Retard (3 page)

One of his crew cast an annoyed glance over his shoulder, but David continued to marvel over his gift.

“David!” Wesley screamed.

The group of boys opened up, all frowns.

“What do you want, Stephenson?” spat Alan, a chubby kid the others called Pug behind his back. He’d once pushed Wesley in the boys’ toilet while he was taking a piss.

“I want to see.”

“Why don’t you make like Wacko Jacko and beat it?” said Pete.

Wesley’s face fell. The boys laughed and returned to the toy.

“You asked for it,” muttered Wesley, clenching his right fist and feeling the magical power crackle within like static electricity. With a short wave, he cast the imaging charm, projecting into Pete’s mind a barrage of violent thoughts.

The boy’s eyes almost popped out of his head, but once the initial onslaught had subsided, only rage remained. He punched fat Alan, catching him right on the corner of his pudgy jaw. Confusion turned to aggression as the other boys joined in, trying to keep Pete off their friend, swinging punches and falling in a tangle of limbs.

In the ruckus, Commander Yorin had been dropped. A flailing leg kicked him in Wesley’s direction, but before he could gaze upon the awesome weaponry and authentic action move, it was picked up by David’s mum.

“Don’t get any ideas, you little retard,” she said before blood burst from the centre of her chest. The point of an arrow protruded from between her small breasts, spreading crimson through the pale summer dress. David’s mum released a yelp, dropped the toy, and followed it to the floorboards. Behind her, EagleEye, his eyes glowing within the darkness of his hood, gave Wesley a short salute.

“Good shot, archer!” the boy cried. “Behind you!”

One of the other mums had a chair raised, ready to smash through the skull of EagleEye.

Wesley spread his hands, mind racing, trying to find the right spell.

Too late. Commander Yorin beat him to it. His axe spun through the air, cleaving through the wooden chair that exploded in a shower of splinters. The brave, foolish mum covered her head, protecting her perm, leaving her stomach exposed to the two shotgun rounds that Yorin pumped through it. The woman flew back through the air and into the wall, leaving a bloody smudge on the yellow paint.

Grinning, Wesley turned to his leader. The huge man still held out his smoking barrel. “For the Realm!” he bellowed.

Most of the party goers had fled, escaping the hut and dashing past the Sunday school. Bodies, bloody and twitching, lay among the streamers and balloons. Birthday cake was splattered on the floor.

Wesley picked up the action figure and hugged it closed to his chest. It wasn’t a Globin figure though. His would be Globin.

“Commander,” said Sasha, the Persian ninja appearing in a sweet smelling blue cloud of smoke. “We have survivor. Your orders?”

The Fabled Four gathered and looked to figure in the corner, who sat oblivious, clutching a smoking cigarette. She checked her watch.

Yorin’s voice boomed in the hut. “That Sasha, is a decision only Globin can make. Isn’t that right, little wizard?” He clamped a massive hand on Wesley’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

***

Wesley stared at his dark bedroom ceiling.

That would be awesome, he thought, and started the day dream again. Perhaps this time Darkclaw could be at the party, and the Four could save the day and be awarded action figures of themselves!

At least David only had a Commander Yorin figure. If he’d received Globin…

Wesley pulled back the duvet. Despite the chilly December night, he’d grown clammy in his bed. He sat up, scratched his head, far from sleep as any boy should be this close to Christmas, and crept to the window, pulling the curtain aside.

Most kids had a garden. Outside Wesley’s window lay a short yard with flagstones instead of grass for easier maintenance. A grimy brick wall and gate sealed off their small, rented house from the alley that ran the length of the street. He thought he saw a squat figure lurking in the shadows but realised it was just their bin.

Still no snow. They’d had a light dusting a few weeks earlier, but nothing had stuck. It looked like another cold, dark Christmas was on the way.

Mum had it all wrong.

I want that page back.

Wesley sneaked to his bedroom door and eased it open, wincing from the slight squeak from the hinges.

His mum had left the landing light on, and from below came the voice of John Suchet reading the News at Ten. Mum hated the news. Rich people doing stupid rich people things, she always said and turned it over to some game show or music program.

