Did the face in the bathroom mirror really belong to him? James looked at his face properly for the first time in a long time. He appeared quite old for his age, with dark sunken eyes and sallow skin; his face so drawn that his cheekbones protruded. Holding his lips taut, he unconsciously clenched his jaw on and off. He had a habit of doing this in times of stress. His cheek muscles rippled under its effect. Unaware of the tension building in him, anger consumed him. He wanted to smash the mirror, and his stupid face.
He’d propped the painting of Pete, Gus and Jake next to the sink on the vanity top. He glanced down at the portrait, letting his eyes linger on the maggots. After a second, he moved onto Pete’s rotting, flesh eaten face. But he couldn’t look at it beyond a fleeting glance. He felt destroyed and humiliated. James lifted his eyes back to his own face in the mirror and expelled a long sighing breath. Loathing what he saw, his jaw clenched on and off while his mind tumbled through an avalanche of incoherent thoughts. For the most part, his thinking switched uncontrollably between self-belittling attacks and pitiful feelings of humiliation. But now and then his thoughts turned to revenge. His eyes welled with tears, but he managed to hold them back. Through the distorting haze of tears, his eyes flicked over his drawn features once more. His eyes dropped, unable to hold his own stare. James needed an answer, he needed to find himself, and he needed to know why everything had gone so terribly wrong.
Attempting to bring his mind under control, James thought back to two days earlier, to the beginning of his Art class. That class had started a sequence of events, leading to his current state of desperation. But it shouldn’t have started there, it shouldn’t have started at all, James thought. He had considered himself King in the Art room: unassailable, safe and at home; but no longer. His security had been ripped away, he realised, perhaps for good.
He moved his inquest forward, remembering the moment his mild teacher Mr. Preacher had called him to the front of the class. As he got up from his desk, his stomach churned over and his heart thumped. As he moved towards the front of the room everything became hazy and his mind fogged up.
What’s wrong? Come on, come on, what is it, what have I done wrong? James had no idea what was going on. Why had Mr. Preacher singled him out? As he approached, Mr. Preacher began to speak in a loud voice. ‘I have some terrific news everyone! It gives me great delight to announce…that James is going to have his own art show. Tomorrow we’re going to put up a display of his work in the School Hall. Well done, James! I hope everyone here will support him.’ Mr. Preacher turned his head in Pete’s direction and held his stare forcefully without blinking. Pete fidgeted. Mr. Preached turned back to James and smiled.
James smiled briefly to at the sallow face in the mirror as he remembered the elation, which caused his heart to leap. Wow, his own show…it was more than he’d ever dreamed of.
‘Go and get your portfolio, and I’ll hang it in the Hall before assembly tomorrow.’ Mr. Preacher smiled while they held eye contact. Without words, they shared a special moment: the teacher expressing his happiness, the student showing his gratitude. However, Mr. Preacher must have sensed a change in James. The teacher’s face turned abruptly more serious, more concerned; he appeared a little unsure, even worried. ‘It’ll be okay, James, you’ll see. You’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t be a moron;’ a little voice hissed in James’ ear, ‘they’re watching you act like his pet. Is that what you are, his little puppy, a silly, sappy, puppy?’
James looked up at Mr. Preacher, hesitated for a moment, and with a final push from his shadow, said, ‘Whatever.’
Although shocked, Mr. Preacher let James’ indifference go without rebuke. James sauntered over to his locker. He pulled out his portfolio. Without looking at Mr. Preacher, he walked back and threw the folder onto the large desk. Not caring about the pens he’d knocked off the desk, James turned his back to his teacher. He walked away without a word, strutting with an air of contempt that was obvious to everyone in the room. Deliberately going the long way back to his seat, he passed Pete laughing with his cronies.
‘What an idiot, as if I care,’ James said to the trio, and then added, ‘are you playing footy at lunch? Can I play?’
