The Chalk Man Read online

  I was cycling back from the shops when I saw them. There was a group of about five. They marched in a circle, holding up signs, singing and chanting stuff. Their signs said things like “CHOOSE LIFE,” “STOP KILLING BABIES” and “SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN.”

  I recognized a few. A woman who worked in the supermarket and Waltzer Girl’s blond friend from the fair. Incredibly, Blond Friend hadn’t been hurt at all that day. A small part of me—not a very pleasant part—thought that was a bit unfair. She wasn’t as pretty as Waltzer Girl, and she obviously wasn’t as nice. She carried one of the signs and marched behind the other person I knew. Reverend Martin. He chanted the loudest and walked with an open Bible, reciting stuff.

  I paused on my bike and watched them. After the fight at Fat Gav’s party Dad had had a bit of a chat with me, and I knew a bit more about what happened at Mum’s clinic. But still, at twelve, you can’t really grasp the enormity of a subject like abortion. I just knew that Mum helped women who couldn’t look after their babies. I don’t think I wanted to know more than that.

  However, even as a kid, I could sense the anger—the venom—of those protesters. Something about their eyes, the spittle that exploded from their mouths, the way they brandished their banners like weapons. They were chanting a lot of stuff about love but they seemed full of hate.

  I cycled home more quickly. The house was quiet, aside from Dad sawing something somewhere. Mum was upstairs, working. I took out the shopping and put it away, left the change on the side. I wanted to talk to them about what I’d seen, but they were both busy. I wandered aimlessly outside through the back door. That’s when I noticed the chalk drawing on the driveway.

  We’d been drawing the chalk figures, and other chalk symbols, for a while by then. Ideas, when you’re a kid, are a bit like seeds scattered in the wind. Some don’t make it; they get carried away on the breeze, forgotten about and never mentioned again. Others take root. They dig their way down, they grow and they spread.

  The chalk drawings were one of those weird ideas that everyone got, almost right away. I mean, obviously, one of the first things we did was draw a load of stick men with huge cocks in the playground and write “Fuck off” a lot. But once I’d floated the idea of using them to leave secret messages between us, well, I guess that’s when the chalk men grew legs of their own.

  We each had our own color of chalk, so we knew who had left the message, and different drawings meant different things. Like a stick figure with a circle meant meet me at the playground. A load of lines and triangles meant the woods. There were symbols for meeting at the shops and the rec. We had warning signs for Sean Cooper and his gang. I admit we also had signs for swear words, too, so we could write “Fuck off” and worse outside the houses of people we didn’t like.

  Did we become a bit obsessed with it all? I guess. But then that’s what kids do. Get obsessive over things for a few weeks or months, then wear that idea down into the ground until it’s no good and can’t be played with ever again.

  I remember going into Woolies one day to buy more chalk, and Perm Lady was behind the till. She looked at me a bit oddly and I wondered if she suspected I also had another pack of chalk hidden in my rucksack. But she said, “You kids like these chalks, don’t you? You’re the third one in today. And I thought it was all Donkey Kong and Pac-Man now.”

  The message on the driveway was drawn in blue chalk, which meant it was from Metal Mickey. A stick man next to a circle, and an exclamation mark (which meant come quickly). It crossed my mind briefly that it was unusual for Mickey to call for me. He usually chose Fat Gav or Hoppo first. But I didn’t feel like hanging around the house that day, so I put any doubts aside, yelled through the door that I was going to meet Mickey, and headed back out on my bike.

  —

  The playground was empty. Again. That wasn’t unusual. It was nearly always empty. There were lots of families in Anderbury and lots of little toddlers who, you would have thought, would like to be pushed on the baby swings. But most mums and dads took their kids to another playground farther away.

  According to Metal Mickey, the reason no one hung around the playground was because it was haunted. Apparently, some girl was found murdered there years ago:

  “They found her on the roundabout. Her throat was cut, so deep her head was almost falling off. And he’d slit open her stomach, too, so all her insides were spilling out like sausages.”