She must have fallen asleep, thought Wesley, venturing to the top of the carpeted stairs. I can cast my invisibility charm and claim my prize.

He stayed close to the wall, avoiding the sagging and creaking centre of each step. The stairs ended between the kitchen and lounge. Wesley peered around the wall.

Sure enough, his mother lay fast asleep on the sofa, lying on her back with her bare feet propped up on the arm rest. Her nightie had rucked up around her waist, showing off her legs, and a white fabric triangle where they met. Wesley stared at this for a moment.

He dropped to the floor and crawled army-style to the back of a tired old armchair. Globin might be his favourite, but now he pictured himself as Yorin. Man of action. He poked his head out, looking left and right.

The catalogue lay on the carpet beside the sofa, next to an empty glass and a half-full bottle of Cianzano Bianco.

For the Realm!

He shuffled forwards, elbows and knees propelling him across the carpet. He crossed the short gap between the armchair and the sofa and lurked behind. Unless his mother suddenly sat up, he was hidden.

Around to the side and the catalogue was in reach. A quick—and quiet—tear and the page would be his. Once his mother woke up, nothing would be out of place.

Wesley held his breath and edged another few inches, his hand outstretched. His finger brushed a corner, and satisfied he held the catalogue, he began to slide it across the carpet towards him.

Where would he keep the page? He needed a good, secret place, somewhere his mother would never think to look. Under his mattress? No, she occasionally changed the sheets. In his toy box? Another bad idea, with the contents usually strewn across his bedroom floor. But under the box itself…wedged flat between the wooden bottom and the floor—

The far corner of the thick catalogue struck the bottle.

CLUNK!

Wesley gasped, watching the clear liquid slosh around inside, taunting him, tilting the bottle back and forth until the slender glass tipped over and rolled towards the television.

“Hmm?” asked his groggy mother. She started to sit up.

Wesley snatched his hand back and curled into a tight ball behind the sofa. His fingers had other ideas, trying to thump a beat like a pair of rapid drumsticks.

Please please please please…

The sofa creaked as his mum lifted herself from the cushions. Wesley listened to her clear her throat and curse something under her breath. Her padded footsteps sounded across the room, and the television turned off.

Go to bed, he pleaded. Pleeease go to bed.

He chanced a glimpse around the edge of the sofa.

The dark screen of their small colour television reflected the room, and Wesley saw the empty sofa, the doorway leading the stairs and kitchen, and the figure standing over him.

“Shit,” he gasped as his mum’s hand grabbed him tight around the forearm. She yanked him up, his thin body dangling like a doll.

“What did I tell you?” she screamed, starting to smack him hard, aiming for his bottom but catching him on the thigh and hip. Her heavy slaps punctuated each word. “What-did-I-tell-you?”

Wesley, beyond a scream and too early to cry, unleashed a screech like a cat dipped into a pan of boiling fat.

She dragged him back, jarring his elbow joint. Other than have his arm broken, he had little choice other than follow.

The lounge and short hallway passed him by, and he found himself on the stairs. His bare feet thumped the each step, sometimes finding carpet, often times finding only empty space. The relentless pull of his mother offered no respite. The pressure on his elbow increased as she dragged him onwards and upwards. Only on the landing did he find his feet, but that didn’t last long. At his open bedroom door, his mum threw him inside.

Wesley tried to land with some dignity, yet his mother’s flaring rage lent her surprising strength.

“I told you,” she roared. “Stay in bed!”

The shock had laid the way for tears, and Wesley collapsed among his disarrayed toys and wept.

“Why can’t you ever do as I tell you?”

4.

The days didn’t really make any difference. Either Wesley was at school or he wasn’t. It was pay day or rent day. That was it.

In the
early
eighties, when the world seemed full of possibilities with the amazing advances in technology and the awesome music, Christine maintained a close eye on the day. She’d worked briefly as an admin assistant in a large advertising firm. The mundane comings and goings of the office would lead up to the weekend, and the girls would hit the town, hit it
hard
. Madonna’s punk princess had been the look, with the occasional miniskirt and leather jacket combo, or the increasing rare dungarees and Boy George hat. Blondie, Human League, Pet Shop Boys, Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet.

