Jack Tumor (28 page)

“I said I was going to kill you, and now I am,” said Tierney. And his hand moved, and I saw that he was carrying a knife, long-bladed and thin.

KNIFE. BAD. TIME TO RUN
?

“You really are chicken, aren't you, Tierney?” I said, ignoring Jack.

Whether or not Tierney was chicken,
I
was certainly afraid. I so didn't want Tierney to stick his knife into me. I didn't want to feel the blade slide through my skin, glance off bone, find my liver or my lung or my heart. Stabbing is not a good way to go. But I was angry, and I had my plan, and my mind was clear.

Jack had given me this clarity. His words, partly. But more his presence. The presence of the thing that really would kill me. The other times that he had helped me in situations like this, he'd sort of taken over, shoved me out of the way. But now we were together, and our thoughts and actions were one.

“It's you that's afraid. Wetting your pants, are you? Don't worry, might only give you a little nick, something to remember me by.”

“You're a coward, Tierney. And I can prove it.”

And then I took out
my
weapon, and it wasn't a knife or a gun, or a rocket-launcher, or a cunning blowpipe with curare-tipped darts.

It was a packet of Revels.

Some were plain milk chocolate. And there were others with six different centers: caramel, coffee, orange, raisin, and the malt honeycomb of a Malteser, each wrapped in a chocolate coating, and sold in a neat little pack for thirty-eight pence.

Six. I said six, and yet I named only five. And the sixth is the one that counts.

The peanut.

You might think you could spot the peanut, easily telling it from the others by its irregular ovoidal properties, but you just might make a mistake and, as I'd learned, that was a mistake you really didn't want to make if peanuts were your nemesis, your kryptonite.

“What's that?”

Tierney was looking at the Revels dangling from my hand. Knife against packet of sweets. Could have been funny.
Was
funny.

But both of these could kill.

“I think you know. Want one?”

“What's he on about, Chris?” said Murdo. “What's he got them for? Have ‘im.”

“Don't like ‘em.”

Tierney's voice had now lost its sly, wheedling tone. It had been a gamble, but I was right.

Okay, Jack was right.

Yes, it was Jack that spotted that Tierney never thieved anything with nuts in it.

Obvious, really.

“This scares you, doesn't it?” I said, waving the packet in front of him. I could sense the interest of the crowd. Some of them were getting it, understanding the line of attack. I made it clear for even the real thickos. “Fancy being afraid of a peanut . . .”

“It's you who's afraid of nuts. We all saw you spaz out when you ate one of them before. Foaming and twitching. You're the poof here, you're the freak, the one with the allergies.” Tierney was blustering now.

“Come on, then,” I said. “Let's share.”

I opened the packet, praying my hands wouldn't betray my nervousness. The rustle and tear was loud against the silence.

“One for you, one for me.”

Here it was.

Everyone knew that I was allergic to nuts, just like Tierney said. But he'd hidden his allergy, thinking it was something to be ashamed of. If he backed out then his sham was exposed and he'd be condemned on his own terms as a freak.

But if that didn't happen, then it was going to be a duel.

Revels Russian roulette.

And that would show who the coward was.

The trouble was that Tierney still had the knife and as a defense against a knife a chocolate-coated peanut is, all things considered, inadequate.

The balance of power was, however, about to change.

A kid burst through the circle. He was from the year above. Conor O'Neil. Everyone knew him. He'd had an embarrassing encounter with an ice-cream van last year and since then he'd turned into a weirdo. I mean, the kind of weirdo who sees stuff that isn't there, not just a social misfit. He talked to himself. And his hair was really, really bad. But the weirdness made him a bit scary, and none of the thugs bothered him. Gonad said it was like the Sioux and other warlike tribes, who always respected loonies.

Anyway, O'Neil just came up and took the knife out of Tierney's hand, the way you'd take something sharp away from a toddler so they didn't hurt themselves. It was like Tierney was in some kind of trance—he didn't resist at all. Everyone stared at O'Neil. O'Neil stared at the knife. I thought he might throw it over the fence the way I had with the stick, consigning it to the depths, and maybe a hand would come up and catch it like Excalibur. But instead he put it in his pocket and wandered off without saying a word to anyone.

