Death Drop

Bra

"Thank you, sir."

Bra

He had intended asking Durrant about Corley, but couldn't. It would be like putting the boot in after his mother's vicious heels had trodden all over him.

Durrant went straight from Bra

Damn his mother, damn his bloody mother. And then because that was too unbearable he switched his mind off her completely and let the force of his pain and rage fall on the man she was with. A photographer. A mincing, mealy-mouthed, – misinformed, shitting photographer. Eighty pounds! If Corley's camera had been worth eighty pounds Corley wouldn't have handed it over so easily. Anyway -• who would give a kid of ten, or whatever he was, a camera worth that much? What sort of daft parents would do a thing like that? What was Corley's old man – a bank-manager or bloody Croesus?

He regretted now that he had gone to Bra

He wondered where Corley had gone. If he was aiming for home, then a kid with any intelligence would have arrived there by now. It had rained during the night. If he had been out in that, the cold and wet would probably kill him. His chest rattled when he breathed – or perhaps he just breathed oddly. When he'd held him down in the hollow his breath had squeaked out of him like rusty bellows and his lips had turned blue. It had been disgusting of him to get sick all over him.

The memory was unpleasant and he switched it off.

He began building an image of the photographer in his mind. He saw him as small, fat and frightened, but getting no satisfaction from that began building him bigger. An enemy had to be worthy of him. Fleming's father was worthy of him. His hatred made him ten feet tall. He tried making the photographer ten feet tall, but the imagery wouldn't work. He kept seeing him as small, fat and greasy, lying naked in bed with his mother. Despatching him would be like killing a pig. The blood would get on his mother and defile her. His inability at this moment to control his fantasies frightened him. He had always, until now, been able to walk the particular corridor in his mind he chose to walk. His own feeling of supremacy had never been shaken. Now he felt used – as if other hands were controlling the power-house and he couldn't pull them away.

There was someone crossing the floor of the gym and he sat quietly willing whoever it was to go away.

A small dark-haired boy with eyes as brown as pe

"Excuse me…" The voice was high-pitched – very well bred. His mother would have mocked it as very "refained."

"Scarper!"

The boy looked as if he had heard, but didn't believe what he had heard. "I've come to fetch a rounders ball for Mr. I

He began treading delicately over Durrani's outstretched leg. Durrant raised it, tripping him. He came down heavily on his hands. His lips trembled. "I really can't go without it."

"No, you really can't, can you? Perhaps now you're here you can't go at all.".Durrant felt his dark mood lighten. "What's your name?"

The child, as still as a spider that is being watched from a vast distance by someone with a huge death-dealing foot, took a minute or two to answer. "Peter."

"You're not Peter here. You won't be Peter any more until you leave. What's your other name?"

"Christopher."

"Peter Christopher – what?"

"Nothing. Peter Christopher. My father owns the Christopher Potteries in Stoke."

"Oh, he does, does he? And what does he make in his pottery – piss-pots?"

The fair skin flushed. "He makes the best di

"He's rich – your old man?"

It was not done to speak about money. "I really don't know."

"You really don't know! You really aren't very bright, are you?" Durrant leaned over and pushed back the grey fla

The tears were near the surface. "I like it."

"That's what I mean – you're dim."

"Mr. I

Durrant raised his leg as a barrier. "I haven't finished talking to you yet. What did your old man give you for your birthday – a toy duck to put in your bath?"

"As a matter of fact," with great dignity, "he gave me a horse – a real one."

"Oh, I say – now isn't that something! So that piss-pot factory makes bread, does it?"

"I have already told you my father makes…"

"Piss-pots. You've ears like piss-pot handles, did you know that?" Durrant got on his knees and pressed the boy's ears back against his skull. "That's how they should be – flat."

"You're hurting me." As the ears whitened under pressure the child's eyes became bloodshot with tears. Fascinated, Durrant pressed harder and the tears spurted out and trickled down the sides of the tightly closed mouth. He wondered how hard he would have to press before the mouth gaped open and the kid began to bawl. His own pain was forgotten now and he began to feel euphoric. Dust danced in the beam of sunlight. The skin and gristle under his fingers were like organ notes – press harder and the noise would come.

I

Durrant, reorientating gradually, released the pressure and his hands dropped at his side.

The child, aware that the door of the torture chamber was open and that the liberator was beside it, began trembling softly from head to foot.

I

"Yes, sir."

As the child bent over the ball basket I

"I don't know what you mean."

"Be at my study tonight at seven sharp – and I'll tell you precisely what I mean."

Durrani's eyes became limpet soft. "Yes, of course I'll be there. What you saw just now might have seemed – well – rather harsh treatment – but the boy's attitude – he…"

"Keep your excuses until later. I've a P.E. class outside. Seven o'clock."

"Yes."

"Yes, sir!" Durrant looked at him in mild surprise. "Yes, sir. As you say, sir."

"And get out of here and back to your class."

"I was just about to go, sir."

He moved indolently past I