Jones swallows before answering. “Just stopping him from bleeding everywhere.”
Baxter grunts, completely blanking me. “Hurry up, then; if Spencer catches you, you’re for it.”
Jones nods and goes back to cleaning me up, only this time he’s raised all his defences and won’t look at me.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, my pulse quickening from the rush of finding out who’s orchestrated these attacks on me.
“Nothing,” he mumbles. “Just be careful.”
“Who do I need to be careful of?” I ask, hoping he’ll let the name slip.
“Everyone,” he replies, rising to his feet. “You haven’t got a single friend here.”
Chapter 43
It doesn’t matter that nothing’s happened since that night. That they’re all leaving me alone now and I’m safe again. What matters is that everyone knows, and the only thing I don’t get is why they’re not rubbing my face in it. It’s as if that night’s been erased altogether from time.
A hammering on the door makes me jump out of my thoughts, and unable to stop myself from shaking, I turn round to see Baxter. “Ready?”
I nod and put my camcorder in my sports bag so I can take it with me.
“Remember what I said,” Baxter reminds me as I follow him down to the Main Hall. “Stay deep and wait for Finny to pass on the burst — you get too near the scrum, and their back line will flatten you.”
“Not you?” I say, noticing he turns to avoid looking at Jones, who’s also been demoted to the ranks of the unclean after he helped me.
“We’ve got a match to win,” he grunts, shoving me towards our bus. “Remember we’re going on the offensive and Lewis is their weak link. If you can’t run through or around their back line, kick the ball at him — got it?”
When we step out onto their pitch, the Leeds supporters in black outnumber us ten to one, but somehow Baxter’s managed to get everyone more hyped up than an American wrestler on crack, and it sounds like there’s a ten-thousand-strong choir singing the St. Bart’s anthem as we warm up. It’s just me who can’t be bothered with it all, and forcing my face into a fake smile as I catch Chrissie waving at me, I take my position for the start of the game.
Leeds wins the toss and kick-off, and it’s obvious they’re playing on the offensive too, so the moment I get the ball, all I’ve got to do is keep my head down and run. Ten minutes later, I slam down the first try and conversion of the game.
We’re not in the lead for long. Their fly-half plays a dummy ball and equalises five minutes later. Two dropkicks, and they switch to a defensive stance, but it doesn’t matter how many they pull back — I’m still the fastest on the pitch.
Finny hooks me the ball, and I’m off. Their back five form a defensive wall to stop me, and remembering my orders, I kick high towards their winger, and just as Baxter predicts, the idiot fumbles the ball. Speeding up, I scoop it up in my arms to a frenzy of shouts and run forward, and then something that feels like a speeding train slams into me, and it all goes black.
“All right, you lot; give him some air,” says a familiar gruff voice.
I open my eyes and blink to see a circle of faces looking down at me, some of which I don’t recognise. Parker’s and Baxter’s I do.
“You all right, Jarvis?” Parker asks.
I blink. I don’t think I’m hurt. I can’t feel anything painful. I try to sit up. Parker holds me down.
“How many fingers?” Parker asks, shoving his hand in my face.
I stare at three blurry fingers, but for some reason, I can’t seem to talk.
“What’s wrong with him?” It’s Chrissie, and squeezing past two of the Leeds players, she kneels down next to me and holds my hand.
“He’s probably just a bit concussed,” Parker tells her. “Has someone called an ambulance?”
“Sorry, mate,” says the Leeds winger, some tall square bloke with dyed black hair. “No hard feelings?”
I look at him. I don’t know what happened. The last thing I remember I was making a dash for the line. Then someone tackled me from the side, I lost my balance and fell on my head, and there was this crack…
“Why won’t he say anything?” Chrissie cries, looking to the others for answers.
I blink and move my mouth, but before I manage to utter a single word, the paramedics turn up, and after snapping a plastic neck brace on me, I’m stretchered off into the back of an ambulance and rushed to Leeds General Hospital.
