Tom’s day had started well.
The posters were working: there had been two sightings of Spider so far, and he was quietly confident his dog was still in the area. A farmer had called the previous afternoon, and told him he’d seen a black and white mongrel, scavenging with a fox. Phil had taken Tom out there on his moped, and they’d scouted the lanes round about, and put up more notices. They would go out again that evening, to follow up the other report, which was from a woman in a nearby village. She’d phoned to complain: she’d seen a dog similar to the one in the photo worrying the ducks. Tom had to hope and pray Spider would stay where he was—the thought of him crossing roads by himself brought tears to the boy’s eyes.
“You go to school,” said Phil. “As soon as you’re home, we’ll get out there.”
“I want to go now.”
“You can’t. And don’t tell your dad: what we’re doing is illegal. I’m not licensed for passengers, Tom.”
“I know that. Thank you.”
Phil paused.
“I spoke to your mum as well,” he said. I told her what’s happening, and she—”
“It’s none of her business. I’m not talking to her, Phil, and you can’t make me. If she’s unhappy about it, that’s fine—she deserves to be.”
“You need to talk to her,” said Phil.
“Why?”
“Because… look at you. You’re like a bomb at the moment, and you’re going to explode. If you don’t talk to her, or to your dad—or to someone—”
“What is there to say? I’m sick of talking.”
“And the fight?”
“What fight? It wasn’t a fight, I told you. It was rugby.”
“Oh, come on! That’s not what the school said. Who’s the counsellor? What’s his name?”
“Warburton, and he’s useless.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“No.”
“Then listen to me, Tom. If you’re being bullied, you need to speak to him. You don’t have to put up with it.”
Tom snorted.
Phil stared into his eyes, until the boy looked away. He pulled his blazer on and walked to the front door, pausing at the mirror. The bruising had faded to a sick-looking yellow, and most people had stopped commenting on it. Robert Tayler always grinned triumphantly, but it hadn’t been hard to keep out of his way—most of the time.
All Tom wanted was his dog. He could endure any amount of loneliness and misery at school if there was still a chance of finding Spider. Spider was out there, somewhere, waiting for him—and Tom would find him.
He sat at the front of the classroom, trying to concentrate.
It was the last lesson before break. This one was PSHE, and they were discussing the importance of relationships. The whole class was restless, for the worksheet seemed particularly patronizing.
The first question was: What makes a good friend? There was a smiley face on the left, and a sad face on the right.
Tom gritted his teeth, and started to sketch Spider in the margin.
“Hey, Lipman,” said the boy next to him.
It was a whisper, for they were supposed to be working in contemplative silence. He drew the ears and muzzle, and started on the neck.
His neighbour hissed again, and nudged him.
“Lipman! You’re wanted.”
Tom looked round, and there was his enemy. Robert Tayler gave Tom a bright, friendly wave, and held up a note.
The teacher didn’t notice because she was drawing a huge pie chart on the whiteboard, with her back to the class. The word loyal stood out in blue.
Rob saw his opportunity, and skimmed the paper forward. It landed on the floor, but a nearby girl picked it up and sneaked it on to Tom’s desk.
Tom unfolded it.
That dog you lost, the note said. It’s black and white, isn’t it?
He turned around again and nodded. Then he mouthed the word “Why?”
Rob started writing again.
The next note said, I think I saw him this morning.
Tom felt his heartbeat change. His hands immediately became clammy, but he tried to stay calm.
He wrote WHERE? Then he scribbled the obvious, urgent question: Are you sure it was Spider?
The note went back to Rob, and the teacher just missed it. She had the board pen in her hand and was scanning the class.
“What else do we want our friends to be?” she asked.
“Truthful,” said someone.
“Sexy,” said someone else.
“No, let’s keep it serious,” said the teacher. “Let’s be sensible, shall we? What else? What makes a really good friend?”
“They have to be trustworthy,” said a girl.
“Oh, definitely. Tom, what are you thinking?”
“He wouldn’t know, miss,” said someone.
The back row sniggered, and the teacher ignored it. She looked at Tom, remembering that his name had been flagged up by email that very morning. He was someone to watch and support, so she smiled at him encouragingly, and asked, “What’s the most important thing for you, Tom, when it comes to friendship?”
There was more laughter, and the teacher held up her hand.
“I’m sure you do,” she said. “What a thing to say, Tom. Tell us what you’re really thinking.”
Tom sighed, wishing he hadn’t spoken, and wondering how he could get out of the spotlight. The teacher looked genuinely interested, so he decided to say what he felt.
“Look,” he said. “If you make a real friend, I think you should hang on to them, the same as… the same as the people in your family. You shouldn’t ever let them go, because…”
“Because what?”
“Once they’re gone, they’re gone. If they betray you, or treat you badly: that’s it. It’s over.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What, no forgiveness? Isn’t that a bit harsh?”