All until that one night. Hard to remember his name when you can’t even recall his face.

Sunday had rolled around again. The weak light from the cold morning seeped in through the net curtains. Christine had been watching some pop show on Channel 4 when Sally had called in.

“So how was the Birthday party?” she’d asked, dropping on the sofa and kicking off her shoes.

“Just as I expected,” said Christine, watching her friend take off her hat and shake out her crimped hair. “I can remember what it was like back at the office. All the competition and snide comments. But these bitches are worse, Sal. I swear it. Become a mother. It’s more of a fucking fashion accessory these days.”

She flicked out a cigarette from her pack and offered it before fishing one out for herself.

“Where’s the boy?” asked Sally once she was lit.

“Kitchen, working on a bowl of cornflakes. Only just got up.” She shook her head. “Another late one last night.”

“He still not sleeping?”

“I swear he does it just to spite me,” said Christine. “I knew he shouldn’t have gone to that party. You know what he’s like. Too excitable.” She sighed. “I just don’t know what to do. No one gives me any help, no one.”

Sally swapped her smoke to her other hand to pat Christine on the knee. “You know I can babysit if you need a night off. The offer’s always there.”

Christine laughed. “And what would I do? You’re the only one that has anything to do with me. Everyone else is off chasing men and careers and money. No time for the one who threw her life away.”

“Don’t talk like that, Chrissie. Come on. Things aren’t that bad. Nearly Christmas, and you know what they say, if you have children you always have the magic of Christmas.”

Christine thought back to the Birthday party, seeing that smug little shit David with his Fabled Four figure. To think, she’d eyed the remaining presents, seeking out another, hoping that if no one was looking…

“And what a Christmas it’s going to be. You see those?” She nodded towards the few gifts beneath the sickly looking tree in the corner. “Socks, chocolate and a cheap magic set I saw in the supermarket. He’s always banging on about the wizard boy in that show of his. I thought he’d like it.”

“What about the catalogues?” said Sally. “It’s probably too late for delivery now, but couldn’t you have ordered one from there? Pay it off?”

“They won’t touch me anymore,” said Christine. “Keep sending them in though. Look at all this stuff that you can’t even afford to borrow for.”

She smiled, awkward. Sally didn’t exactly flaunt her job, but it was always there, an issue sitting in the background. They lived in two separate worlds. They’d been close as sisters until Christine had fallen pregnant.

She considered asking Sally for a few quid again, just until after Christmas. She’d understand.

Christine swallowed the thought back down. A sure fire way to lose her only friend, ask for a hand out every time she visited.

Sally grimaced. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but there’s…a guy. I don’t really know him. Plays snooker with Jason down the pub sometimes. Might be dodgy. We were flicking through the channels the other day, and that cartoon that Wesley likes is on, right? I tells Jason how much he likes the thing, and he says that there’s this guy always selling stuff down the Hare and Hounds pub. Toys and that sometimes. Want him to have a word for you?”

Christine took a drag and nodded. “No harm in asking.”

Wesley staggered into the lounge, wearing an old Transformers t-shirt, shorts and hair sticking out in tufts.

“Here he is!” said Sally. “Dirty stop out.”

“Dirty is right,” said Christine. She caught her son’s shock. “That’s right, Aunt Sally knows all about what you were up to last night with that catalogue. No wonder you’re bloody tired.”

Wesley walked further inside, studying his feet. He stopped in front of the television. “I wasn’t looking at…those women. I was looking at The Fabled Four toys.”

Christine glanced at Sally. “We’ll just have to see what Santa can do about that. Won’t we, Sally?”

“We sure will. Come here, Wes! Think you could come in without giving me some huggage?”

Wesley smiled and dashed for the sofa, almost diving on Sally. She wrapped him up in her arms and gave him a tight hug, eliciting hysterical laughter from the boy. Christine couldn’t help but smile.

“I knew you wouldn’t have been looking at those naughty women in their skimpy underwear,” said Sally. “Girls are yucky!”

“Not all of them,” he said.

Both women burst into whoops of laughter.