The outrage, p.10
The Outrage, page 10
Fresh voices are drowned out by a sudden gust of wind. There’s rain on the air. The first real rain we’ve had in weeks. A dog barks; a whistle blows. Long shadows splash across the field, black heads bobbing against the wall where our own darkness leaps and shivers. Coming to a stop, I cradle my hands.
“Go.”
Eric shakes his head. “I won’t be able to pull you up.”
He’s right. I hate it, but he is. And so, with Eric boosting me, I make a grab for the top of the wall. On my second attempt, I manage to swing my arm over the ledge, but the momentum jars my injured shoulder and a sweet green nausea flushes through me, clenching my stomach, curling my toes. Choking back a mouthful of acid, I haul my legs onto the wall before turning and placing one damp palm flat against the brickwork. I reach down with my good arm and twitch my fingers. Eric looks up at me, the bag strap slung around his neck.
“C’mon, I’ve got you.”
Hectic torchlight hits the wall.
Eric grips my hand.
And slips.
My palms are running with sweat.
“Again.” I heave against the sickness. “Truh-ry.”
“Gabe, you’re hurt.”
“Try.”
He jumps, snags my wrist, and my arm shunts up into the red-hot mess of nerves in my shoulder. This time I can’t help it. This time I scream. Turning sideways, I hawk up a ball of phlegm, then shake my head and blink Eric back into focus. To my surprise I still have hold of him. My hand tightens around his forearm and I lift my eyes to the sky, spit fizzing between my teeth.
All at once the clouds break and I feel my heart hammer with the rain. Eric’s head is now almost level with the top of the wall. Already soaked, his shining face grimaces up at me. I take hold of the back of his shirt, ready to pull him the last couple of inches, when the strap snaps like a noose around his neck.
His eyes widen. His body lunges downwards, his chin striking the edge of the wall. There’s a clack of teeth, bright as broken china, and blood flashes from the underside of his jaw. When he speaks, red bubbles foam between his lips.
“Go!”
I shake my head. Make a grab for him with my bad arm. Another huge tug from below.
“No,” I shout down to them. “No!”
Eric’s fingers are still fixed, bone-white against the ledge. I try to hold onto them but my hands are trembly and slick. Pitching forward, I catch hold of his sleeve and glimpse the upturned faces below. Their fury – huge, senseless – hits me like a fist between the eyes.
Another jerk and Eric flaps against the wall.
“Love me?” he asks.
I nod.
I love every atom of you, Eric Dufresne. I always will.
“Then go. Go.”
I watch as he falls, as they pull him down, as they throw him into the churning mud and let their dog lap the blood from his face. There’s no fight left in him. He just lies there staring back at me, his eyes like lamps. And all I want to do is crawl down and lie there with him, huddled together under their fury.
I pretend to pray, all the while wondering what it would feel like to spend a lazy Sunday morning lying in bed with Eric Dufresne. My gaze wanders across the church, over dozens of bent heads, and the now familiar dizziness hits me. Eric’s long, nervous fingers are clasped around a hymn book and his messy hair hides his eyes.
I think back to those final moments in the library. How that invisible cage fell over him again. In the hours after he bolted, I remember coming home and just sitting on my bed, waiting for the knock at the door. Why I didn’t tell my dad what had happened, I’ve no idea. The Green Jackets would’ve torn our house apart and inevitably discovered the banned books hidden under our floorboards. I guess I was just numb.
Next morning, I cycled the couple of miles back to Old Town. Only our footsteps marked the dust, and the box and its treasures were where I’d left them. Later at school, I tried to engage Eric with a joke. He flashed his gaze to the floor and said he needed to concentrate on his work. He’s barely spoken to me since.
When Reverend Moran announces it’s time for the traditional prayers for our beloved Lord Protector, everyone bristles to attention. Over in the corner I can see Miss Calloway and her friend from the school canteen sharing a prayer book. Near the front, Sergeant Huxley stands with a couple of Young Lions. I’m pretty sure Patrick Gilligan is developing muscles that don’t exist anywhere else in nature. Further back, June is yawning alongside Albert and Liz, while Ben and Grace shoot each other longing looks across the aisle.
