Kiss My Name (10 page)

Luck was on my side that day. Mr.Pike arrived after his phone call to save me in the morning and that afternoon, Superman flew in, in schoolboy form, to rescue me again. Sandwiched between the two, Boffin’s French class finished before my History class and when he came out the door, sloshing around in his wet uniform looking like a snowman in Spring, the King James Holy Bible that I sent down from the wooden balcony managed to hit Boffin right on the top of his head. He collapsed on to the floor, star shaped like a cartoon character flattened by a steamroller. It was one of those moments when time moved in slow motion, as the Bible descended slowly and
accurately from the balcony and then, after striking Boffin, there was a satisfying, stunned silence until Mr.Hurst rushed out of the French classroom, checked Boffin was still alive, helped him to his feet and began shouting,

“Who did that? Who dropped a Bible from up there? You could kill someone doing that!”

“Maybe it was God,” Marc answered with a shrug, as I shot down the stairs and took myself to the canteen to establish an alibi as quickly as I could. I knew once Boffin came to his senses though, he would realise who the perpetrator was. I knew the fight that I have already started to describe would come, it was inevitable. Despite that inevitability, as I asked Mrs.Stranks, the school dinner lady for a glass of water, I felt, for the first time in my life, that I had really achieved something. I was euphoric. I just felt that after the beating that would soon arrive, life would just get better and better from here on in. If I could use my brain to fight injustice, I could become a Member of Parliament, Prime Minister even, putting right not just my own problems, but all the issues and inequalities of our nation.

If a crystal ball had shown me back then, how my life would turn out, I would never have believed it. I am a wealthy man now, I don’t want for anything materially, but I would give my riches away in a heartbeat to get that feeling back, that feeling of youthful optimism, that ‘world is your oyster’ feeling.

By lunchtime that day, Boffin had recovered and he came looking for me. I didn’t even try to hide, that would have given out the wrong message if I’d have kept it going. I wanted to portray an aura of calm and that I was ready for whatever Boffin threw at me, even if it was a Chinese burn, a knuckle sandwich and an almighty kick in the ribs.

TIMMY ANDERSON – September 1986

I was taking the beating of my life. When a fight starts on the school playground, boys aren’t generally concerned about fair play, they just want to see blood. As my fight with Boffin involved one thirteen year old who had the brawn of Arnold Schwarzenegger and the brain of an amoeba, weighing in at around ten stone, up against a disproportionate dwarf who weighed in at under four stone, they were always going to get what they wanted. There was always going to be one winner and it wasn’t me. A fight between Muhammad Ali and Billy Elliot would have been fairer.

As soon as Boffin threw his first punch, the cries of ‘Fight!’ rang out and a crowd gathered. I swung back occasionally in the forlorn hope that I may just catch him somewhere it might hurt, but for every punch I threw, Boffin must have sent half a dozen my way. My nose was soon dripping blood and one of my eyes swelled up and began to close. I didn’t even have the luxury of someone ringing a bell so I could return to the corner for my corner man to patch me up. Boffin, not noted for his sympathetic nature, soon decided that rather than us just having an old fashioned boxing bout, we would wrestle too. It was now Hornswoggle against The Rock. Boffin pounced on me like a tiger on to a fawn. Some of the older lads spectating were chewing sherbert straws and us rolling around on the floor in front of them, gave them the perfect opportunity to flick ‘greb’ all over us. In a sea of spit, Boffin began banging my head on the tarmac like he was trying to get a hazelnut out of it.

I was starting to wonder how much longer I could last before passing out, when I heard a male voice shouting, the volume increasing as it neared. My spirits lifted, as I felt it must be a teacher who had come to break up the fight. The voice spat out each word it spoke, but by the time it had finished its first sentence, from the language it used, I knew it couldn’t possibly be a teacher,

“Get...out...the...way...dickheads!”

The pounding of my head against tarmac suddenly stopped. Boffin had let go of me as ‘the voice’ had grabbed the back of Boffin’s ‘greb’ filled blazer and swung him around and to his feet. The baying throng collectively took a couple of steps back as both Boffin and the other lad raised their fists. I wasn’t sure who this lad was, I vaguely recognised him though as a lad in our year. There were seven classes in our school year, so I didn’t know everyone. Boffin knew him though. As they squared up, I crawled through spectators legs to safety, dabbed my nose with my shirt sleeve to make doubly sure I wasn’t bleeding to death and once I knew I wasn’t, I listened in. I also managed to get to my feet and watch glimpses of the ensuing brawl through gaps in the crowd.

