Jack Tumor (25 page)

Flaherty followed me in his flitting, scampering, dancing, mosquito way, and Gonad trudged along as well, looking vaguely annoyed. Snogging girls like Uma Upshaw wasn't playing by the rules. It was cheating. It was unnatural.

It was entirely without historical precedent.

Shouty Mrs. Conlon, who used to be nice Miss Walsh, decided to mix and match by becoming nice Mrs. Conlon, for the morning at least. She asked if I was okay and how I felt, and that sort of thing, and she asked if Mr. Mordred had really slipped and fallen arse-first into the pool of puke (she used different words), and you could see her trying not to laugh when I told her that he had, and the kids who were there all laughed because nothing was stopping them, certainly not nice Mrs. Conlon.

But that was about as good as it got that day.

I
made it through the morning lessons. There was little alternative. Unless I stopped time again. But I felt that my time-stopping powers were weak today. I
did
entertain a fantasy about a sniper on one of the local tower blocks. He was, obviously, going for a head shot, but he failed to account for the curvature of the earth, the slight breeze, and the gravitational effect of the moon, and so the bullet only grazed my ear. But it was enough for another glamorous hospital run, plus an interview on the BBC.

And after that I became the prime minister's special adviser on teenage assassination attempts.

Oh, and a recording deal with
EMI
.

It was a fantasy, remember. Be grateful I left it there.

Morning break. Recently whittled down from twenty to fif-teen minutes for the purposes of advancing the three great causes of numeracy and literasy. Not very popular, in general,
but joy to us nerds as it meant five fewer minutes of intimidation and battery.

Up until break it had been nose-to-the-grindstone (assassination fantasies excepted), and there hadn't been a chance to talk. Smurf was acting normal, his usual half-smile and slightly dazed expression fully in place as his bendy body swayed gently in the breeze. So he obviously hadn't heard. That was something. As soon as we were outside I took my chance and got hold of him and dragged him to the snack-shop queue.

It was hard to get out the things I had to say, and I had to blink and swallow and wiggle my ears a bit before I got going.

 

 

Stella was, in fact, one of Uma's gang. She was long and lithe and ruthless on the netball court.

By then we were at the front of the queue, and the prefect in charge—a heavyset boy called Vass who'd once famously put a whole pork pie in his mouth—was looking at me impatiently. I'd planned to buy Smurf a packet of crisps and also maybe a Snickers or a Twix to pay him back for snogging the love of his life, but now that seemed a bit excessive, so I just got him a Kit Kat, and he was still thanking me for this inexplicable act of generosity when the others all came around.

Stan, of course, already knew. About Uma, that is. So now,
carefully watching Smurf the whole time, I filled in the others.

It was tough getting the tone right. I had to convey the greatness of it, snogging the most famously glamorous girl in the year, etc., etc., but without bragging, and without rubbing Smurf's nose in it. So I capped it off with an account of the final catastrophe, dwelling on my incompetence and embarrassment. This also had the advantage of being true, and it's always nice finding yourself on the high ground, truthwise.

Smurf, generous-spirited waif that he was, looked genuinely delighted with the business. He seemed incapable of holding a grudge.

OR HE HOLDS HIS GRUDGES CLOSE, UNTIL THE TIME OF EXECUTION
.

“Put it there,” he said, holding out his lank, long-fingered hand, and we shook. “It's like you're doing it for all of us.”

I tried to detect a tone of melancholy or resentment in this. It was hard to tell.

“We didn't
do
it,” I said modestly, and truthfully.

“Yeah, well, but, as far as I can see, kissing counts as
it
, sort of.”

“No way,” I replied. “Kissing isn't
it
.
It
is
it
. But, listen, there's . . . something else.” I turned to Stan. “After you left on Saturday, I—”

“I think you ought to . . .” said Gonad, doing a turn-around sign with his finger. I felt a physical jolt, as though someone had exploded a tiny bomb in my lower intestine.

Uma or Amanda?

I turned.

Uma.

And friends.

The Fierce Ones.

Pitiless girls.

Including Stella Mulrooney.

They even looked vaguely hawklike, with their sharp faces and swept-back hair. Hawklike, but not hawklike like Hawkgirl was hawklike. She was hawklike in a much nicer way, which didn't stop her from kicking alien butt big style when that was necessary. Maybe it's the wings. It's hard not to love things with wings. Unless the wings are leathery, in which case the opposite is true.

She, I mean Uma, looked magnificent—her head held high, her black hair heavy as a sea lion coiled around her shoulders, her long skirt billowing behind her.

I thought about Tierney and the wallop she'd given him. I wasn't going to duck, wasn't going to cringe, wasn't going to beg for mercy. I was going to take it, and hope I didn't cry like a dying swan when the slap hit me.

PALE, BEYOND PORCH AND PORTAL,

CROWNED WITH CALM LEAVES, SHE STANDS

WHO GATHERS ALL THINGS MORTAL

WITH COLD IMMORTAL HANDS

What? Had I said it? No, my friends weren't staring at me.

OTHER WOMEN CLOY

THE APPETITES THEY FEED, BUT SHE MAKES HUNGRY

WHERE MOST SHE SATISFIES
.

“Yum yum.”

“What d'yer say, Heck?” asked Stan, but he was as engrossed as the rest of us in Uma's stately progress, and when I replied, “I said I'm hungry, yum yum,” he just nodded.

Uma finally stopped about two meters away. That was a good
sign. Too far away for a punch. Unless she wanted a run at it. Or maybe she was going to throw something at me. A tomahawk or one of those cool ninja death-star things.

Yet again I found myself at the center of a circle of attention. All these years of no one knowing who the hell I was, and now suddenly I was always the one in the middle of stuff happening. Why couldn't stuff happen to someone else for a change?

But one good thing: Amanda wasn't there.

“I'm sorry you're sick.”

“What?”

“I said I'm sorry you're sick. My mum talked to your mum. She said you were really sick. I'm sorry. That's it, really. See you.”

BOY, SHE FIGHTS DIRTY
.

And with that she turned around and walked away again. I felt sort of relieved and crushed at the same time. The watching faces dissolved back into the air, and it was just the four of us again. Or five, including Jack.

Some seconds of silence passed, as each of us absorbed what was relevant in the exchange. Smurf focused vaguely on the retreating rump of Stella.

“Okay,” said Gonad eventually, “just what
is
up with you? The fainting and spewing. And nice one, by the way, for spewing on Mordred. Cos I didn't say, before.”

I looked down, and then up at them.

“I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. I've been having these headaches, and sometimes I feel a bit faint, and then I spew. Not just on Mordred, unless he's around. I've been to the doctor and the specialist, and I had some tests last week when I
was off. They'll tell me today or tomorrow if there's anything in there.”

“In there?” Smurf looked anguished, almost on the edge of tears. He knew what I meant. Stan was quiet. But then Stan was always quiet.

“It might be a brain tumor. But they hack them out no bother these days. Piece of piss.”

I couldn't resist it: dramatize it, and show how I could laugh in the face of death. What a hero.

“And it might be why I've been acting a bit weird. So, sorry if I have been.”

“S'all right,” they said, in unison.