3 February 1988

Jim knew his discovery of Clostridium Botulinum would not change his life drastically overnight. He didn't, in fact, feel much change in anything.

Yes, there was a bacterium which could kill Carl – it was ridiculously attainable – but for some reason his unearthing of such a thing seemed almost anti-climactic. He didn't know what he'd been expecting from finding a permanent solution to his problem: some kind of indescribable joy, a zeal which defied wording. Like when people blandly say you'll understand when… Well, he felt cheated. He wasn't filled which happiness at the discovery, rather a sense of stoic justice. He was going to rid the world of the scummy waste that was Carl Powers, it was his duty, and there was no need to get emotional about it.

In his lack of enthusiasm there lay a worry – Jim should be happy about this, but he wasn't. There are expected reactions to certain things, in life: you receive a phone call from the police to say that they're very sorry, but your son has died in a tragic accident; you feel despair. You watch a boy drown in a swimming pool, you feel horrified. And yet, worse than the fear that something awful is going to happen, is the fear that you won't react properly to it. The terror that your only son is dead and you will feel nothing. With the tragedy comes a sense of reassurance at your own humanity – you are distraught, sick to the stomach, and that's normal. It's this under-fear, this unspoken dread that you won't break down in tears or scream when you're expected to, which haunts us perhaps more than the possibility of catastrophe.

And yet, there Jim was. He had found a way to get rid of Carl, and he wasn't pleased. He was facing the fact stony-faced. Carl would be gone (dead, for God's sake, Carl would be dead – why was it so odd to use that word?) and he would never be bothered again. But he was completely calm about it.

Maybe it was because he knew he had so much planning to do: the mould was still growing on the can of green beans that he'd stored under his bed. The inner rim of the can was layered with a thin carpet of fuzz, dark greyish-brown, which looked suitably disgusting. The smell which wafted from the beans, which had long-since shrivelled and wrinkled, caused his mother to pause for a moment and wrinkle her nose. But, for the hundredth time, her counsel was held – whatever was rotting in Jim's room, she didn't want to know.

He risked poking the mould with a stick. It was pliable – the tip of the stick sunk in and scraped against the metal – and a few small pieces of fluff flew off and floated through the air, like spores. He quickly crawled away and decided to leave it. No good scientist tampered with the experiment. Though he tried to cover the stench of mould with perfumes which he filched from his mum's room, it still pervaded the air and lingered in his nose. Wherever he went, the smell followed him as closely as his own shadow.

But it didn't bother him, not really, because it meant the C. Botulinum was growing as it should be. And, pretty soon, he could get it into Carl's system, coursing through his veins, seeping into his muscles, poisoning his blood.

"Hey, Irish, did you hear about the championship?" Carl's tone was snide – he knew that Jim had heard about it. Everyone had. When Mr Strickland had given the assembly, his hands clasped tightly together on the podium and his fingers occasionally tapping his knuckles, every year had been in attendance.

His voice had been nasally and grating, and Jim wondered how many times this dull little speech had been reeled off in front of his bathroom mirror.

"I want you all to remember that this is a big event for everyone. Even if you haven't been chosen to take part, don't worry – it's not the taking part that counts. It's the support! You can still do your best to help those special children who are going to be competing for our school."

Carl had been sitting on a plastic chair to Strickland's left, his expression smug and his arms folded. Somehow, he'd taken up so much room. He wasn't especially tall for his age, and he was far too athletic to be fat, but his presence was weighted on the small stage. At a first glance one might assume that he was the only one competing when, in fact, three other children sat in chairs next to him.

"You'll all be divided up into year groups for the trip down to London…" Jim had drowned Strickland's speech out like static, because he'd had a realisation.

It was this realisation that he called to mind when Carl's shadow fell across his book. It was a bright day, perfect for reading, and Jim had sat on a secluded bench in the corner of the playground and hoped to get the final chapter of Allan Quatermain finished before lunch-break was over. But Carl had found him.

"Of course I heard about it." Jim said, blinking up at him in the sunlight. "I was there, wasn't I?"

Carl's face twisted into a frown. "Don't get smart with me, James," He snapped.

Jim shrugged and looked back down at his book, honestly not caring what Carl had to say. He reasoned that the other boy had about a week, if that, of words left. Then, thank God, nobody would have to listen to what he had to say anymore because he'd be dead. Until then he just had to let whatever rubbish Carl wanted to spout wash over him like a tide.

"Hey, I was talking to you!" Carl sounded petulant, like a child, when Jim ignored him with the weariness of a tired adult. In an instant the book was ripped from his hands and both boys watched it sail through the air and land on the edge of its pages, bending them.

