Once, when Gene was six years old, he'd won a competition at school. Not a massive competition, or of any particular significance: his class had had a spelling competition and he'd won it by two points over Brian. He'd been so proud of himself, parading his little gold sticker in front of everyone else like a war medal, in the wonderfully innocent and self-involved way young children do.
His mother had picked him and Stu up from school that afternoon, cooing over the sticker, delighted when he told her what it was for; she'd praised him until Gene's cheeks were flushed with happiness, pulling him into a huge cuddle as soon as they were out of view of the school. Even Stu had congratulated him, although at four his tongue wasn't quite up to the word and Gene had to help him out. Gene had felt on top of the world, the best at something for the first time in his life, stroking the little gold sticker on his jumper every few seconds, as though re-living his pride.
Throughout dinner his mother had praised him, telling him what a clever boy he was, how good he was, how proud she was of him; Stu had sloped off to play upstairs afterwards, getting a little bored of Gene's constant re-telling of the test, but Gene had sat with his mother downstairs, snuggled into her, a small smile still on his face as she watched the news and stroked his hair. Safe and happy.
And then his father had come home.
The first Gene had known about it, having dozed off on his mother's chest, was the banging of the door and the shouting that his dinner better be on the bloody table or someone would be getting a smack; Eileen had tried not to wake him, easing him up and onto the cushions instead, but the moment Stephen Hunt had entered the house Gene was awake and alert, cowering away as his father's thick, tall frame filled the door, face in shadow. Eileen had hurried back through from the kitchen, holding up a plate of food like a peace offering, but Stephen had violently batted her aside, marching forwards to seize his son and yank him up, his ruddy, contorted face inches from Gene's as he yelled loudly enough to make the rafters tremble.
"What the bloody 'ell are yer wearin' on yer jumper? Soft sissy nancy! Bloody pathetic bum-bandit! I'm not 'avin' no son of mine growin' up like that!"
The first blow had stunned him, the pain spreading slowly through his head as his throat seemed to constrict. The punches after that had just hurt.
Later, waiting to be seen in A&E, Gene had glanced down at his jumper through the haze of tears swimming in his eyes, cradling his right wrist gingerly as Eileen Hunt kept her arm protectively round him, telling anyone who dared to glance their way that Gene had been clipped by a car.
The little gold sticker was gone, not even a strip of yellow to show where it had been.
It had only made it hurt even more.
Ever since then, Gene had gone out of his way to not be rewarded at school. He'd cheeked the teachers, deliberately made mistakes in tests, even though by now they'd twigged that he was bright enough to get good marks if he wanted to. If the teachers praised him, he'd flinch away from it, although they hadn't managed to work that one out yet. Getting into trouble wasn't something he deliberately aimed for, but it wasn't something to be avoided either; after all, his father would rather he came home with red, sore hands from being caned than covered in stickers, although he'd be punished nonetheless as Stephen Hunt decided the caning obviously hadn't done its job enough.
So now, as Alex sat down next to him on the floor and the teacher called for everyone to gather round, he hoped she would allow his participation to be kept minimal. Better he never got any reward to get attached to than he did and had to leave it behind in the hotel.
He could see Amelia Forester in the corner of his eye, grinning at her friends across the room; Ray Carling took the place next to Gene, opting to leave his partner on his own in favour of a fellow Mancunian.
"Oi, Hunt, move over!"
"Piss off," Gene hissed back, elbowing Ray in the ribs as the boy tried to push him into Alex; Ray wheezed, winded by Gene's opportune prod, dropping to the floor as Mrs Pankhurst called for silence, holding her hand up until the chattering and giggling died down.
"Right. The game we're going to play is called Beanbag. I will give you a number between one and five, and you're to remember that number. Then I will call a number and throw the beanbag in the air. The children who have been given that number will stand up, and choose one of them to catch the beanbag before it falls to the floor. If you don't catch the beanbag, one member of the group has to be out. The person who catches the beanbag chooses who is out. Last person to be in from each group wins some Black Jacks. Everyone understand?"
Phew. Yer can eat Black Jacks. Gene found himself warming to this team-building thing.
"What 'appens when yer out?" Ray Carling asked, a cheeky smile on his face. Mrs Pankhurst frowned.
"You miss out on the fun, Raymond." Ignoring the scowl on Ray's face at the use of his full name, she stood up and pointed to Amelia Forester. "One. Two. Three. Four…"
Alex suddenly decided that she didn't want to play Beanbag today. Counting the children down to herself, she realised she would be number one. The same as Amelia Forester.