Okay, this is a bit reckless, even for me, but I’ve been thinking about sharing the librarian’s movies with my friends. It’s a small group and I trust them with my life. I have to. They all know about me. Liz and June are degens too, and Ben and Grace? Yeah, that was awkward at first. Ben has this cute hockey club buddy, and about a year ago I was helping clear up the changing rooms after a match when… Well, unlike with Liz’s cousin Adam, this time someone walked in. Luckily for me it was Ben Dempsey.
We hadn’t known each other super well back then, and honestly, I was scared shitless, but later Ben came to find me. He didn’t say anything about what he’d seen, just reminded me that I’d once helped him with some trig homework, then out of the blue asked if I knew Grace Everard. She was new to Mosley and he was wondering, if he decided to ask her out, could I possibly play his wingman? We’ve been mates ever since.
Then there’s Albert. He’s a lot quieter than he used to be, but we’ve been talking books and playing old board games pretty much since primary school, and I know how much he’d love these films. I’ve now watched around half of them, and Jesus, they’re phenomenal! One thing I know for sure is that whoever hid them away wanted their message to be shared: a message that difference is good and that defiance is essential.
Most of all, I need Eric to hear that message.
Every night since the library, I’ve pictured us together on the stairs, how his heart pounded against me, then in the hidden room when he reached for my face, a kind of pleading in those vast dark eyes. His words, spoken and unspoken, as we watched the film keep coming back: It can’t ever have been like that. Not for people like us… Eric was trying to do something that day, trying to reach for some sort of truth about himself, I know it. I think of the hate he’s been fed all his life, poisoning him against himself. Whatever happens between us, I want Eric to know that he’s okay, just the way he is.
My dad’s mumbling. I elbow him and he grunts awake, interrupting Reverend Moran’s parting words. The vicar gives us both the pulpit stink-eye. So Dad hasn’t said anything more about me going to live with Mum and the Farmer, though I have to admit it’s been playing on my mind. Maybe he’s right about it being an opportunity for me to escape. I keep getting this image of a future-Gabe racing for some foreign border, a new life waiting up ahead.
People begin to stir in their seats. I help Dad along the row as someone brings his wheelchair from the back. Dad can usually manage a fair distance with his sticks but he has occasional days when his stiffness and pain become a bit much.
“So, shall I start the traditional ramming of ankles?” I ask.
Dad starts to quip back, but I’m not listening any more. This tall, hawk-faced man is stalking down the aisle, Eric beside him, trying to keep up. I don’t know how I missed Chief Inspector Dufresne in the congregation.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve stepped into his path. “Hello. Mr Dufresne?” I hold out my hand. “My name’s Gabe. Gabriel. I’m a friend of Eric’s. From school.”
We’re like an island in the aisle, a river of people cutting and reforming around us.
“Gabriel Sawyer.” Inspector Dufresne glances at his son. “Yes, I’ve heard all about you.”
And I think I’m gonna puke. Maybe Eric has told his father about the library and the box after all. The inspector grips my hand.
“Eric says you’ve gone out of your way to make him welcome at Mosley. He also claims you’re quite the scholar. Quite the athlete, too.” His eyes flick to my dad and he leans down to shake hands. “Mr Sawyer. Your son hasn’t inherited your…weakness then?”
Dad smiles. “It was an accident that put me in this chair.”
“Not a genetic abnormality.” Dufresne gives an approving nod. “That’s good.”
“So, I was wondering,” I say, screwing down my anger as best I can, “if Eric isn’t doing anything for the rest of the day, maybe he’d like to hang out? Unless you have family plans?”
Dufresne makes a beckoning gesture and Sergeant Huxley comes forward. They exchange a few words and I think I hear the Farmer’s name mentioned.
“You work in the design department at the Culture Protectorate, Mr Sawyer,” the inspector says, as if reminding my dad of his job. “Putting out our message is a worthy contribution to the state… Very well then.”
Hands planted on his son’s shoulders, he steers Eric towards me. Eric shakes him off.
“I’m not eight years old,” he mutters.
