Charlie

Charlotte Butcher was running again, and in two weeks time, Julie 'Cannonball' Hernandez was going home in a box, just like Jane Heally had sixteen months before.

She hated 'Charlotte'; that was who she was when her Daddy was mad with her and about to give her a good hiding, like he had last night; she's been sulky and bratty at first, but when he'd threatened her with 'Granddad's strap' she'd bent over, and after a good belting with a gym pump (which wrecked), she'd had the cane, and hated it and cried a bit. She hated Charlotte; Charlotte cried.

But Charlie never did. Charlie was the girl who went on the poster, smirking savagely behind her boxing gloves; Charlie was the girl who could knock just about any other girl (and a good number of boys) into the middle of next week, and Charlie was the girl who didn't fucking care what anybody thought of her, not anybody, they even called her 'Butch' behind her back, 'Butch Charlie', and she usually let them get away with it, just so long as they were scared of her.

He was scared of her, the little prick. The stupid little shit that she had wasted on Saturday night, she’d seen the look of terrified anxiety in his face as she bore down on him; it was a wonder that he'd stood up at all, let alone lasted the thirty seconds, before a right handed hammer blow nearly took him off his feet. That was why she’d got a belting.

'What are these for?' Daddy had demanded, showing her her boxing gloves. What are these for?’.

She'd mumbled something about 'boxing' but that hadn't saved her. 'Yeah; Boxing – not beating up kids for the fun of it – I won't have no-one say my daughter's a bully, now get them gloves on, and bend over.'

And he'd belted her with that gymshoe until her arse felt it was on fire, and then (because she's said something about Simon) he'd caned it. She hated Simon.

More precisely, she despised Simon. He was a spazz she had to walk home from boxing with 'In case anything happens' Daddy said. As if Simon'd do anything if something 'happened'. Daddy, and his mate Bill McNeil who ran the gym, seemed to think Simon was OK, but Charlie knew just what a spazz he was. He went to one of those schools.

He never went into details, and Charlie didn't ask, preferring to spend her journeys home telling him what a little wuss he was, how fucking hopeless at boxing, and exactly what she meant to do to him if he put one toe out of line in her presence; since he never did, she never had – quite – but the very worst batterings she had given in the ring had all been just for Simon.

She'd actually followed him once, just to see what his stupid spazz school looked like. It had not been worth the bother; just a dirty grey building with all the doors closed, so she’d gone home again. But she was going back now.

She disliked the assumption that big girls that did boxing were thick – she was big (5' 11", powerfully built, with a scary explosion of curly black hair) but not at all stupid or unsubtle: This run for instance, instead of her usual route, she’d plotted this with the Internet, and it was just as long as usual, but this route included Simon's spazz school.

It was barely seven am, and nobody much was about, which was good, considering the nature of her mission, and the second hand black track suit she was wearing – given by McNeil – with its corporate label cut off. Knock off.

In her heart she knew it hadn't been Simon grassing on her, Daddy had told McNeil (his old mate) 'If she puts a foot wrong, I want to know' and he had – hence the whacking of last night – but she couldn't revenge herself on McNeil, it would have to be Simon. She could make him suffer even within his stupid school.

Two papers nestled in her tracksuit pocket, the first a letter in an envelope, which had taken a little phrasing; 'Dear Head Teacher, I think you should know that Simon Winter, the boy I have to go boxing with, looked up my skirt this weekend, and it was disgusting. He also called me a cunt. From Charlotte Butcher.

The other paper proclaimed, in plainer hand ‘'Simon Winter = Pervert + Wimp + Grass'. Anyone might pick it up and act on it; once the papers were posted the damage would do itself. She ran on, concentrating on the idea of Julie Hernandez's face crumpling under her right glove.

Here was the school, the big old building blank and austere. She noticed the factory next door, linked to the school by an enclosed bridge, two storeys up, but where was the main door; the one with the letterbox?

She ran on a little way round the building; sure there were doors, but mostly without handles or buzzers. Finally, double doors with a letterbox.

Charlie ducked into the porch, but the flap over the slot was so stiff as to be immobile, she tried with both hands.