Alex didn't yet know what the word 'suicide' meant, literally or figuratively, but had she known, it would have been perfect to describe her being in the same group as Amelia Forester for anything.
Hurriedly, she turned towards Gene, hoping he'd agree to swap places with her- but she'd barely had time to catch his eye before Mrs Pankhurst was bearing down on her and pronounced her 'number one'.
Blinking back tears, Alex bowed her head, glancing back at Gene; he was staring at her, clearly trying to work out what to do, not overly keen himself to be number two, as William Jamieson had just been pronounced as. The obvious solution was to swap, but in the silent little classroom, it would be instantly obvious and they'd both lose face; he gave Alex a reassuring smile, hoping this Amelia wasn't as bad as Alex had made her out to be as the number threes went first, the beanbag plopping to the floor and Ray Carling instantly electing to be out.
Lazy bastard, Gene thought as Ray wandered over to a chair on the other side of the room and plopped into it, looking supremely pleased with himself for being so quick off the mark to be disqualified. The number fours kept their cool, Ray's partner Paul grabbing the beanbag at the urging of a thin-faced boy on the other side of the room; the number fives did equally well, three people scrabbling at the beanbag in unison and managing to catch it between them, all three hanging onto a corner each with the last one hanging bereft in mid-air as the three made a group decision on who would throw the beanbag back. Mrs Pankhurst was smiling, evidently under the impression that things were going swimmingly.
"Right then. Number one!"
Go, Alex, go!
Alex scrambled up, desperate to be the one to catch the beanbag, to have immunity; one small hand reached out for it, face upturned to the red cloth spinning near the rafters, but a larger, stronger arm pushed her out of the way and to the floor and Alex could only watch in horror as Amelia Forester's large hand closed around the beanbag, the triumphant smirk on her face only growing as she watched Alex getting up, tears swimming in her eyes.
"Well done, Amelia! Never mind, Alex." Mrs Pankhurst was clearly under the impression that Alex had slipped; Alex ground her teeth, aching to correct her, but safe in the knowledge that it would only make Amelia even more victorious. Gene, watching anxiously from the sidelines, grinned as a plan began to formulate in his mind.
Gene scrabbled around, checking the ground for any small objects; as luck would have it, Ray's pencil sharpener had fallen out of his pocket, sitting idly beside him. Gene seized it up.
"Who would you like to be out, Amelia?"
Amelia's gleaming eyes fixed on Alex, a cruel grin twisting her mouth; Alex looked down, waiting for the hammer blow to fall, praying that the tears blurring her vision wouldn't spill over and give Amelia even more satisfaction-
Just as Amelia opened her mouth to speak, Gene threw the pencil sharpener at her head, managing to hit her square on the forehead.
"I say -eeee!"
Her yelp covered the dull thud as the pencil sharpener fell on Alex's shoe.
"Me?" Mrs Pankhurst looked most surprised, staring at Amelia; Alex whipped round, staring at Gene, who smiled beatifically back at her, glancing down at the sharpener and back up again before quirking a wink at her as Mrs Pankhurst praised Amelia for being nice enough to allow the other children to stay in the game.
Eyes now hazed with tears of relief, Alex slid back down next to Gene as Amelia stomped off to the corner with Ray, her face contorted in anger. Out of sight of Mrs Pankhurst, who had turned away to head back to her space, she slipped the pencil sharpener back to Gene, who silently dropped it back in Ray's empty place.
As Mrs Pankhurst called the number threes up and the scrabble began, Alex tucked her hand into Gene's and squeezed gently, smiling round at him through her long dusky hair.
Alex was eventually knocked out in the third round, accepting defeat to a victorious Jennifer Milton; Gene, despite being the youngest in his group, couldn't help winning just to show William Jamieson up, even though in the final round the struggle was so vicious he ended up being sat on by the older (and much heavier) boy. His prize, a paper bag of Black Jacks, was hurriedly snaffled up there and then, half of them donated to Alex to get rid of them quicker; the inquisitive side of Alex's mind that would later lead her into psychology tried to analyse him, a frown on her small face as she chewed a sweet contemplatively, but just then she was distracted by the sheet of A3 paper put in front of her and Gene.
"What are we doing?" she asked, glancing at Gene; he was shredding the empty Black Jack packet, his bottom lip stuck out in a strangely cute pout.
"Whatever we want, apparently," he muttered, dropping the bits of wrapper on the floor. Mrs Pankhurst tapped his shoulder, pointing to the plastic littering the carpet beneath him.
