Not everyone disapproved of him, there were a large number of women who secretly wished they had sons like him. He was so quiet and well-mannered, he held doors open for ladies and things like that.
The elderly were more forthcoming. “You want an errand done or some small thing like that, just ask young Tommy Beal and you can’t go wrong.”
This, of course, increased the opposition even more; ‘he was sucking up to the old people’ and ‘he took money for it, of course’.
To the majority, however, it was just a blind unthinking cruelty that would eventually die but with one lad it had turned to hatred.
His name was Wayne Cantra, a large boy with ginger hair and a heavy freckled face. He hated Beal because somehow the smaller boy made him feel inferior and he wouldn’t fight. Wayne was sadistic, he favored a savage kidney punch or an agonizing kick to the knee or ankle. With the passing of time, however, a great deal of support began to fall away, particularly among the girls.
“Leave the poor little devil alone, can’t yer, this has gone on long enough.”
A fair number of the boys were changing, too. “He don’t hurt no one and he never runs to the teachers.”
Worse, although Beal wouldn’t fight he had become skilled at ducking and weaving. He rode a large number of the blows and evaded quite a few more. Recently Wayne had thrown heavy blows at Beal’s head, only to strike empty air and nearly lose his balance.
Infuriated, Wayne began to organize special tactics. One of which was to snatch Beal’s school books as the day ended. These he would throw into the road, preferably just in front of the approaching school bus.
Needless to say, young Beal paid for this at home.
“You think I want to buy the school, boy? How many times have I got to buy the bloody books that you can’t take care of?”
Despite these apparent successes, Wayne was becoming desperate.
Support was now falling away on an almost weekly basis and Wayne could only rely on four lads of his own age who hated Tommy Beal almost much as he did.
“Tell you what we’ll do, getting a bit dangerous to rough him up properly here. When he goes out in the country on one of them weekend walks of his, we’ll follow out of sight and spring the little bastard on the way back.”
The weekend they choose was the one in which Tommy Beal found the alien.
He had not the slightest idea that the creature was out of this world and his innocence was complete. He had read in the papers and had it underlined on television that there was a vast and illegal trade in exotic creatures from abroad. Probably it was one of those, come from India or Malaysia, somewhere like that. He liked it, he had the feeling it liked him and it was in trouble — he could sense that. In any case, he could tell it was freezing cold by the way it was shivering. He covered it carefully with his jacket and thought: ‘perhaps she’s thirsty.’ There was a small stream just below and he always carried a tin mug.
Half way back he wondered why he thought of the thing as a ‘she’ but in his mind it sort of fitted and he did not question it again.
When he returned, however, she had gone. There was an impression in the grass where she had been with his jacket, neatly folded, beside it but there was no clue as to where she had gone.
He worried about her for some time, hoping she’d made it to safety. He had the odd feeling he had missed something very precious.
On his way back home he noticed a small blue flower in the long grass, which he did not recognize. Unfortunately it was protected by the thin, barbed branches of a hawthorn. What he needed was something like a piece of wood to hold those branches back.
Ah! A length of dead sapling, a bit long and worm-eaten in places but strong enough for the job.
He lifted it and stretched forward but the rear part seemed caught on something, probably held by bindweed or ivy, something like that. It was held so firmly that it almost seemed to be jerked from his hand and he nearly lost his balance.
He stood upright again and looked around. Where the devil had it gone? Oh yes, probably in that bed of nettles over there. Well he was not going to there, hang that for a pastime.
It was then, less than forty metres distant, hidden by trees, someone screamed.
There were shouts, a splintering of small branches and a terrified voice: “Get it off of me, get it off!” Another scream and: “It’s got my bloody legs — get it away from me!”
He hurried towards the sound and found two of the boys supporting Wayne an either side.
“What happened?”
“We was attacked.” All had forgotten the reason they were in the woods. “Damn great snake, we all saw it.”
“It nearly got me.” Wayne was blubbering. “Tied itself round my legs and brought me down — look.”
There were deep impressions, bruised and slightly bleeding round calf and shin of both legs. It looked as if a thick wire had been tied there and suddenly jerked tight.
“I thought I was going to die.” Tears ran down Wayne’s face.
“A boa constrictor,” said one of the boys.
“According to Mr. Brixton at the school, there are no large snakes in this part of the country,” said one of the boys.
“Just because he’s a master doesn’t mean he knows everything,” said another. “In any case we all saw it — must have escaped from somewhere, a zoo or something.”
From that day on, Wayne seemed to lose fire. It was two weeks before he tried to mount something again, but that, too, went wrong. Two were stung by wasps, and a third was fouled by a seagull before the latest trick had begun.
Wayne’s last supporters slowly detached themselves from the group. Varying excuses were used but the implications were clear: they had formed their own conclusions. Play hell with another poor little bastard if you like but not with Beal, not anymore, it always backfires on us.
Wayne was beginning to draw the same conclusions himself and began to start a line of verbal persecution. ‘Young Tommy Beal is a bit queer if you ask me, goes in for occult stuff. I’ve got an aunt from Europe somewhere who said he had the evil eye as soon as she saw him’.
It was only a few weeks after this that Cole’s body was found. Landring, having made sure that everything was carefully swept under the carpet, continued with the exterior motions. An elderly detective named Ransom was given the job of checking for witnesses in case someone had seen Cole in an inebriated state beforehand.
No, but someone had seen young Tommy Beal leaving the complex about half an hour before dusk, maybe he had seen the man.
The detective duly presented himself at Beal’s house.
“He’s still at school. Don’t tell me that the little swine has got himself wrong with the law now?”
“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that, no question of it all — troublesome lad, is he, sir?”
“Not in the way you mean it, Detective Ransom, no, but weird, not like other boys if you know what I mean?”
Ransom didn’t but it might be worthwhile finding out later. “Would six this evening be a suitable time, sir?”
Ransom was quick to note that the boy was different but this he quickly brushed aside. He was more interested in the immediate reaction; clearly the lad was terrified. He was shaking visibly and he stuttered occasionally.
“Never been interviewed by the police before, Tommy?”
“No, sir, never.”
“Nothing to be afraid of, laddie, you’re not involved in any way. All we are looking for is witnesses. Someone who was later taken ill while taking the short cut through the old sports complex — a big tall man in blue jeans.”
“I didn’t see anyone like that, sir. I didn’t see any man at all, I swear sir.”