one of the pair arguing with Joe, the big lad. Now he would have to fight both sides.
The little one decided to carry on, looking towards his previous tormentors for allegiance.
‘Have you heard this, Joe?’ he asked. ‘Young ginger bollocks here fancies his chances.’
Vinnie felt the words like a slap. Fucking little cunt. He also noticed that Joe was now reaching into his back pocket. What for? A knife? Fuck. No time for small talk, then. He dived onto Joe immediately, aware of Billy’s startled cry beside him, but with all his energies now focussed on whacking his loaded sock, which he held by the end to give weight and a bit of a swing to it, repeatedly into the big lad’s spotty face.
He was soon aware that the little one had jumped onto his back now, to try and stop him, and then of Billy flailing around trying to get him off again. And with some success, too. After a short scuffle Billy managed to prise him right off and Vinnie could see he was now hitting him with his cue. Good lad.
The other lads, still apparently unsure what to do next, or who to go for, left him to get on with the job in hand – Joe’s fucking face. Which didn’t take long, a pool ball being such an effective weapon. In a matter of minutes, Joe – now pinioned safely underneath him – was covered in blood and minus several teeth.
Vinnie started laughing. It was an automatic thing – a kind of knee-jerk on seeing the pulpy mess he’d made now. He’d done a good job, but he wasn’t done with Joe yet, even so. He dangled the sock, with its ominous bulge now equally bloody, half an inch from the now terrified lad’s face.
‘Tell me who’s the hardest now, you fucking piece of shit,’ he yelled. It had almost been too easy. ‘Come on, tell me!’ he screamed.
‘Fucking get off me!’ Joe answered brokenly. ‘You’re the winner!’ He was crying. Crying and in very obvious pain.
‘Come on, Vin,’ Billy said. ‘Leave him now before the staff come. He said you won, didn’t he?’
Vinnie turned. Billy looked terrified. Good. He looked up at him, eyes blazing, still caught in the moment. ‘That’s not what I fucking asked, is it?’
Billy winced. ‘Is it?’ Vinnie screamed again, at Joe. ‘Is it?’
Joe started to thrust his body frantically beneath him. ‘Please get off me! I forgot what you asked!’
Vinnie paused for a couple of heartbeats, while the rest seemed to hold their collective breath. There was a stillness in the room now, which he relished. ‘Well, next time,’ he snarled, ‘you won’t fucking forget.’ Then he bent forward and bit down as hard as he could on Joe’s cheek. He felt the blood hit his own cheek, a pungent warm spray of it. And as cries of shock erupted all around the room, Vinnie felt triumphant. No one would call him ginger bollocks now.
Someone must have run for staff, though, because no sooner had he thought that than he felt strong hands grip his shoulders and others round his ribs, as he was torn from his victim and dragged to his feet. Mr Bastion, it seemed, and Mr Henry.
Bastion was the head of the institute, and had a reputation for his no-nonsense approach, and Mr Henry was his side-kick. An English teacher, Henry had his own reputation – all the lads said he had a thing for young boys. It was a rare occasion that these two would both be here on a weekend, but, as he was hauled up bodily by the latter, he decided that, for his intentions, this was a bonus. Mouth still dripping with blood and spit, he grinned at them.
‘All right, sir?’ he said to Mr Henry.
Both teachers looked sickened at what they had just witnessed. Both looked at Vinnie with a new sense of – what was it? Shock? Respect? Fear? Any would do, Vinnie thought, as he let them drag him from the rec room. Yes. Any of those three would do.
He was not so much directed to as thrust into a chair in the office and immediately handed a roll of toilet tissue. He could still taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His pulse was slowing now. He licked his lips. Raised his eyes.
‘Clean your face up, you vicious little thug,’ Bastion commanded. ‘You’re in serious trouble, young man.’
Vinnie tore off some of the bog roll and slowly wiped his face with it, holding Bastion’s gaze as he did so. ‘They started on us, sir.’
He noticed Mr Henry staring at him, disgusted. ‘Oh, that’s right,’ he added. ‘It’s bound to be all my fault, innit?’
‘It was all your fault, McKellan,’ Henry confirmed. ‘There’s a room full of lads in there that will tell us it was.’
‘Mr Henry, I swear. We were just playing pool, me an’ Billy, and them other kids started shouting stuff at us. They were taking the piss cos I got ginger hair …’
‘Did you see the state of that boy?’ Mr Henry interrupted, upping the volume. He jabbed a finger twice in the direction of the rec room. ‘He probably needs hospital treatment!’
Vinnie felt a surge of pride. Hospital treatment? That would mean notoriety, surely. ‘It was a fair fight, sir, honest,’ he said. ‘He’s miles bigger than I am. Was I supposed to just let him beat me up?’
Neither Bastion or Henry seemed interested in providing an answer. Instead of that, they exchanged a glance and shook their heads. ‘We have to involve the police in this, Vincent,’ said Bastion, giving him daggers. ‘And we most certainly will do, come Monday. In the meantime, you will receive six of the best, right now. And will then be confined to your room for the remainder of the weekend.’ He shook his head again. ‘Until this whole sorry mess gets sorted out.’
And he would be sorry. He didn’t doubt it. But that was fine; that was the price you had to pay, that sort of bother. That was the whole point they didn’t get. The reason he wasn’t that bothered; in the long term, it meant he’d get a whole lot less bother.
The six of the best – standard punishment in approved schools, if not all schools – was administered without any delay. It could be administered with a cane, or a ruler or a shoe – it didn’t matter. Just as long as it was something that was good at inflicting pain. Mr Henry’s weapon of choice was a leather shoe, an object he’d been acquainted with many times at his old school but never at the hands of this pervy fucker; the subject of many a rec room conversation.
‘Come on, lad, drop ’em,’ Henry told him, with a glint in his beady eye. He almost smiled at Vinnie. ‘You know the drill.’
Vinnie stood up, placing the bloody bog roll on the desk just beside him, dropped his jeans to his ankles and positioned himself towards the seat of the chair he’d just been sitting on, gripping the backrest tightly with both hands. He then bit his lip in readiness for what was to come, and then as reaction, as the first part of his punishment began.
Old Henry started swinging away, the sound of the air-rush audible, and counted each strike out loud as Mr Bastion looked on. Vinnie refused to acknowledge the pain surging through him and turned to fashion the best grin he could manage at his observer. ‘Come on, sir, is that all you’ve got?’ he taunted Henry, causing the teacher to make strike six the hardest one yet. But not as hard as he was, Vinnie thought. Not by a long shot.
‘Now get to your room, you little bastard, and stay there,’ Henry said as he threw down the shoe.
Vinnie stood up, hitched up his flares and gave a mock salute. ‘I’m knackered anyway, sir,’ he said. ‘Could do with a nice nap. Did you enjoy that, Bastion? Do you like watching boys get their arses smacked?’
‘Get out of here!’ Bastion snarled. ‘Straight to your room and stay there. No tea or supper for you tonight, son.’
‘Fuck you very much, sir,’ he responded, beginning to enjoy himself despite the searing pain. ‘Can’t stand the shit you call food anyway.’
He was halfway out of the door when he felt the shoe hit his back.