With a roar, a huge black SUV barrelled round the corner and stopped opposite. The doors slid open and three teenagers were kicked out, followed by three men in black overalls with nightsticks. The school doors slid open as the three were driven across the road. Charlie tried to dodge, but one of the men grabbed her arm and tried to twist it. 'And Numero Quattro – Result!' She tried to swing a punch at him but his night stick took out the back of her legs and she fell forward. The dragged her inside, and the doors slid shut.

In the reception are a beyond lay Pandemonium; the three teenagers – two boys and a girl – were clearly shit-scared, and the leading adult was reporting to a saturnine-looking man in a black jacket with elbow patches. 'We found 'em all sat round a brazier on Carpenters Road – like they was waiting to get caught.' Meanwhile the woman at the reception desk was screeching into the phone, 'But the police are involved, and the DH is on holiday, so I have to talk-to-the-head!' She suddenly turned on the man 'Crozier, will you get Reception cleared?'

'Right', Crozier nodded to the security men. 'Back to it boys. As for you five’ he addressed the captives '-down to the changing rooms.' He nodded to a further three (two girls, one boy, and all Charlie's size), who stepped out of the shadows. 'Take 'em away'.

'I don't belong here!' Charlie yelled, 'I don’t go to this school!'

She'd been sure that would get her an apology, a fast track to the door and a promise of compensation for the whack round the legs; when Crozier's only reply was a mocking smile, she added more viciously 'I'm going to fucking sue you; you're going to be so fucking sorry'.

Crozier just jerked his head and the three heavies advanced.

'Don't belong here?'

'Wasn’t your fault?'

'Wanna go home to Mummy?'

'Fuck Off!' that last was Charlie, but she was scared as well as furious. There was something in the oncoming, leering faces that turned her stomach; something bestial. Along with the others, she was driven down the echoing corridor.

The three re-captives were an odd trio, kinda punkish, only Punk as only those with no money and not much idea of what it really was, could have done it. Maybe their hair had once been spiky, but done with something disgusting like soap or sugar and water like Daddy had told her about, and it was all crap now. One of them had painted 'Sid Viscous' on the back of his blazer. Dickhead.

The boys' changing room contained half a dozen skinheads guarding a row of sorry-looking figures, all squatted forlornly on a bench, their heads covered in canvas bags that had been drawn tight around the necks.& Charlie heard a voice behind her whisper, 'Shit.'

Maybe the boy in charge heard it, for he turned round, his handsome UK SS face twisted as he brought up his clipboard. 'Right, names'. He had a strong South African accent.

'Rafferty 1582' yelped the first boy.

'Tie and bag'.

'Cross 4783', stammered the girl.

'Same'.

Charlie yelled. 'I don’t go to this fucking sick school, OK?'

The leader swaggered up. 'Yeah? Where your fucking scum suit come from then, Scum?' He continued as Charlie's eyes fell to the ripped off logo. 'Yeah, that’s right, the one you defaced by taking the fucking number off.' He glanced back. 'Mark her up for extra; bag and tie'.

Three skinheads closed on Charlie; when she knocked one down a fourth hit her so hard that she doubled up. They bound her wrists tight, covered her head, and shoved her down on the bench.

‘And this one?’ rasped the leader.

‘Rayner, 4129.’

‘Bag and tie, then let’s get this fucking show on the fucking road.’

In the hood, time dragged. Unseeing she had no way of gauging the minutes or hours, no sight of other people moving or breathing. She strained to hear the Doc Marten footsteps of the skinheads, all but silent on the tiles.

There ought to have been a way out of this – a way not to be here with no chance of escape but after the night stick had got her, she’d been inside a strange locked building; it didn’t matter who she’d punched or how hard, she’d still have been inside.

‘Take out the first six’. There was a scuffling at the far end of the room as the skinheads grabbed and shoved the six hapless figures through another door. It banged closed. Silence again, but for how long? Charlie could feel her fingers numbing.

Then, as if from far away, came the muted sound of a badly tuned piano thumping out a familiar introduction. The far door banged closed again, and Charlie heard the mumbled anthem ‘God Save our Gracious Queen…’

Suddenly a sharp metal tool snook between her wrists, and jaws closed – she drew breath to swear, but as the cable tie fell from her wrists, the hood was loosened and pulled off. She blinked in the light at the face in front of her as it whispered fiercely ‘Come with me, if you want to leave.’

It was Simon.

In spite of her instincts, she whispered back, ‘What’s happening, dickhead?’

