Page 22 of The Cut

The School Lane runs left out of the gates at the rear of the building, off the concrete driveway where the buses pull in to Barton Mallet Secondary School.

The entire site is contained by a chain-link fence.

In the spring, it’s covered in bugle vine, Rutland beauty or, by its more common name, ‘granny pop out of bed’.

When the buds of the white trumpet-shaped flowers are gently squeezed, they leap off the vine and parachute to the ground.

By the end of summer, thousands of them are mulched into the tarmac path.

As the lane narrows, the chain-link fence turns into high wooden panels of larch lap, which border the gardens closest to the school.

The Cut is a dark footpath that slips between the detached residential houses with their posh conservatories and water features.

Mark Cherry lets his hand xylophone along the chain link, making sure to stay tight to the left-hand side just in case they’re there.

They usually are. There is another way home, but it’s heads or tails as to which one he risks.

A broken nose on the toss of a coin. There is a smell of musty damp wood from mildew at the bottom of the fence.

An ombré of moss green to silver-grey as it reaches the top is illuminated by the amber glow of a golden Christmas bell strung up to the streetlamp by the entrance.

Another lamp at the sharp-angled turn has been smashed, plunging the passage into darkness.

Mark’s heartbeat quickens and his eyes take a few seconds to adjust. His footsteps slow as the shadows and shapes come into focus.

His fingertips ripple across layers of splintered wood and he hoists the leather strap of his cello over his back, pulling it in tight.

His eyes find the small, concealed gap in the fence as he approaches the turn, his potential escape route.

As he reaches the corner, he pauses momentarily, peeping round.

The coast is clear. He holds his breath, then hastens towards the light.

Then he hears the footsteps behind him. Heads it is.

Every time Mark used The Cut, they would find him.

The beatings were all too frequent and yet Mark still took a gamble on which would be the safest way home.

Maybe he was willing them to finally finish him off.

In his restless dreams they left him for dead, and he’d look down from heaven at his own funeral to see if the bullies were sorry for what they had done, straining to find a glimmer of remorse on their faces.

Mark turns his head to glance back, but the bend of The Cut obscures his vision. A shadow appears, stretching out of the darkness as the person behind him quickens his stride. Mark’s head whips back to the sharp point of light and he runs for his life.

As he tries to make his escape, two black silhouettes calmly step out of the shadows and bar the way.

They’re holding baseball 125 bats, the manifestation of his worst nightmare.

Mark can’t breathe, his feet skid to a stop on the damp tarmac.

So near yet so far. He slinks deep into the shadow of the fence, wishing it would wrap around him, concealing him from sight.

The figures stand still and wait. Mark’s hands reach up to try and climb the fence, but the slimy wood is too slippery, his fingers catch on splinters and his feet can’t find purchase.

He crouches down and gathers himself for a second, head spinning.

It will be another beating for sure, and in the dark they don’t know how hard they kick and punch.

They don’t care. He slowly begins to walk towards his fate, legs quivering with fear and his head so light he might pass out.

A sudden rush from behind and his cello is snatched from his back.

It’s Chris Davis; he can smell the body odour.

His bag is yanked, the strap cutting into his neck as it’s torn free and flung over the fence into the Conker Lady’s garden.

Like predators about to pounce, there is a breathless pause, a gathering.

The first kick slams into Mark’s ribs as he scuttles sideways, pressing himself into the fence, instinctively protecting his face.

Other feet and fists are winding up to strike and Mark braces himself.

A sudden burst of white light explodes out of the darkness: the headlamps of a car.

A miracle. The attackers scatter like rats.

Chris Davis launches himself over the fence, the other two barge past and run back towards the school.

He can’t see their faces in the dark, but the sister, Lynette, and Dave would be the usual suspects.

Mark covers his eyes from the glare. Maybe it’s his dad but, in a way, that might be worse.

The high beam dims and the engine cuts out. A door slams, then a voice.

‘Come on, Marcello, hop in.’

