Daniel Redfern And The Kid: A Novel

Chapter One

IBARRELLED DOWN the corridor with my clarinet case slapping against my thigh. I shoved through the swinging door and out into the playground where my bus was already reversing out of its space. I stuck out my arm and it braked to a halt.

The hydraulic doors opened with a hiss and I leapt onward, flashing my bus pass to the driver before heading on down the aisle to sit in the empty seat beside my best friend, Rhys Thompson.

What happened? Rhys said. You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.

Sweat dampened my shirt collar and my cheeks felt hot. I rested my clarinet case on my lap and caught my breath. Mc . . . Millan . . . kept . . . me . . . back.

Again? Rhys said.

Yeah.

The bus pulled out into the main road and groaned its way up the hill which lead out of the town. The same familiar enormous complex with its wire fences and large warehouse-like buildings was spread out down below—a sewage works or something. A large billboard read: Waverly Labs.

There was a caterwaul of laughter from the back of the bus.

I pivoted in my seat to get a look.

Piers Watson sat in the middle of his cronies, doubled over with a grin spreading his cheeks. As he came up for air, he caught my eye. His smile faltered.

Not wanting to get involved, I turned to face the front.

Oi!

My stomach sunk and my heart leapt into my throat, but I kept facing forward, trying to pretend nothing was happening.

Fatty Danny! Piers said.

I bit my lower lip and ignored him.

Rhys stiffened in the seat beside me, pretending not to notice what was happening by looking out the window. Some friend he was.

Piers called out again.

I noticed the bus driver’s eyes dart to the rear view mirror for a second, before returning to the road.

I decided to take Rhys’s line, to just pretend none of this was really happening. I turned to him and asked, Want to come round mine?

Uh, Rhys said, looking me up and down, then turning back to the window. I . . . I think Mum said my aunt was coming round or something. He smiled faintly. Sorry.

Rhys’s stop was five minutes before mine. I knew that he was worried about getting caught up with Piers’s group—that was the reason he wanted to get off as soon as possible. I changed tact. Can I come round yours, then?

Nah, he said, not offering further explanation.

As this information seeped its way into me, I realised that once Rhys got off I would be on my own. Piers had four other kids with him, all of them just as mean as each other. I had no chance.

I looked back at Rhys. Come on, can’t you just come over for like half an hour?

Nah, Rhys said. Dad’s car’s in the garage.

My dad can take you home after.

Rhys shrugged. Like I said before, my aunt’s coming down.

This conversation was sending my mind spinning in circles, so I decided to give up.

Piers let out a roaring laugh then said, Fatty Danny, come and play for us! Come on Fatty Danny, play us a tune!

I stared at the clarinet case resting on my lap and thought about what I was going to do. Maybe it was the wrong move to just ignore them, stay silent. Perhaps it would be better to confront Piers, to call his bluff. I resolved that whatever was going to happen, Piers would beat me up, so I might as well go down fighting.

I rose from my seat.

Rhys snapped his neck away from the window. What’re you doing?

He wants a tune, I said, keeping my balance with the handrails.

You’re committing suicide, that’s what you’re doing.

I eyed the back seat, Piers and his cronies all with their stares locked on me, nudging one another and whispering between them. That was right, I was coming to them. I wasn’t going to hide like a little baby any more.

Piers had silver-blond hair gelled up in tufts. He wore his tie loose around his neck with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. On his feet he wore tatty, scuffed trainers which the teachers constantly harassed him for a note.

I approached them, feeling their eyes prickle my skin, and I set my clarinet case down on an empty seat then set about putting it together.

Piers crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. What you gonna play for us then, Weeble?

What do you want?

Piers whistled a tune from a television advert, then looked at me with a smirk on his face. You play that and maybe I won’t beat you up.

I slumped down on the hard plastic seat. All right.

Piers and his cronies huddled together, getting close to me, their faces almost coming into contact with my own.

I wet the reed with my tongue and blew into the clarinet. A series of notes hummed out. Although I would never say it out loud, I was pretty pleased with my ability at playing the clarinet, probably the only thing that I was the best in my year at—the one thing that made me stand out. I gave a good approximation of a tune and then finished, with my pulse thumping in my ears.

Piers stuck his fingers in his mouth and wolf whistled.

The bus ground to a halt at a bus stop.

I glanced down the aisle to see Rhys stepping down out through the doors and heading along the pavement, back home. He glanced back at me from the safety outside and gave me a sheepish grin. I was on my own now.

Piers clapped his hands together and knitted his eyebrows. Give us some more, then, Fatty!

