Lucas by Kevin Brooks Page B

cigarette, mumbling to himself and manically clicking his fingers, and I looked at Angel, leering out of the car window, a crazy girl who just minutes ago had warned me to keep my hands off a man who less than twenty-four hours ago had virtually assaulted me …
    I couldn’t believe what was happening.
    How did I get here?
    What was I doing here?
    I looked around and suddenly realised where we were. The Stand. We were parked at the side of the road, about a quarter of the way across. It was almost too much to bear. All this – this car, these people, the sound of Bill gagging herself to death – all this muck and small-time horror didn’t belong here … not here .
    I went over and stood by the railings, trying to control myself, trying to distance myself from the dirt. The tide was in, just about to turn. It was as high as it gets without flooding. The clear silver water was almost motionless, like a mirror, just a gentle lapping against the reeds and a hazy blue swirl way out in the middle of the estuary. It was beautiful. For a few seconds I forgot about everything else, it all just faded into the background as I stared into the calming silence of the water.
    And then, with a guttural oath and a splash, the silence was shattered.
    â€˜Yay! Got ‘im!’
    I looked across and saw Robbie leaning over the railings hurling rocks at something on the bank, flinging them with all his strength, his face screwed up into a mask of spite.
    â€˜What are you doing ?’ I yelled.
    He ignored me and bent down to dig out more stones from the verge. ‘Hey, Ange,’ he shouted. ‘Come here, see this.’
    Angel got out of the car and sashayed over to the railings, arriving at the same time as me.
    â€˜Look,’ said Robbie, heaving another rock. ‘Shit! There he goes, bastard.’
    I looked over, expecting to see an injured bird or something, but it wasn’t a bird – it was a boy. The Boy, the boy in green. He was about twenty metres down river, struggling up the bank with a fishing cane in one hand and his canvas bag in the other. The hair on the back of his head was matted with blood where a stone had found its target.
    â€˜Oh, God,’ I whispered.
    Angel had climbed up on the railings and was urging her brother on. ‘Get him, Rob, go on, he’s getting away. Get him!’
    As Robbie grinned and went to launch another rock, I grabbed his arm and pulled him off balance. He swung out and shoved me away, then fired the stone with sickening force into the Boy’s back. The Boy stumbled again and half-slipped down the bank, then steadied himself and leapt across a narrow gully before melting into a tangle of tall reeds. Just as he was disappearing from view he glanced over his shoulder and looked at us. From someone in his position I would have expected a look of fear, or anger, pain, or even bewilderment, but his face showed nothing at all. Absolutely nothing. It was the emotionlesslook of an animal, a look of pure instinct.
    A look that had seen me.
    â€˜Dirty gyppos,’ Robbie spat, lighting a cigarette.
    â€˜What?’ I said.
    â€˜Gyppos, travellers – hey, what’s your bloody game, anyway? Whose side are you on?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Angel, coming up beside me. ‘Whose side are you on, baby?’
    I could hardly speak. ‘Side?’ I spluttered. ‘Gyppos? What’s the matter with you? You’re all mad.’
    â€˜He another one, then, is he?’ Angel smirked. ‘Christ, you put it around, girl. Students, weirdos, rich kids, gyp-pos … can’t you say no to anything? ’
    â€˜Don’t forget the dawg,’ Robbie snorted.
    A surge of anger welled up inside me. I saw their mocking faces, teeth, lips, burning eyes, and the air around them tainted with cruelty, and it hurt so much I wanted to scream. But I knew it was pointless. It would always be the same. There was nothing I could do to change