20 November 1984

The suggestion from his mother came suddenly one breakfast. Early morning sunlight cut through the netted curtains and cast a golden glow across the entire kitchen, highlighting every crack in the walls and damp stain on the ceiling. The only sound before the question had been the shouting of neighbours and the barking of a dog. It was nine o'clock, but his mum insisted on not being disturbed before eight. If God could have a day of rest, she said, then so could she. And so Jim had padded around silently, re-reading his books and wishing that his mum had paid the TV licence because he wondered what he was missing with television. She had appeared earlier than usually, and he should've realised then. She had to have a reason.

"Are you going to have some friends around for your birthday?"

Jim had been pouring cereal when she asked, and he jumped: they usually didn't talk in the mornings and this attack was unprecedented. His mum never took an interest in his birthdays, not as much as she took an interest in his friends, and they often passed with barely a mention. For the last four years Jim had only been able to keep track of his age by a calendar which he'd recycled, because where would they get the money to buy a new one? He'd re-marked his birthday four times. But his mum was taking an interest now? Maybe it was because of the lies he'd been feeding her: Yes, he had friends at his new school. It wasn't like it had been back in Dublin. The kids in his class were nice.

His flinch sent a splash of milk onto his sleeve, and it was a few days old so the smell would linger horribly. Jim immediately thought of Carl, and reasoned that if there wasn't the smell of old milk to laugh at, then he'd find something else. He put the carton down and fiercely scrubbed his sleeve against the table cloth, staring at it and praying that his mum wouldn't bring it up again.

"James?"

He looked up slowly. Don't ask. Don't ask. "Yes?" He asked, softly.

"Don't you have any friends you want to come over for your birthday?" She was smiling so brightly that he wanted to hit her. Her blonde hair hung in limp curls around her face, so he knew that she'd made an effort today. Usually, his mum just let her hair fall in greasy strands and she didn't ever wear make-up. But not today, no: she had lipstick on, but not enough to look ridiculous, and her hair was actually styled. Jim came to two conclusions in the space of a minute: she had suddenly had a revelation and wanted to be beautiful, or she was seeing someone. His mum wasn't one for epiphanies, so he knew it was the latter.

That must have put her in her good mood. Jim couldn't ruin that. "Of course, mum," He smiled back at her, forcing his mouth to stretch and hoping that he looked happy and not furious.

She looked positively thrilled – it would have been funny were it not so tragic – and her next words made his blood freeze. "Good, because I've made invitations!"

"You've… what?" He breathed.

Almost out of thin air, she pulled several pieces of paper. They were handwritten on cream card, the thick kind that's used in fancy hotels and menus. He could see his mum's spidery handwriting scrawled on them, but he didn't even need to read the words for his heart to compress. She had obviously been planning this for a while, he had no idea where she'd gotten the paper from, and put an unreasonable amount of effort into making the invitations.

Jim stared at her with a mixture of horror and sadness: why was she so blind? Did she honestly believe that he had made friends, and that everything was okay at his new school? The problem hadn't changed – he was still the same small, thin, weird kid that he'd been in Dublin – so how could everything be fine? Didn't she know that he was lying about his great new friends and his mild popularity? Or perhaps she just didn't want to see through the lies and face up to the truth: that her son was a freak. Maybe she was deliberately accepting his stories because she couldn't bear to notice that there was something deeply wrong in him.

"You can give them out to the children in your class," she said, holding them out to him. Her smile was wavering a little, probably due to his silence, but it was still there all the same. He couldn't bring himself to make her upset, because she was so horrible when she was sad. When his mum was upset, everything was his fault: his father leaving, them moving here, her low-paid job, her loneliness. She ranted on for hours, sometimes breaking down and ending up in a sobbing heap on the carpet.

Well, he corrected himself, she wasn't alone anymore. He just hoped the guy knew what he was getting into.

He nodded feverishly and took the invitations, marvelling at his ability to not shake. "Thanks mum," he beamed. It felt so false that he wanted to throw up. "That was really nice of you." It was, of course, but it was so misguided that it was actually painful. His mother's love was like a shard in his chest – piercing and aching.

For so long he'd wished that she'd been a normal mum. Taken him on trips and brought him new clothes when his old ones got too small and actually given a damn about him. But now she was taking an interest it was awful. Her smile was strained but she was genuinely happy, it was just that she was so unaccustomed to smiling that it appeared to be fake.

She stood up and glanced at the clock. Jim could see that her mind was already racing down the street to the bus stop, that she had effectively already left. Her hand unconsciously smoothed the skirt of her cliché cleaner's uniform and unconsciously picked at the fraying hem. "I'll be out late."

"Of course you will." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, loaded with malice and hatred.

She blinked in surprise, but then Jim actually watched her mentally lock it away and ignore it. He imagined his mother's mind as an attic: full of dusty cardboard boxes full of moments. All the times he said something odd or dangerous, all those murderous looks he sometimes gave, the flick-knife they both knew he kept under his mattress. She was literally pushing the truth away with all her might. He wanted to smash his bowl into her stupid face and grind it until she wasn't smiling anymore and the faded cream of the ceramic bowl became red mixed with droplets of white milk and orange cornflakes.

He clenched his free hand into a fist under the table.

"Honestly, James," She laughed and reached down to ruffle his hair, "I do wonder about what goes on that funny little head of yours!"

The invitations weighed Jim down. He didn't know why he didn't just throw them away as soon as his mum had left, but instead he shoved them into his coat pocket with the vague idea of throwing them in the bin when he got to school. He had barely given them a look – he'd caught sight of his mum's shaky script and synthetic politeness, "please" and "thank you", and it had been enough. He knew that nothing on earth would make him give these invitations out.