The bus driver called out. Keep it down back there, will you?

Shut it! Piers said.

I caught the driver’s expression in the rear view mirror, rolling his eyes and sighing before pulling out back into the road.

Piers turned back to me. Keep playing.

I did as I was told, going through some pieces I’d been practising. As I played I thought about how well I was doing under the circumstances, hardly making any mistakes. Piers and the others seemed to notice it too, nodding their heads as I played. It gave me a tiny glow inside to think that they might be jealous of something I could do better than them.

When I looked out the window I noticed my stop coming up, so I pulled the clarinet away from my lips and made to take it apart, replace it in its case.

Piers said, Where you going?

This is my stop.

Oh, no, Fatty, you ain’t going nowhere.

I looked over their expressions. Any note of easiness had disappeared from their faces. They screwed up their features and clenched their fists. I watched as another kid rang the bell to stop the bus.

A wave of nausea passed through me. I thought about running, but if I did that I would just get into trouble tomorrow. I resolved that I had to face Piers down today, to get this over with, whatever problem he had with me. I was sure that if I just kept playing until Piers was satisfied he would let me go and never bother me again. And at the same time I knew it was naïve to think that way. But it was my only hope.

Piers looked to me expectantly as the bus pulled out once more and I played on.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. We were leaving the countryside behind and entering the fringes of the city, nearing Shadow Brooks, where Piers and his cronies lived. As I blew on my clarinet I noticed Piers whispering something to the boy sitting beside him. I knew that something bad was about to happen but, at the same time, knew I could do nothing to stop it.

One of Piers’s cronies slunk by me, knocking into my shoulder.

I clung onto my clarinet and kept my balance.

He proceeded down the gangway and rang the bell.

The bus slowed.

Piers got to his feet.

The others did too.

I perched on the edge of the seat, nerves in shreds, hoping that he would now leave me alone, that I had done enough not to get beaten up.

Piers lurched into me and snatched my clarinet from my grasp. Open the window, he said to one of his cronies.

His crony leapt up onto the seat and cranked open the window.

Piers waggled my clarinet in front of my eyes.

I knew that there was no way I could get it back off Piers so I just stood and watched, resigned to whatever was about to play out.

Piers jumped onto the seat, beside his crony, and tossed the clarinet out the open window. It landed on the pavement outside with a crack. Piers snorted to himself, got down and bundled up the aisle and out of the bus doors, his cronies trotting along in his wake. I watched them sprint off down the street, tear around a corner and then disappear from sight.

I caught the driver’s eye in the rear view mirror as I slunk my way toward the doors. When I drew level with him, he leant over his ticket machine. You all right there, lad?

Feeling a creeping emptiness inside me, I said, Yeah.

Don’t need me to report them or anything?

Nah, I said, stepping down onto the street.

Okay, the driver said, returning to his seat. Can’t say I didn’t offer.

As the bus pulled out from the curb, I reflected on whether or not I should have done something. Whenever we talked about bullying at school the teachers always said we had to tell an adult what was happening and they would stop it. But it was like they had never been a kid. If I did that Piers and co would get detention, maybe even suspended. They would just get angrier, pick on me more. The best way to go was just to forget it had happened and get on with my life.

I stooped to collect my clarinet. It had a large dent in its bell and a few of the keys hung loose. I blew a note. A faint whistle accompanied its droning tone.

I let out a long sigh. I would have to keep it hidden from my parents as long as possible. If I showed them the broken clarinet I was sure I’d have to tell them the whole story, and then that would kick up the whole bullying fuss, and it really wasn’t that bad—I could take it. Maybe I could take the clarinet to the music shop near my house and get it repaired. I had some savings. I replaced my clarinet in its velvet-lined case and set off at a march, knowing I had an extra half an hour to walk back to my house.

My whole school uniform was sticky with sweat when I arrived outside the oak door of Wizzy’s Wonderful Instruments. I pushed my way in through the door . A dampened bell clanked above my head and the door swung shut in the draught.

Trombones, tubas, trumpets, violins, violas, cellos, percussion and, of course, clarinets, hung from the walls—all polished to a sheen. I looked over the price tags, most hundreds of pounds, some over a thousand.

A knot formed in my throat, tickling my tonsils. I considered ducking out of the shop, forgetting about all this. One thing was for sure, I definitely wouldn’t tell my parents now.

There was a cough from somewhere in the back room, then a, Hello?

I stood stunned, not sure whether to retreat or stay around. The bitter stench of polish tickled my nostril hair, made me think that I might sneeze at any moment.

The voice was rugged but frail. Someone there?

