Cherub: Reckoning

Chapter 1

Kapitel eins

(That literally means Chapter one, because I couldn't think of a better chapter name).

I could think of so many things I could rather be doing right now. I mean, detention, really? I could have skipped it, I mean, I really don't care, but then I would have to deal with the head, and my step dad, so I really can't be arsed.

So now I'm sat in a dull grey classroom, drawings from the year ones leering down at me from the wall, watching the dreary April weather as the rain hammered down outside.
The door swung open as the teacher entered, and the heads of the me and several others dutifully swivelled to ogle the new arrival.
He strode purposefully to her desk, and seated himself behind it, drawing the chair close to the vandalised wood of the desk surface, with the high-pitched scraping sound of metal on floorboards. Fishing out the list of detainees, he perched a pair of thick glasses on the end of his nose, and spread the sheet slowly across the desktop.

He made us recite our names, as if we may be impostors our something, and he made a point of glaring at us individually as our respective names passed his lips, as if we'd all wounded him personally.
He finished the list of names, and looked up the grouping of people, and we all stared back at him dully, trying to communicate through our eyes how much we resented being here.

He cleared his throat with a sharp cough, and spoke in a smoker's rasp, which sliced through the previously peaceful air like a knife.
"I guess you all know why you're here on this delightful Monday afternoon?" He asked wearily.
Everyone nodded, before slumping back down into their respective positions, staring at object which before had been completely uninteresting. Everyone, except a boy with messy blond hair and a ratty T-Shirt on under his school blazer.

Smirking, he said:
"Of course I do sir, and might I add, that's a fantastic look you've got going on there. The aged geography teacher I believe?"
Sniggers swept the room, which were swiftly silenced as the teacher turned his gaze upon us all, before returning to the boy who had spoken.
"There will be absolute silence, do you understand me?" he hissed, "Or do you need a refresher on the rules? Although why you would is beyond me, you should have memorized the after-school detention rule book by now, Ryan."
The boy, Ryan, scowled as he was called by his first name, and he sat back in his chair, looking not unlike a spoiled toddler.
"That goes for all of you," the teacher continued, raising his voice slightly, "There will be no talking, mobile phones, games, or music of any kind."

Groans rose from the assembled students, and several foreheads hit desks in annoyance.
"There will be silence!" The teacher snapped, "Not one word, is that clear?"
"Yes sir, Mr Ramsay, sir!" Ryan smirked, leaning back on his chair, his feet propped on the desk.
"That includes you Ryan. Not. One. Word."
"Okay," Ryan said, twirling a pencil between his fingers. Mr Ramsay's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he stalked back to his desk, pulling a small notepad from his breast pocket and scribbling furiously.

"Due to your antics Ryan," Mr Ramsay said as he positioned himself back behind the desk, "Everyone will have to write 1000 lines before the end of the detention. If any of you fail, it another 1000 for homework to be delivered to me tomorrow morning. Collect a sheet of paper everyone."
The assembled group climbed to their feet heavily, and sauntered to the front of the class, shooting dirty looks at Ryan, who was sat in his chair, his expression sour. I dutifully grabbed my sheet, and turned so as to face my desk, and as I strode across the classroom, I saw a copper-haired boy accidentally hit Ryan in the back of the head as he walked past.
"OW!" He yelped, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at the copper haired boy, who was staring coolly back.
"Ryan!" Mr Ramsay said sharply, "I warned you not to speak, that will be another after-school next week."
I shook my head as I sat back at my desk, and began rummaging in my bag for a pen.
"And what would that be in need of?"
I looked up to see everyone swivelled in their seats, their gaze focused on me like an escaped convict under a searchlight.

