“I’ve had Douggy Wynn griping about some lad you kept in detention instead of letting him play football,” the Head explained.
“Conor Westlake?”
“That’s the toerag. Our Mr Wynn isn’t happy that his best striker didn’t get to the match till half-time.”
“Are you having a go?”
Barry patted his old friend on the back. “Douggy never sees the bigger picture,” he said. “He only thinks about his own subject and winning trophies.”
“Well, he hasn’t won any in the two years he’s been teaching here,” Martin replied. “If that gymnasty has got a problem with me enforcing some kind of discipline on the mouthy Conors of this place then he can come say it to my face instead of moaning to you.”
Barry raised his hands. “Only passing it on,” he declared. “Mind you, if we played rugby at this school instead of football…”
“I wouldn’t dare spoil your favourite game!” Martin laughed.
“Game?” Barry gasped, looking mortified. “Don’t blaspheme, Martin! That’s my religion you’re talking about and I’ll be worshipping at the blessed temple of my beloved Saxons again tomorrow.”
Martin shook his head and chuckled. Barry’s main love had always been rugby. He had even played for Felixstowe in his youth. In their early years at the school, he would often appear on Monday morning with a curious, curler-shaped bandage in his hair or a black eye or scabby, scraped forehead where a boot had trodden on him. That was another reason the kids respected him, that and the way he used to fling wooden-backed board rubbers at the heads of the lads who weren’t paying attention in his classes. Yes, you could actually do that sort of thing back then and not be sacked or put on some sort of register – and so his legend had grown. Nowadays though, Barry Milligan was resembling the shape of the ball more and more.
Martin lifted the mug of steaming black coffee to his lips when he realised Barry was regarding him curiously. He mentally classified this expression as Do yourself a favour, you lowlife – and tell us what we want to know.
Then Barry said, “If the kids here ever found out about your religion, Martin, and what you were into, they’d make your life unbearable and eat you for breakfast.”
Martin grinned. He knew Barry was right. He blew on his coffee and glanced out of the window.
“Hell!” he shouted, slamming the mug on the side and rushing for the door.
It only took an instant for Barry to clock what was happening before he too rushed from the staff-room.
Outside, Emma and her friends were kicking and punching Sandra Dixon.
The Jockey: that tittuping mischief-maker in caramel colours, he who rides all at Court and makes them chase in circles for his impish glee. Not even the Ismus escapes his naughty, wayward pranks. Though they beat him, flail him and lock him in the tower gaol, this toffee-toned trickster always springs back, ripe and ready for more games and wicked japes. Tiptoe by, lest he set his jaunty cap at you and sets your dance a-spinning for his fun.
SANDRA HAD STAYED late to do her homework in the library. It was easier there than at home, with her two younger brothers arguing all the time and cranking their music up to deafening levels to spite each other. Besides, she liked being surrounded by the books and the glow of computer screens that weren’t displaying high-speed chases or shooting bullets at marauding zombies.
When Miss Hopwood, the librarian, turned the screens off and announced it was time to leave, Sandra and the other six members of the after-school homework club packed their bags and filed outside.
She was an intelligent, quiet girl who didn’t make friends easily. Throughout most of her school life her best friend had been Debbie Gaskill. They had gone everywhere together. They were both tall and willowy and had often been mistaken for sisters. They shared the same interests and had never quarrelled once. But last term Debbie’s father had been promoted and the family had been compelled to move to Leicester. So now Sandra found herself alone. Of course, she stayed in touch with Debbie via Facebook and texting; they spoke once or twice a week and visits were planned – but it wasn’t the same.
Sandra threw herself into her studies even more and ignored the jibes from some of the other pupils. She enjoyed maths and English and was good at French, so what? They enjoyed reading Heat and squealing at celebrities displaying cellulite or with spotty foreheads and wearing clothes that were a size too small.
As she passed through the school gates, she only became aware of Emma, Keeley and Ashleigh when they spoke to her.
“Miss 94 Per Cent!” Emma said in a taunting jeer.
“Miss Brown Nose!” added Keeley. “It’s right up Baxter’s behind.”
Ashleigh made a slurping sound behind her teeth.
“Don’t you get sick of sucking up all the time, you freak?” Emma asked, as the girls began to circle her.
Sandra tried to ignore them and walk on, but they weren’t about to let that happen. They were just warming up.
“You keep them cow eyes off Conor Westlake,” Keeley ordered. “You listening?”
“Yeah,” Ashleigh chimed in. “He’s not interested in a stuck-up drip like you so back off.”
Sandra couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Conor Westlake?” she laughed. “What are you on about?”
“Don’t give me that!” Emma screamed in her face. “I saw you two today. You was throwing yourself at him, flirting with him in front of everyone. Getting him to blow kisses!”
“Slapper!” Ashleigh taunted in agreement. “You got nothing he wants!” Emma continued, jabbing a finger in the girl’s face. “So jog on, you skinny munter!”
“Minger!” Ashleigh contributed.
“There’s no way anyone wants to bounce on a bag of antlers like you!”
Sandra stopped walking and, with a cool dignity that maddened the girls even more, said, “Conor Westlake has never read a book in his life that he hasn’t coloured in. He’s almost as retarded as the three of you, so why on earth would I…?”
Before she could finish the sentence, an incensed Emma had thumped her in the stomach and Sandra had crumpled to the ground. Then they laid into her.
Conor Westlake was brimming with resentment. At that moment he despised Mr Baxter with all his young heart. Because of that miserable old maths teacher he had missed the first half of the game, by which time it was too late and their team couldn’t hope to recover from the beating the other school was giving them. He had stormed off the field as soon as the whistle blew and grabbed his stuff from the changing room.
Still in his kit, the boy stomped towards the gates, the studs of his boots clacking over the tarmac path. When he heard the shrieks and squawks of Emma and her friends, he snapped out of his brooding resentment and stared at them for a moment, wondering why they were kicking a large coat on the floor. Then he realised that coat was really another girl and he raced forward.
“Hoy!” he bawled. “Get off her!”
Emma and the others looked up and glared at him, snarling like young lionesses over a carcass.
“Here’s lover boy!” Keeley spat at him.
Emma would have lunged at him as well, but it was then that Mr Baxter and the Head came rushing from the school.
The girls screamed abuse and ran off, leaving Conor shaking his head at them and Sandra quailing on the ground, clutching her