"Hey, loser!"

Except that.

Jim buried his hands into his pockets, as far as they would go, and hunched his shoulders over to make himself a smaller target. Knowing it would do no good, he kept walking and trained his gaze on the pathway. Suddenly the walk to school seemed so much longer, and he wondered if he'd make it at all. It had happened before: Carl had caught up with him on the way, sometimes waiting on the first corner from school and intercepting him. Luckily it hadn't been so severe that he had to go home and fix himself. It was usually nothing more than a creased shirt or a cut or a few bruises, things he could easily hide.

Carl walked in front of him, blocking his path and forcing Jim to look up. He was walking with a laughable swagger and it was all Jim could do to not smirk, because he knew that would only make everything worse for him. He hated that such an idiot had such power over him, could scare him so much. Too nervous to meet Carl's eyes, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Make it quick, he prayed, make it quick.

"Where you going?" Carl asked, amusement lacing his voice.

At that, Jim couldn't help but look up in disbelief. He held Carl's stare and said, incredulously "Um, school. Where else would I be going?"

He saw the shove before he felt it – Carl pushing him backwards by the lapels and against the wall, and pinning him there like a parody of a butterfly on a corkboard. Every ragged breath that Carl took was hot on his face, stinking of mint and milk. He was too close, far too close, and Jim could see every pore and every eyelash. Carl pushed him further back against the wall by his collar; cutting off his airways a little and making him cough. But Jim knew that this was just the start.

"You're too smart for your own good," Carl hissed, his spit flying into Jim's face. "You're such a show off. Think you're better than all of us, don't you Irish?"

Jim didn't answer because they both knew it was true and, anyway, nothing he could say would be any help: Carl was going to do what he wanted anyway. But what he appeared to want was an answer, because Jim felt himself rise slightly off the ground, just slightly, and heard the material of his shirt begin to tear. The question didn't need repeating.

"It's – not hard –" Jim spluttered, his words coming in short breaths, "– to be smarter – than you."

He watched with some kind of grim satisfaction, despite knowing that it had been a massive mistake, as Carl's face slowly drained of colour and his eyes thinned with fury. They stayed like that for a moment, look at each other, before Jim felt himself drop. Carl literally just let him go and he fell the short way to the ground, landing awkwardly on his ankle and twisting it. He couldn't help the gasp of pain as he stumbled. A jolting sting shot through his ankle and he closed his eyes. Because of this, he didn't see the punch coming.

It was like a battering ram had slammed into his gut, and Jim doubled over immediately and cried out. He clutched his stomach and tried to curl up while remaining standing. But it was too much, along with the stabbing of his ankle, and he collapsed to his knees with a hard crash. Perhaps it was the stress that his mum had caused him with the invitations, or the sheer monotony of the beatings, but Jim was giving in faster than usual and Carl was annoyed for it.

"Oh, come on," He jeered and aimed a light kick at Jim's ribs. "Get up. You're usually a bit harder to take down than this. It's pitiful."

Jim just groaned and pressed his face to the floor, hoping that he'd be left alone if he didn't provide ample entertainment. But of course, he should have known Carl better by now. He heard the creak of bone and a quiet sigh, signalling that Carl had bent down beside him. Just leave me alone, Jim thought, for God's sake just leave me alone. He must have muttered something because Carl said, way too loudly: "What was that, Irish? I didn't hear you."

So Jim said it again, hoping with all his might that the other boy would listen to him. He ached inside his bones and his ankle was jarring with agony. He stomach was hollow and ringing with the force of the punch, and the pavement was cold on his cheek. Right then, in that moment, Jim felt weaker than he ever had done in his entire life. "Please; leave me alone."

Carl breathed out through his nose, a long whistling sound, and Jim felt the gust of it brush through his hair. He remained still, on the ground, waiting. He didn't dare open his eyes, partly because he knew what Carl's answer would be and partly because he prayed he was wrong.

The kick, when he came, was to his ribs. That was the easiest part to get to, Jim reasoned, and he cried out almost dutifully as the shock of it reverberated through him. He didn't, try to escape – he couldn't go anywhere – so he just lay there and drew his knees up to his chest in a ridiculous position. He was choking and sobbing at the same time, every new draw of breath dissolving into tears and coughs. He could feel his sticky tears tracking his face and rolling onto the pavement, and he didn't try to stop him.

Someone come

Someone please

Help I'm dying

But perhaps prayers can be answered, because there wasn't another kick, and punches didn't come raining down. For a brief moment of respite, Jim allowed himself the thought that Carl had left him. But there hadn't been the sound of footsteps getting further and further away, so he must still be there. Slowly, cautiously, Jim opened his eyes.

He saw the pieces of paper littering the ground, fluttering a little in the breeze but not taking off – they were too thick to be capable of flight. He saw the scrawled handwriting, thin and spidery and in black. He saw Carl, bending down to pick up a sheet.

"James'. Party." The two words were loaded with such sarcasm and contempt that they were almost like hits themselves. Each syllable was full of laughter and mocking, as if this was the funniest thing in the entire world.

Jim didn't dare speak, even as Carl turned back to face him and spat in his hair. He didn't say a word as Carl walked away, deliberately crushing his mum's carefully made invitations. He didn't even utter a reply when Carl called back that he'd see him again tomorrow, but not to worry about the party: he couldn't make it.

It's okay

There's no need to come

I'm already dead