"Pardon sir?"
"I asked why you would be shaking your head," Mr Ramsay repeated icily, "Or is your hearing similarly impaired Tyler?"
"It was nothing sir," I muttered, avoiding his eye.
"Nothing?" Mr Ramsay said disbelievingly, advancing slowly, so that he stood in front of my desk, "Was it really nothing? I've never seen anyone look so contemptuous about nothing before."
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Mr Ramsay grabbed my sheet of paper and held it aloft.
"And why have you written nothing?" he said pointedly, jamming a finger into the paper.
"Sir, I, Um, I've only just got back my desk and-"
"I don't want to hear your excuses," he thundered, "This is pathetic Tyler, you will join Ryan next week, and you will do the extra 1000 lines for me."
He threw the paper onto my table and stomped back to his desk, while I slumped back in my chair, fuming at the injustice of it all.

Ryan was sprawled in his chair, an ugly sneer plastered across his face, and I roundly ignored him, the only sounds being the slight scratching of pens on paper, and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
The shrill ringing of a phone shattered the cool, still air of the detention atmosphere. Mr Ramsay looked up from what he was writing.

"Who's is that?" he asked wearily. Several of the students shot surreptitious glances at each other, before a brown haired girl spoke up from the back of the class.

"Um, sir? I think it's yours..."
Mr Ramsay patted his pockets, and retrieved the device, which looked like it would have been out of date in the stone age.
"Not allowed phones in school sir," someone called from the back of the room, and several people hid smirks behind their hands, whilst Mr Ramsay shot filthy glances at the entire back row, who all pointed at one another.
Shaking his head and sighing, Mr Ramsay put the phone to his ear. A low murmur of voices started as he listened intently.

When the call ended, he turned back to face us all, and we all quickly straightened in our seats, and the hushed whispers ceased immediately.
"I must go for a few minutes, I have an important matter to attend to upstairs. I trust you will all behave."
Everyone nodded, the slow, sly grins spreading despite attempts to stifle them.
"Even so, someone will be along in a few minutes, stay in your seats and do not talk."
He scooped up a few loose papers, and, folding them into his pocket, he strode towards the door, swinging it open, and letting it slam shut behind him. As soon as Mr Ramsay was gone, Ryan let his chair drop to the floor, and straightened quickly, scuttling over to where the girl sat, who greeted him with a flirtatious grin.

I had stood too, and slung my bag onto my shoulder, after screwing my paper up and throwing it in the general direction of the bin. Stretching, I glanced across to the window, seeing that the rain was still pouring down outside. Sighing, I moved to the frame, and ran my hand along the top of the pane, feeling for where the catch was. I slid it across, and heaved the window open, letting the sound of the rain and the wind flood in.
"Where you goin' Ty?" Ryan said, smirking.
"Out the window. What does it look like?" I replied coldly. That threw him, and he stuttered for a response. The girl seemed a little more sympathetic.
"Won't that be like, freezing?"
"Probably," I said shortly, before I climbed up and over the sill, into the pouring rain.

...

I arrived home about an hour later, dripping wet. I practically fell through the front door, and sat in the gloomy kitchen, my jumper screwed up on the floor beside me. Faint sounds of the TV blared in from the other room, from where I could tell my step dad was sprawled, staring gormlessly at the TV, probably in a drunken stupor. Sighing, I slid of the stool, and quietly made for the stairs, tiptoeing past the open door to the sitting room.

"Why are you late?" said a surprisingly clear voice from the shadows, and I sopped shortly, and slowly picked my way through the squalor of the room, to where my step dad was sat. The foul odour of beer hit my nostrils, and I covered my nose, disgusted.
"I asked you a question, kid," he said coldly.
"I was in a detention," I replied resentfully.
"Why?"
"Maybe it was because my twat of a step dad wouldn't help with my schoolwork," I snapped. There was a sharp crack, and I stumbled back, clutching my cheek, glaring coldly at where he stood, breathing heavily.

"I will not be spoken to that way," he hissed, "Do you understand?"
I said nothing, turning away and walking out of the room, scooping my bag off the floor.
"Stupid kid, no wonder his mum dumped him with me," I heard my step dad mutter as I climbed the stairs.

That hurt more than I would like to admit, and, when I reached my room, I kicked the door open and threw my bag at the wall, before collapsing down onto the chair behind me, my head in my hands.
"I must have been pretty shitty in a previous life to deserve this," I murmured to the blissfully empty and quiet room. The rain still hammered down outside, and the wind raged and howled like a frenzied dog.

