When the end-of-day bell clanged, the three of them made themselves scarce, spraying the waist-high walls surrounding the school grounds as they went. The channels of painted colour were reminiscent of the marks left on the wall by the subsidence beneath Threndle House. The cracked lines of paint also extended along the panels and doors of every teacher’s car parked along the road.
As the first pupils streamed outside, desperate for home, Evie and the boys hid from view. First one student noticed the hall, then another, then many more, until one ran inside to fetch a teacher. Grundy soon appeared, gawping at the ten-foot tall grotesque daubed on the side of his beloved building. Evie felt fit to burst and delinquent as her eyelashes caught on the eye-holes of her wolf mask. High, she tore out clumps of grass from the space between her legs and clenched them as hard as she could.
The headmaster had yet to notice the marks on the school’s walls and teachers’ cars. Vainly, he tried to clear the crowd as more and more children appeared. Lawrence reached for Evie’s hand. “Not now,” she said, absorbed by the commotion.
Duncan clapped Lawrence on the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”
Lawrence lifted his mask and nodded at Evie. “You were right,” he said.
“You make it sound as if sometimes I’m not.”
The mask slid down his face, the witch’s nose tilting at a forty-five degree angle. “There’s Fenton,” Lawrence said. “Loving it as usual.”
“Which one’s he?”
“Greasebag. White Dunlop jacket.”
Dusting her mucky hands on herself, Evie said, “Well, what’s stopping us going after him?” She looked to Duncan for her easy yes. It was a Mischief Night, after all.
They followed Ryan Fenton towards the main road once he’d split away from the other pupils. Mask ditched, Evie re-applied her make-up, then headed over the road to meet him as he swung around the bus stop, hand on the pole that bore the timetable, its plastic screen blistered with cigarette burns.
Fenton stopped swinging at the sight of her. His smile was the colour of dead grass, his hair shaven tightly at the sides of his head and left lengthier, gelled forwards on top.
He offered Evie the cigarette she asked for, then handed her a lighter. He’d done that thing where you remove the metal guard and fiddle with the fuel switch so that when the flint is sparked, the lighter’s wick erupts into a figure of dancing flame.
“Watch your lashes,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Evie affected a toothy smile. Fenton’s friends were watching nearby, after all.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“My what?”
Were all the locals as bad as Lawrence? Evie repeated the question.
Fenton answered.
“Nice name.”
He looked confused.
Evie cleared her throat. Lawrence was hiding somewhere, watching. “I’m not from around here.”
“No.” Fenton fiddled with the zip of his coat, the charming diligence of the action and its basic humanity making Evie hesitate. The plan was to lead this bully to The Carousel, a newsagent Lawrence had said could only be reached via an isolated track at the end of a cul-de-sac that led from a nearby estate. There Fenton would be stripped of his clothes, covered in spray-paint and left naked.
Feeling the pervasive rush of nicotine, Evie stepped closer to Fenton. It wouldn’t do to fall at this hurdle, whether he deserved what was coming his way or not, so she opened her body language up to him and asked for directions to The Carousel. She was meeting a friend, she said. She’d only get lost if she went alone.
In the gravel passage between sets of houses, Fenton touched Evie’s lower back as they stepped over a large, kidney-shaped puddle that looked like it was made of tinted glass. They were in the initial yards of the alley. The high walls of the alley were of concrete, an intricate roof had formed from a maze of creeper and branch, and there were bits of litter scattered everywhere.
They were out of sight, alone. Deciding to push things forward, Evie made a wet kind of eye contact with Fenton and bent to his height, her mouth open. It was always a surprise kissing a new person, the different methods they had. Fenton wasn’t shy. He was a fleshy kisser, committing at a similar depth and pace as Evie, to the extent that although he hadn’t questioned her actions, she still felt compelled to justify herself in some way. “Fiona,” she said, pulling away. “My name’s Fiona.”
She was pushed against the wall. Kissed for the second time, Evie found herself unzipping Fenton’s fly. Thank God for the sound of children, though, thank God for boisterous fuss. Because the noise from a nearby garden made Evie realise what she was doing.
She let go of the zipper. But Fenton was already scrabbling at her. He managed to hitch her skirt up and push his hand between her legs. Evie took far too long to remove him. Breathless, she felt breathless, high on Dexedrine and her own permissive nature.
“What’s up?” Fenton said.
“Nothing’s up.”
There was no witch at the end of the alley.
No vampire.
Evie let herself be kissed again, zoning off completely. The only comparable experience she could think of was exercising, in that there is a point, when running, when watching your steps and controlling your breathing, that thought begins to disappear completely. Evie’s exchange with Ryan Fenton quickened and became so urgent that she could do nothing but feel another body against her own and welcome it, enjoy it even, feeling the urge to stop anything disappear as she dissolved totally within the moment.
Her knickers were tugged down and then the surprise of Fenton was upon her and as easy as that, it was happening. Evie could see the top of his head. She could smell his hair gel and make out the dandruff freckling his red scalp. A part of her was saying this wouldn’t matter. Another part was digging the uneven wall and shrieking. A final part, the significant part, was simply not there at all.
Then, as quickly as Evie had departed she returned, as rooted to the earth as ever. She juddered and let go, gasping. The moss under her fingernails was thick and unclean and some kind of twine was knotted about a branch by her head. The TV aerial of the house past the fence was shaking under the weight of a great gabbing crow. Evie felt despicable. A moment passed. She couldn’t stand it. “What are you looking at?” she cried. “You’ve got what you wanted, now FUCK OFF!”
She swiped at Fenton’s cheek, feeling a cool nab of flesh coming loose. Fenton didn’t need telling twice. Clutching his bleeding face, he ran down the alley and disappeared.
It was a brief walk to The Carousel, where Evie saw her father’s name in the Free Press’s A-board propped outside. Dazed, she ran her hands through her matted hair. Just who the hell was she?
Footsteps. She opened her eyes. “Where were you?” she said, oddly calm.
“He took you a different route to the one I thought,” Lawrence said. “Are you all right? I couldn’t find you…”
“I’m fine. When you didn’t turn up, I let him go.”
These feelings would pass. They would have to.
Driving wet outside. Duncan was busy with his tutor so Evie and Lawrence were playing Monopoly, alone. Evie was winning comfortably: she beat Lawrence so often that sometimes she wondered if he just let her win.
After putting down her counter, the top hat, she said, “I want to ask you something. Promise me you won’t laugh.”
Lawrence took the dice and rolled his turn. “I promise,” he said, without looking.
Evie snatched his battleship counter before he could move it. “You can’t do that.”
“What you on about?”
“Swear so fast without thinking.”