Pica Read online

  School was its usual tedious treadmill of uninspiring lessons – something to endure until they released us at 3.30.

  What made this day even worse than usual was that the weirdo who came to my house with his foster parents did indeed appear at school. When I first saw him I almost approached him, yet at the sight of his greasy hair and shabby uniform with trousers that didn’t quite reach his shoes but flapped halfway down his leg to reveal grubby white socks, I turned immediately and pretended I hadn’t spotted him. My fear that he’d be a natural victim came true when I saw Guy being taunted by a large group of year elevens from a distance.

  He wasn’t in any of my lessons, which luckily meant I didn’t have to sit next to him. I worried that he might tell a teacher he knew me and that I’d be forced to ‘look after him’. During the lunch break I kept half an eye out for him – purely as a means of self-protection – because if, for some hideous reason, he recognised me and made for me, I’d need some way of escape or a damn good excuse to preserve my own reputation. Word in the playground reached me that he hadn’t survived the whole day and had been sent home snivelling like a baby. For some reason I felt a shiver of dread ripple through me. Why had my stupid parents been so flipping kind to his foster parents? Why did these things always happen to me?

  To be honest, I was just glad to get home unscathed that day. Frisky slept on my bed as I played Organik Apokalypse.

  The next day was yet another on the hamster wheel. Each lesson completed was one less to attend in my life. Every day at 3.30 I mentally ticked off how much closer I was to leaving school, and though I didn’t like to think too much about how I was wishing my own life away, I couldn’t help thinking there had to be a better way of enjoying my childhood than this. I walked slowly back to my educational prison. How I longed for the day when I could leave this dumb place, once and for all. Being an adult must me great with no school to go to. Having said that, my parents never seemed particularly happy – but then again, I wouldn’t make the mistakes they have made. This thought made me smile.

  Guy appeared a few times at school and one particularly horrible moment involved me walking past him in the corridor. Simon and I were dawdling to our IT lesson when I suddenly looked up and saw Guy smiling at me. Something in his eyes looked lost and forlorn. For a millisecond I considered acknowledging him, but how could I explain this behaviour to my mates? If I associated myself with him then it would be like sticking a ‘punch me’ sign around my neck so I looked away without a flicker of expression and moved on. It just got worse.

  During Maths the whole class rushed to the window to watch what seemed like a riot going on during a PE lesson outside. A teacher managed to break up the inevitable crowding and scatter the pupils back to their various activities, before crouching down to help a pupil who was curled up in the foetal position with his hands over his ears.

  ‘That’s the new kid,’ someone shouted. Our Maths teacher, Mr Winkler, seemed as nosy as the rest of us. Indeed, there was Guy lying in the mud, presumably having just been tackled or fouled.

  ‘He’s a freak,’ someone else called. This caused a great deal of hilarity, which I joined in.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Guy,’ I said, keen to seem knowledgeable.

  ‘Right! Show’s over,’ old Winkler called out, realising he’d lost control of us. ‘Let’s get back to our seats.’ The likelihood of us getting back to any semblance of work or concentration now was a big fat zero.

  ‘Is he your mate then, Luke?’ Connor called out as we slowly and grudgingly tore ourselves away from the spectacle. Connor remained at the window longer than the rest of us and had to be told a second time to sit down.

  ‘No!’ I replied as emphatically as I could without sounding fake. Protesting too much would get me caught out.

  I got away with it.

  The rest of the lesson involved us chatting and doing very little of the dull exercise placed before us.

  We managed to watch a bit more of the football lesson outside as our Maths class was downstairs, overlooking the sports field. Guy kept running away from the ball. Then one time, when he did try to stop the opposition striker from getting past him by standing his ground, the on-coming player whacked the ball straight into his face. It must have really hurt, but we all laughed and squealed with pleasure. Old Winkler managed to get us back into our seats again.

  I indicated to Connor and the others when Guy walked right past our classroom accompanied by the PE teacher. Guy’s face was contorted into a howl of agony – red and covered in muddy tear stains. His high-pitched squeals seemed amplified by the window glass as he continued screaming like a little girl.