"If you'd pick those up please, Eugene."
Gene considered cheeking her, giving her some rude comeback that would have her kicking him straight out, but the sheet of A3 paper and its endless possibilities to mess around with persuaded him to stay and he reluctantly bent down, scraping the wrappers up and dropping them into the bin Mrs Pankhurst held out to him.
"Thank you, sweetheart," she smiled, hurriedly moving on to diffuse a fight between Ray Carling and his partner. Gene opened his mouth to complain at being called 'sweetheart', but she was gone before he could start whinging and Alex was looking at him expectantly, her hand on his arm.
"What are we doing then, Gene?"
Gene looked down at the paper, running his finger over it contemplatively; Alex picked up her pen, uncapping it as Gene leaned back in his chair, pout still on his face.
"Could be part of our project. Take yer shoe off."
"Sorry?"
"Yer shoe. It's white paper, we've got red paint. Do a shoeprint."
"Oh right! But my shoe'll get covered in red paint."
"We can wipe it off."
Alex seemed to accept this, slipping her shoe off and handing it to Gene; Mrs Pankhurst, guessing what they were about to do, hurriedly ushered them outside, returning inside too quickly to see Amelia Forester and her partner, a horse-faced Mancunian boy named Alan whom Gene had never seen eye-to-eye with, busily hiding Christopher Skelton's rucksack behind a patch of scrubby bushes.
"You think yer so clever," Gene sneered, leaving Alex behind him holding her shoe and stepping towards Amelia, hands on hips; even at eight years old, he was an impressive sight, face dark with determination, eyes gleaming slits. "Give us the rucksack."
Alan sniggered to himself, nudging Amelia.
"Eugene Hunt stickin' up fer that sad baby! Yer as bad as 'im. No guts."
"An' you get off makin' fun of a kid. Pretty sad that yer nine an' can't think of anythin' better ter do than hidin' his bag ter make 'im cry. An' Forester's just as bad."
"You shut your stupid mouth," Amelia snarled, stepping towards him. Gene squared his shoulders, balling both hands into fists; behind him, Alex stepped forwards, her face an almost cute blend of nervousness and hurriedly-summoned courage.
"Me, stupid? Should look in a mirror someday. Actually, don't, it'd break."
Amelia's eyes flashed with outrage.
Before anyone could say anything, she'd darted forwards and snatched the shoe from Alex's hand, holding it high above her head as Alex squealed, yelling for Amelia to give it back or she'd tell.
"Aww," Amelia mocked, waving the shoe from side to side in the air, high above Alex's reach. Alex gritted her teeth, glaring with daggers in her watery eyes, desperately hoping that Gene would be able to snatch her shoe back-
A drop of red paint splashed onto Amelia's face, running slowly down onto her cheek in the sudden silence following its appearance.
"What? Eeee!"
The sole of Alex's shoe, coated in red paint, glistened as Amelia dropped it like a hot potato, staring at her paint-covered hand in astonished outrage as Gene smirked and Alex giggled, darting forwards to pick her shoe up.
"Sorry, Amelia. Didn't we warn yer it was covered in paint?" Gene asked insincerely, stepping back towards Alex. "Can't say it doesn't suit yer, though. Now yer 'and's mucky, just like the rest of yer. Now piss off an' leave us in peace."
Picking up the paper, Gene shepherded Alex onto the grass, sparing only one more scathing look back at Amelia and Alan as he crouched to help Alex with making the shoeprint. Amelia hurriedly wiped her hand on Alan's jumper.
"Oi!"
Dinner at the hotel that night was a little more satisfactory, pork sausages and chips with vegetables and baked beans and trifle to finish; by the time Gene had finished his second portion and most of Christopher's, the younger boy having copied him and got a second portion only to find himself incapable of eating it, he was too full to even consider nicking any food from the kitchens, heading back to their room with Brian and Christopher, groaning and clutching his full belly. The landlady winked at him as he unlocked the door, smiling broadly at Christopher, who grinned dopily back; Gene rolled his eyes, ushering his roommates inside, anticipating his bed and possibly snatching Christopher's comics.
Twenty minutes later and Brian began claiming he was bored, shuffling his Top Trumps cards moodily as Gene tried and failed to concentrate on the Beano Christopher had let him read and the younger boy played idly with the empty tray of roast potatoes, trying to balance it on his head and ending up almost braining himself when his hand slipped and he dropped it.
