30 January 2013 / 08:32
Noah Groome is strung out. He can’t concentrate, can’t think straight. He’s overslept this morning, for the 13th time in a row, and now he’s running late. 13 times his alarm has failed to wake him, 13 times he has had to leave his room without checking that all is where it should be, as it should be. 13 dog-nights, yipped into shreds.
Everything is off-kilter, out of balance; the scales are tipping, and Noah doesn’t have time, can’t find time, to set it all to rights.
He’s hurrying now, head bent, to get to class.
Move it.
A hissing from the Dark. A blur of shadow gathers as Noah tries to get things right.
He stops. Takes a minute he can’t afford to breathe in … 2 3 4 5 and out … 2 3 4 5.
He needs more time, to call on the 5s to restore order, but there’s none to spare. He’s so late, but he’ll slip into the back row as quietly as he can. That’s what he always does, that’s where he always sits.
Noah is tall. Taller than most of the boys in his class, but he does his best to be unseen. It doesn’t work, though. He’s the one who:
1. cannot open a door unless he pushes on the handle 5 times (down-up-down-up-down).
2. taps his fingers (1 2 3 4 5) and beats out 5 with his feet.
3. counts under his breath, and sometimes louder than that.
4. takes his pen out of his pocket and puts it back in (and out-in-out) before he can start writing.
5. keeps 5 pebbles in his pocket to run through his fingers like worry beads.
And that’s just the start of the 5s.
It’s hard for them not to notice him. He can’t move without counting under his breath, can’t pass a corner without tapping it quickly 5 times. He’s that boy who slips along corridors, a lanky shadow, head down, counting the steps between classrooms. He tries to stay below the radar. He offends no one, but he can’t make himself invisible.
Today, Kyle Blake is also late, as are three of his friends, but not because they’ve been counting the tiles in the boys’ washroom, not because they can only step carefully in sets of 5. The smell of nicotine is strong on them and Noah’s nostrils flare; his lip pulls back.
‘Hey, what’s with you, Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-Noah?’ Kyle is almost as tall as Noah, with the pale, etiolated look of a weed that has shot up in the dark. His chin and cheeks are dotted with acne and his blond hair flops over his forehead and falls into his eyes. He jabs Noah in the chest.
All Noah wants is to get to class and not be too late for English, not hear Mrs Simpson ask, Late again, Noah?, but Kyle has chosen this moment to have some fun with him. He steps away, but Kyle is in his path, weaving from side to side as Noah tries to get past him.
‘What’s the problem, Nuh-nuh-nuh-Noah?’ Kyle’s friends laugh as he taps Noah on his left arm and then on his right. Noah feels the Dark stir.
You don’t have time for this.
‘Hey, Nuh-Noah?’ Kyle’s hand moves up to Noah’s face, taps him on the cheek—
Noah wants to get away, that’s all he wants, that’s what he tells Dr Lovelock, six afternoons later: I wanted to get to class, that’s why I pushed him.
It’s not much of a shove, but Noah keeps his body fighting fit, exercising daily, morning and night (when nothing interrupts his routine, when he has time to make sure everything’s as it should be, before he opens the door – down-up-down-up-down – to face a new day).
Kyle goes sprawling and the three boys behind him snigger. Then Kyle is up and leaping onto Noah, grabbing at him, his breath hot and foul in Noah’s face.
There’s no time for this.
That’s when Noah twists Kyle’s arm up and back.
The sound is a dull pop in the quiet corridor. Kyle wavers, his arm at a weird angle. There’s a split second between that and his mouth opening with a howl.
Now look what you’ve done.
Noah steps back, feeling it again: Kyle’s arm in his hand, the way his elbow just gave, the sudden yell.
‘What’s all this racket?’
It’s Mr van Blerk, his classroom door open, looking at Kyle, taking in his oddly dangling arm. ‘My God, what’s happened?’
And then Kyle is jabbing the air with his good hand, pointing. ‘Groome,’ he pants. ‘That bastard’s broken my arm.’