I had come all this way. I might as well have the man look at my clarinet. Uh . . . yes.

Shoes clapped against the hard floor and an elderly man appeared. He had stringy grey hair which brushed his shoulders and he wore a tattered purple waist coat over a green shirt, from which sprouted white chest hair. He rested his hands on the counter. His arms were thin and muscular, like tightly-wrapped electrical wires. Wizzy, I supposed. How can I help, little lad? he said.

I swung my clarinet case up and set it down on the counter. I flipped the catches and looked up at him, expectantly.

Wizzy wiped his hands on the sides of his waistcoat and fumbled the instrument out of its mould. He looked over each piece: the mouthpiece, the barrel, then the first joint, before setting the second joint, with its damaged keys, and the bell, with its dented edge, to one side. That’s your problem, he said, glancing at me momentarily. He scratched a patch of dry scalp peeking through his sparse hair. What you do, drop it off a multi-story car park?

My guts twisted. Something like that.

He sucked his teeth then jabbed his cheek with his tongue. Really done a job on this, eh? Still under warrantee?

What’s that? I said.

He squinted at me—he had pits at either side of his nose, which suggested he usually wore glasses. When you buy something you get a period of time to take it back if anything goes wrong with it.

And how do I find out if I have that?

It’s a bit of paper. It came with the clarinet when you bought it.

I don’t think I’ve got it.

He closed one eye, sizing me up. You haven’t looked. How do you know you don’t have it?

I blushed. Just a feeling.

Hmm, or maybe you’re not telling me the whole story.

I crunched my teeth together. I had never been a good liar. I gave everything away far too easily.

Wizzy returned his attention to the clarinet’s second joint and bell, holding both pieces up to the light in turn and inspecting them. He whistled. This’ll be an expensive job, can tell you now. He glanced at me. Really nice bit of kit you’ve got here. Modern, but very nicely put together all the same.

My chest tightened and my voice croaked. How much?

Oh, I should think around a hundred, a hundred and fifty.

Pounds?

Wizzy set the instrument down and smiled. Problem is, job like this you’ve got to take care. If you patch it up with something cheap it’s going to show, and it’ll affect the sound. For that money it’ll be back good as new.

Now I wished I hadn’t gone into the music shop at all. It would’ve been better not knowing the extent of the damage. I had seventeen pounds saved up in the whole world, and that had taken me years of scrabbling for spare change. I needed it fixing as soon as possible but there was nothing to do.

I collected up the pieces and slotted them back into their moulds. I slapped the case shut and thanked Wizzy, before heading out the door. As I wrapped my fingers around the wooden handle, he said, Wait just a second there.

I turned on my heel.

He pressed his lips together in thought. I’ve got a proposal for you.

What?

He clicked his fingers and indicated for me to bring the case back to the counter.

I returned to him.

He opened up the case and took a fresh look over the clarinet, mumbling to himself. Apparently satisfied, he nodded to himself. He produced a cleaning cloth from beneath the counter and placed the broken parts upon it. Then he fished into his waistcoat pocket and produced a pale blue receipt which he handed to me. This is for my new pair of glasses. If you go fetch them for me, I’ll do the job for fifty pounds.

I considered the offer. It was better than half price. And although I still didn’t have the money it seemed far more achievable than a hundred or so. I would need another thirty-three pounds from somewhere.

What do you say?

It only needed a second’s thought. Okay.

Good, Wizzy said. Go off to Mr Hansley, round the corner and tell him Wizzy sent you, all right?

I nodded and scooted out the door. I pounded the pavement on my way to the optician and I could hardly speak for my panting when I handed the prescription over to Mr Hansley. He took it from me and returned with a semi-transparent yellow glasses case. I thanked him and bounded back to Wizzy’s, where he had his back to me, working on the broken instrument. I handed over the glasses to him and then realised that, despite the discount, I still didn’t have the money to pay him.

Wizzy worked away with nimble hands, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He had a jar of what looked like putty and he was squeezing the clarinet back into shape.

I checked my watch. The money aside, I would have to be getting home fairly soon or my family would start to worry.

When’s your next band practice? Wizzy said.

Not till next week.

Wizzy nodded. I’ll have to work on this over the weekend. Need to let the filler set.

My spirits sank a touch, before brightening. At least that would give me time to get the rest of the money together for the repairs. My parents had been talking about giving me a monthly allowance, pocket money, for a while now. Maybe I could convince them. Thirty-three pounds would be stretching it, though. I would be lucky to get ten a month.

Um, I have to go home.

Wizzy turned, smiled at me then returned to his work on my clarinet. No problem, lad, see you next week.

