Author's Notes: When there's something at the top in brackets it's a song I think would be playing if this was a film ;) feel free not to listen!
Mum was quiet; she just looked down at the floor and waited for the discussion to start. It was Dad that started.
"We've given you too many chances, mate. I've found somewhere nice..." He nervously took off his steamed up glasses and gave them a polish on his bottle green shirt.
Mum joined: "It's in the country."
"You like sheep... don't you?"
I took a deep breathe and tried to keep my voice stable.
"When you say country, where abouts do you mean? Because, we're pretty near the countryside now-"
"You're not staying in Crawley, Stuart."
There were a few moments of silence as I processed what I already knew was to be – hearing the words was different from just knowing. For a brief moment I thought I could convince them, make them see the reason I did what I did.
"Mum, Dad, please. Jus' listen. I know most of the things I done are bad – everything I ever done is bad, but ..."
They waited, mum looked up and I swear I saw something in her eyes, some hope that I could explain why I behaved this way. But how could I? I don't even know the reason I do what I do. When silence ensued, Mum let out a signature sigh I'd heard too often and Dad slumped back into the faded arm chair.
"The boarding school - it's near the Forest of Dean, Stu." When I looked at him blankly he elaborated.
"Gloucestershire … as in … near Wales."
(Knights in White Satin – Moody Blues)
We took the train to London, walked to Paddington station and then took another train to Gloucester. Watching the scenery go by, I noticed the sky getting greyer, the weather wetter and the landscape more hilly – even the sheep started to look more depressed. Me and Dad didn't talk much on the way there (Mum decided not to come) but I kept catching him looking at me, the pity in his eyes magnified by the glasses. When he saw me looking back, his gaze was quickly averted.
So seeing as conversation wasn't on the agenda, I settled on passing the time in exploration – not that there's many places to explore on a train, but walking up and down the carriages and people watching proved entertaining. I listed the interesting ones I saw:
1) A teenage girl wearing and entire outfit made of Cliff Richard merchandise.
2) A young mother with triplets, sleeping as her offspring plaited her hair and "did her make-up."
3) Two angry men, blonde and brunette, arguing over which Scandinavian country, Norway or Sweden, topped the other. It looked to be getting violent.
4) A -
I didn't know how to proceed on the next person. His black hair was spiked into a short Mohawk, hair that once had been part of a fringe, but being out of his face exposed a pair of sickly green eyes … not that the green of his eyes was what made me stare. It was the green of his skin. He looked ill.
"Han, that freaky little kid's staring at ya." Reported "Han's" mate.
He gave a cruel laugh, but when he looked at me, his expression turned stonily serious, like he'd seen a dead thing.
"Look at you." He half whispered.
He went to get up but before he or his companions could say/do anything else, I ran down the carriages and hid in the toilet until it was nearly time to get off the train.
When I felt the machine halt, I scurried back to Dad just in time to get off. As we joined the orderly line of departing West Country folk, I found him looking at me again, but this time stayed like that even when I returned the gaze.
"Looks like we're here, mate."
What he meant was "Goodbye. I'm sorry. You're not coming back."
(Silence except for rainfall)
Being the start of the school year and a lovely rainy September morning, hundreds of boys ages 11 to 16 made a mad dash into the large wooden doors of the ageing, crumbled building. It was on top of a hill that shallowly sloped down for about a mile to a small village bellow, this journey being marked by a narrow path winding in and out of the ancient oaks and conifers. The way it over looked the land reminded me of a sinister cult Church watching the little people scurry around in a God-fearing way. The thick mist added further to the Silent Hill feel. The grounds stretched far behind the school: cricket fields, gardens, woods for (I suspected) hunting and other such activities – at the moment they were all grey and soaked like the rest of the landscape.
When I finally managed to battle my way into the building (without the presence of my father, I may add, who left me at the village after an awkwardly silent drive from Gloucester) I was met by a quiet murmur of conversation then, as people started to notice me, more than a few stares. The hall itself was huge, stone tiled, grey, dauntingly high ceiling – I felt like any moment now a preacher was going to jump onto a hidden pulpit to fill me with shame. But as I looked towards the front of the hall, someone very similar looking to a preacher slowly made his way onto the school assembly stage (complete with dramatic maroon curtains) and turned to face us. His expression looked … disapproving.
