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Little Jack sat bolt upright in the back of the Range Rover. A foreboding sense of dread expressed itself as an unpleasant prickling heat, creeping up his spine as Sandra speeded through narrow streets towards the family home, cigarette smoke wafting around the cushioned headrest of the driver's seat.
It always bothered Little Jack, and he could never quite understand it, but whatever he got up to in school he would never get away with it. His father would always know what he did, where he had been, who he talked to, and even worse, who he fought with and if he used the F-- word. Little Jack sometimes wondered if his father was a spy, or some kind of special airplane pilot. He even entertained the idea that there might be more than one of him, for his father seemed to be everywhere at the same time. Either he was on the radio, on television, or meeting some famous actress or rock star. Indeed, Little Jack couldn't really work out how or when his father managed to go to work with all this other stuff he seemed to do.
Little Jack knew he was busted the moment Sandra came to pick him up. Her face said it all. But usually she would have a kind word or two to offer, and often they would end up giggling together in the car. But even Sandra didn't seem to know what to say this time. She looked in shock, and just carried on smoking and driving. Strange whimpering sounds found their way back to Little Jack, but he couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. Whatever happened, he had a carefully hidden smile ready for later. Little Jack could feel the burning presence of the catapult in his right trouser pocket. And somewhere deep down this made him the happiest boy alive.
###
The stretch Rover rounded the corner and headed towards the pedestrian crossing at a leisurely pace. Inside, the Prime Minister quickly undid his trouser belt. "Sorry Jackie," he explained, "no one should have to see this. But apparently I have to present a more accessible image to working mothers, as if any of this lot have ever lifted a finger."
"Oh bollocks to that Michael," Jackie shouted, holding her mobile phone out of the sunroof. "You know I don't give a spit-roasting-the-Virgin Mary bollocks about seeing you in your Y-Fronts. What bothers me is the fact that we have to set up shop in here, get your speech over and done with, and listen patiently to any stupid-dick questions about classroom sizes and childcare groups before getting the frig out by 4:30 and over to the BBC, via the hospital for a photo-shoot with that paraplegic jockey. And for what! To 'reach out' to a bunch of patients who God knows should have had the fortune to sign up with Bupa if they hold out any hope of effective treatment this century."
Michael laughed nervously. "Jesus Christ Jackie! What's got into you?" "Oh nothing Michael," she sniggered in her soft but brutal North Yorks accent. "I just can't wait for Thursday fuckin' night as I watch that sad opposition bench-biting tosser eat his words about 'a victory for the people.'"
"Jackie," Michael breathed to her with a look of anxiety spreading across his face, "are you still on the phone?"
'Oh piss-arse! It's the bollocksing BBC!" Jackie pulled her arm in from the sunroof and pushed the mobile phone back against her cheek. "Hello? Hello John are you there chuck? Sorry John love, we went through a long tunnel there. What? No you can't ask him about that! Listen love, transport, fishing, or any thing to do with the Royal family are strictly off the fuckin' cards today. We gave you your chance last week. Why don't you ask about 'Putting the Ax in Tax' or 'Britain stands for Business'? What? Oh balls to you, we'll see you there. And John, any funny bollocks from you today and I guarantee you'll be back on regional radio soon enough. Alright love? Bye now." Jackie snapped the phone shut and turned back to Michael. "Sorry Michael, now what were you saying about those mothers?"
"It doesn't matter Jackie. Just listen to me for a moment." Michael squirmed and wriggled as he shook off the pinstripes in favour of cords and a fresh white polo shirt for the good mothers of Kensington. "Party headquarters," he continued, "has just informed me of a juicy little bag of tricks to smear our honourable friend with tomorrow morning. Can you imagine?! Just as the party faithful press gang voters to the polling stations, Richard and Judy get interrupted by this urgent news flash." Michael drew a small manila folder from his case and slapped it across Jackie's knees.
"Michael," Jackie looked down at the folder, "What the 'eck is this?"
"Open and see for yourself." Michael gleamed. "We've got him this time Jackie. Even I can't fuck it up now!"
###
Ever since Little Jack had started his new school, eight weeks ago now, he had been picked on. He wasn't really surprised since the bully, Paul, seemed to be fighting, teasing, threatening, provoking, and generally punishing almost everyone that came through the selective doors of Breakwater Middle. Even the teachers.
Paul was taller than most of the other kids, with piercing thin lips and jet black hair that fell lankly across his waxy, pointy ears. Paul walked the corridors with a nervous energy and a mean sarcastic look in his eyes that confirmed the rumours Little Jack had heard. He maybe wasn't the hardest kid around, but Paul managed to give the impression he could win any fight. And while Paul seemed to have few real friends, he could always find one the moment an alibi became necessary. Hence he was rarely caught, and even more rarely punished.