‘Yep sure’ said Pete. Gus’s faced took on a puzzled expression, but Pete pushed him to prevent him off from speaking. ‘See you over on the pitch, okay? Wait for us and we’ll bring your bag and lunch box with ours, okay?’ he said smiling.
‘Great. Thanks.’
‘No problems. But make sure you’re on time. We won’t wait.’
Quite surprised by the response, James sat down. This was the first positive sign of acceptance he’d received from Pete in a long time. Mr. Preacher, his face icy, returned his pens to their place. James squirmed a bit on his chair. Had he gone too far? At least he’d won a morsel of Pete’s respect, in front of everyone. For this he’d willingly pay the price of his teacher's displeasure.
Gus threw his pen onto his desk. Turning around, his massive frame loomed over Pete. In order to speak without being overheard he positioned his back to James. James saw Gus’ fist clench, his head move animatedly. James didn’t need to hear the words; he knew Gus was pissed off with Pete. On the other side of Pete, James observed Jake’s face as he listened in. He looked angry too, but a familiar smirk spread across his face, and curiously Gus gave him the thumb up. James didn’t see the menace in their eyes; he only saw one thing - the chance to join in.
When lunchtime came, James went immediately to the playing fields. He waited and waited on the pitch, but Pete didn’t show. ‘I must have misheard. No, they said footy; this is where they play footy. After fifteen minutes, he had talked himself into believing he’d misheard the instruction. He decided that the boys were probably waiting for him on the other side of the school, near the tennis courts. He knew they sometimes played there. Needless to say, when he reached the courts, they were not to be found. ‘Messed it up again, fool’ his shadow’s voice sniped in his ear. ‘Go on, before it’s too late, get moving, find them.’ Unsure of where to go to now, he ran towards the nearest building. He kept on running all lunch-break, in and out of the school and all around the grounds without success. His stomach protested with hunger. The bell rang out across the school, signalling the end of lunch. Dejected, James gave up. He raced to class in the hope he’d make in time. He did, with a couple of minutes to spare, his body hot and sweaty from the run. Outside the classroom he found the gang. He caught Gus stuffing something into his huge mouth, while Jake rifled through his bag.
‘Hey, can you tell your mum to pack a decent lunch tomorrow,’ Pete said.
‘Yeah, get her to put in a Mars Bar or something half decent,’ added Gus.
Jake threw the bag at James. ‘It’s just a load of crap in there,’ he said.
James’ books, pencils and everything else spilled across the corridor. Everyone laughed; everyone except James and the voice in James’ head.
‘Idiot, fool, pick it up, pick it up quick, before anyone else sees,’ his shadow yelled. He managed to collect his belongings moments before the teacher arrived.
James sat quietly in class. The only thing preventing him from breaking down was the thought of his Art show the next morning. The whole classroom had seen Pete and his mates humiliate him. Let them laugh for now, tomorrow will be different, he decided. Tomorrow he’d be king. He’d demand their attention, frighten them, disturb them with his pictures, and for a while they’d all respect him.
That night James hardly slept, not because of the usual werewolves but because he was buzzing with anticipation. Imagining faces alight with admiration, he fantasized about the other students’ reactions: “Wonderful!”, ”Amazing!”, “It’s bloody brilliant mate!”
Even without much sleep, he bounced out of bed in the morning. His enthusiasm confounded his parents, in good way. On the walk to school, everyone James met was greeted with a smile. With his confidence high he strutted out purposefully. He decided to arrive at school a l
ittle late, with only a few moments before the start of assembly. He planned to make a big entrance, no doubt to thunderous applause. He pictured himself acting casually and calmly, and acknowledging everyone’s praise with a reserved acceptance. The fantasy owned him.
On approaching the school hall James saw Burley Blake. He considered Burley to be possibly the only kid weirder than him. Strangely, black hair covered most of the boy’s body: his arms, legs and neck - just about all of him - was covered. He looked like a dirty rug.