Eventually I got to my feet, and began the half hearted search for a piece of, knowing that if I didn't do those lines for Ramsay he would eat me alive. I fished out the illusive white rectangle, and sat down reluctantly at my tatty desk. It was then that I realized that he had never told us what we were meant to write. I half growled with irritation, and racked my brains for something suitable. The words floated around in my mind as my brain attempted to string them together into a feeble sentence.

"Really?" I muttered, when I had finally formulated the appropriate grouping of words, "Well, it's better than nothing."
And I set to work, except there was a small problem. I knew what I should be writing, but I couldn't seem to. The words floated around and blurred in front of my eyes, until they had formed a disjointed amalgamation of random letters. I rubbed my eyes, and knuckled my forehead, concentrating hard on the piece of paper lying smugly on the desk top before me. No matter how hard I tried, I could not write what I needed. I swept my arms across the wood in frustration, sending books, pens, paper, and several empty Coke cans tumbling to the floor.

"This just isn't my day," I sighed. Then there was a knock on the door. I frowned, no one visited us, it's not like my friends liked coming here, why should they? I hate it and I live here. From the sounds issuing from downstairs, my step dad was equally surprised. Listening hard, I heard his footsteps as they crossed the living room, and out into the hall. The door opened with a creak, and I heard I heard the cautious voice from downstairs.
"Hello?"
"Where is it, Mr Rose?" A cold voice answered. Even in those few syllables I recognized the danger and non-so subtle threat contained within them.
"Look, I promise I'll have it tomorrow."
"That's what you said yesterday," another voice, with a harsh cockney accent, not something you'd expect to hear in Gloucester.
"I know, I know," My step dad stammered, "But, you see, there's this horse who-"
"We've heard this before too," the first voice interrupted, "But you see, the men upstairs are getting pretty tired of your excuses."

Something glinted in the pale light of the setting sun, and there were two loud cracks, and my step dad staggered backwards, and then toppled onto his back. He gasped for breath, clutching the stop crimson patches which were blooming on his grotty shirt. The two men stood and looked on dispassionately, seemingly oblivious to my step dad's feverish breaths. And I watched from the top of the stairs, wide eyed, as one of the men glanced up to where I was, and our eyes met. He took in my thin form, the rings under my eyes, the unhealthy pallor of my skin, and the bruise that blossomed on my cheek.

He shook his head contemptuously as he backed out the door, and I heard him mutter:
"Scum like him deserve it if they hit a kid."

The door slammed, and I cautiously made my way down stairs, to where my step dad lay.
"Tyler," he croaked hoarsely, "Please."
He reached for me with a blood soaked hand, which I batted away. His face fell, and the hand dropped to his side. Shaking my head, I reached for the phone, staring coldly into my step dad's eyes, and dialled the emergency number, pressing the nine button 3 times. It whirred and the dial tone pierced my ear as it connected, until a cool female voice sounded through the tiny speaker

"Hello, emergency services, what do you require?"
"I need an ambulance, and the police too," I said, my voice quite steady.
"What's the situation?"
"My step just got shot," I answered, glancing to where he lay, his chest heaving, his eyes closed.
"And your address is?"

As I recited the address, I saw my step dad open his eyes slowly, and saw that he was gazing at me with a peculiar expression. It was so far removed from the contempt and disgust he normally looked at me with, but I wasn't foolish enough to believe it was love. Desperate situations make men do desperate things. Cutting the connection, I tossed the phone onto the sofa and made toward the stairs, intending to stay in my room until the police arrived.

"Tyler," my step dad whispered, his voice weak, "Th- thank you."
"You shouldn't thank me," I answered, eyes narrowing, one foot on the bottom step, "If I'd known better I would have let you bleed to death there."
And with that I climbed the stairs into the welcoming shadows of my room, the distant wail of sirens screaming into the blood red sky, while the sunset closed another day.