Piggy was called Piggy because he squealed like a pig. Really, exactly like a pig. That’s how I knew when I rounded the school gates and heard a pig squealing that it was Piggy in trouble.
I ran across the road into the estate, to the bearpit, the tiny playground we weren’t supposed to go in on account of fights and squishy condoms and needles and crisp packets smeared with glue.
I ran to join Terry, Peter and the guys leaned against the wall, and looked down.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
What? How’d Piggy get into this?
Piggy taking punches like a big fat punch-bag.
Bam! Bam!
His idea of fighting is sitting on you til you shout, ‘Submit!’ Fighting for laughs.
Bam! Bam!
This isn’t fair.
Terry’s shouting, ‘Fight, Piggy. Fight, man.’
Like Piggy has a chance.
There’s a big guy hitting him, a posh school kid in those stupid yellow britches. Not gay like the rest of them. Big. Fighter’s legs on him. Nice footwork. Hard punch.
Bam! he goes. Bam!
Posh Boy feints a punch. Piggy cringes, wobbles, squeals.
Terry’s screaming, ‘Take him, Piggy! Be a man!’
Peter’s sweating. Muscle in his jaw is twitching. Pete grabs Terry’s arm.
‘You’ve got to stop this, Tel. He’s getting hurt.’
‘You’re not turning chicken on me, are you?’
Small dark stain in Piggy’s trousers, getting bigger.
‘What’s the matter, Piggy?’ Posh Boy sneers. ‘Need the lavatory?’
No. No. No.
I’m down the steps and in the pit and shoving Posh Boy off. Piggy staggers for the steps. Posh Boy’s back on guard in just a second.
‘You want it?’
He shows me fists, big hard fists, grazed on Piggy’s face.
I don’t want it. I just wanted Piggy out of it.
Terry’s screaming, ‘Kill him, Pickles! Kill him!’
‘Breathe,’ says Biffo from my corner. ‘You’re the boss, now breathe and dance and keep him moving.’
I breathe. I dance. Posh Boy’s plodding after me.
‘Guard up,’ says Biffo. ‘Keep your guard up.’
The swings go by for, I don’t know, the hundredth time. I haven’t hit him yet and feels like we’ve been fighting all our lives.
I move my shoulder, draw my fist back.
Oh. No gloves … I’ll hurt my hand.
I pull my punch.
Posh Boy tries to pop one in.
I see it coming, yank my chin back, brush the punch off with my arm.
‘See that? Kid’s all open when he strikes.’
The lads scream, ‘Whack im! Punch im! Kick im in the nuts!’
I’m dancing. The balls of my feet are steel springs. It’s easy when you’re king of the skipping rope.
I’ve got moves in my head. Feint again. Posh Boy moves in. All open. Bam into his ribs. Bam. Bam. Bam. Watch him fall.
I feint.
Posh boy moves in.
I –
Boff!
Boinggggggg, I go.
Body jars. Head’s tingling, buzzing. Eyes wide open. Suck in air like magic glue. Weheyy! I’m flying! What happened? Was I hit?
‘Guard up,’ says Biffo. ‘Hold off. Dance. Recover.’
No way, Jose. I’m thinking Ali. Rumble in the Jungle. I can take it.
I’m in close, taking punches. I’ll let him waste himself.
Jesus, that hurts.
I hold off. Dance. Recover.
‘One good punch,’ says Biffo. ‘All we need.’
Yeah. Upper cut. Under his guard. Up into his solar plexus.
Here’s how.
Move in flat-footed.
Dig your toes into the ground.
Drive the power, all of it, into the punch.
‘Now you’re talkin, Kiddo. In through the belly. Up through the lungs.’
Posh Boy throws a loose and lazy roundhouse.
I dodge it, move in. Dig in. Drive the power.
Fast. Up. Hard.
Doooff, it goes.
Not at the boy. Through the boy.
Whoosh!
That’s good.
Air goes out of him. He slides down my leg.
I pull back, teeth grinding.
His mouth, stretched tight – puke down his chin. Hand grips his chest.
‘Knee him in the face!’ Terry screams.
I pull back. The crowd roars. I see Posh Boy in the spotlight. He’s going down, down, knees onto the canvas. Only it isn’t canvas.
Crack! He’s on the concrete, slumped, sobbing, wheezing.
Terry screams, ‘Kick him, Pickles!’
I won’t. Not because I’m a nice boy. I’m not a boy at all. I’m Ali. He’s Sonny Liston. A great big ugly bastard and he’s down and out and finished.
I’m standing over him, right fist cocked. Ali.
He looks up, blinks three times. His eyes are wet.
Ali would say something. Finish him that way.
There’s no hurry. He’s not getting up.
‘You’re only winded, ya big puff.’
The lads jeer. They like it.
‘Ambulanth,’ croaks Posh Boy. ‘Get an ambulanth.’
Wanker! Thinks he’s near dead when he’s only been winded.
I say, ‘Pith off, ya big wuth. Pith off.’
Silence.
Then they get it and they’re laughing, even Piggy, he’s grinning all over his fat tear-stained face.
I’m laughing. I’m lippy. I’m king of the world.
‘Two hits in it,’ murmurs Biffo. ‘Kid hits the boy. Boy hits the deck. Fuckin A. Don’t need me no more. Kid? You’re back in the game.’
Me, Peter and Piggy headed back towards the square. I didn’t ask them. They tagged along like in the old days.
Pete said, ‘Fuckinell, Harry –’
That was pretty wild for Peter. He never swore. I mean, if you knew him you’d understand that he was all wound up.