Little Jack had known right from the start that he didn't want to be one of the suffering majority. But still, things got off on a bad foot. So far this term, Paul had successfully stolen Little Jack's P.E. shorts on sports day, forcing Little Jack to run the track in his pants in front of all the girls; he had kicked a stone through the headmaster's car windscreen while Little Jack stood right next to it; and he had chased Little Jack off the field numerous times during lunchtime, back into the classrooms where Little Jack would be asked by a teacher if he still missed his mummy. And it wasn't even half-term yet.
Little Jack knew that Paul's father was someone important, someone that people talked about all the time. He'd heard lots of people mention him, especially teachers at his old school, and usually in words he knew not to repeat in front of his father. But Little Jack wasn't quite sure exactly what Paul's dad did, although he knew that whatever it was it was probably the opposite of what his dad would do. Television and the radio had taught Little Jack that they were somehow connected, but this was where his knowledge tailed off. They both seemed to fight 'The Poles,' so Little Jack could never quite work out why they didn't join forces and fight them together. That's what he would have done. Perhaps, Little Jack reasoned, Paul's father was just like Paul. Then Little Jack could easily understand why his father would want nothing to do with him.
But if Paul and his father were even vaguely alike, Little Jack and his father were practically identical. Paul had teased Little Jack about his dad right from the start. And in reply, what did Little Jack do? He tried talking it out with Paul. He even tried to make friends with Paul. But Paul wasn't interested. Paul was only happy if he had reduced Little Jack to tears and made him look stupid in front of everyone. But then he'd gone too far. Ever since the swimming pool incident, where Paul had torn Little Jack's speedos from his backside in the middle of the front-crawl relay, Little Jack had known he could take no more.
###
Little Jack had observed Paul from a careful distance over the next few weeks, ever watchful for one of Paul's cronies--those kids who traded information to Paul in order to remain "safe." He had to have a weak-spot, thought Little Jack. And sure enough, there it was. GIRLS--more precisely, one girl: Jennifer Young.
Jennifer was the kind of girl that all the boys in the fourth year were after. Aside from her cute blond fringe and pretty green eyes, Jennifer was more than a match for most of the boys when it came to sports. Jennifer would constantly outplay the boys at cricket, football, netball, rounders, or tennis. This gave Jennifer enormous power over the boys; her victories against them became instant classroom legends. Especially those over Paul.
Paul, in what Little Jack first took to be anger, gradually seemed to become more and more obsessed with Jennifer. He would follow her around at lunchtime, throwing stuff, calling her names, telling her he could see her knickers through her skirt. Anything to embarrass her. And then it hit Little Jack. Paul didn't hate Jennifer. He fancied her.
Back and forth a pattern developed, insults and smiles, nudges and winks, until it was obvious what Paul was up to. But much to Little Jack's disgust, Jennifer seemed to be warming to this little game. Well not for long, thought Little Jack. He had a plan. Like most plans, it wasn't simple enough to be foolproof. But it was worth a shot.
Little Jack had recently been given a catapult for his eighth birthday. It was a secret gift from his older brother whom he hardly ever saw, but who appeared in the house at irregular times, ate everything, and then left as abruptly as he arrived. Little Jack promised to keep the catapult under his bed and only use it when the coast was clear. If he ever got caught with it, and Little Jack accepted this particular condition whilst dangling by his ankles over the banisters of the stairs, he would say that he found the catapult in the schoolyard one day.
Little Jack had noticed a particular routine at school of late, one where Paul and Jennifer would sneak just outside the school gates at lunchtime and Paul would light one of his cigarettes, while Jennifer kept a look out for teachers coming up the driveway. In the week since this had started, they hadn't been caught, but Little Jack had noticed their trick, and from where he spied on them, the art room overlooking the bike-sheds, the pair could be clearly seen. Little Jack's mind went to work.
He had been practicing in the back garden for some time with his catapult, lining various objects (plant pots, the broken head of a shovel, mugs--of which he smashed two and had to bury them quickly) against the fence wall in the corner and firing from various distances. Little Jack was becoming quite a marksman with his new weapon. From up in his bedroom, he could frequently hit even the smallest of objects .
Leaning out of his window one afternoon, when everyone but Sandra (who stood smoking in the front porch) was out, Little Jack experimented with some strange little pellets he had found in a plastic container in the shed. He liked the size and shape of this new ammo, their flight was true, and exceptionally fast for such a light thing. And when Little Jack struck the fence wall with his new find--SPLAT!--a pale green fluid soaked the wooden slats of the fence, running down towards the paved flooring beneath. That's when it struck him. If he could get a clear shot, he could fire his revenge directly into Paul's crotch. Streaks of liquid would seep down Paul's legs, soaking his trousers. Or, as far as Jennifer would be concerned, Paul would piss his pants before her very eyes!