‘Hey, are you in trouble, or what? I’d be careful,’ Burley called out, cutting across James’ euphoric mood. James decided to ignore him. Arriving at the entrance to the hall, he noticed a few other kids shoot surprising expressions at him. Then the whispering, sniggering and laughing began. What’s wrong? Wondered James as he scrutinized their faces. His heart sank and his exuberance evaporated.
‘Watch out, Pete's after your blood,’ someone said.
‘Gus will crush you like a bug,’ he heard.
James endeavoured to hide his growing alarm. He was moderately successful, although his hands kept fidgeting with a button on his shirt. No one was aware that, over his shoulder, his shadow was firing a barrage of insults at him.
‘Told you, Stupid. Gone and made a fool of yourself, I bet. Get in there and find out what’s wrong, you pathetic idiot. ’
As James walked into the school hall, the buzz from outside the building ceased. Everyone in the hall turned to glare at him. Confused in his panic, James scanned the walls. He didn’t understand. All the pictures looked great. Why would Pete be angry? His eyes worked their way around the room. Trying not to pay attention to the solemn faces, his eyes reached the works on the far wall. Pete, Jake and Gus huddled together in front of one of his pictures. He couldn’t quite see which one. Jake moved to one side, opening his view.
‘Oh shit!’ James exclaimed, unable to hold in his shock. His portrait of Pete and his companions hung proudly on the wall. Mr Preacher had displayed the maggot riddled, tortured and abused, zombie style caricatures, in prime position for the whole school to see.
‘You’re dead, arsehole,’ Gus silently lipped the words across the room while cutting his throat with his fingers. Pete glared at James. His face burned red with anger, appearing more vicious than anyone James’ had witnessed to date. Pete’s eyes were hateful and despising. As for Jake, shuffling from foot to foot in an excited rocking motion, he appeared to be delighting in the situation.
‘Do something; they’re all going to think you’re a pathetic, weak, wimp,’ the voice urged in James’ ear. But he was helpless. Everyone had seen the portraits. Spurred on by his shadow’s relentless, goading whispers, James did the only thing he could think of. He went over to talk to the boys, hoping to pacify them. He decided to apologise, offer to do something, anything, they wanted to make it right. He had to try, even though he knew the gesture would probably be wasted.
‘Hi,’ James began, trying to sound conciliatory. ’Look, I didn’t mean to – Aaahh -holy shit!’ Gus had slammed his knee into James’ thigh. James grasped hold of his throbbing leg. For a few moments, the limb became numb and immobile, sort of dead.
‘See you after school, Maggot.’ Pete spat out the words, but Jake went further and actually spat on his shoulder. Struggling to hide the pain, James limped away. He took his seat for assembly, desperately trying to work out what to do. But with his leg aching and throbbing, and people nudging him, and the nagging voice of his shadow constantly in his ear, he couldn’t think clearly. Thankfully, the entrance of Mr. Preacher and the other teachers diverted the attention away from him briefly. Nevertheless, James knew what was coming. He wanted to run and hide. Mr. Preacher stood up and proceeded to ramble on about the artwork on display. Confronted with a giggling audience, the bemused Mr. Preacher carried on, valiantly promoting James’ talent. With each word, James squirmed, unsure as to what hurt more, the attention or his leg.
The curtains on the stage distracted him from his discomfort. Maybe it was a trick of light, but James thought he saw a flash at the curtain’s edge. Studying the drapes, James saw them twitch. He watched closely. A dark figure carefully peeped out from behind the curtains. With a jolt he recognised, from two years ago, the silhouette of the man from the doctor’s waiting room. His face was still hidden in the coat, with the collar turned up and his neck scrunched down. But this time, James unmistakably saw the man’s eyes, like stars in the night sky shining forth from the depths of darkness. Someone elbowed James in the ribs. He twisted his side in pain. When he looked back the man had gone.
