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Authors: Martyn Waites
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to go on. But death ⦠no. I thought Trevor would get up again. And play.â
âTrevor was â¦â
âThe boy.â She nodded. âThat I killed.â Her voice shrank away from the words as she spoke. âNo, I didnât know what death was. Not really. I used to love police shows. Cops and robbers. Couldnât get enough of them when I was a kid. But like I said, when they caught the baddie they put him in prison or murdered him. And then next week he was back, in some other cops and robbers programme. So he wasnât really dead, was he? I mean, now I know they were only actors. That it wasnât real life. But not then.â
He starts to ask another question but she hasnât finished. âThatâs the only question they should ask, I think. Well, only two. To kids in murder trials. Do you know what death is? Real death? And do you know right from wrong? The only two.â
âWhat about the other thing you said?â
She frowns.
âA psychopathic personality? What do you think about them saying that?â
She looks at him, away from him, down at the cigarette packet. She takes one, lights up, exhales. Again. Looks at him once more, then looks away, head slowly shaking.
âAnd you wonder why I fuckinâ hate psychiatrists?â
6
âHey kid, whatâs your name?â
Jack Smeaton looked up. He had been in his own world, head down, trying not to walk home too quickly, fearful of what kind of mood his mother would be in. The woman before him was dressed casually: leather jacket, jeans, trainers. Dressed for a quick getaway. Hair dark and straight. London accent. Cocky, confident grin, the kind that was verging on arrogant. The kind Jack wished he had.
âJ â Jack.â
âYeah, Jack. Terrible this, donât you think? This kid getting stabbed. You knew him?â
Jack made her now. Journalist. On the hunt. He looked round, taking in the scene properly now. How had he missed it before? There were TV cameras pointed at the school gates, still cameras flashing all the time. He recognized a couple of the faces talking to cameras from the local news. Word of Calvinâs death had spread.
Jack looked back. The journalist was still in front of him, waiting.
âN â no, I didnât know him. Not very well, anyway.â
âSure?â She gave him a kind of come-on look, eyes locked on to him like heat-seeking missiles. He stepped back, frightened. âCould be a bit of money in it for you. Get yourself a new PlayStation. Nintendo Wii. Whatever. Good bit of money.â
A new PlayStation sounded great. In fact, any PlayStation sounded great. It was something they had never been able to afford. In the other schools he had been to he had been so jealous of the kids who did have them. Which seemed to be all of them. It had just been one more thing that had stopped him fitting in.
But he hadnât known the dead boy. So it didnât matter.
Jack couldnât answer. He shook his head and walked away. The journalist didnât waste time calling after him, just went up to the next child leaving school.
Jack was disappointed. A journalist was one of the things he quite fancied being when he left school. He liked the idea of standing at the sidelines, reporting on what was happening. Knowing what was going on, but not getting directly involved. Trouble was, every journalist he met put him off the idea. They all seemed to be like the one at the school gates. Male or female. They saw people just as excuses for stories, not real living, breathing people, just things to use up and drop once the stories were wrung out of them. And he didnât want to be like that. No way.
As he rounded the corner at the far end of the school fence, he looked back again. The two boys who had spoken to him earlier were coming up to the journalist. The smaller one, Pez, seemed happy to talk, nodding and gesturing.
Jack walked away, left them
âTrevor was â¦â
âThe boy.â She nodded. âThat I killed.â Her voice shrank away from the words as she spoke. âNo, I didnât know what death was. Not really. I used to love police shows. Cops and robbers. Couldnât get enough of them when I was a kid. But like I said, when they caught the baddie they put him in prison or murdered him. And then next week he was back, in some other cops and robbers programme. So he wasnât really dead, was he? I mean, now I know they were only actors. That it wasnât real life. But not then.â
He starts to ask another question but she hasnât finished. âThatâs the only question they should ask, I think. Well, only two. To kids in murder trials. Do you know what death is? Real death? And do you know right from wrong? The only two.â
âWhat about the other thing you said?â
She frowns.
âA psychopathic personality? What do you think about them saying that?â
She looks at him, away from him, down at the cigarette packet. She takes one, lights up, exhales. Again. Looks at him once more, then looks away, head slowly shaking.
âAnd you wonder why I fuckinâ hate psychiatrists?â
6
âHey kid, whatâs your name?â
Jack Smeaton looked up. He had been in his own world, head down, trying not to walk home too quickly, fearful of what kind of mood his mother would be in. The woman before him was dressed casually: leather jacket, jeans, trainers. Dressed for a quick getaway. Hair dark and straight. London accent. Cocky, confident grin, the kind that was verging on arrogant. The kind Jack wished he had.
âJ â Jack.â
âYeah, Jack. Terrible this, donât you think? This kid getting stabbed. You knew him?â
Jack made her now. Journalist. On the hunt. He looked round, taking in the scene properly now. How had he missed it before? There were TV cameras pointed at the school gates, still cameras flashing all the time. He recognized a couple of the faces talking to cameras from the local news. Word of Calvinâs death had spread.
Jack looked back. The journalist was still in front of him, waiting.
âN â no, I didnât know him. Not very well, anyway.â
âSure?â She gave him a kind of come-on look, eyes locked on to him like heat-seeking missiles. He stepped back, frightened. âCould be a bit of money in it for you. Get yourself a new PlayStation. Nintendo Wii. Whatever. Good bit of money.â
A new PlayStation sounded great. In fact, any PlayStation sounded great. It was something they had never been able to afford. In the other schools he had been to he had been so jealous of the kids who did have them. Which seemed to be all of them. It had just been one more thing that had stopped him fitting in.
But he hadnât known the dead boy. So it didnât matter.
Jack couldnât answer. He shook his head and walked away. The journalist didnât waste time calling after him, just went up to the next child leaving school.
Jack was disappointed. A journalist was one of the things he quite fancied being when he left school. He liked the idea of standing at the sidelines, reporting on what was happening. Knowing what was going on, but not getting directly involved. Trouble was, every journalist he met put him off the idea. They all seemed to be like the one at the school gates. Male or female. They saw people just as excuses for stories, not real living, breathing people, just things to use up and drop once the stories were wrung out of them. And he didnât want to be like that. No way.
As he rounded the corner at the far end of the school fence, he looked back again. The two boys who had spoken to him earlier were coming up to the journalist. The smaller one, Pez, seemed happy to talk, nodding and gesturing.
Jack walked away, left them
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