"Shut up, Christopher!" Brian moaned as Christopher started whimpering, dumping his Top Trumps on the table and snatching the tray from Christopher; the younger boy, now deprived of his toy as well as being in pain, wailed even harder, trying to snatch the tray back and missing by a country mile.
"Geeeene! Make him give it baaaack!"
"Play with somethin' else," Gene answered tiredly, turning the page of the Beano. Christopher sobbed desolately, sitting down on the floor in the middle of the room, staring round it for something to do and coming up with a big fat nothing.
"Geeeeeeeeeeene!"
"Don't keep sayin' my name like that!"
"This'd be a great toboggan," Brian said idly, turning the tray over in his hands and feeling the slippery bottom. "It would be! Look, the bottom's all slidy an' everythin'. We could go an' toboggan in the corridors, if everyone else is asleep."
The idea certainly had merit. Christopher stopped whinging, instantly looking cheerful; Gene sat up, scrutinising the tray, dumping the Beano beside his pillow as his eyebrows drew in in thought. Christopher stared at him hopefully.
"Yeah, could be fun. Anyone got any string?"
Brian's trainers provided shoelaces for pulling the tray, and the corridor outside provided a runway for the toboggan; the three sneaked out, heading up the corridor to find a slope, and ran straight into Ray Carling, heading back to his room from going to the toilet.
"What you doin'?"
"Nothin'," Gene said defensively, glaring at Ray. Ray's eyes found the tray and shoelaces, putting two and two together as only a true troublemaker can, his eyes lighting up as Brian began tying the shoelaces to the tray.
"Yer doin' a toboggan? Can I 'ave a go?"
"Fine. But I go first!"
"My shoelaces," Brian protested, standing up with his hands on his hips. Gene rolled his eyes.
"I nicked the tray. I go first."
His dangerously narrowed eyes dissuaded Brian from whinging any further; within a couple of minutes, Gene was seated on the tray, Ray and Christopher pulling, Brian standing at the beginning of the incline down to the main reception ready to tell Ray and Christopher to let go and step out of the way. Christopher was leaping up and down on the spot with all the enthusiasm of a puppy, Ray grasping the shoelaces hard as Brian first checked nobody was in the reception area and then held his hand up, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"Ready- set- go!"
It was a juddery start, Gene almost knocked backwards off the tray by Christopher trying to pull the wrong way; once Ray had sworn at him a couple of times and yanked him in the right direction, however, the tray soon picked up speed, Gene clinging on with white knuckles as Ray and Chris ran on ahead, approaching Brian with surprising speed as the shout of "let go!" rang through the hallway.
Ray dropped the string and ran like hell, diving out of the way, but Christopher, panicking, only clung tighter, running down the slope in front of the tray; Gene yelled, trying to push Christopher out of the way, but only succeeded in knocking Christopher off his feet and into Gene's lap as the tray gathered speed, fast approaching the wall-
BANG.
Dazed, Gene scrambled free of the wreckage, holding a hand up to Ray and using him to haul himself upright; Christopher still lay in front of the tray, rubbing his head miserably, staring up at the other three boys as Brian ran down to look at the damage. The now dented tray lay in front of the wall, showered liberally in plaster dust, whilst the wall now sported a surprisingly large hole, cracks running up the plaster above it, the framework exposed to the four boys now standing somewhat sheepishly in front of it.
"Bugger," Gene muttered, scratching his neck awkwardly. That wasn't part o' the plan.
"We should get back ter bed," Brian hissed, grabbing Gene's elbow and pulling him away; Ray hauled Christopher up, all but dragging the younger boy behind him as he followed Gene and Brian up the ramp, ignoring Christopher's whining that his head hurt.
"And what exactly do you think yer doin'?"
Ray, glancing back at the wall, was too late to stop running, banging straight into the backs of Gene and Brian, who in turn pitched forwards, Brian falling over at the feet of a very irritated teacher.
Gene, mentally preparing himself, slowly lifted his head, bright blue eyes trailing up the teacher's body to finally meet her gaze, steely above lips pressed so hard together they were bone-white.
The teacher looked over the heads of the four boys in front of her, surveying the damage to the entrance hall silently. Gene considered doing a runner for it, shuffling his feet, but just as he did the teacher's hand landed on his shoulder and he silently resigned himself to a massive bollocking.
"I think you'd best come with me, Master Hunt. And you, Davis. And you, Carling, Skelton."
Christopher gulped.
A/N: Oopsy daisy… well, there you go, that's what they did with the tray. ;)
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