  Metal Mickey could tell a story, you had to give him that; usually, the gorier, the better. But that’s all they were. Stories. He was always making stuff up, although sometimes there was a tiny bit of truth in there somewhere.

  There was definitely something a bit “off” about the playground. It was always dark , even on sunny days. Of course, that was probably more to do with the overhanging trees than anything supernatural, but I’d often feel a slight shiver when I sat on the roundabout or get this strange urge to check behind me, like someone was looking over my shoulder, and I never normally went there on my own.

  Today, I pushed open the creaky gate, feeling annoyed that Metal Mickey wasn’t here yet. I propped my bike against the fence. I felt the first stirrings of unease. Metal Mickey wasn’t usually late. Something was wrong. And that’s when I heard the gate creak again, and a voice said, from behind me: “Hey, Shitface.”

  I looked round and a fist smacked me in the side of the head.

  —

  I opened my eyes. Sean Cooper stared down at me. His face was in shadow. I could only make out his silhouette, but I was pretty sure he was smiling, and not in a good way. None of this was good.

  “Been avoiding us?”

  Us? From my position flat on my back on the ground, I tried to twist my head left and right. I could just make out two pairs of dirty Converse trainers. I didn’t need to see faces to guess that they belonged to Duncan and Keith.

  The side of my head throbbed. Panic clawed at my throat. Sean’s face loomed close. I felt his hand grab my T-shirt, pulling it tight around my throat. “You threw a brick in my fucking eye, Shitface.” He shook me again. My head banged against the tarmac. “I don’t hear you saying sorry?”

  “I’m…suh-reee.” The words came out all weird and slurry. I was finding it hard to breathe.

  Sean yanked me forward so my head rose off the ground. My T-shirt tightened around my neck.

  “Suh-reee?” He put on a whining, high-pitched voice. He glanced toward Duncan and Keith, who I could see now, lounging against the climbing frame. “D’you hear that? Shitface is suh-reee.”

  The pair grinned. “Doesn’t sound very suh-reee,” Keith said.

  “Nah. Sounds like a little shitface,” Duncan agreed.

  Sean leaned closer. I could smell cigarettes on his breath. “I don’t think you mean it, Shitface.”

  “I…I do.”

  “Nah. But that’s okay. Cos we’re going to make you suh-reee.”

  I felt my bladder loosen. I was glad it was a hot day and I’d been sweating because if I’d had an ounce of excess water in my body it would have just gushed out into my pants.

  Sean yanked me by my T-shirt to my feet. I scrabbled with my trainers to get purchase on the tarmac so I wouldn’t choke. Then he shoved me backward, pushing me toward the climbing frame. My head spun. I almost lost my footing, but his tight grip kept me upright.

  I stared desperately around the playground, but it was empty aside from Sean and his gang and their shiny BMX racers, discarded carelessly by the swings. You could always recognize Sean’s. It was bright red with a black skull painted down the side. Across the road, one lone blue car sat in the small car park outside the Spar. No sign of the driver.

  And then I saw something: a figure in the park. I couldn’t quite make them out, but it looked like…

  “Are you listening to me, Shitface?”

  Sean rammed me hard against the bars of the climbing frame. My head banged against metal and my vision clouded. The figure disappeared; everything disappeared for a
moment. Thick gray curtains swished in front of my eyes. My legs wobbled. A yawning chasm of darkness beckoned. I felt a hard slap across my cheek. Then another. My head whipped sideways. My skin stung. The curtains swished open again.

  Sean’s face grinned into mine. I could see him properly now. The thick blond hair. The small scar above his eye. Bright blue eyes like his brother’s. But they glittered with a different kind of light. Dead light, I thought. Cold, hard, crazy.

  “Good. Now I have your full attention.”

  His fist struck me in the stomach. All the air whooshed out of me. I doubled over. I couldn’t even cry out. I’d never been hit properly before and the pain was immense, huge. It felt like all my insides were on fire.

  Sean grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back up. My eyes and nose streamed water and snot.