He turned away, angry and frightened, and ran across the room to a cat ladder, bolted to the wall; he started climbing. Charlie followed.

At the top was a trapdoor, and once through it, they both fell panting on the floor of a tiny room containing a broken desk and chair. It was filthy.

Charlie glared balefully at him, loathing him. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Simon’s reply was a jerk of the head. She craned upward a little to look through the dirty plate glass window. Below them was a gymnasium, filled with an assembly of motley kids. At the far end, on a raised platform, knelt the six hooded captives guarded by the skinheads; a big padded block was set up, now a teacher in an old fashioned cap and gown began to talk, he was made inaudible by the glass.

‘Punishment assembly’ Simon muttered.

For a while Charlie watched in silence. The teacher stopped talking, then the first captive was pulled up and her hood yanked off. She stood terrified in front of the crowd, then was pushed over the block, and a skinhead boy stepped forward with a cane to begin the beating. She counted the strokes to herself, determined to remain impassive, though she knew that what Daddy had done to her the previous night had not been one tenth as bad as the pathetic parody of a punky girl was getting. Bright red weals bloomed.

‘Why are the skinheads in charge?’

‘Blue Brigade?’ Simon’s voice betrayed his disgust. ‘Not in charge; just another gang – their prefect got the duty today, that’s all – so they’re putting a show on. It’s why we had to run when we did; they were all out there standing up for the National Anthem.’

‘Cool. You’d like to be one of them.’

‘No.’

She curled her lip, ‘I would. It’d be so cool.’

Very slowly, he turned to look at her, and quietly he said, ‘Yeah, I bet’.

Down there the sobbing punk girl was cast aside like a cry baby doll and replaced by a boy. Simon crawled across the small room and opened a door; it creaked anciently. ‘Stay and watch’ he suggested quietly, ‘but Blue Brigade ain’t stupid whatever the rumours, and if they get us, you’re already in deeper shit than I am.’

Beyond the door was an equally filthy corridor. Charlie shut the door behind her; they were in darkness.

‘So why shouldn’t I do you now?’

She heard the reply. ‘Can’t think of a reason. It’s all up to you’.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

There was a light as the far door opened. ‘Picking the lock’.

‘Clever little fucker, aren’t you?’

Simon didn’t reply, he just led the way to the next door, and stopped to straighten his tie.

‘What a good little boy!’

His face slid into a mask of meekness. ‘Yes Charlie, I’m a good boy, because I don’t want us to get caught on the main corridor on the far side of this door, cos if we are it’ll be straight back to the gym, and a really hard smacked bottom for both of us.’

Scowling at him, Charlie pulled off her tracksuit top, revealing the white tee shirt underneath. She folded the top neatly and put it under her arm. ‘OK’, she was breathing hard, ‘Let’s go’.

They stepped out onto the corridor and walked side by side. The floor smelled of polish and disinfectant. After a moment, Charlie asked, ‘Is this your school, spazz?’

‘Yeah’

‘Don’t like it, it’s shit.’ She sneered, ‘Say “My school’s shit”’.

He turned towards her and said very solemnly, ‘My school is shit. My school is fucking horrible’.

They fell silent as two older kids passed them. Simon exhaled softly.

‘What kind of divs were they, spazz?’

‘Sharp Set. Off to snog, probly’.

‘Fucking hell, they were rank!’

‘We were lucky’ said Simon bitterly as they reached the staircase.

‘I could have had ‘em both’.

‘They got knives.’ Simon led the way down the stairs; a little way from the foot of the second flight stood a tall, willowy girl with her back to them. ‘Right’ Charlie muttered.

‘Please Miss Belinda’, Simon said, quite loudly. ‘I’ve got to tell you something.’

The girl had turned, but with a whistle to her lips. Charlie held herself in; the girl was not about to lower that whistle, and (unlike the Blue Brigade) her arrogance didn’t seem to be tempered with stupidity. ‘Simon, what is it?’

‘Miss Belinda’, Simon said steadily, ‘This is Charlie Butcher; you know there ain’t no Charlie Butcher in this school, nor wasn’t one in the last intake.’

‘Why’s she here, Simon?’

‘The dogs got her at the front door and Crozier just notched up another kill. I know it’s not the first time it’s happened, but it ain’t fair. She don’t belong here.’