A figure stands, like a Messiah, back-lit in a halo of light, mist rising off the silhouette like smoke from fire. Epic. 126

Mark looks over to the garden; his books are strewn across the muddy lawn. ‘I need to …’

‘I’ll get it.’ Ben’s hands reach for the top of the fence, and he is over like a cat.

A few seconds later, Mark’s bag flies back through the air, hitting him on the head, spilling the contents over the pathway.

By the time he’s scrambled to pick up his books, a pair of brogued feet are standing next to him.

Mark looks up into Ben’s smiling face, holding his cello out towards him. ‘Wanna lift?’

‘Why are you being nice to me? I thought …’ Mark swallows down the rest of the sentence as Ben jogs to the passenger side and opens the door for Mark, gesturing like a footman.

‘Get in, I want to talk to you.’

Mark settles into the passenger seat, gripping his instrument between his legs. He can hear loose wood rattling inside the case. Broken again.

Mark glances over to Ben. ‘You’re not supposed to be driving.’

‘Shut it, Marcello.’

The engine fires up and Ben swings a U-turn. He floors the accelerator but still the car crawls up Forest Hill at a snail’s pace.

‘So …’ Ben’s nervous, he crunches the gears.

‘So?’ Mark can smell his aftershave, his heart thumps hard in his chest. What does Ben Knot want with him?

‘I need a favour.’ Ben glances to the rear-view.

Mark tries not to stare at him through the dark glass of the windscreen. He focuses on Ben’s knuckles holding the steering wheel.

‘You’re good friends with Catherine Maddock, right?’

‘Er … I guess.’

‘Well, I’ve got a problem.’ Ben’s fingers grip the wheel tighter. ‘I need you to … big me up.’

‘How d’ya mean?’ Mark chews on his lips and turns his head. 127

Ben runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. ‘Put in a good word for me, with Old Farmer John.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Mark’s stomach begins to sink.

‘I want to go out with Annie properly, but Annie’s dad hates me.’ Forest Hill has turned into Albert Rise and Ben crunches the gear as Mark’s street draws close.

‘Is your dad doing OK?’ The question comes out of the blue.

Ben slows to a stop just at the corner of Mark’s road, the car bucks and the engine stalls. He switches off the ignition and turns to him. ‘Not doing so good, mate.’ The streetlamp casts over the lower half of Ben’s face as he exhales, his moist eyes hidden in shadow.

‘I’m sorry.’ There is so much to say but Mark doesn’t know how. ‘If there is anything I can do …’ He can’t look at him and reaches for the door handle. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

A hand reaches over and touches his shoulder. Fingers slide across Mark’s back, pulling him in for a buddy hug. Static electricity snaps across his neck with a jolt.

‘Easy there, jumpy.’ Ben removes his arm. ‘Just put in a good word for me with Mr Maddock, that’s what you can do.’

Mark waits for a few more seconds, paralysed by Ben’s touch. A combination of terror and desire. There is a shriek from a fox in a neighbouring garden.

‘And in return, I’ll call them off. The gang. They’ll leave you alone if I tell them.’ Ben’s arm retracts and a cold breeze from the open door hits them both.

Was it as simple as that? ‘Really?’ Mark’s eyes meet Ben’s.

‘Only if you do what I’m asking. Otherwise …’ He shrugs. ‘Not much I can do about them.’

There is some kind of pact between them now, a bond. Mark has seen into Ben’s world; he has witnessed his vulnerability, and 128 now Ben is about to lean on Mark for something he wants. In a reversal of fortune, Ben suddenly needs him.

Mark had fantasised about this. An impossible utopia, in which he and Ben are friends; or closer than friends, perhaps.

Mark’s imagination was a place he could disappear in, a place he often vanished to.

His books, his artwork and music helped him to exorcise some of his demons, but there was a deeper level of contemplation where he found solace.

Sometimes his dreams were so real it was hard for him to distinguish fantasy from reality.

But in that electrifying touch, in that squeeze of friendship to his shoulder, there had been something real. The glimmer of possibility.