Ordinary Joe and the Mark of Four

Normally Joe avoided the snicket cutting from Ferrers Road to South Street. It was a favourite spot for Cardenfield’s gang of bullies and most kids would rather plan a longer route than risk running into them, but he wanted to get home and read his comic. Besides, they ignored Joe around school, so he was probably safe even if they were hanging around.

He twisted his bike through the metal barriers at the entrance and seeing the way was clear, pedalled hard to pick up speed. Halfway along he thought he was safe. He was wrong.

Four boys jumped from the hedges along the path and grabbed him, pulling him into the snow. His bike wheeled on for a few yards and toppled over, its back wheel spinning.

“Looks like a trespasser boys!” said a cruel voice. Joe rolled over, snow plastered to his coat. Standing over him was Paul Grafton, a big year seven boy who lived with his dad, a few doors up from Joe. His mum d left home when he was eight and he spent most of his time excluded from school, causing as much trouble as he could.

Behind him were the other members of his gang; Tremaine Green, who could usually be found peering over Graffo’s shoulder and sniggering, Liam “Bug-eyed” Hunt, who everyone thought was slightly strange, mainly because his eyes always seemed to be popping out of his head, and Norton Jeffreys, who they called ’Sarge”, because when he wasn’t wearing his school uniform he always wore combat gear. They hadn’t bothered Joe at school and he only knew them because of Reece. Sometimes they made fun of his weight, (Though only when Graffo was around), until he snapped and went for them. But Graffo was too strong, even for Reece, and he ended up bruised and in tears outside the head teacher’s office, waiting for the school to call his parents. When his dad arrived he shook his head and asked,

“Did you win?” and if Reece said No he got a cuff round the ear.

Graffo pulled Joe to his feet,

“Gotta pay a toll to come through here little stain.” Joe struggled loose and felt his face go red. He tried to pull his hand inside his sleeve to hide his birthmark but Graffo grinned, “No use hiding it. We all know it’s there you freak.” Tremaine peered over Graffo’s shoulder and sniggered.

“What’s he got in his pockets,” Bug-eyed said, searching through Joe’s coat. He pulled out the cans and bags Mr Zhang had stuffed inside and scattered them on the ground. “What’s this junk?” Graffo shook his head,

“Not good enough stain, what else you got?” Joe’s gaze flicked to the hidden comic and darted back to Graffo, who held out his hand, “Hand it over.”

Joe looked at his feet, feeling shaky and sick. He couldn’t fight Graffo, even if he was on his own, and if he ran he would never get past all of them. They were much bigger and much faster than he was. His Uncle always told him to stand up to bullies. They’ll leave you alone if you fight back lad, he said. But he was wrong. If you stood up to bullies they hit you harder. He wished he’d gone the long way round.

Give it to him, or he’ll hurt you.

Joe jumped. For a second he thought the cold, sneering voice was Grafton or even one of his cronies; but then he realised it was coming from inside his head. It was a man’s voice, deep and slow, echoing inside his head as clear as his own thoughts. Was he was remembering something he’d heard? No, he was sure he would remember the face that went with such a frightening voice. Maybe he was going mad.

GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS.

Reluctantly he unzipped his coat and pulled out the comic. Graffo snatched it from his hand and held it up.

“The In... Cred... able Hulk,” he said, “What’s this stain?” Joe dropped his head,

“A present,” he said Graffo smiled,

“A present?” He pulled the comic out of its plastic bag. Joe moved to stop him but Sarge pushed him back, grinning, and Graffo flicked the pages, “That’s good of you stain, but there’s four of us. Guess we’ll have to share it!” He gripped the edge of the comic and before Joe could stop him, tore it into two pieces.

“No!” He lunged forward but Sarge and Bug-eyed grabbed his arms.

“I think he’s gonna cry!” sniggered Tremaine. Graffo slid the two halves of the comic together and taking hold of each end, ripped them in half.

“There,” he said, “A piece each.”

“Don’t wan’ it,” said Sarge, “It’s ripped.” The others laughed and Graffo shrugged and threw the pieces into the air. They scattered like confetti and drifted away in all directions.

Joe glared at him, knowing it was over. He could pick up his bike and pedal away. They were finished with him. But he couldn’t help himself.

“I can get another comic,” he said, forcing the words out, even though his heart was beating so fast he thought it might explode, “but your mum’s never coming back.”

There was a stunned silence. Bug-eyed, Sarge and Tremaine all looked at Graffo. Everyone stopped breathing. Graffo stared at Joe, a flush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. His eyes were furious. He glanced around, bent down, and turned back to Joe with a brick clutched in his fist. Sarge and Bug-eyed let Joe go and backed away. They looked worried. Picking on the village kids was fun but when Graffo lost it he hurt people. Then the Police turned up. Graffo raised the rock and snarled.

“Big boys! Little Boy. Big Boys! Little boy. Four on one, shame, shame, shame!” The voice came from the end of the snickett. Graffo stopped, brick held high, and snapped his head round. Lurching through the snow was a strange looking man. His long greasy hair flapped around his face, half covering his wild staring eyes. A straggly beard sprang from his chin. He was tall and thin, dressed in dirty rags, boots tied up with string and tufts of white stuffing poking through rips in his coat. Joe had seen him round the village. They called him Shambling Sam.

“It’s that nutter!” shouted Bug-eyed, falling backwards over Joe’s bike. Sarge looked at Graffo and back at the madman quickly closing in,

“Let’s go !” he said, “My dad says he killed a kid. I’m not fighting him. He’s crazy!”

“Bad rock! Not hurt the bringer of four. No. No. Hurt you. Hurt you.”

“He’s not hurtin’ me,” Tremaine squealed, darting after Bug-eyed and Sarge, now speeding to the end of the snicket. Graffo watched them go and scowled. He turned back to Joe,

“Another time little stain. You’ll pay for what you said about my mum.” Then he dropped the rock and ran. Shambling Sam lurched to a stop next to Joe and watched the boys disappear onto South Street.

“Not safe! Not safe!” he muttered and glanced around, “They come for you. Bad, bad things!” Joe shook his head, scooping up scattered sweets and stuffing them back in his pockets.

“They’ve gone.” He sighed and walked across to his bike, scraps of the comic fluttering round his feet. Shambling Sam’s hand grabbed his shoulder.

“No! No! They come for you. Come for the King’s son. Not safe! Not safe!” Joe pulled away,

“Hey! Get off! They’ve gone alright. Let me go!” Sam jumped back, pulling at his beard, looking along the snicket and up into the sky.

“Not go home!” he wailed, “Dangerous! Your father waits.” For a second an image popped into Joe’s head - A big, stone room, cold and dark and a man’s sad face looking down at him; beside him a woman, somehow familiar and smiling, but tearful, reaching to touch his face... He blocked it out. First voices and now this; maybe he was going mad.

“My parents are dead, alright!” he snapped and before Sam could grab him again he turned and pedalled away along the path. Sam’s voice wailed behind,

“Not dead! In Antigol. Not deadddddddd!”