###
The next day, Little Jack was in position, shaking just a little, but more than ready to see his plan through. It was 12:15--just five minutes beforehand the lunch-bell had sounded, and Little Jack had run towards the bike sheds. Standing now beneath the first rungs of the steel frame, he looked up to the roof from where he had decided to take his shot.
Hoisting himself up on to the first level of horizontal bars, Little Jack shot an arm upwards to gain greater leverage, and slowly pulled his body up until his feet could rest on the next platform. The metal was rusty, and chunky smears of metallic orange coated Little Jack's palms and fingertips. Luckily, the deterioration had not reached the point where shards of metal were likely to break loose and lodge themselves into his hands. So on he climbed, higher and higher. He carefully carried out his promise not to look down, and soon enough Little Jack's confidence soared as the underside of the roof appeared just a few feet above his head. Right hand first, precariously followed by the left, Little Jack gripped the guttering as tightly as he could. Hanging by his finger tips alone, feet now dangling in thin air below him, Little Jack slowly began to direct all the strength he could muster into dragging himself over the edge.
After tortured moments, Little Jack managed to drag his frame over the edge and, after wiping off a small globule of blood that was forming over a scratch on his knee, he was able to rest for a moment and inspect the scene before him. Just as planned, Paul and Jennifer were headed towards the school gates, actually holding hands, even though there seemed to be an unusual number of people hanging around, mostly scruffy looking types yapping away into mobile phones. Then Little Jack watched as Paul carefully wrapped his arm around Jennifer, hovering first over her shoulder before daring to curl around her waist. The sight of Paul and Jennifer together was disgusting, how could she be attracted to Paul and his rude-boy attitude. Little Jack thought that he would never understand women.
Carefully shuffling on all fours, so as not to attract the attention of anyone below, Little Jack crossed the roof to the point where he could aim underneath the overhanging branch of a willow tree. Lying face down on the roof, Little Jack laid out his armaments with meticulous precision. He had stolen ten pellets from the box in the shed, easily enough he thought, since practice sessions had indicated that just one or two on target would do. Gripping the handle of the catapult in his right hand, Little Jack gave the elastic a couple of knowing stretches and nestled into the roof. He reached over to the first of the pellets, inserted it into the widened cradle of the catapult and held the pellet between thumb and forefinger.
Paul and Jennifer stood just beyond the black gates of the school grounds, hovering between the railings. Paul faced towards the road, cigarette smoke trailing from his lips and fingers. Jennifer stood closer to the edge of the gates, furtively flicking her head to the left over Paul's shoulder, on the look out for teachers. As he watched them both, Little Jack screwed up his eyes and focused on Paul.
Gingerly extending his right arm, Little Jack allowed it drop into one of the channels of the corrugated iron. He drew the elastic back as far as he could, held his breath, and FIRED!
Little Jack watched with anticipation, the following fraction of a second dragging for eternity as the pellet whizzed under the willow branches. The pellet spun upwards, missing Paul's groin but hitting his hand! Little Jack blinked in disbelief as he watched Paul's reaction. The stinging shot sent Paul's hand diving into Jennifer's school blouse. Little Jack watched with delight as Jennifer shot back a flat palm across Paul's face, catching him cleanly around the contour of his cheekbone. Such was the force of the blow that Paul was sent reeling towards the road, his satchel spinning off his shoulder onto the ground with him.
This was far better than Little Jack could have possibly hoped. Ecstatic--a broad smile grew from ear to ear and he pummeled the roof with his toes, ratting the loose palettes. Suddenly conscious of the noise he was creating, Little Jack collected his possessions and began to crawl towards the far edge of the roof. He didn't need to see any more.
###
The car lurched forward as Michael, trousers still around his ankles, looked on aghast. "What the fuck is he doing out here," Michael shouted. He pinned his face against the darkened glass to obtain a better view. To his left, by the school-gates stood his son Paul, chatting to a young girl with the ridiculously overdone eye make-up and little pink streaks in her long blond hair. Paul was smoking a cigarette and laughing with the girl. "The little git," screamed Michael and he began to wind down the window. "Michael shut up for fucks sake," Jackie pleaded as she leaned over to control him. "Michael look will you! Look at all the press gathered outside. Don't make a scene here, they'll eat it up!"
"Shit Jackie, you're right," he said. "Harry!" Michael called to his driver, "Drive on Harry! We'll circle the school once and when we get back that little dickhead should've gone back inside."
"Yes boss!" replied Harry, dropping a gear in the Rover and accelerating hard.
The car gathered speed. On the backseat, Michael curled up against the glass in horror as he witnessed Paul suddenly lunging forward, grabbing at the girl's bosom with a wild, almost animal look in his eye. "What the fuck is he doing now," cried Michael. He watched as the girl screamed, "Wanker! Get the fuck off me," and delivered a violent slap across Paul's surprised face. Paul staggered to his right; knocked off balance by the power of the blow he spun towards the road, his bag flying off his shoulder.