Chapter 44
I’m all right. I’ve not broken my neck; they tell me I just have a mild concussion and a cracked rib, but something’s not right; they want to keep me in for forty-eight hours.
“Fond of biting your fingernails?” asks the doctor — can’t remember what his name is, but he seems all right, in a serious kind of way.
I look down at my bloody fingers and squirm.
“Don’t they feed you enough at that posh school of yours?”
“He gets three full meals a day,” says Parker, answering for me.
“He looks like he could do with getting four,” the doctor tells Parker before turning his attention to me. “So, Richard, how did you get those bruises on your back?”
I can’t tell him that Spencer kicked the shit out of me in the sickbay bathroom, not with Parker standing there. “Rugby, sir.”
“I’m Dr Price,” he tells me. “Not one of your masters.”
I risk looking at Parker, but I can’t tell if he’s worried about himself or me.
“Mr Parker, would you mind trying to get hold of Richard’s parents again?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll be outside when you need me.”
As soon as Parker’s gone, the doctor closes the door and sits down on the edge of my bed. “How do you like boarding school?”
“It sucks.”
“I can imagine,” he agrees with me. “I was a boarder myself; luckily, I didn’t get sent to St. Bart’s. It’s got quite a reputation…”
“Really?” I say, trying to sound surprised.
“Yes, there are quite a few horror stories about bullying there…” The doctor isn’t going to let it drop, and the coward in me wants a way out of this hell.
When Captain Howard first arrived in the trenches, he wrote that every night when he put his gun away, he thought about shooting himself in the foot to get sent back home. Luckily, I’ve not had to do anything so drastic. I was injured for real, in the line of duty and all that, and one word to the doctor could see me on the next plane back to Mumbai.
But the words stick in my throat because even though I’ve done nothing wrong, it’s, it’s not… it’s not, well… it just seems such a cowardly thing to do.
“Richard,” says the doctor when I’ve been silent far too long. “I promise you won’t get into any trouble.”
In a single breath, I change my mind ten times; this is far bigger than me getting picked on. If Dad loses his job…
“Richard,” he says again. “I’m going to keep you here for the next two days. I’m on duty all weekend, so if you change your mind about talking, just ask one of the nurses to fetch me, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, hearing my voice shake.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
I change my mind again, and then I change it right back when I see Chrissie in the doorway, flanked by Spencer.
My throat closes in on itself as I watch Spencer hug Chrissie to him. Chrissie’s all red eyed and crying. I know why she’s here, and I also know why Spencer is. He can’t get to me all the time I’m in hospital, so he’s telling me if I grass him up, he’ll hurt Chrissie.
“Who are you?” asks Doctor Price.
“This is Chrissie, Jarvis’s twin,” Spencer replies with a big beaming smile. “Can she see him?”
“Of course,” the doctor tells them, getting up. “But no more than ten minutes. Richard needs his rest.”
“Ten minutes is all we need,” Spencer says. “We only
stopped off to bring him his bag and to tell him we won the match.”
“Thanks.” I say, wishing I had the guts to tell Spencer to get lost and leave my sister alone.
“I thought you might like some music,” he says, dangling his MP3 player in my face.
My fear morphs the leads into a noose as I take it from him. “Thanks.”
“Why don’t you have a quick listen,” Spencer tells me, sitting down in the visitor’s chair. “See if you like it.”
I feel like some mouse that’s about to be decapitated by a particularly sadistic cat just for the fun of it.
“Go on,” says Chrissie, perching on the other side of the bed. “I helped put the playlists together.”
I force my face into an awkward smile, slip on the headphones, and press play. There’s no music, just Spencer’s cold voice. “Say anything, and Daddy will be looking for another job!”
Chapter 45
I’m sixty miles away from St. Bart’s, and I still can’t get away from it. Unable to relax, knowing Spencer could show up at any minute, I turn on the TV and flick through all the channels until I come to West Side Story.