So that just left the Revels.

“One for me, one for you,” I repeated.

“What if you cheat? You've got the bag, it's not fair.”

That was funny—hearing Tierney use the words of the underdog, of the oppressed.

I looked around, focused on Tierney's crew. Murdo, No-Name, Johnson. Murdo hated me. No-Name was unpredictable.

“Come here, Sean,” I said to the hulking Johnson.

He did as he was told.

“You hold them. Take one out at a time. Give the first one to me, then the next to Tierney. Then carry on. Until one of us says stop. You cool with that, Tierney?”

What could he say? It was a fair test of courage.

Or a stupid, irresponsible, dangerous prank.

But there was no way he could back out. His gang was all in favor.

“Go on, Chris.”

“Show him.”

“Make him choke.”

“Me first, then Chris,” I said to Johnson. He emptied the first Revel into my hand, making sure with his grimy fingers that only one emerged.

Without looking I put it straight in my mouth. The crowd gave a little gasp.

I bit.

      I chewed.

                     I smiled.

“Orange. A touch sickly sweet for my taste, but not bad. Your turn.”

Tierney was close enough for me to see the sweat glistening on his upper lip. Johnson shook the packet up, and held it out. Tierney's hand went to meet it. A chocolate was deposited. Tierney scrutinized it carefully. I could see the strain in his face. He suddenly threw it into his mouth. I thought he was going to spit it out or puke. Then his face lit up.

“Coffee. I knew it.”

His mob gave a little cheer. Emphasis on the little. I wasn't the only one who had noticed his alarm.

Johnson wriggled another free. Without hesitation I put it in my mouth.

“Caramel. Better watch out for my fillings.”

All eyes swung again to Tierney. He was faster this time, a touch feverish, his hand shaking.

“Malteser,” he said.

He'd been chewing gingerly, trying to keep everything at the front of his mouth, so some of the crumbs sprayed out as he spoke.

Again Johnson served me. Now my heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. The previous Revels had formed a hot sticky coating and I didn't have enough spit to wash it away.

“What do you know—another Malteser! Well, Chris,” I said, with mock sympathy, “five down, and no nuts. Could be this one. You never know your luck.”

Johnson was wearing his idiot grin. He freed another Revel. Tierney could barely stand to look at it. He fumbled the sweet and it fell to the wet earth. Johnson picked it up for him.

I looked around at the crowd. Smurf and Gonad were there. And Stan. He was smiling, which seemed a bit odd, what with the life-and-death struggle being played out before him. There was no sign of Flaherty. But I couldn't think about him. I had to concentrate.

“Go on, Chris, what you waiting for?”

“He's bottled it,” said someone, didn't catch who.

“I haven't. Give it here.”

And it was in.

No!

It was out again.

Tierney had tried to chew, but couldn't. He'd spat the Revel back into his hand. His eyes were watering and thick brown drool was hanging from his mouth. The crowd emitted a sort of snorting jeer. It wasn't a good performance.

“It's not a nut. It's a raisin. I don't like raisins.” He sounded pathetic. “Look, I'm eating it.”

He lapped up the raisin-and-chocolate sludge from his palm.

“That's not right,” said someone at the back. “He thought it was a nut one and he spat it, and then when he knew it wasn't he ate it. That's cheating.”

“I can live with it,” I said. “Johnson—another.”

I was in a frenzy now. I was on a roll. It wouldn't be a nut, and even if it was, it wouldn't hurt me. Nothing could hurt me. I was immortal.

Well, I was dying of cancer.

Tierney had been looking at me, his face full of hope that I would get a nut: that I would be the one choking; that it would be my throat that would begin to itch; that my trachea would be the one to bubble and flame, closing itself off, leaving the tiniest space for air to squeeze through; that it would be my whole body that would begin to close down, going into anaphylactic shock. Well, it wasn't, not this time.

I spoke without a flourish, my face a mask.

“Orange.”

The bones in Tierney's face collapsed inwards. He fell to his knees.

“Here, your go.”