"Harry! NO!" Michael shouted as the car speeded towards Paul's falling body. The wheels locked as Harry spun the steering column first one way, then the other. Smoke poured off the black rubber of the tyres as the Rover narrowly avoided Paul. Skidding across the road, turning almost to a right angle, the Rover headed toward the pavement. Inside the car, the force of the collision with the curb hurled Jackie across the backseat. Michael screamed in pain as the nails on Jackie's left hand scraped across the smooth skin of his back and tore into his flesh. Her right hand slammed equally hard in between his buttocks, while the total force of the impact sent her weight over Michael's shoulders and drove her forehead into the back of Michael's neck.
Tearing across the concrete paving slabs, the Rover's momentum was brought short by the sturdy resistance of a lamppost. At the point of impact, airbags surreptitiously secreted all over the car erupted in musical blasts and pops, until the wreck became a hissing tribute to modern car safety. The press outside began feverishly loading film and snapping wildly, baited by the possibility of blood. Finally they realized the whole process might be somewhat accelerated if they stepped in to help. Between them, four photographers began to take strain against the twisted door of the rear passenger seats.
###
"Jack," a voice softly whispered from the earpiece of Jack's mobile phone. "Jack, can you hear me?"
"Well hardly if you keep this up man!" Jack swiveled in his armchair to face the TV. "Devlan, you'll have to speak louder. Either the line is bad or you've regressed to your pre-pubescent boarding school voice. Now what's the matter?"
"Oh Jack," squealed Devlan, "nothing's the matter. I mean something is, but it's not bad. I mean it is bad but it's not bad. It's good. Oh my god Jack, it's fucking unbelievable!"
Jack leaned back in his chair and inspected the finger nails of his free hand. Unsure really what to do with himself, he rocked forward until his nose was almost touching the screen directly in front of him. "Devlan," he asked tentatively, "Are you going to get to the point or should I hang up now and pretend you never called?"
"Listen Jack," Devlan replied quick of breath, "I'm going to tell you something that will change your life forever."
Devlan Potter, Jack's loyal, unscrupulous, and very gay press secretary began to recount the news. He began by explaining the plans Jack's electoral opponent had for a campaign closing speech in the school hall of their children's school. "The bastard!" Jack exclaimed. "We made a deal. No involving the children. We agreed to keep the spotlight strictly out of our personal lives, especially with the boys at such difficult ages."
"Listen to me Jack," Devlan panted, "don't worry about that now. Let me finish." And Devlan continued. He reported the eye witness accounts of a black Rover speeding wildly up the narrow street towards the school gates. Jack gasped as he heard how the Rover spun out of control and wrapped itself around a lamppost.
Devlan described the scene as newspaper hacks prized open the door to reveal the scene inside. In one corner, the semi-conscious body of Michael Middlewood was lodged, head pressed against the window, body pointing inwards toward his fellow passenger. Naked from the waist down, with a polo shirt tightly drawn around his neck, it appeared that at the moment of collision, Mr. Middlewood had been engaged in some sort of ugly sex act with his own press secretary, the notorious Jackie Sullivan. Abrasive scratches, presumably a feature of this sexual tryst, decorated Mr. Middlewood's back.
Tracing his forefinger down the freshly printed surface of a photograph, Devlan went on to explain how Ms. Sullivan's right hand seemed to have disappeared, apparently up to the wrist bone, deep into Mr. Middlewood's arse. Her legs straddled Mr. Middlewood from behind, and her head and mouth nestled against the neatly trimmed hair around the back of his neck. This image, declared Devlan, was scheduled to appear on every front page the following morning.
When Devlan finally finished his graphic and juicily detailed account, Jack slumped back in his chair, eyes glazed in something of a dreamlike state, and turned off the mobile phone in his hand. He then paced the room for a few minutes, imagining the press reaction to this turn of events. Then he imagined where they might be headed now. Then he imagined his son on his way home from school.
The doorbell rang.
###
As soon as the Range Rover ground to a halt, Little Jack unbuckled his seat belt and leapt out, crunching the gravel of the driveway beneath his feet. Ignoring Sandra's calls for him to wait, he ran up the remainder of the driveway to the front door. Well, he thought, he was going to have to face the music sometime, and the sooner he got it over and done with, the sooner he could make it upstairs to his room and replay his glorious victory again and again in his mind. Stretching on tip-toes, Little Jack pressed the bell to be let in.
The heavy framed door opened and Little Jack looked up to see his father's face glaring down. He thought his father looked agitated, almost a bit nervous, and definitely not normal. Shit, thought Little Jack, he knows already. Little Jack began to confess, "Listen Daddy. I've got something I have to tell you," but his father cut him short. "So have I, son," smiled Jack, looking down at his boy, "So have I."
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