‘Is she your friend from boxing?’

Simon shifted a little. ‘We know each other’.

Belinda bit her lip. ‘Okay, from here you’re a clear as far as Door Fourteen, and I haven’t seen you.’

‘No, Miss Belinda.’

‘And I’ll see you later about why I haven’t seen you.’

‘Yes, Miss Belinda.’

They walked past her, Charlie’s urge to lash out only just under control. Once round the corner, she hissed ‘I want a fag, give us one.’

Simon hesitated. ‘In here’. He pushed open a door, and once inside the tiny space inside, he wedged the door shut before producing a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. #Automatically he lit hers for her, before for himself.

‘Where’s this?’

‘Switch room’.

‘So who’s Miss Bo-Fucking-Peep?’

‘Prefect’

‘Miss Belinda? You fancy her. Pretty int’ she?’

‘Spose she is’.

‘Too good for you’. Charlie drew on her cigarette, ‘Tastes like shit. So, I asked you once, what the fuck’s happening, dickhead?’

Simon looked up. ‘Punk did a big breakout last night: most of ‘em are being done for it in front of the whole school right now, while security are still chasing the last few. They thought you might be one of them.’

‘But I ain’t; I’m not like you – I’ve got a mum and a dad.’

‘Some of ‘em in here have’, Simon shrugged, ‘They can still send you here.’

Charlie suddenly felt cold, and wanted to say something like ‘Shit’ at the thought of it, but not in front of the spazz. What she said next was out of her mouth before she thought about it. ‘You want to watch yourself. I know some stuff about this school that’d make you fucking shit yourself.’

‘What?’

‘I saw, right, that big SUV, one morning, at Limehouse Basin, and two blokes got out and dumped this dead guy in the water.’

Strangely, he didn’t seem to be shocked. ‘I think that’d be Mr Davies’.

‘Don’t be pathetic’.

He smiled, and it was a smile that she had only seen once, at their first meeting. She’d spent every subsequent one trying to punch it off his face forever.

She stubbed out the fag half-finished, kicked the wedge away and stepped out onto the corridor. ‘How come’s you were in the changing room; you’re not a Punk with your stupid long socks an’ your hair’s pathetic.’

‘I ain’t Punk; I’m New School. New School’s Cool’.

‘New School’s shit: you’re in it.’

Just for a second, Simon’s lip began to curl, and then –

‘Stop there!’

‘Shit!’ Simon hissed. The Sharp Set pair were almost on top of them.

Charlie closed with the first; one – two – three – and lights out – she spun, bringing her left back –

The other Sharp Set was on the floor

‘What the fuck did you do?’

‘Dunno. Lucky.’ Simon ran on down the corridor, and at the end he clawed at a locker. ‘Behind this!’

Charlie heaved at the locker, it came forward awkwardly, and there was a flight of stairs going down behind it. ‘Go’, Simon hissed. ‘There’s a fire door at the bottom. Push the bar and you’re out. It’s not even alarmed – been forgotten. You must go.’

Charlie climbed through the gap. ‘If you’re lying, I’ll fucking batter you.’

‘Just go!’

She turned and stumbled down the stairs, which grew even darker as Simon shoved the locker back.

From above she could hear the sound of running feet, but she pressed on down in the inky blackness. If this was the passage that they’d used in the escape, it surely would have been guarded both ends, but…

Simon wasn’t part of the gang that had tried to escape – how had he ended up in the changing room with her?

Three punks from the SUV, plus Charlie, plus… Simon? He’d joined the line, just to get her out of it? No, he was the stupid spazz that she had hammered at boxing on Saturday, and sneered at all the way home after McNeil had told him to look after her – look after Charlie!

Like he just had been? A terrible thought stole over her as her hands closed on the fire door bar; He liked her? How could he like someone whose chief pleasure was punching him all round the ring? Someone who liked doing it so much it she didn’t care how often she got whacked for doing it? He actually liked her?

She shoved the bar and the door opened; she fell out into the sunshine, and like a bucket of cold water, his words hit her ‘You must go!’ – he just didn’t want her at his school. That was it.

She didn’t care, but as Charlie resumed her morning run – meaning to get as far away as his stupid school as possible – she could not rid her minds eye of Julie Hernandez, exultantly punching the air, and yelling ‘Yes! Yes!’