Beth and I starred in Mrs Brown’s rendition two summers ago. I was Tony, and Beth was Maria. I remember the opening night as if it were yesterday, when we had our first big number; we sang “Tonight”, just her and me on the stage; we got a standing ovation.
Unable to watch any more as it all gets too much, I switch channels and realise I’ve got two more visitors — a big, square-looking guy in jeans and some woman about my mum’s age who’s got the same square face and unnatural black hair.
“Hi,” says the guy, shuffling from side to side. “I’m Steve, Steve Horton. I was the one who, err… tackled you.”
“Oh,” I say, muting the TV. “I mean, hello.”
“This is my mum,” he continues, looking every bit as terrified as I do. “She said we should come down and see if you were all right.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just a concussion.”
“Oh, good,” he says, grinning, before going back to looking serious. “Sorry, I mean, I don’t mean it’s good you’ve got concussion…”
“It’s all right.” Even though I’m the one in hospital, I find myself feeling sorry for him. “I know what you mean.”
He relaxes a bit and, after his mum goes off to get me some magazines, plonks himself down in the visitor’s chair.
“I really am sorry,” he says again. “Coach says it was one of those fluke accidents. You were lucky your neck didn’t snap.”
I shudder despite the fact I can’t move for all the blankets; talking about getting my neck broken when I’ve got to go back to St. Bart’s in forty-eight hours isn’t so far-fetched. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Steve’s big on apologising. “You’ve been really cool about all this.”
“It was an accident.”
“I know, but when Mum found out who your dad was, she was terrified of being hit with a ton of lawsuits.”
“Really?” I ask, confused; the only thing Dad’s likely to do is try to get them to invest in whatever company he’s promoting.
“Your dad won’t sue, will he?”
I shake my head, and because this doesn’t seem enough to stop him from looking like he’s sitting on a hot spike, I add, “I’m not exactly his favourite person at the moment.”
“Phew,” says Steve before apologising again. “But if there’s anything you want, anything at all…”
I’m just about to tell him to chill, when I find myself staring at Beth in her Luxury Coach advert dressed as Dorothy. She’s even prettier on TV, and suddenly I don’t care she dumped me for Dave; before we ever got together, she was my best friend.
“Are you all right?”
I nod, and almost afraid to ask, I lick my lips. “There’s one thing you can do.”
“Name it.”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of my…” I almost said girlfriend, but I stopped myself just in time. “My friend, Beth, you couldn’t call her for me?”
“Call her yourself,” he says, throwing me his mobile.
I’ve been locked up in the dark ages of St. Bart’s for so long I’d forgotten everyone in the real world has mobiles. “Thanks.”
“No sweat,” he says, standing up. “I’ll give you some space.”
My heart’s pounding as I wait for her to pick up. I know she doesn’t want to see me anymore, and I’ve accepted that, but I’m terrified beyond belief she might not want to be my friend again.
“Hello?”
It’s all too much. I almost choke on all the feelings swelling up like a ball in my throat. “Beth?”
“Rich?”
I know I have about two seconds to make my case before she kills the call, so I talk quickly. “Look, I’m cool about you and Dave. I don’t care if you’re going out, but I don’t want to stop being friends, and I really need you—”
She doesn’t let me get any further. “Well, I don’t want to be friends with you!”
She sounds angry. Why would she be angry when I’m forgiving her for cheating on me? “Why, what have I done?”
“Oh, let me see,” she says, definitely angry. “Fiona Huntington-Baxley!”
“What?”
“Fiona Huntington-Baxley,” she yells in my ear. “Did you really think Stew would keep something like that from me?”
Now it’s my turn to shout. “What are you going on about?”
“You getting off with some stuck-up earl’s daughter!”
Suddenly it all makes sense. “Beth, listen to me. I’m not with Fiona, I never have been.”
“Yeah, right.” She snorts. “So why write to Stew and tell him you were?”
“I didn’t write any letters to Stew!” I tell her, hoping she’ll hear me out, as I realise that my enemy’s been doing a whole lot more than stealing mobiles and winding Spencer up. “And I’m guessing you didn’t write that letter to me telling me you and Dave got it together?”
