one movement, I lunged across for the bucket and launched the contents straight over his head. In seconds, Zane was covered in a chunky, vomity goo of custard, mince, mash, soggy bread, chips, rice pudding, pasta and peas. The raging fire inside me fizzled into joy like popping candy.

‘Oh, you are DEAD,’ the Abominable Lunch Man roared, lunging after me. By the grace of God – and the vomity goo – he slipped as he came, landing hard on his backside.

‘Quick, come on!’ I said, grabbing the hockey stick and practically dragging Corey back through the fire exit before Zane dived after us.

We headed for the girls’ toilets, cuss words peppering the air behind us.

‘You’re dead! Both of you. Deceased !’

I locked the bathroom door behind us, barricading it with the hockey stick, then parked a shivering Corey on a toilet, his glasses hanging on his ear by one bent arm.

Within seconds, Zane was banging and kicking the door from the other side.

‘Get out here, bitch!’ Bang bang bang. ‘I’m gonna kill you!’

The door pulsed and rattled but I tried to take no notice, although really I was petrified. ‘He’ll go away in a minute.’