Author's note: I am a British aetheistic marxist, to establish my positoon. I have not discriminated against anyone in this fic, I am angry at everyone. Flame if you must, but these are only opinions.

Playground

Buck was a bully, and even the prefects were scared of him. He stole lunch money from the younger pupils, he cheated at games, he intimidated anyone smaller than him. Everyone was smaller than Buck, who was tall and broad, with slicked black hair and a mean smile.

It wasn't always so. Buck had an older brother, Angle, who used to be top kid. But over time, Buck began to outgrow his brother, and resented his authority. All the children remembered the day of the big fight, where Buck had floored Angle with a crushing blow, and Angle had slunk off bleeding. Since that day Angle seemed to shrink inside himself, becoming grey and diminutive. Nowadays all Angle seemed to do was follow Buck around, sheeplike.

The worst thing about Buck was the amazing arrogance through which he carried out his activities. He was always right, and he seemed to find no problem in convincing the other children that this was so.

He demonstrated this ability amazingly well in the case of Red. Red was a tall, lanky boy with flaming carrot-top hair. He came from a poor family, but made the most of his life, or used to. There was a time where he would never be seen without a book, a slim volume in which, he claimed, there were the laws he lived by. This set him apart from the other pupils, who teased him constantly. But still he carried on regardless, living by the book.

But like Angle's diminishing pride, Red's book became tatty over time. Pages fell out, the cover got soiled, the rules were torn apart. He still claimed to love the book, but the other children weren't so sure.

Buck loathed Red with all his heart – he was frightened Red's ideas would spread and challenge his authority. Buck encouraged all the other children, especially Angle, to torment Red – Buck assured them that he was right. Maybe this became too much for Red, because, one day, he came to school without his book, his characteristic hair died black, like Buck's.

Nowadays Red and Buck still distrusted one another, but Red was tolerated now that he rejected the book. Nonetheless, some of the younger pupils made copies of the book, but they were feeble compared to the first.

A few weeks ago a new family joined the school. The oldest son was called Packer, and he was dark and dirty – he stood out in the playground. His brothers and sisters were like him, but Packer was the strongest – maybe even as strong as Buck, but far more subtle.

Buck knew it would be dangerous to take Packer head on, so instead he made life as difficult as possible for Packer's siblings – they were his favourite targets.

But three days ago, this became too much for Packer. He walked straight up to Buck and punched him on the jaw, knocking out a few teeth. This overwhelemed the playground, and everyone jumped into the fray. Packer came out bruised and sore, but smiling. The children were now waiting tensely for his next attack, while Buck teased his brothers and sisters even more.

There was another child, named Collar, who refused to take part in all this. He had a book like Red's, but thicker and more elegant. Copies of this book were widely available, but children like Buck and Angle twisted its verse to their own means.

Collar was genuinely good, and tried as hard as he could to break up fights. Sometimes he succeeded, but mostly he failed.

Collar was leaning against the wall of the playground, watching a fight, when he felt breath over his shoulder. He turned around and saw an old, bearded man, dressed in white standing behind him.

"Who are you?" he said, surprised.

"I am the man in your book, Collar. I built this school," replied the man.

Collar broke away, seeming truly happy, but truly sad at the same time – shocked, too. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and he sank to his knees and bowed his head to the man.

"Stop that," his master replied, "You don't have to."

Collar struggled to his feet, anxious to obey. He noticed that the old man was frowning, and followed his gaze..

They watched the fight together, and then the old man spoke. "Silly, isn't it? They never dream, like you do, that there might be something more than this."

"No. They don't. May I ask you a question, sir?

"Of course."

"Why have you never shown yourself to me before?"

The man smiled, for the first time. "I'm always here, Collar. You just need to look. That's what it says in your book, isn't it?"

"Yes. I should have thought, I-" Collar hesitated, "I'm sorry sir."

"Don't be, I cannot expect you to remember everything – you are only a child." The old man sighed. "Sometimes I wish I had never made this place. They all believed me, at first, but now they are corrupted, they do not imagine that I could be real. I can only be real if they think I am and now . . . now they don't."

The old man turned his back on the playground, his white shirt flowing down his back, his long hair blowing in the wind. Soon, he was gone. Maybe he had never been there at all.