She’s quiet for so long I’m terrified she’s hung up.
“Beth? Beth, you’re not going out with Dave, are you?”
“No,” she replies after another long pause. “And you never got together with Fiona?”
“No.”
She’s quiet even longer this time. “Rich, what’s going on?”
The realisation they almost succeeded in splitting Beth and me up freaks me out even more.
“Rich, are you all right?”
“Not really,” I confess. “I’m in Leeds General Hospital, and I really need to see you.”
Chapter 46
Beth, Dave, and Stew arrive just after lunch. I thought I’d be pleased to see them, and I am, but at the same time, I’m not, because I’m such a pathetic mess.
Stew’s the first to talk, and his joke falls as flat as a sumo wrestler who’s just belly-flopped from the top diving board into an empty swimming pool. “Jesus, Rich, did they substitute you for the ball at halftime?”
I squirm in the dead silence as I risk looking at Beth. She hasn’t changed; she’s still my leading lady. As for me — the only part I’m fit to play is Oliver before Mr Brownlow took him in.
Dave puts a bag of sweets on my bed, keeping his distance as if he’s scared I’m going to take a swing at him. “You do know there’s nothing going on between Beth and me, don’t you?”
I nod, too embarrassed to look at him now I realise what an idiot I’ve been.
“So we’re cool, then?” says Dave, needing reassurance.
I nod and look at Beth, hovering in the doorway, as I wait for her to say something. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she says, so pale I think she’s going to pass out. “Oh, Rich, what’s happened to you?”
I open my mouth to tell her, but I don’t know where to start; it all seems too big, too overwhelming to put into words, and so I just give up, shake my head, and stare down at my hands. She already figured I was being picke
d on. Now she can see how bad it really is, it’s pointless denying it.
“I take it you didn’t get all those bruises on the rugby pitch,” says Stew.
“No,” I mumble; even though I didn’t do anything wrong, it somehow feels like it’s my fault.
“Rich, we can’t help if you don’t tell us what’s going on,” Dave tells me.
I shrug to stall for time; I’m terrified of making an idiot of myself by crying as my eyes start to sting.
“I’ve been there too,” Stew tells me. “I’m the fat kid, remember — I stood up to my fair share of bullies.”
He’s being nice, but it doesn’t feel like that. “What, and I’m not?”
“Stew isn’t saying that at all,” Beth assures me, her voice feeling like a hug. “He’s just worried; we all are.”
I look at them all — my friends. I made one call, and they came, even though they all got letters they thought were from me telling them I didn’t want to know them anymore. My parents haven’t called since before half-term even though Parker told them I was in the hospital, and the last letter I got from Mum (if you can call it that) was a one-paragraph scrawl telling me not to forget my nan’s birthday. I should be having a go at them.
“Sorry,” I apologise, reaching for Beth’s hand.
“It’s all right,” she tells me, squeezing my fingers. “Why don’t you tell us what’s been going on.”
I squirm again. Until now, I thought I could tell them anything, but this, being spat on, kicked, jeered, and ignored, this is something you don’t talk about, especially if you’re a guy. No one has any respect for the dork who gets bullied.
“Rich, I know how you feel.” No longer the comedian, Stew’s as serious as one of those BBC newsreaders. “You feel like a worthless piece of shit and somehow it’s your fault.”
Still unable to look at anything except Beth’s fingers holding mine, I die all over again as I listen to him voice my dirty secret.
“Have you told anyone?” Stew asks.
I shake my head. “Can’t.”
Dave’s next in the firing line. “How many of them giving you grief?”
“Everyone.”
“I know it can seem like that,” Stew says.
“It does seem like that because it is everyone,” I tell them again, and then I go on to explain how I was stitched up over the mobile, how I haven’t been able to make a single call home because I’ve been on permanent report, and how Jones has been ostracised just because he helped me.