  The timing of it couldn’t have been more perfect. Our whole class laughed and even our teacher had to suppress a chuckle.

  That night I ate my dinner quickly and locked myself in my bedroom, after promising the oldies I’d complete all my homework. Instead, I played Organik Apokalypse for a while before wasting a number of hours on the Internet, messaging mates and posting inane messages on people’s profiles. Just before going to bed, I felt the urge to go to my tall cupboard and bring out my number one, carefully hidden, prized possession – my air pistol. It fitted perfectly in my grip as if it had been designed for me – a Desert Eagle. 44 Magnum replica BB gun, loaded with twenty-five 6mm ball bearings. It was a top-quality copy with easy cocking, spring action, and a range of fifteen metres, in a chrome finish with black grip. It had cost £19.95 on Amazon and I’d used Dad’s debit card with no problem. My only concern at the time had been that Mum or Dad would be in when it arrived, but as luck would have it I answered the door on delivery while home alone. My parents never check their bank statements, so I’d got away with the whole escapade scot-free. Laying it on my left palm I examined it from different angles, admiring what one review had called ‘the sleek shape and the economy of design’. This classic Magnum remained the most powerful semi-automatic in the world, and used in so many Hollywood films. Eventually, I placed the air pistol under my pillow and got ready for bed. Anyone daring to break into this house or attack my family would get a nasty surprise.

  I often woke up early and the next morning saw me rouse at 4.09 a.m. With a sudden burst of vigour I threw back the duvet and padded over to the window, where it was an easy matter to flick the curtains over my head and get a good view of the back garden. With careful fingers I propped open the corner of the net curtain, slipping one hand underneath until it reached the window catch. Noiselessly, I managed to open it four or five inches, shuddering at the sudden cold blast of air. As I peeked through the gap, keeping my head to windowsill level, there was enough light to make out the familiar shapes and dusky colours of the garden in the morning gloom. In the middle was the whirly-gig washing line, folded under its green canvas cover. The rockery displayed various shrubs that merged into a larger herbaceous border. Further down, the buddleia was still in its purplish bloom and white daisies poked through the green and brown, patchy lawn. The shed at the end had gone yellow with age underneath its black wonky roof.

  Putting my hand slowly on the pistol tucked under my pillow I raised the treasured object towards the gap in the window, where I wedged it between the frames and steadied it with both hands. Knowing it to be fully loaded, I closed my left eye and tried to aim it with a sniper’s precision. All I had to do was wait for a suitable target.

  After only a few minutes of staring into the washed-out early morning light I saw a movement in next door’s oak tree. A magpie flapped down from the branches and landed on the fence just below my window. Its long, black tail twitched as it stood still momentarily. Was it the same one? I stared at it with pure hatred.

  I steadied my grip and felt my trigger finger twitch. Hold still. Squeeze slowly. The shot still made me jump. The magpie cracked its wings and flew away, shrieking and chattering loudly. I stayed stock still for a long time, worried the noise might disturb my parents. Lucky it wasn’t a real Magnum or the whole
street would have woken from the explosive report, whilst the recoil would have blown me backwards across the room.

  But nobody stirred.

  Damn! I could’ve sworn I’d hit the stupid thing.

  Suddenly, a squirrel bounded across the top of the fence and threw itself at the tree, sticking to the bark as if it had Velcro on its paws. It disappeared up the tree in a spiral. It didn’t remain still long enough for me to take a proper shot.

  About five minutes later the magpie returned – or at least, I assumed it was the same bird. It landed on the lawn and began pecking the ground. This time I knelt up higher, hoping the people in the houses opposite wouldn’t spot me – if they were even awake. I’d remembered not to put any lights on, but still had to be careful.

  The black feathers of the magpie flashed with iridescent blue. It stayed still for quite a few moments entirely within the gun’s sight. The nozzle of the pistol went right through the open window as I rested my arm on the bottom window frame.

  Hold still. Ready. Squeeze. Got him! Yaaay.