“No,” his father agrees. “You’re a boy with no friends.”
With another nod to my dad, the chief Filth-Finder sweeps out of the church. Even Reverend Moran makes way for him. Meanwhile, Eric gives me a look I can’t quite read and moves towards the door.
“You’ll be okay getting home?” I ask Dad. “I think Mrs Lebbon could give you a push if you get tired. She pretends to be frail but I know for a fact she bench-presses three hundred.”
He searches my face for a moment. “Be careful?”
I laugh. “Course.” Then I rub the back of his hand. “Of course, Dad.”
By the time I get outside, only Ben and June are still loitering in the churchyard. I give them a self-conscious wave as I weave between the gravestones, making my way towards Eric. June’s head bolts up like a meerkat and they both shoot me slightly puzzled, slightly concerned glances. Honestly, I can’t blame them. What am I thinking?
Eric waits by the gate. He doesn’t look at me as we pass through and start down the hill, our feet scuffing the beaten earth. I guess this road must have been tarmacked once but, like most in Westwick, weeds tore it to pieces long ago.
“So, um, hey, are you okay?” I ask, nudging his shoulder with mine. “Because I’m sorry if I made things awkward with your dad back there. It’s just, I’m sort of a nosy git and you were kind of blanking me at school, so I thought I’d take the risk and—”
“Yeah,” he says, head down. “I’ve noticed that about you.”
“That I’m a nosy git?”
“That you take risks.”
“Oh.” I bury my hands in my sleeves. “I’m sorry?”
Eric shrugs.
At the bottom of the hill we leave the road and turn into this narrow avenue that runs through the allotments. Old men straighten up from their potato patches and give us the evil eye as we pass. When everyone’s hungry, allotments are guarded like bank vaults.
“So the weather’s weird again,” I say, blinking up at the sun. “My dad reckons there used to be proper seasons but that we only call them spring, summer, autumn and winter out of habit now. It doesn’t really mean much any more. Which sort of…sucks? Sorry, am I babbling?”
“It’s okay.” He keeps his gaze fixed on the track, though the side of his mouth creases upwards. “I like how you babble.”
And I can’t help it, this huge grin spreads right across my face. So of course I immediately have to ruin everything.
“Well, I like how you’re so moodily unnerving all the time. It keeps me on my toes.”
His lips straighten out again and he presses his hands together.
Jesus, Gabe. Just…shut up!
We cross the park, its single rusted swing steady in the airless morning, and step under the shade of Hamilton Woods. There’s a hush in the forest today. Drifts of yellow pine needles muffle our footsteps while sun-drunk birds glide listlessly from branch to branch. Suddenly I realize I’m walking alone. Glancing over my shoulder, I find Eric looking back at me.
“I didn’t tell him,” he says, his voice somehow shocking in the stillness. “I thought you should know. I wouldn’t.”
“Hey.” I jog back and duck my head so that I can see under his bramble of hair. “I know. I know because your dad isn’t currently using my balls as a set of decorative paperweights.”
He bursts out laughing. In that moment, I decide that moodily unnerving Eric Dufresne is seriously gorgeous, but I like laughing Eric even better. His shoulders lose some of their tension and we wander further into the trees. Up ahead, a blue-green shimmer sparks between the trunks.
“Wow.” I puff out my cheeks. “Is it really hot or is it just me?”
He stares at me. “It’s pretty warm.”
“Hot,” I insist, nudging his shoulder again. “Really. Freaking. Hot.”
It’s child’s play, making Eric blush, and I feel sort of terrible, but I just can’t help it. I hop away, undoing the laces of my Sunday boots as I go, and throwing them towards the bank.
By the time I reach the river I have my socks off and I’m making a start on my shirt. I force myself not to look back. If I startle him, he might bolt again. I strip to my pants and dive into the achingly cool water. I know I need to back off, that I can’t push my luck, keep taking risks like this. But I feel like something has to give…or else we’ll always be stuck in this moment. Powering down, combing my fingers through inky reeds, I wonder if I really am crazy.
When I resurface, Eric is nowhere to be seen. I jerk all the way around, scanning the bank.
“Hello,” says a small voice.
