MR ATKINSON (ACKO THE BASTARD)

Mr Atkinson checked the clock; the lesson was almost over. He would be damned if Finnie got away with any mischief ever again. Best check on him. Mr Atkinson glanced out the window. John sat on the pavement rubbing his arms. 'Finish those four equations,' he told the class, 'then wait for the bell.'

On his way out he grabbed his jacket. Were his cigarettes still in the pocket? Wouldn't be the first time one of the thieving little bastards'd taken them. His fingers found the smooth little box and relief bloomed in him. Good, they were still there.

He leapt down the stairs two at a time, nearly knocking the fire escape doors off their hinges upon his exit. 'Finnie! Stand up boy!'

John looked wilted and pallid when he turned to the teacher. Mr Atkinson almost stopped dead. The shocking paleness looked ghostly on Finnie's skin. What mischief had gone on while he was supposed to count the railings? Darned kid couldn't follow orders if he was paid to.

'Dare I even ask what on earth you have been up to?'

John looked at the railings, still rubbing at his arms. 'An old lady tried to grab me, Sir.'

Mr Atkinson burst out laughing. 'Jesus, Finnie, couldn't you come up with anything better than that?' A cough tickled his throat and pushed up from his chest, coming to fruition with him hocking up a massive gob of phlegm. Of course, why hadn't he thought of it before? The kid squirmed and Mr Atkinson grabbed his chin, looking into his eyes. 'Drugs?'

John shook his head. 'No thanks Sir, and I don't think a person in your position should be pushing them onto kids.'

Shit, this kid didn't know when to stop. Mr Atkinson thought the time had come for Finnie to be taught a lesson.

JOHN FINNIE

John flinched when Mr Atkinson struck out his fist and grabbed his shirt. For the second time that day, Acko's brown tombstone teeth and receding gum line seared his eyes. Disgusting.

'Listen to me you little shit. I know you think you're a superstar because of your English, but believe me you're not. You are failing everything else. You're a big-headed brat, nothing more, nothing less.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Yes Sir. Sorry Sir.' The generic answer he gave all his teachers rolled easy off the tongue.

Mr Atkinson gripped him harder, pinching the skin underneath his shirt. John kept his face straight; he wouldn't give this prick the satisfaction.

'Mr Atkinson, what is going on here?' The Head walked closer.

The math teacher quickly let go of the boy. 'Nothing Mr Chivers, young Finnie here just fell over.'

The Head glanced at the boy, bypassing the teacher. 'So then Finnie, what happened?'

'Fell Sir, just like you was told.'

The Head eyed him suspiciously. 'Why were you out here?'

'He spat a paper ball at me,' Mr Atkinson cut in. 'He was coming to see you after he'd counted the railings.'

The Head sighed. 'It's not the nineteen seventies anymore Mr Atkinson, we have better ways to discipline now.'

Mr Atkinson tried to interrupt, but the Head held up his hand. John smirked, loving the fact that Acko the Bastard wanted to explode. The Head turned to John. 'Finnie, my office now. We're calling your mam in.'

The smirk faded. Now he was really in the shit.

#

A rhythmic ticking sounded in the empty reception area. John sighed, mulling over the morning's events. Had they really happened? Had he hallucinated, or was someone playing an elaborate trick on him? For the life of him, he couldn't think of any good reason why someone would act out such an extravagant scene just to freak him out. No, it was either some sort of chemical he'd breathed in, which admittedly was a bit far-fetched, or...or it was real.

Weird shit always happened to him. When he was three, he told Mam and Dad about the voices he could hear. From that day until age five, he'd travelled to loads of different hospitals and been subjected to all sorts of strange tests. Specialists couldn't determine why he heard voices, and Mam wouldn't put him on the drugs the specialists advised. After the first try, John had been too spaced out to respond to anything, and Mam hadn't liked that. She hadn't like that one bit. Eventually John pretended he couldn't hear them anymore, just so people would stop the endless tests and the funny looks. Of course he was lying. Wherever he went he heard them; whispers and snippets of laughter, crying babies and friendly chatting. The voices weren't nasty, but normal. Everyday.

The day the voices had really stopped had been one of John's happiest. If he remembered correctly, he'd been just over six years old.

(6y) OCTOBER 1993, 10.06

'Mam?' Mam was at work; she'd kissed him goodbye earlier. John knew she wasn't home, but he could hear her voice coming from somewhere in the house. This was the first time the voices scared him. Dad worked nights, so he was asleep on the sofa while the tele rumbled in muted tones. Mam was talking about work. Though he couldn't make out exactly what it was she was talking about, Mam's voice was unmistakable. It came from the cupboard. When he opened the cupboard door, the voice got louder. Off the top of the pile, he grabbed a few magazines, and the voice got louder still.

'Mam?' he whispered, afraid of waking Dad up. 'Mam are you in here?'

Mam didn't answer, she just carried on talking. The photo album lay under the other books and John grabbed it. A jolt shot through his arm and sent him reeling on his back. He lay on the floor trying to get his breath. The room spun and little sparks danced in his eyes. The next thing he knew, Dad was kneeling over him, gently shaking his shoulders.

'John...' Dad's voice sounded slurred and distant. 'John, can you hear me?'

John opened his eyes and Dad's concerned face appeared above him.

'Did you bang your head Jon-Jon?'

'No,' he mumbled, shaking his head and looking around the room. For the first time in years he couldn't hear any voices. John smiled. 'Sorry Daddy, I think I fell asleep.'

Dad felt around his head, had a look in his eyes. 'I think you're okay' --he stood-- 'but a spot of tea couldn't hurt.'

Dad left the room, and John eyed the album on the floor. The comfortable noises coming from the kitchen meant Dad was making tea. The jolt hadn't hurt. Yes, it had made him feel funny, but it hadn't hurt. First he kicked the album, testing to see if he would get a shock again, but he felt nothing. He leaned over, put the cuff of his jumper over his hand, and pulled the album towards him. Grabbing the pen Dad had used for the newspaper crossword, he flipped the album open. This was the first time he saw the pictures move.

#

Holding a cup of steaming tea and a crunchy cookie, Dad walked back into the room. John lay on his side holding his stomach and struggling for breath, tears streaming across his face.

'Oh shit!' The cup dropped out of Dad's hands and he rushed over, but John wasn't hurt. He was laughing. Laughing so hard he could hardly breathe. Every time he was on the verge of calming down, he looked at the photos again and started giggling more.

The picture on the album's open page was of a party they'd had at New Year's Eve. John's Dad was dressed as a gorilla, and all the guests were throwing bananas at him as he jumped around banging his chest. Dad smiled and sat down next to him, explaining what had happened that day, not realising John had somehow "watched" it already. They spent the rest of the day looking at photos together.

© Steve Ford and Joy Cronjé 2018