Everyone went silent.
The knarled man scanned his audience with the faded blue eyes of an older man than he looked, managed to miss me, and began to speak.
"Well. You're the new year sevens of Dreadmoor Boys School, then?" Should we answer? Better not. Everyone else must've had the same idea because they also remained silent.
"That's 'YES HEADMASTER!" He yelled at the quivering souls.
"Yes headmaster!" Came the terrified reply, one that made it's way past my lips as well.
"Can't say I'm impressed. A bunch of weak, snivelling children, you lot. But then, I'm never impressed – that's my job, to MAKE you impressive. And anyone who fails this will suffer the consequences. You'll learn soon enough how we do things around here. But right now I have more important things to do than tell you the ins and outs so I've randomly assigned you all an older student for that. You'll be sharing a room with them."
A terrified gasp came from a few of the students at the prospect of being in the presence of an older pupil – some appeared to be crossing their fingers and praying to get their older brother; some appeared to be doing the opposite.
He gave an evil cackle, "Oo, scary! You'd better be scared, I've given each one permission to disipline you justly should you let down your school – and I hear they can be very inventive."
A disgustingly cruel smile spread across his face.
"Receive your room numbers and 'welcome pack,'" somehow the word 'welcome' didn't sound right coming from him, "from the desks at the rear of the hall. Good luck." He turned without the tiniest hint of care on his face and walked away.
(Vaka – Sigur Ros)
After receiving the number of my room, nervously easing it open, and finding my room-mate absent, I lay down on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. The rain had become a torrent outside and I was reminded of old geography lessons stating it rained a lot more in the West Country than the east. So far, this side of England seemed to be living up to it's reputation. The sudden absence of things to think about, like packing or train tickets caused my mind to keep replaying what happened on my last night in Crawley over and over again – the thing that happened before I had "the talk" and was sent away. I was in the co-op car park, sitting on the wall. I wasn't doing anything in particular, but I remember being sad – there's no other way to describe it, just terribly, unimaginably sad.
Stuart gazed across the car park and noticed a trolley filled with old newspaper the shop hadn't been able to sell. With a blank expression, he walked over to it and climbed in. Slowly, a lighter was removed from his pocket and after a few failed attempts, a flame was produced. He closed his eyes and brought the fire down to the paper, which instantly caught light. A chain reaction of sparks caused the whole trolley to flame up, sizzling the skin of the child sitting inside. Stuart instantly screamed as instinct overtook emotion and in his haste to escape tipped the structure over and rolled out onto the floor. Unfortunately he had fallen onto a half empty vodka bottle which smashed and coated him in a reasonable dosing of flammable liquid. In a flash second he was drenched and cold – a man had seen what was happening and tipped three full milk containers over him. The police came, and an ambulance – nobody had seen the directness of the arson and the police dismissed it a "kid playing with matches." It was similar at A&E, no serious burn damage, everything had been over with too fast. It felt like a lifetime to him. His parents were called,
they went home and … well, you know the rest. He caused ANOTHER fire.
A raging heat began to run through my body and my heart quickened. I was on fire, I could feel it. Suddenly, I jumped off the bed, near tore the door off it's hinges and ran as quickly as I could down flights of stairs and through corridors to the back doors leading into the school grounds. The rain soaked into my clothes almost strait away, adding a tiring weight to my body – but I couldn't care. I was so cold, but felt as though my skin must be burning, could imagine the flames licking at my body and smoke filling my lungs. I continued to run, further into the fields not designated for any particular sport, and towards the woods, as I did so half thinking I heard a large slamming noise behind me. That just made me run faster until I reached the stile leading into the forest, cleared it in a long legged leap, and made a hard sprint into the darkness. The heavy rain turned to hail and began to pelt the skin on the back of my neck through the canopy. The dark, twisting nature of the forest was so frightening it was causing me to imagine frantic footfalls behind me.
The further I ran, the sicker I became until my head span and my lungs ceased to work.
Just as I fell to the ground I heard the running footsteps loudly as the shadowy figure approached and half caught me. And then the darkness took me over completely and everything was black.