“It’s common sense,” said Tom. “Maybe some people like being hurt, but I can do without it. I think…”
“What? Quiet, please—let’s hear what Tom thinks. This is interesting.”
“You’re better off on your own, in the end.”
“Well!” said the teacher. “That’s a thoughtful, honest answer. But what does Tom really mean by being ‘better off on your own’? Let’s get into our groups, and feed back in five.”
There was an instant stir of activity.
Group work meant relative freedom: you could turn round in your seat and have a nice conversation, so as the teacher went back to the board the noise level rose dramatically.
Tom was looking for Rob again, and saw that he had his head down and was scribbling hard.
He glanced up at Tom, and smiled. He put his pen down, then, and folded the paper. It was easy to lob it forward, and Tom opened it with trembling hands.
Sorry, old buddy, said the note. It was Spider, and he’s roadkill. We passed him in the bus: black and white dog, flat as a pancake. Try not to cry, black-eyes.
Tom read the words carefully, twice, and found that he was standing up. The paper was in his hand, and he was on his feet, reading it for the third time. Either the class had gone quiet, or he’d gone deaf.
Robert Tayler was looking straight at him.
“Don’t blame me,” Rob said. “I thought you should know the truth.”
“What’s wrong?” asked the teacher.
“He’s had a shock, miss,” said someone.
“He needs his mum.”
“He’s wet himself.”
“Hush,” said the teacher. “Sit down, please, Tom. Let’s try to stay focused on what you said. ‘Being alone’ is quite an emotive phrase.”
Tom was struggling to breathe. He was hot, and his feet felt too heavy to move. He took a pace forward and steadied himself against a table. Then he was at the door, and the handle felt cold in his hand. He heard his name being repeated, but he kept walking. All he could think about was the horror of what Rob had just told him. The teacher was calling loudly, but there was no point turning round or going back: he wouldn’t be able to speak.
He staggered out into the corridor and went quickly past the science labs. There was a boys’ toilet, and he stepped into it. A mirror showed him the same face as usual, but that was impossible because his insides were melting, and everything had changed. Did he want to sit down? No. Did he want to wash, or run cold water over his head? No, because there was no point doing anything ever again.
The note was there in his hand, and the words were big and clear. He turned the page over, and there were more on the back: Dead dog, they said, and there was a picture of a truck going over a mangled animal. Its mouth was turned down to look sad, and the artist had even planted it in a lake of crimson blood.
Tom could not cry.
There were no tears available, because the heat inside him had burnt them away. He would never cry again, for he was hollow. Spider was on the roadside, dead, and it was just as he had feared. You saw it all the time: dogs raced across the road, and were hammered flat on the tarmac. The wheels turned them to furry mats, and he’d sometimes wondered what happened to the bodies—if they got scraped up by the people whose job it was to clean the roads, or if other animals dragged them off for food. A sob rose from deep inside, but he swallowed it and left the toilets.
He chose a different corridor, and a teacher he didn’t know glanced at him and stopped.
“Excuse me, young man,” he said. “Where should you be?”
“Nowhere.”
“What?”
“Nowhere, sir. Anywhere.”
“Who’s your tutor? What do you mean?”
Tom ignored him and set off again.
“Hey!” said the teacher. “Stop a moment, please. Why aren’t you in class? Where are you going?”
Tom couldn’t speak any more, so he didn’t try. He kept moving, for he had no voice, and no interest in anyone’s questions. He was aware of the teacher hurrying after him, but there was nothing the man could do. Tom could walk for ever, out of the building and out of the school. He could keep going for however long it took, until he got to some part of the country where there were high cliffs, and then he could step off the edge of the highest, straight into the abyss.
He found himself at the library and went inside. The teacher was still behind him, but he moved on past the displays, for he knew where he was going now. He went to the office, at the back, because that was where Mrs Mourna worked. He opened the door, hoping she’d be there, but knowing in his heart that she wouldn’t be. He knew now that people disappeared when you needed them most: her chair was bound to be empty.
In fact, she was sitting at her desk.
“Tom,” she said quietly.
The other teacher stayed back.
Mrs Mourna was wrapping a book in clear plastic. Her face changed, and she rose to her feet at once. He became aware only of the silence in the room.
“What’s the matter, love?”
His eyes were wet. He was crying after all, and he could feel his face imploding as he made noises he had never made before. He held up the note, but Mrs Mourna didn’t read it. She simply put her arms around him, and Tom clutched her as the tears gave way to deep, shuddering sobs. Reality crashed down harder than ever, for it had dawned on him that Spider really wasn’t coming home. That meant home was emptier than ever—as empty as his heart, which had been emptied by forces he didn’t understand but could still feel, draining his blood and leaving him weak. His mother had left his father, which meant she’d left him. Spider had left, too, and now he was dead.
He’d reached the end, and it was the end of the end of everything.