“Piss off Simon, this has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me, Boffin. You’ve murdered one little lad, I’m not going to stand by and watch you do it again.”

I could make out that ‘Simon’ was throwing punches, but bizarrely Boffin wasn’t. He was just attempting to block the punches that were being thrown at him.

“Stop talking crap, Simon.”

“If I’m talking crap, Boffin, why are you letting me punch you? Why are you not fighting back?”

“Your brother was my mate, that’s why.”

“You killed him.”

“I was at home when he died, you fool.”

“Liar.”

Simon charged at Boffin with his head down. He was a big lad, taller than Boffin who wasn’t particularly tall, just muscular, but Simon wasn’t muscley, just a bit fat really. He must have had a hard head though, as he rammed into Boffin’s chest like an angry rhino. Boffin was lifted off the floor by the impact. Simon started punching Boffin with straight armed, windmill punches. Boffin was no Neville Chamberlain though. He could maintain a policy of appeasement for little more than a minute before he began punching back. I sensed this was exactly what Simon wanted. He seemed to want as many reasons as possible to fight with Boffin.

“You murderer,” he kept repeating, “you filthy, murdering scumbag!”

The penny finally dropped. There was a lad in our year, Simon Strong, whose brother, Colin, had been found dead in the canal during the summer holidays. This was obviously him. I wasn’t quite sure why Simon was blaming Boffin for Colin’s death, nor did I particularly care, I was just glad he was passionate about trying to knock Boffin’s head off.

I think they would have fought to the death, but the fight stopped when some spectators spotted Mr.Hayton, the Woodwork teacher, wandering across in his apron to see what the commotion was about. Everyone scattered in all directions. I didn’t see where Boffin disappeared to, he just crept away, but Simon came looking for me. We walked along together, both trying to look like the fight had nothing to do with us.

“Are you OK, Timmy?”

“I’m fine.”

“Bloody hell, your face is a mess. Let me take you to the nurse.”

“No, honestly, leave it. I don’t want to go and see her.”

“Why not?”

“She’ll get the teachers involved. There’ll be this big investigation into everything that’s gone on, quite frankly, I don’t want the hassle.”

“Why?”

“I kind of deserved a beating.”

“Timmy, whatever you did that murdering scumbag, he will have asked for it. I can’t believe half the lads in the school just stood by and watched him beat the shit out of you. Bunch of tossers, they really are. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the nurse?”

“100% sure. Honestly, I’m fine.”

“People use the word honestly when they are trying to pretend a lie is the truth.”

“OK. I’m pretty sore, but I do not want to go to see the nurse. Is that better?”

“It’ll do. Whether or not you go to the nurse, Luke Booth will stay clear of you now.”

“I doubt it. I’m pretty sure he will come after me again. It’s part of his routine.”

“Timmy, he won’t come near you. If he ever lays a finger on you again, he’ll have me to answer to.”

Simon Strong, under normal circumstances, was not someone that Luke ‘Boffin’ Booth would have been scared of. Simon was out of shape and despite his height, he was unimposing. Boffin’s behaviour towards Simon Strong was definitely linked to his brother’s death.

“Simon, can I ask you something?”

“Ask me whatever you want, mate.”

“What makes you think Boffin killed your brother?”

“Because he did.”

How do you know though?”

“Someone was with Colin when he died. Loads of eyewitnesses have given statements to the police saying Colin was with someone older than him at the canal side.”

“It might not have been Boffin though.”

“Whoever it was is denying he was there and left Colin to die or left his dead body and returned home without reporting it. I’ve been told it was Boffin and I think it’s written all over his guilty face. Justice will be done in the end, Timmy, I’m sure of it. He’ll get his comeuppance.”

I’m not sure whether it was down to Simon Strong warning him off, but Boffin never bothered me again. It may not have been down to Simon, perhaps it was because he hadn’t enjoyed his wet clothes, his dinner being spilt on him or the Holy Bible landing on his head, but I doubt it. I think Simon Strong saved me that afternoon. I’d like to tell you that it was the beginning of a wonderful friendship between us, but it wasn’t. Simon got on with his life and I got on with mine, but I always felt I owed him a favour. I was always disappointed that I never had the chance to repay him at school. Sometimes though, life works in peculiar ways and opportunities come along at times you just don’t expect them.

