A Novel By David Hosier.
Chapter Two, Part Two
‘I can’t say it’s a usual part of my morning fitness regime,’ I manage to croak, instantly regretting the remark.
They both laugh (but not in a friendly way) and mimic my voice, making me sound like the Queen of England.
‘Think you’re so clever don’t you? Think you’re better than us? Well, you’re not! You’re just a posh cunt! A posh little wanker! Tell you what, we’ll chuck you in the canal so you can have a little splash about, and, whilst you’re at it, you can have a quick search for the crap we tipped out of your bag into it last week. How does that sound? Got your snorkel, goggles and flippers with you, I hope.’
‘No, actually. I think I neglected to pack those particular items this morning.’ Again, I immediately wonder why I say these stupid things. I can’t seem to stop myself.
‘Actually! Actually! Items! Think you’re the Prime Minister now, do you?’ taunts the smaller one.
‘Yeah. Prime Minister and Leader of the Gay Boys’ Party‘, adds his mate.
I try to ignore this. I’m used to people taking the piss out of how I speak. It’s because I went to an expensive preparatory school when I was little, but, after he and my mother got divorced, my father could no longer afford the fees which is why I had to leave early (and, in the process, lose contact with all my friends) start at the crappy comprehensive school I am now forced to attend with all the plebs.
Tensing my muscles, I now start to walk forward a few steps, desperately trying to look and sound as brave and fearless as possible.
‘Well, very nice to see you both again, but I’d better get a move on or I’ll be late for school…’
At this point, the smaller one also moves forward, but much more purposefully and decisively than I do. Then, before I realize his intentions, he grabs my arm, pulls it behind my back and puts me in a half-nelson; this he executes in a one slick, fluent, seemingly well-practiced motion . Next, taking his cue via some form of subliminal communication, his friend joins the attack by gripping me round the neck with his right arm. Both boys immediately start to apply their respective grips with quite a bit of pressure, causing me to cry out with a kind of yelping sound.
‘Please. You’re hurting me. Let me go!’
‘Please! Please!’ mimics the one attempting to asphyxiate me,’ let me go…let me go…I’ll be late for school! Well, before you go off to school like a good little mummy’s boy, how about that nice little splish-splosh in the canal we mentioned. Fancy that, do you? I’m sure you’ve got time for a lovely little splish-splosh, ain’t you?’
‘Yeah, lovely little splish-splosh,’ parrots the other one.
I’m too frightened to speak. Together, they shuffle me to the barrier at the edge of the bridge which is constructed with green, metal railings. Worryingly, however, this so-called ‘barrier’ between me and the drop to the water beneath is about waist height. One of the boys still has me by the arm whilst the other, who, up until now, had been strangling me, now grabs the back of my head by the hair and forces my face down so that I am bent over the rails, staring down into the filthy, stinking water about ten feet below.
‘Splish-splosh time, splish-splosh time, splish -splosh time!’ they chant excitedly in unison, with a tone of demonic menace.
‘And you won’t be needing this,’ says the smaller one, wrenching my briefcase which, moronically, I am still clutching, from my free hand.
He chucks it over the side of the bridge but does so with such misjudged force that it clears the water and thuds to a halt on the footpath beside it. I feel pathetically grateful for this minor mercy, even in my highly still highly imperiled position.
‘Oops…I dropped your bag. How careless of me. Not to worry, though. You can go and get it after your lovely, cooling, refreshing dip.’
With that, the boy who had had me in a half-nelson now grabs the bottom of my legs whilst the other boy continues to keep the upper part of my body forcibly bent over the barrier.
‘No! Don’t! Please! I’m begging you!’ I am now beyond the point of caring how humiliating it is for me to make these terrified protests, I just desperately want to get away. But my now palpable terror serves only to encourage them. I feel my legs being lifted up higher and the two boys now have me in a position that makes me vulnerable to being tipped over the edge of the barrier at any second. But they’re chanting has now taken on the relentlessly sickening rhythm of panting dogs.
‘Splish splosh time! Splish splosh time! Splish splosh time!‘
Copyright David Hosier 2018
Next installment to be published on this site shortly.