  The magpie attempted to fly away, but had been injured enough to stop from taking off. Instead, the momentum of the pellet knocked it sideways onto the path, where it lay flapping pathetically. I made sure I closed the window as quietly as possible.

  Chapter Three

  You could only approach the huge roundabout via the flyover, which took me over the dual carriageway that led to the motorway slip-road. The roundabout, or at least the junction, was known locally as Coney Island because it always teemed with rabbits. It was hardly New York, although the giant pillars made me think of the term ‘concrete jungle’. You saw the rabbits best at night if you drove past in the darkness; your headlights caught all the red eyes and millions of them scampered around the grassy outer edges of the big roundabout. The middle of the island was a gigantic tangle of bushes and trees which reached right up to the road crossing directly above it, just touching it with its branches.

  I patted my jacket pocket to check the whereabouts of my trusty Magnum Desert Eagle.

  I’d often wondered what else lived in that overgrown wilderness – perhaps some new species or weird hybrid animal? Or a family of psychotic cannibal mutants who only came out at night to hunt down unsuspecting victims? As I approached Coney Island, a lyric from an Elvis Presley song came into my head. ‘You ain’t never caught a rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine.’ My parents were obsessed with the so-called King of Rock’n’Roll, and even choreographed embarrassing dances to his songs. The idea of catching a rabbit appealed to me at that moment. They were pests – vermin – weren’t they? Farmers shot them all the time, right? I felt strangely drawn to the wilderness of the roundabout. No rabbits were visible just then, but I felt compelled to sneak in and see if I could at least see one, if not shoot it.

  I ignored the beeping horns as I sprinted across the dual carriageway, and only just avoided the cars approaching at ninety miles per hour. I scrambled onto the grassy edge of the roundabout, aware of dirty looks from drivers passing closely by, jogged over to the first tree, and hid behind it. I hunkered down with my back to the trunk, determined to stay hidden from the cars. Nobody would care about me being here. Most people were in too much of a rush to reach their own destination to bother about some kid messing about on a roundabout.

  It really was a dense wilderness. While the strip all around the edge was neatly mown and dotted with wild flowers, the middle section was a jungle. Grass grew taller than me; brambles made the way through look impossible; bushes and trees wove their unwelcoming branches into an impenetrable fortress. The first thing to do was complete a recce of this uncharted land to find any openings.

  I wanted to get as deep into it as I could. Right to the middle. Away from the civilised edge. Crouching down on the floor to avoid being seen, I found I could get quite far by wriggling on my elbows and knees, like a lizard skittering through the undergrowth. No obvious entrance existed on this side. If the other side proved the same then I’d be forced to get a stick and hack my way through. In this prone position I became aware of millions of irritating flies and insects trying to get into my mouth or up my nose. My throat began to itch and go dry, but I was determined to continue. Down here I also got a close-up view on the round, pebble-like scatterings of rabbit poo. It was impossible to move without squashing some against my clothing. I tried to keep my hands away from it.

  As I slithered further round I reached the gigantic concrete plinth which held up the flyover overhead. Once I’d inched between its gravelly wall and a big, spiky bush I could scrabble to my feet and stand without being seen at all. With my back against this wall I felt completely hidden and free to move, knowing I’d be completely invisible now to the outside world. Past the bush I reached a little clearing – after being covered in strands of spider web, which I had to wipe from my face and hair. On the patchy grass lay a few beer cans, torn wrappers, and bits of plastic – evidence that I wasn’t the first explorer here. I quickly got over the disappointment. The cans looked rusty and had probably been there for a number of years.

  I sat down against the concrete wall. Through my back I felt the vibrations and rumblings of the traffic zooming above my head. I hoped the noise might conceal my presence from the rabbits. Where did those stupid fluffy bastards hang out? I took out my Magnum. With that in my hand, I would be the king of Coney Island.