‘Fuckinell, Harry, where’d you learn to fight like that?’
‘Oh, you know. My Uncle Otis showed me some moves.’
Piggy said, ‘Glad he did is all I can say, Picks. I think you saved my life.’
I said, ‘How’d you get into it, Piggy?’
He blushed at the pavement. ‘Nother one of Terry’s brilliant schemes.’
Pete said, ‘I told you, keep your distance.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Piggy. ‘Easier said than done.’
I said, ‘How come Terry didn’t do his SAS karate on the posh kid?’
They both looked kind of shifty.
Piggy said, ‘You know what Terry’s dad does, Harry?’
‘Course. He’s SAS.’
‘Picks, he’s an accountant.’
‘That’s just a cover story.’
Pete said, ‘He really is an accountant, Harry.’
‘Days off, though, he’s SAS.’
‘Picks, days off his dad plays golf.’
‘He’s full of shit,’ said Peter.
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘It’s only arnica,’ said Pa.
‘Imagine he’s your patient,’ said Mo in her half-laughing way. ‘Then you might be a little more …’
‘Jesus, Pa!’
‘… gentle.’
‘Run me through it one more time,’ said Pa, lifting my shirt with one hand, squeezing my ribs with the other.
‘Ouch! I fell, all right? It’s no big deal, I fell is all.’
I fixed my eyes on the dark yellow oblong where the Picasso used to be.
‘Fell onto someone’s fist?’ he said quietly.
I watched the clock with no tocks.
‘Hey, Pa, you’d better shift it. You’ll be late for surgery.’
He let go my shirt. ‘Nothing broken. You’ll …’
Live, he was going to say.
‘You’re right, Harry. I should run.’
I was just thinking I’d got away with it when he took hold of my hands, held the knuckles to the light and leaned back so Mo could have a good gawp too.
‘I see the other fellow took a few,’ she said.
‘Too right. You should have seen him,’ I blurted, like a moron.
They cleared the dinner things. I lay in bed and wondered about all that stuff they never told me until the counsellor told them to.
About how army cadets and police on their knees had searched whole entire fields with their fingertips.
About the helicopters, sniffer dogs, police frogmen too.
About sightings in Bradford and Glasgow, Pontefract, Brighton and a few other places.
About the stupid creepy man who went to prison for saying he knew all about Daniel when he didn’t know zip.
About how Mo and Pa went on the telly to beg for Dan back.
Seemed the whole country had been out looking for Daniel. They should have told me before. It might have saved a lot of trouble. I suppose we just stopped talking for a while.
D’dee D’dee, said the train. Maybe one of those with office people in crumpled suits who sleep and let their mouths hang open. Some of them been for a drink, now and then burp. D’dee D’dee.
To keep from dreaming I listened for the next train, the next one, the one after that.
D’dee D’dee. D’dee D’dee.
They climbed the stairs. Opened my door. Had a good long look at me. D’dee D’dee. D’dee D’dee.
They whispered something mushy in the dark.
‘Se-bas-ti-ano,’ screamed his mum. ‘This is the very last time.’
The toilet flushed. Once for him. Once for her. Why not flush it all together? Humungous poos, most likely. Didn’t hear them brush their teeth. They must have done it, though.
D’dee D’dee. D’dee D’dee.
I heard Mo howl into her pillow, I heard Pa’s soothing mumble. It was all right. It happened every night, most mornings too. We’d got a beat back in our life and that was part of it.
We flew down the fast lane in Joan’s crappy Nissan. The driver had one hand on the wheel, wound down the window with the other, clamped something sticky on the roof. Playing cards flew. I gripped the dog cage. Wailers sounded. Cars pulled over.
Daniel, eyes closed, slumped against the door. His poor face bruised and grazed and black with blood.
‘Mo! Pa!’
‘Quit your shouting, Harry. I can hear you. Everything you need’s right there.’ Calm, calm. Otis was in charge.
We had to lie on our backs to hoist up the trousers, stiff brown dungarees with built-in boots and silver bands that shimmered in the dark. We sat up, pulled the jackets on, our yellow helmets, proper ones, not plastic.
I looked about me.
‘Where’s the water tank? Hoses?’
‘My department, Harry. Not your problem. You make sure your chin strap’s good and tight.’
We swerved off the motorway, bumped across a bumpy field, pulled up maybe sixty metres from the farmhouse. The night flashed and wailed with blues and twos. There were stables, barns and tractors. Windows glowed. The air smelled of bonfires. A red halo pulsed above us. Fire trucks rumbled, men set ladders and pulled hoses. Seemed like everything was made of Lego.
Otis opened up the back. We scrambled out.
‘Ready?’
I trotted to keep up with him. Every step the heat grew stronger. The air stung my eyes. I felt my nostrils widen, my chest fill with power. I wasn’t scared. I was ready. We were with Otis and he would look after us.
‘Come on, Dan! Hurry!’
‘He’s not coming with us.’ Otis, striding on.
Daniel stood, toes out, swinging his little red flowery watering can, the one he got from Woolies with his pocket money, like an idiot.
‘He’s right,’ said Dan. ‘It’s time for you to go.’
I would have argued, but Otis was a dot already, disappearing into the distance. Anyway, I knew what was required of me.
‘Sorry, Daniel.’
‘What for?’
‘Everything.’
‘It’s OK, Bro.’
We shook on it. Dan smiled. A rock filled my throat. Tears pricked my eyes. I hugged him so he wouldn’t see me crying. Helmets clanked together. I turned and ran with all my strength towards the fire.