SIMON – September
1986

I was in my bedroom on a Sunday afternoon listening to Marillion’s album ‘Misplaced Childhood’ on my Aiwa cassette player. My musical taste had broadened since my ‘Wham’ days. At thirteen, I was into stuff like Pink Floyd, Genesis, Bob Dylan, The Smiths and Marillion. None of them were fashionable amongst my friends at school, which was fine. I had no urge to conform.

I could hear a voice trying to be heard above the drums of Waterhole (Expresso Bongo), so turned the volume down. It was my Mum, calling me.

“What, Mum?”

“I said there’s a boy at the door for you, Simon.”

“Tell him to come up,” and then
as an after thought I asked, “Who is it?”

Mum obviously didn’t recognise him, as I heard her saying,

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve met you before, I’m Simon’s Mum, what’s your name?”

“Phil.”

“Go on up, Phil,” Mum said before shouting, “Simon, Phil’s on his way up!”

Phil knocked on my door and entered. He was one of those kids who you would think was good looking from a photograph, but when you saw him in real life, he somehow wasn’t. There were number of reasons, one was the slightly round shouldered stance he had, another was his exaggerated facial expressions, probably pulled due to a self-conscious disposition. Girls at school were always saying who they fancied, Phil Moss was never mentioned. Phil had very
dark hair, but it always looked like it needed a comb. On this Sunday, he wore a pair of jeans and a Queen ‘Kind Of Magic’ T-shirt, the weird black one where all the cartoon versions of Queen have huge, muscular upper bodies and tiny legs. I knew he had called around to update me on the Boffin situation, I just didn’t know what the situation was. I switched off ‘Misplaced Childhood’ and was ready to listen with rapt attention.

“Hi Phil, I said sitting on the floor, “have a seat. I ho
pe you’re here to tell me that you’ve spoken to the police.”

Phil sat on the edge of my bed.

“I told you, I would, didn’t I? Bloody hell, mate, if Boffin knew I was here or that I’d been to the police, he’d kick my head in, you know he would.”

“Why are you mates with someone you’re scared of?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I know I don’t. He’s a knobhead, keep away from him.”

“Simon, it’s not that easy. It’s easier to stay friends with him. If I tried to keep my distance he’d get angry with me and that’s when the real problems would start.”

“Well, hopefully if he’s locked up then you won’t have to keep knocking around with him. Thanks for telling the police.”

“It’s OK. I thought a lot about what you said, mate, and you were right, I owed it to your Colin to tell the pigs what I saw.”

“What did they say when you told them?”

“Not much really, they just took my statement off me and..”

“Did you say it was Boffin with Colin?”

“I said it was probably Boffin.”

“And what did they say?”

“Nothing, I told you, they just made some notes, said thanks for helping with their enquiries and let me go home. I mustn’t have been the only one though, who had told them it might have been Boffin with your Colin.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I was with Boffin yesterday, just hanging around town and he said the police had been around to his a second time on Friday night, saying people had given statements, which raised the possibility that he may have been with your Colin, on the day he died.”

“Did he seem worried?”

“Not at all, mate. He was just moaning about them wasting his time. He says he had already told them that he had been grounded by his Mum that day, but this time they wanted to double check with his Mum.”

“Did he say whether the police had spoken to his Mum?”

“Apparently they had.”

“And what did she say?”

“Boffin just said his Mum put them straight, told them he was grounded for fighting with his brothers, so anyone who had suggested it was him with your Colin, must have been mistaken.”

“Bollocks!” I cursed in frustration but also to reflect that I did not believe this alibi one bit.

“Simon, maybe he was grounded. I told you, mate, I wasn’t 100% sure it was him.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. Who else could it have been?”

“I don’t know, mate, your brother was a friendly lad, it could have been anyone, he could have just been bored because no-one was playing out, so just got chatting to someone he had never met before.”

“And then walked a couple of miles up to the canal with them? I doubt it, Phil. Something tells me it was Boffin.”

“Maybe we’ll never know.”

“Oh we will, Phil. Somehow or other, I’ll find out.”