  A scream to my left startled me. My heart pounded and I nearly tumbled over a tree root, but I held my nerve and stayed still, trembling. I saw a magpie hop into my grassy space – as if the space belonged to him. He didn’t look too happy to see me, and I wondered if it had come to exact revenge upon me. It stared at me with hateful eyes; its head cocked sideways as birds do, then flapped its wings and screeched like a demented maraca – ‘Chacker chacker chacker!’ – before hopping away and flying off. Bloody bird! I’d have been happy to empty a whole magazine of pellets into it.

  So where were these sodding rabbits then? I needed to penetrate the undergrowth; reach the heart of darkness. There must be a whole colony of them in there somewhere. Of course – rabbits burrowed down, so they would be right underneath my feet. I was probably standing on thousands of them right then. I tried to imagine the intricate maze of tunnels underground, filled with hot-blooded little vermin, and began to formulate methods and list various apparatus that might be required for complete decimation of the warren.

  I decided to push further into the undergrowth, trying to ignore the presence of nettles and thorny spiked bushes. Pulling my hand into the sleeve of my sweatshirt, I gripped the cuff inside my clenched fingers for use as a makeshift machete. I karate chopped at the twigs, branches, and brambles that appeared in my way above waist height, and even more rabbit poo became evident.

  As I slowly progressed inwards I considered what an amazing place this would be to have a den. No-one would ever find it. It would be a place just for me when I needed to escape from the endlessly sad reality of life. Clouds of midges swarmed into my eyes and mouth. I had to keep my hand in front of my face as I moved as much for the spider webs as the branches and bramble runners. My sleeve was already absolutely covered in goosegrass – those pesky little spiked seeds which are impossible to pull off woolly clothes.

  I couldn’t imagine there was far to get to the middle now, although the diameter of the roundabout was clearly bigger than I’d first envisaged. To my surprise the undergrowth thinned out, leaving a glade which looked like it had been purposefully created. Just left to nature it would surely be overgrown with weeds and bushes. Instead I found myself looking into an almost perfectly spherical hole – as if I’d just climbed inside a giant ball. Not much light reached in this far, so I found myself squinting slightly to judge its dimensions: I reckoned it was a similar size to my bedroom.

  At first I stayed where I was; hidden behind a bush and peering into the hole. As my eyes got used to the partial gloom I could see that the ground was covered in short, lush grass. Just then, a
movement attracted my attention up ahead. A rabbit! The little creature had crept out of the undergrowth opposite to casually nibble the grass. The sound of me scratching my chin was enough to alert the rabbit into sitting bolt upright, where it sniffed the air and turned its head each way four or five times. Then it released a string of brown pellets from under its tufty white tail. The rabbit seemed to be aware of me, but perhaps did not consider me a threat, because it returned to its nibbling; by which time half a dozen more rabbits appeared from nowhere. I sat stock still, content now simply to observe.

  I slowly raised the gun to my eye line.

  Just as I began to wonder if one would come close enough for me to shoot it, I heard a different sound; one I recognised but couldn’t pin down. Breathing? Something moving behind me? I looked around for movements. But how long should I stand still, waiting for the thing to move again? After a long pause I decided I was being a wimp, so I moved onwards.

  Then a crack sounded. Was that me or something following me? I turned my head slowly round, but could only see a thick tangle of branches and leaves. I thought I saw a movement then but it could’ve been a shadow.

  Stop being such a nonce.

  As I stepped on it occurred to me that here in the thick undergrowth there were no shadows. So what had I seen?

  The next noise was definitely not my imagination. Something lay in wait for me up ahead; no doubt about it. Was that a dark figure crouching over there? I stared at it, with my confidence draining, but the more I stared, the more I could see it was only a mound of earth.

  I started to regret being trapped in here now, but I couldn’t give in. What sort of man would that make me? Get a grip.

  Realising I’d been holding my breath, I let it out slowly and continued towards where I hoped the rabbits were.

  Breathing. There it was again. Then something moved to my left. It was large too. Another snapping sound made me start to feel scared. A fleeting movement made me turn to the right. And a short grunt reached me. Was that an animal or human sound? I prepared myself to run. Or to run as quickly as I could through this undergrowth. But I mustn’t panic. I could do this.