Page 3 of The Cut
Catherine Maddock nudges her older sister and giggles as they watch the boys play a ridiculous fainting game. It never works, but they live in hope of at least one of them hitting the deck.
‘Hey, Annie, Mark’s up next, look.’ Cat grips her leg nervously.
Cat and Mark Cherry are best friends; they play music together. She’s brilliant on the clarinet and Mark plays the cello so obsessively that they call him Mark Cello, or Marcello for short. In fact, right now his cello is propped up on the bench, with Cat silently guarding it.
The girls watch Mark puffing in and out to the countdown from the circle of lads, gathering pace.
‘Four, three, two … blow!’ The chant is led by Lynette Davis.
She’s not quite one of the lads but wants to be and is just one initiation away from being ‘allowed in’.
Mark has his fist to his mouth, his cheeks red and bloated as he blows into his thumb.
For a second, everyone stands and watches in silence.
‘Oh shit!’ Cat is up on her feet as Mark sways unsteadily and then collapses to the ground, hitting his head on the kerb. ‘Mark, are you all right?’
‘Gaylord’s down!’ The boys are raucous, whooping and jumping off the substation, gathering round to look. Mark Cherry is out cold. Cat is gently tapping his cheek.
‘Mark? Mark, are you OK?’ His eyes flutter. Cat grabs her bag and pulls out a Kia-Ora juice drink. She pops the straw into the little hole and tries to put it into Mark’s mouth as Annie cradles his head.
‘He looks really pale … Mark?’ Nurse Cat’s voice is frantic as she tries to loosen his school tie.
It’s been cut short and is frayed at the bottom, the knot yanked tight into a ‘peanut’; another of 15 the boys’ silly rituals.
She leans in slowly, almost close enough for a kiss, but Mark suddenly revives with a huge grin on his face and quaffs a mouthful from the straw.
‘Get off me.’ Orange juice dribbles down his chin. Cat pulls back, a little startled, and then winces at the rebuttal. ‘How long was I out?’ He turns and clambers on to his knees, still woozy, eyes flicking to the circle of lads. ‘I did it! Everyone look, I did it … I fainted!’
Cat props him up, keeping the juice straw in his mouth like she’s administering fluids in ICU.
‘Just sit still for a while.’ She places a hand on his forehead and he shrinks back from her touch, slightly embarrassed, his eyes still searching for validation from the other boys.
He did win the game, after all. If hyperventilating to unconsciousness was some kind of new Olympic sport, he just took gold.
But the wall of black-blazered backs tells him nobody’s bothered.
Something far more important is happening. Top Dog has arrived.
Ben slings his red leather Nottingham Forest football bag to the front of the line and sweeps a hand through his mop of golden hair.
Annie is up on her feet and moving towards him, her body gliding without consciousness like metal to a magnet.
There’s a huddle of chatter as his mates gather round the Gary Barlow lookalike.
Cat and Mark watch on from the sidelines, not old enough or cool enough to be part of the gang.
‘All right, listen up. I know we have GCSEs and all that, but this is the last year that we’re all going to be together.
’ He glances at Annie. ‘So, I have a plan. I want us to build an amazing den down at the mill.’ Ben juts his chin towards the church, in the direction of The Cut that leads to Cheney End.
Blackstone Mill is legendary around these parts.
A colossal, smoke-blackened stone structure built by the Victorians in the 16 mid-1800s, it was originally a weaving shed powered by a water wheel.
Over the years, it has been a printing house, a school, an air-raid shelter and even a garage where the local dads would get their cars MOT’d.
But a fire put an end to that, and it’s been wrapped in barbed wire and declared out of bounds ever since.
To Ben, it’s a forbidden fortress, a challenge waiting to be accepted.
‘I want us to get to the top of the chimney stack and make a lookout post. We’ll call it the Crow’s Nest. We’ll need all hands on deck. Everyone in?’
Mark and Cat watch as backs are slapped and fives are highed. Ben finally glances over at Annie and smiles as the sun breaks through the clouds.
A burgundy and cream coach pulls around the corner by the phone box, creating a sudden flurry of boisterous energy. A riot begins as bags are snatched from the kerb queue and the boys shove and jostle to be first on the bus, as the girls hang back, rolling their eyes and chewing gum.
‘Oi, Marcello, get out the way, you big poof.’
Mark is elbowed and pushed as he tries to get in line, hugging his cello like it’s a small child, protecting the bridge from being crushed.
Annie is last to board. She looks up to the back seat as Ben watches her, drawing a heart on the steamed-up window with an arrow through it and patting the seat next to him.
Annabel smiles, shakes her head and begins to parade slowly up the centre aisle of the coach.
She looks over to Mark and her sister, who are deep in conversation, fixes her chestnut hair into a ponytail and turns over the waistband of her skirt to shorten it an extra inch above the knee.
She slides in next to Ben and turns to him with serious eyes.
‘No distractions this term, Ben. My mocks were a disaster and Dad says I need to knuckle down.’ 17
Ben glances down to the inch of skin between her short skirt and thigh-high socks.
‘No distractions.’ He swallows and slides his arm over her shoulder, slumping deep into the seat.
As the coach pulls away, headed for the sports complex, across the aisle a pair of eyes spy on them through the reflection of the glass. Watching Annie’s every move as she nestles her head into the crook of Ben’s arm, scrutinising every detail.
Ben smiles at Annie. ‘Your dad’s right, better knuckle down and buckle up.’ 18