A black boot, polished but flecked with sand and a few drops of blood is all I can see. I close my eyes again.
Kieran’s voice is in my ear, close enough for me to feel his breath.
‘How you feeling? OK?’
I’m feeling frightened.
The pain in my back has faded. But I don’t want any more. I would do anything to stop him doing more. I would beg and plead, and in my head I’m saying, Please don’t do any more. Please. I can’t speak the words, no words come out, but in my head I’m begging, Please, don’t do any more.
‘You’re crying. Hey, Niall! Connor! He’s crying.’
Silence.
‘Do you think he’s sorry, Connor? Sorry that he beat you up?’
Connor mumbles something.
‘Maybe. But I’m not sure. What do you think, Niall?’
‘Yes.’ I can just hear Niall. He sounds angry.
‘OK … Well, that’s good.’ And Kieran’s mouth is close to my ear as he says, ‘So are you sorry you beat up my pathetic brothers?’
And I want to say yes. I do want to say it. In my head I’m saying sorry. But nothing will come out of my mouth.
‘And are you sorry you met my sister?’
And I know as soon as he says that, the way he says it, that he hasn’t finished. It isn’t over. He has no intention of stopping there. And nothing I can say will make any difference. All I can do is hate him.
‘I said, are you sorry you’ve been seeing my sister?’
And I hate him with all my tears and screams and begging.
‘What else have you been doing with her?’
And I want him to know what we did, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him anything.
‘I don’t think you’re sorry at all … are you?’
And I’m not. I’m not sorry about any of it. I’m too full of hate to be sorry about anything.
‘Let’s try again, shall we? On this side. This must be the White half.’
The T-shirt is stuffed back in my mouth and I feel the blade across the right side of my back, close to my spine. All the cuts he has made so far are on my left side and I know what is coming. That was the whole point of his talking; it was just so that I would know what to expect.
The cuts are bad, but all the time I think about the powder. That’s what I fear. Kieran is in no rush, though …
‘Wakey, wakey.’ A slap on my cheek. ‘Nearly finished. We still have my favourite bit left. Leave the best till last, that’s what they say, isn’t it?’
I’ve given up thinking; given up praying a long time ago. I look at the sand. The small grains: orange, brick orange, red, some tiny black ones.
‘Do you want to put the powder on him, Niall?’
‘No.’
‘No? So it’s up to you, Connor.’
‘Kieran.’ Connor sounds really quiet. ‘I …’
‘Shut up, Connor! You’re doing it.’
Kieran kneels close to my face and says, ‘Make sure there isn’t a next time, you Half Code heap of shit, because if there is I’ll cut your balls off before I rip your innards out.’
And I hate him and curse him and scream at him into the T-shirt.
It’s dark. The ground beneath me is cold. And I am cold inside, but my back’s on fire. I can hardly move but I have to put the fire out. I roll on the ground. Someone, somewhere far off, screams.
Shouting …
Arran’s voice …
The trees are like sentries, but they’re moving past me.
Blackness.
‘Nathan?’ Arran’s voice is soft in my ear.
I open my eyes and his face is close to me. I think we’re in the kitchen.
I’m on the table. Like a chicken served for dinner. Gran has her back to me; she is making gravy. Deborah is carrying a bowl that steams. Maybe it has potatoes in it.
‘You’ll be OK. You’ll be OK,’ Arran says. But he says it in a strange way.
Deborah puts the bowl beside me and I know it doesn’t have potatoes in it, and I’m afraid, so afraid. She is going to touch my back. And I beg Arran not to let them touch me.
‘They have to clean the cuts. You’ll be OK. You’ll be OK.’
And I beg him not to let them touch me. But I don’t think the words come out.
He holds my hand tighter.
I wake again. Still a chicken on the table. Arran’s hand locked on mine. My back is hot inside but cool on the outside.
Arran asks quietly, ‘Nathan?’
‘Stay with me, Arran.’
The sun is warm on my face. My back is tight and throbs fast with my pulse. I don’t dare move anything except my fingers. Arran is still holding my hand.
‘Nathan?’
‘Water.’
‘Move your head really slowly. I’ll put the straw in your mouth.’
I blink my eyes open. I am lying at an angle on my bed with my head on the edge of the mattress. Below me is a glass of water with a long straw.
After I drink I doze for a few minutes then I wake as my stomach churns. I throw up into a bowl that has replaced the glass of water, terrified because each lurch of my stomach sends tight spasms across my back.
When I next wake up Arran is still by my side. He says, ‘Gran’s made a drink for you. She says you have to take small sips.’