He’s right there, under the mid-morning shadow of a willow tree.
“Oh.” I grin. “Hello.”
He hugs his knees to his chin.
“Fancy coming in?” I ask. “The water’s amazing.”
“Oh. Sorry, no.” His chin drops to his chest and he plucks self-consciously at his shirt front. “I have eczema. It’s kinda disgusting.”
I duck my head under for a second and knuckle my forehead. “I’m sorry,” I say, rising again. “I shouldn’t have just assumed you’d want to go swimming. Do you want to do something else?”
“No. No, I’m cool watching. And talking,” he adds quickly. The blush is back, a delicious supernova. “If that’s okay?”
That’s very definitely okay. And so I float onto my back and let the sun glint off my chest. Yes, I know exhibitionism is all kinds of cringey, but I can’t help it. Anyway, I’m thinking about Eric’s confession: I couldn’t care less if he has eczema. All I want to do right now is kiss his bloody face off, but this blemish clearly bothers him. Trouble is, for a blabbermouth I can’t think of the right words to reassure him, so I do what I always do when I’m frustrated. I start ploughing the water.
“Whoa,” he says when I come up for air. “You’re a really good swimmer.”
“My mum got me into it when I was little,” I explain. “I like the repetitiveness. After a while your mind goes blank and you can go anywhere you want.”
He grips his ankles. “You don’t want to be here?”
“Here, as in here-here, right now? Absolutely. But here?” I flick a finger at the ripples. “I don’t think so. Do you?”
It takes him a long time to answer. Finally, and very quietly, he says: “The Protectorate’s our family. It’s always there, looking out for us, keeping us safe, and we have to keep it safe in return…” He shakes his head. “My dad would watch his whole world burn for the Protectorate.”
I’m opening my mouth to say something, I’m not sure what, when I notice his fingers. Something small and pale is dancing between them. I swim over and belly-flop onto the bank, planting my chin on my palms. Eric’s pretty close to the water, so I’m practically dripping onto his shoes. He looks up from his game and I see this tiny spider running and tumbling over his palms.
“Anyphaena accentuata.”
“That’s a very cool magic word.” I smile.
“It is magic,” he grins back. The creamy arachnid scurries an orbit around his thumb. “Did you know only about half of spiders spin webs to catch their prey? This little guy, the buzzing spider, he’s a no-thrills hunter.”
“Does he buzz his victims to death?”
Eric frowns. “No. His name comes from how he vibrates his body to attract mates.”
“That’s hilarious. Who knew spiders and humans had so much in common?” I prod his shin with my finger. “Do you like to dance, Eric?”
He shuffles sideways and places the spider delicately on the bark of the willow. Turning back to me, he allows himself a half smile.
“I like this,” he says. “Spiders, insects, trees. I like how it all fits together, like this perfect clockwork. And it’s for ever, you know? Eternity in a hatchling and a cocoon.” There’s no pause, no stutter. It’s just that rising, falling voice, holding me, drawing me in. “So many species are gone now,” he murmurs. “My dad says the Protectorate tried to save them but it was too late. The damage had been done.”
I say nothing. According to my dad the planet was pretty screwed even before the Protectorate (or the Public Good Party, as it was known back then) came to power. But still they gave their business allies free reign to use up whatever resources were left. Now the well’s dry and those old vampires are extinct too.
I climb onto the bank and collapse beside him. A feeble breeze crackles in the forest canopy; little waves ruffle the river. Eric nudges his knee against mine.
“Have you been back?” he murmurs. “To the library?”
“I have.” I pick up a stone and pitch it into the water. Apple-green circles spread back towards us. “Eric, do you want to—?”
“No.” He gives a determined shake of the head. “No, it’s wrong. I won’t tell my dad about the films, but I can’t betray him. He’s given me a new life here. A new chance…”
I take a breath. “Why did you need a new chance, Eric? What happened back in London?” When he turns away, hiding his face, I try a different tack. “That day in the library, it felt like you were trying to do something. To push back against something.” This feels important, like a tipping point we won’t be able to retreat from, like a door that won’t ever close again. “Eric, what did you want to try?”
