THE BACKPACK OF DARREN GREY

A new-starter clutches beige copybooks, bounces up the top-deck heading to home cooking, week one under his new George belt.

Sixth-former falls into seat behind like loose lumber, tie short with wide slack knot and strokes his soul patch, bops a plastic bottle on a silver rail.  Backwash swims around in the neck like low tide.

Outside autumn falls to the floor in amber flakes.  A Knife Awareness sticker peels away on the window. 

‘Listen up!’  He bottle-bops kid's bonce.

The surprised kid fumbles his fringe back into sleek shapes, lamps innocent.

‘See that sticker?  Knives?  You heard about Darren Grey?’  Sixth-former says.

‘Finking on a lunchbag?’ 

‘Darren was a unit; got a cautionary tale.  About knives.’

Bus shakes and starts out into slow traffic.

‘Be careful what you wish for; message straight off!  Darren Grey had epic bad skin, didn’t look anyone in the eye, hunched inside his fleece collar ALL the time.  Even summer.  No catalogue-shopper though.  More spot than skin!  Clique of wannabe Barbie’s, mumblers, planned their boyfriends to jump him, bunch of Johnny No-Stars would have done it; burst the lot but I got Heather, right swamp-donkey, to Skype’n me on me ma’s ipad, told her it was a bad idea.  Stepped up for him.’

New-starter’s turned round, kneeling up, facing backwards.  Bus babble a background blur to him.

‘No one hardly took the piss neither.  Never seen the blue goldfish even.  Untouchable!  Skin DESTROYING him.  Always alone.  Collar up eyes down.’  Sixth-former continues.

Bus is rumbling between redbrick towns and farmer’s fallow fields.

‘Acne in geometric shapes!  Like alien language!  Tried to hide behind his fringe.  Hair was TOO fly-away.  MESSIER somehow.  Frozen in class KNOWING everyone stares - no EMPATHY; FASCINATED!  Nose ALWAYS shiny taut red.  Getting it, Youngblood?’

‘Spotty kid.  Suffering.’  New-starter squeaks.

‘Yes!  SUFFERING!’

The bus shakes into a high street.  Nail bars and takeaways.  Second floors feature faded ads.  New flats got sale signs stood inside.

‘Used to sit where you are.  At the front where no one could see his face.’  Sixth-former points.

Kid glances at the garish burnt orange bench.    

‘Found him in the bogs dodging woodwork gurning in the mirror. I was touching cloth!  He’s doing some catalogue pose, fingers covering up the worst of it.  Seeing how he COULD look.  Saw me and said I’M DOING SOMETHING ABOUT THIS.’ 

‘What’d he do?’

‘Next Monday not in.  Tuesday, his skin was clear!’

The bus stops opposite the station.  Coats and scarves scramble thru dragging double doors.  Then it dips into traffic, heavy with the day.

‘New Nike backpack.  All zips and pockets.  NEVER took it off!   NEVER OPENED IT!  NEVER TOOK ANYTHING OUT!  Got arrogant too, bogging everyone in the corridor.  Rumours of a knife.’  Sixth-former draws a cock in window condensation.

‘How’d he do it?’

The bus crunches over loose gravel and grit lost by lorries lumbering off the small quarry’s weigh-bridge.

‘Hid in the chemistry teacher’s class at breaks.  She’s all kinder surprise but keg-legs, you know.  Saw them drive off after school on the Friday.’

     Backwash sloshes in the bottle.  Bus opens up into the outside lane. 

     ‘Wednesday wet break, pissing down sheets, flattening bushes.  I was down by science.  Darren’s in the demountable with her.  I creep up.  Investigating.  It’s weird - no one’s saying much.  She opens his bag with it still on his back.  She’s dabbing ointment inside the bag.  I got to see INSIDE that bag.  She gives him pills he takes.’

     Kid is an open mouth.  Bus slides up a slip road.

     ‘Next - lunchtime in the library.  Still raining.  Darren’s whispering to this girl never looked at him before.  I trigger the fire alarm.

     ‘The girl ran.  I blocked him.  He weren’t happy, moomyang you know?  I spin him round; unzip the backpack.’

     The bus stops by small semis surrounded by soggy wasteland, hungry horse’s dobby behind barbed wire. 

‘His blazer moved with the bag right?  Was stitched to his jacket!  Tug the zip back and there’s his bare back!  Fire alarm hid his squeals.’

     Bus turns into traffic steel ticking.

     ‘Come on!  I get off soon.’  News-starters rocking back and forward.

     ‘Me too!  So, fire alarm’s wailing, windows rattling, Darren’s struggling.  I get the bag open – inside of the bag is cut out!’

     ‘What you find?’ Kid all ears and eyes.

     ‘Giant-fucking-super-spot!  His whole back!  Many heavy-headed beast.  Red and white.  Bulbous and blind.  Scabbed and weeping.  Dry and wet-fresh.  All keggy.  He runs off.  I throw up, technicolor yawn.  Nearly boffed up me ring.  Anyway – his face all cleared up right?  By consolidating his acne in one monster bitch on his back!  Thru chemistry!’

     ‘Chemistry teacher did that!?’  Kid quickly looks thru the windows at where they are.

     ‘So, ended up in the bogs, dunny by science lockers.  Wind still fierce, rain sheeting down loud as fire alarm is.  I say sorry and he SEETHES!

     ‘Then she comes in.  Chemistry Miss.  Zips him up.  And he’s well angry, shaking, pulls a knife!  Stanley knife out of woodwork looks like.’

     She shove’s him backwards quick like she was waiting for it – his bag goes hard into a hand-dryer.  He screamed.  It burst . . . noise like wet leather.  Shotgun blast on a camel hump.’  He strokes his soul patch.  Eyes far away.

     Bus stops at traffic lights showing red.

     ‘Blood floods the tiles.  So dark.  Scream cuts off sudden.  Falls down on his face bag all wet flaps.’  Sixth-former shudders.

     ‘She goes, I CANT HELP HIM ANYMORE, YOU BEST GET OUT, her eyes all wide.  I left.’

     Kid stands.  ‘Got to get off.  Quick!’

     ‘Never heard anymore about it.  Rumours of him moving away but he had to be dead.  Enormous wound.  Had to be.’

     ’That’s all?’

     ‘Yep.  Beware what you wish for.  Don’t carry knives.’

     He shot downstairs, out the doors and looked up.

     The bus pulls away.  The sixth-former slowly makes his way down bopping his bottle of backwash.