Johnson now sounded gruff. He was annoyed, embarrassed
by his chief. The gang was losing face. Hell, its face was well and truly gone. Tierney had to pull it back. Johnson shoved the packet at Tierney. Tierney didn't speak, didn't do anything. And then we heard the noise—a thin, keening, close-mouthed wail.

“Take it! Don't be so soft.”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnnnghhhhh,” went Tierney, whimpering, crying. It was a desolate sound, like the cry of a marsh bird.

“Have it,” said Johnson, screaming now, and when Tierney still refused, he crammed the packet into his face, and pushed him back onto the ground. Some of the crowd came over. Someone spat at Tierney. Murdo. Someone kicked him. No-Name.

It was over. It was all over. And now my friends were around me, and I felt a soft pressure on my hand, and it was Amanda.

“That was the best thing I think I've ever seen,” said Gonad. “It was like something out of a film. It was like
The Seven Samurai
crossed with
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
.”

And Stan said quietly in my ear, in a tone that made it uncertain if it was a question or a statement: “You knew, didn't you?”

“Knew?”

“About the change?”

SAGE HERACLITUS

TRYING TO SPITE US

SAID ALL IS IN MOTION

LIKE A RIVER OR OCEAN
.

“Don't know what change you mean.”

“To the Revels.”

Stan was smiling, but watching me closely.

“They changed them?”

“Got rid of the peanuts. There was no danger. To either of you, I mean.”

“I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Stan,” I said, meeting his smile with a broader one of my own.

I looked around for Flaherty. I saw him alone on a bench.

“Gonad, Smurf, this is Amanda. Amanda, be gentle with them. You already know Stan.”

Smurf blushed, Gonad stammered, Stan smiled.

“I'm going to have a chat with Flaherty. You lot go ahead and warm up the concrete for me. It's the least you can do, what with me being at death's door and all.”

I walked over and sat down beside Flaherty, leaving the others to overcome their embarrassment. His face was completely blank. Only his sniffing gave anything away.

“They won't bother you again,” I said, trying not to sound too heroic.

Nothing from Flaherty.

“And thanks, by the way, for this morning. At break. That thing with the bin. God, that was funny. I wish I could have seen his face. But there was a bin on it.”

A half-smile, perhaps.

“Did they touch you with it?” I meant the stick.

“Nah.”

“Could have been worse then.”

“Yeah.”

“We're off to eat our sandies now. Wanna come over? Do me a favor, though. Don't do your thing with Amanda. She's a bit shy.”

And Flaherty stood up with me and we went to our usual place, and Amanda was there, and Flaherty, after a quiet beginning, did his thing, but Amanda seemed not to mind.

I
was shivering. I'd been hoping it might be the same technician as before, the one I called Barry Cunliffe. But it wasn't him. It was someone else. She wasn't wearing a badge, so I had no idea what she was called and for some reason that made me sad and depressed and lonely. I tried to believe that it might have been her lab coat the other Barry was wearing, and that she was a female Barry, which was short for Barryella, or, um, Barry-eeeeesha. But then why wasn't she wearing the badge now? Perhaps the other Barry was out robbing a bank and was trying to throw suspicion onto the real Barry so that she would be arrested and he'd get her job, which was one notch further up the nerd pole. Plus he'd have the money from the robbery, say £25,000, which could buy you an awful lot of circuit boards or postage stamps or whatever it was that Barry (the fake Barry) collected.

Then I thought I'd better stop thinking about the Barrys,
and for the rest of the scan I relived the day before, which was, officially, the Best Day of My Life.

I didn't want to go to school, because I'd gone out on a high with my triumph over the Forces of Evil. I mean, how was I supposed to follow that up? In a graphic novel, such a triumph would be followed shortly by a reversal. I'd either be taken over by an alien superbeing using, say, mind-control or just old-fashioned blackmail (they'd probably kidnap Amanda for that purpose), and they'd use me to destroy the earth, or my archenemy and nemesis would find a way to rob me of my special powers and crush me underfoot like a worm. Of course, I'd eventually overcome all that but, frankly, there wasn't time for it now.