  “Aww, did I hurt you, Shitface? Here’s the deal: I won’t hit you again if you show us how suh-reee you are?”

  I tried to nod, even though it was pretty impossible, because Sean was holding me so tight by my hair the roots were screaming.

  “D’you think you can do that?”

  Another hair-wrenching nod.

  “Okay. Get on your knees.”

  I didn’t have much choice, as he forced me down by my head. Duncan and Keith stepped forward to grab my arms.

  My knees scraped against the rough tarmac of the playground. It stung, but I didn’t dare cry out. I was too scared for that. I stared down at Sean’s white Nike trainers. I heard the sound of a buckle, a zip, and suddenly I knew where this was going and fear and panic and revulsion ripped through me all at once.

  “No.” I struggled, but Duncan and Keith held me tight.

  “Show me how suh-reee you are, Shitface. Suck my dick.”

  He yanked my head back. I found myself staring at his cock. It looked massive. All kind of pink and swollen. It smelled, too. Of sweat, and something strange and sour. Curly blond pubes were tangled and matted around the base.

  I clenched my teeth tight and tried to shake my head again.

  Sean pressed the tip of his cock against my lips. The rancid smell drifted up my nostrils. I clenched my jaw together harder.

  “Suck.”

  Duncan grabbed my arm and twisted it high up my back. I screamed. Sean pushed his cock into my mouth.

  “Suck, you little fuck.”

  I couldn’t breathe; I gagged. Tears and snot mixed their way down my chin. I thought I was going to throw up. And then, distantly, I heard a man’s voice shout:

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  I felt the grip on my head slacken. Sean stepped back, pulling his cock from my mouth and stuffing it quickly back into his jeans. My arms were released.

  “I asked you lot what the hell you’re doing!”

  I blinked rapidly. Through blurry tears I could see a tall, pale man standing at the edge of the playground. Mr. Halloran.

  He hopped over the playground fence and strode toward us. He was wearing his usual uniform of a big, baggy shirt, tight jeans and boots. A gray hat today, white hair streaming out of the back. Beneath it, his face was like stone, marble. Those barely there eyes seemed to burn from within. He looked angry, and scary as hell, like some avenging angel from a comic book.

  “Nothing. We weren’t doing nothing,” I heard Sean say, less cocky now. “Just messing around.”

  “Just messing around?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Halloran’s eyes fell on me. They softened. “Are you all right?”

  I scrambled to my feet and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And is it true that you were just messing around?”

  I glanced over at Sean. He shot me a look. I knew what that look meant. If I said anything now, my life was over. I could never step outside the house again. If I kept quiet, maybe, just maybe, this was it. My ordeal and punishment done.

  I nodded again. “Yes, sir. Just messing around.”

  He continued to stare at me. I dropped my eyes, feeling cowardly and stupid and small.

  Eventually, he turned away. “Okay,” he said to the other boys. “I don’t know exactly what I saw going on here, and that’s the only reason I’m not marching you straight down to the police station. Now get out of here, before I change my mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” they mumbled in unison, suddenly as meek and mild as little kids.

  I watched as they climbed on to their bikes and sped away. Mr. Halloran continued to gaze after them. For a moment I thought he’d forgotten I was even there. Then he turned back to me. “So, are you really all right?”

  Something about his face, his eyes, even his voice, made it impossible to lie again. I shook my head, feeling tears threaten.

  “I thought not.” His lips thinned. “There’s nothing I hate more than bullies. But you know the thing about bullies?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t really know anything about anything right then. I felt weak and shaken. My stomach and head hurt and shame engulfed me. I felt like I wanted to wash my mouth out with detergent and scrub myself until my skin felt raw.

  “They are cowards,” Mr. Halloran said. “And cowards always get their comeuppance. Karma. Know what that is?”

  I shook my head again, half wishing now that Mr. Halloran would go away.

  “It means, what you sow, you reap. You do bad things and they’ll come back eventually and bite you on the backside. That boy will get his one day. You can be sure about that.”