I headed for the door, paused, then said, I couldn’t take the case with me, could I?

Wizzy cocked his head to one side, furrowing his brow. Whatever for?

I—I don’t want my parents to know.

He met my eye and then chuckled, shaking his head. He bent and picked up the case, which he handed over to me. You kids, always getting yourselves into trouble.

Thanks, I said, feeling a slight quiver pass through me as I accepted the case, then headed out.

I stomped my way up my front garden path wondering how I was ever going to get thirty-three pounds together for Monday. The case felt much lighter without the clarinet inside, so it would only work as a visual prop. If Mum or Dad actually lifted the case for themselves, they would know the clarinet was missing.

I scrunched over the welcome mat, wiping my feet, and then swooshed through the hall, dropping my school bag as I went. I heard the clack of my mum’s heels in the kitchen—that told me she had been at work today. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, I poked my head round the door.

Mum stood at the stove, boiling something while she leafed through a recipe book with her other hand. She looked over her shoulder at me with a slight smile. Good day? She glanced down at the clarinet case dangling from my hand. How did band practice go?

Fine, I said, stepping back into the hall.

Dinner will be ready in an hour or so.

Okay, Mum, I said, climbing the stairs, pleased that the exchange had gone so easily. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to keep the clarinet thing a secret.

I got into my room and, for the first time that day, I had the opportunity to breathe easy, knowing that school was behind me for a couple of days, as was Piers and his cronies. All I would do on Saturday and Sunday was read a few books, watch some TV and do a bit of homework. Paradise.

I set down my empty clarinet case and school bag, then stepped up to my window, which looked out onto the graveyard at the side of our house. The gravestones were almost reduced to grey slabs now, with their names long eroded by the weather, and their mourning relatives having joined them in the ground.

I’d never thought it weird to have gravestones propped up against the wall of my bedroom—it’d been normal my whole life. Only when Rhys once came round after school and remarked about it did I ever realise someone might think it odd.

Despite my bedroom being upstairs, my window is only a little raised above the graveyard. If someone, or something, wanted to they could creep into my room quite easily. After Rhys noted the graveyard I spent a few sleepless nights looking over to the window, convinced I saw faces there, looking in, wanting to sneak inside. There’s no lock on the window and when I suggested the idea to Dad, he just shook his head and said it would be too expensive. In any case this is a quiet town, and nothing ever happens—let alone burglary.

I yawned as I crossed my room, over to my cabin bed. I kept my TV and the video games console Dad had given me in the space underneath, but I felt tired and wound up by school, Piers in particular—and I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I got bored with my thoughts after approximately three seconds and picked up a book I’d spent most of the term reading. It was called: Marvin’s Magical Mites, and was about a boy who collected mites from all over and put them in a farm he kept on his windowsill because he wanted to show them off in the annual Mite Show. It was weird.

Five pages later I tossed the book down on my desk and thought about getting a head start on my homework. I had a ton to do: McMillan had given me extra chemistry, as if by staring at the pages of incomprehensible explanations and equations I would somehow manage to grasp the ideas. I knew it had been a mistake when they’d placed me in the accelerated science programme, sooner or later they’d drop me down a group—put me where I belonged.

I slipped off the cabin bed, as always ignoring the ladder, and fished through my bag for the chemistry textbook. I flipped to the half dozen pages McMillan had assigned and worked my way through the tiny type, trying not to let my head nod or eyes lull.

Half an hour of homework down, still sitting at my desk in my bedroom, I heard the front door click open and the distinctive shuffle of Dad’s shoes on the hallway carpet. His voice boomed through the house, as if it were shaking the foundations. Soon his footsteps sounded on the stairs and there was a pair of knocks at my door.

Come in, I said, not turning my attention away from the textbook.

Dad stooped in through the low doorway. He wore a childish grin and his briefcase dangled from his fingers. He set the briefcase down and rummaged through it. Brought the new one back, sure you’re going to love it.

Dad, I’ve got homework.

Dad paused looking through his briefcase, looked at me. You’ve got the whole weekend to do it, haven’t you?

Well, yeah, but—

Dad plucked a blank DVD with penned-ink on the front which read: Developer Copy. He got down under my cabin bed, knees hunching up to his chest and he slipped the DVD into the drive of the games console.

Its yellow light blinked a couple of times as its disk tray ate the DVD.

Come on then, Dad said.

I wasn’t getting anywhere with my chemistry work anyway. I let out a sigh and clapped the textbook shut, then joined Dad under the bed, sticking a pillow between my bottom and the rough carpet.