After assembly, the day settled down. The hours dragged by endlessly and when home time finally arrived, James packed up his things in a flash. Desperate to avoid everyone he attempted to make his getaway across the playing fields. He was only halfway across when Jake ran up and cut off his escape. Avoiding eye contact, James attempted to walk around him. But Jake obstructed his move.
‘Hey you, where do you think you’re going?’ He grasped hold of James’ shirt collar. With his free hand, Jake stuck his fingers between his teeth. The sound of the loud shrill whistle hurt James’ ears. Screwing his face up tightly, he shut his eyes. The noise stopped. James opened his eyes to see a mass of figures running towards them. Reacting to Jake’s signal, kids were swarming out from their hiding places in the trees located at the near side of the field. The group descended on James in a fury and formed a circle, which gave him no way out. A moment passed when time stood still. Then the circled opened and Pete walked through the gap. The two boys stood face to face.
‘Hit him. Your only chance is to hit him first,’ the familiar voice jibed. James swung his arm in a large hook. Pete saw the attack and easily sidestepped out of the way. With James now off balance, Pete pushed him. Someone stuck out a leg. James tripped, landing face down in the mud.
‘Hey Maggot, you forgot something,’ said Pete. He nodded to Gus, who threw the complete portfolio from the art show onto the ground in front of him.
‘Oh no, I stepped in some dog shit,’ said Pete. He proceeded to clean his fouled shoes on James’ work.
‘Don’t call his paintings shit!’ a voice from the crowd shouted. ‘They’re not nearly good enough to be called shit.’
‘Kill him Pete, go on, kick his head in,’ someone else called out.
‘Nah’ Pete responded, contempt written across his face.
‘Look at this crap,’ said Gus. He picked up a few of the undamaged paintings. Holding them high he began ripping them into bits. ‘Really, it is crap, mate. You’re deranged boy, mental.’ His face was filled with loathing. James tried to squirm away, wriggling on the ground like a maggot. But the crowd closed ranks, blocking him with their legs.
‘No, not that one,’ said Jake. ‘That one’s mine.’
James saw Jake grab the zombie portrait from a kid. With an almighty snort, he spat a huge lump of snot right onto it. He scrunched the picture into a ball and spat on it some more. Bending down, Jake pulled at James’ shirt and shoved the paper ball down his jumper. The slimy snot smeared over his neck as Jake pushed the ball down his back. James knew better than to resist; he dared not move.
Jake's actions brought an end to his ordeal, for the most part. The crowd gradually dispersed. As they did so, he received the odd spit or occasional kick in farewell. He lay helpless in the dirt. He listened and waited for them to go. After the last person had departed, James grabbed the remnants of his paintings and threw them into his bag. He’d gotten of lightly he decided: no broken bones or blood. But in reality the pain inside him felt much worse than any broken bone. When he arrived home, he stopped outside the house. The most important thing, he decided, was to hide all signs of the fight from his parents. He emptied the contents of his school bag into the dustbin. Carefully, he concealed the torn pieces of his work beneath the other rubbish. He placed his hand on the door handle, paused and drew a deep breath. After a brief moment in which to find his balance, he entere
d his home.
Shaking his head, James pulled a face in the mirror. How could he have been so stupid and forgotten to remove it? He remembered the expression on his mum’s face when he walked into the house. She had seen it the moment he stepped into the kitchen. His father had seen it too. He marched across the room. Holding James by the shoulder with one hand, he used the other to pull the snot-smeared portrait out of his jumper. The inquisition started immediately: ‘What is this? Who are these people? Is that Pete? Did he attack you? Why would you paint something like this?’ On and on and on they went, until eventually, fed up by his refusal to respond, they’d dismissed him and sent him to his room. He stayed there all evening, even eating dinner in his room. He listened to them going over and over the same things. But now they slept peacefully, while James was awake with no one to see his pain, except the hollow face in the mirror.
Chapter Four: Dark Clouds