  He rested a hand on my shoulder, gave it a squeeze. I managed a small smile.

  “That your bike?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You okay to ride it home?”

  I wanted to say yes but, actually, just standing upright felt exhausting. Mr. Halloran gave me a sympathetic smile.

  “My car’s just over there. Grab your bike. I’ll give you a lift.”

  We walked across the road to his car. A blue Princess. There was no shade in the Spar car park; when he opened the door, fierce heat poured out. Fortunately, the seats were fabric, not plastic like in Dad’s car, and I didn’t scorch my legs when I climbed inside. Still I felt my T-shirt cling-film itself to my skin.

  Mr. Halloran climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Phew. Bit warm, isn’t it?”

  He wound down the window. I did the same on my side. A faint breeze washed through as we pulled off.

  Even so, in the enclosed, hot space, I felt horribly aware of the overpowering smell of sweat on me and the dirt and blood and everything else.

  Mum was going to kill me, I thought. I could already picture her face:

  “What on earth happened, Eddie? Did you get into a fight? You’re filthy—and look at your face. Did someone do this to you?”

  She’d want to find out who did it, and then she’d go round there and it would all be a huge mess. I felt my stomach slowly sink into my toes.

  Mr. Halloran glanced over. “Are you all right?”

  “My mum,” I muttered. “She’s going to be really mad.”

  “But what happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “If you tell her—”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s under a lot of stress at the moment, with stuff.”

  “Ah.” He said it in a way like he knew what the stuff was. “Tell you what. Why don’t we go back to my house and clean you up a bit?”

  He slowed for the junction and signaled, but instead of turning left toward my road he turned right. We took another couple of turns and pulled up outside a small whitewashed cottage.

  He smiled. “Come on, Eddie.”

  —

  The cottage was cool and dark inside. All the curtains were drawn closed. The front door opened straight into a small living room. There wasn’t much furniture. Just a couple of armchairs, a coffee table and a small telly on a stool. It smelled a bit, too, of something herby and weird. An ashtray sat on the coffee table with a
couple of small white butts in it.

  Mr. Halloran snatched it up. “I’ll just get rid of this. Bathroom’s at the top of the stairs.”

  “Okay.”

  I walked up the narrow stairs. At the top of the landing was a tiny bathroom with a green suite and floor. Pale orange mats lay neatly beside the bath and around the bottom of the loo. A small mirrored cabinet was fixed to the wall above the sink.

  I closed the bathroom door and faced myself in the mirror. Snot crusted my nose and dirt streaked my cheeks. I felt grateful my mum wouldn’t see me like this. I would have been looking forward to spending the rest of the holidays confined to my room and the back garden. I started to dab at my face with the flannel by the sink, bathing it in warm water that turned murky as I washed the dirt away.

  I looked at myself again. Better. Almost normal. I dried myself off with a large, prickly towel and then I stepped out of the bathroom.

  I should have gone straight downstairs. If I had, everything would have been okay. I could have gone home and forgotten all about this visit. Instead, I found myself staring at the two other doors upstairs. Both closed. I found myself wondering what lay behind them. Just one little peek. I turned the handle and pushed open the closest one.

  It wasn’t a bedroom. There was no furniture at all. An easel stood in the center of the room, the painting on it covered with a dirty sheet. Around the rest of the room, propped up against the walls, were loads of other pictures. Some in chalk, or whatever Mr. Halloran had called them, but others in proper thick, heavy paint.

  Most of the paintings seemed to be of just two girls. One was pale and blond, a lot like Mr. Halloran. She was pretty but she looked sort of sad, like someone had told her something she didn’t really want to hear but she was putting a brave face on it.

  The other girl I recognized right away. It was Waltzer Girl. In the first painting, she was sitting sideways in a white gown near a window. You could only see her in profile but I could still tell it was her and she still looked beautiful. The next one was slightly different. She was sitting in a garden in a pretty, long sundress and looking a little more toward the painter. Her silky brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders. You could see the smooth line of her jaw and one large, almond eye.