"That wasn't mine!" Jim cried, leaping up and stumbling over to the book, picking it up and trying to smooth down the damage. "It was a library book!"

"Shouldn't have ignored me then, should you?" Carl mumbled.

Jim straightened up and whirled back around to face him. "What, Carl? What do you want?" His eyes weren't watering because he wasn't upset – he was furious. Leaflets and self-help books and TV programs said that if you ignored bullies eventually they got bored and went away. However it was rather with the opposite in his situation: ignoring him only seemed to rile Carl more. But not long now. Not long now.

"Are you gonna go to the championship?"

"What's it to you?"

Carl blinked. "What?"

"Why do you care?"

"Just answer the question."

Jim sat back down on the bench. "Yeah, I'm going." His voice was closed and he stared down at his crumpled book, hoping that Carl would get the message and end the conversation. He still had five minutes until the bell went and he figured he could finish it by then. But instead of grabbing his collar and hauling him to a stand or spitting in his face or pushing him onto the ground, Carl sat down next to Jim.

"What are you reading?" He asked, his voice quiet. Jim glanced at him suspiciously and flipped the book over in his hands so that the cover was shown. It depicted a tiger roaring, its fangs large and thick, its eyes wide. The title was emblazoned across the top. Carl frowned at it. "Allan Quar – Quar –"

"Quatermain." Jim interrupted, not looking away from the book. He drummed his fingers on the laminated paper

"Yeah." Carl agreed. There was a pause. "What's it about?"

Jim shrugged and was about to turn it over so that he could read the back, but instead he summarized: "There's this guy and his son goes missing, so he has to go across Africa to get him and he gets attacked and runs into these weird tribes and stuff. He's a hunter, and he, like, hunts wild animals."

"Sounds pretty cool. Like a nigger James Bond." Carl said, nodding to himself. Jim winced and wanted to correct him – Allan Quatermain wasn't black, first of all, and did people still say that? Wasn't it really bad? And anyway, Allan Quartermain was a game hunter, not a spy. But he remembered who he was talking to and reasoned that he had to treat the other boy like a dangerous animal – not question what he said, not argue. Just agree and don't antagonise him.

"Yeah," He said softly. "Just like that."

They lapsed into silence for a few seconds, during which Jim's mind floated to the disgusting smell of rotting canned beans and limbs flailing underwater. Despite the silence, it wasn't awkward. It was unusually amicable, the two of them sitting there. Carl kicked the ground and cleared his throat. "Did you try and get into the championship? Like, get on the team?" It was a query that should have been harsh, like a joke, but he seemed to be genuinely curious. There was no malice. No cruelty.

"Uh…" Jim stalled for a moment, remembering back to the endless endlessness of the swimming pool and the burning of his lungs. "No," He took a breath. "I can't swim."

"Oh." Carl seemed at a loss for a moment and swung his legs in unison. "Is that because of…?" He didn't need to say it; they were both remembering the same day – the dappling sunlight, the laughing of their peers, the shouting and begging. Is it because of what I did to you?

"Yeah."

"Sorry." It was barely a whisper, hardly a word, and Jim wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly. He looked up from the book and stared at the other boy for a few seconds. Carl was glaring at the ground, blinking rapidly.

"What?" He asked at last and Carl glanced up, his eyes filled with something that Jim had never seen. Something he couldn't place because it was so unrecognisable.

"Nothing."

They sat like that for a few more minutes, neither saying anything, before the sound of heavy footsteps broke the quiet. At the same time, both boys looked up to see Simon Boules running over from the football pitch. He was breathless and bent double, resting his hands on his knees and managing to speak in short bursts: "Carl – what are you – doing? We need you. We're getting thrashed out there." He gestured to the pitch behind him, a small patch of concrete designated to the football players across the playground directly opposite the bench.

"I'm coming." Something in Carl's tone had changed – he sounded impatient and angry. With a final swing of his legs he jumped off the bench and stood beside Simon, without a glance at Jim.

"What were you doing over here anyways? With that freak?" Simon asked, shooting Jim a thin-eyed glare as if he had deliberately coerced Carl away from the football match. Simon wasn't a ringleader – he never instigated any bullying – but he was a follower. Couldn't be seen liking the weird Irish kid. Social suicide.

"Nothing," Carl echoed what he had said a few moments ago, shrugging dismissively. "Just taking a break before I came over to win the game for you, and this little fag sat next to me. I was gonna tell him to get lost, but whatever."

Simon made a non-committal noise at the back of his throat and turned away, heading towards the other side of the playground. Carl stood for a few seconds, looking at Jim, who hadn't moved an inch on the bench. They locked eyes. Then Carl blinked once and spun away, following Simon hurriedly.