unshaven face. That smile would never be forgotten: it pulled them into another world. He stepped forward and stood in front of Ray in the dark tunnel. — Nice bike, he’d said in an accent the boy couldn’t place.
Ray was silent. The man took the blue Raleigh by the handlebars, then pushed him aside and climbed on. He pedalled it a few yards, into the tunnel’s black spot, Ray following him, hoping that he’d stop once he’d had his laugh. Then he heard a shout and looked behind him. One of the other men, thick dark crew cut, had gripped Les by the hair and backed him up against the wall, muttering dreadful threats. Then Les swung at him, tried to fight back but the man wrestled him to the ground. — Gie’s a hand! he shouted, although he was easily overpowering Les. — Fuckin lively one here, his raucous laugh scalding the extremities of young Ray Lennox.
Still holding the whisky, the unshaven man quickly jumped from the bike and let it crash to the ground, then grabbed Ray by his hair, forcing him on to his knees. They ground painfully bare in the gravel and dirt, as the boy looked ahead into a wall of total blackness. — Grab his shoulders, he instructed the youngest man who sported a wedge of blond hair. He stepped in and complied as the unshaven man loosened his grip. Lennox looked one way, then the other. From where he was no light revealed itself at either end of the tunnel.
The unshaven man capped the whisky bottle and stuck it in his pocket. His eyes adjusting under the insipid overhead glow, Ray Lennox could see thick, black crescents of dirt packed under long nails sprouting from nicotine-yellow fingers. The man then unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his flies. — You fookin want this, he hissed as Les’s screams and shouts echoed in the tunnel. — Naw… I have to get back for my tea… Ray pleaded, praying for somebody to come by. The man laughed. — You’ll get your fookin tea awright, and he lowered his trousers and pulled his cock out of his underpants. It was large and floppy, but was stiffening before the boy’s eyes. A beastlike, serpentine creature, with a will connected to, yet distinct from its host, like a devil’s familiar. That was Ray’s sense of what faced him.
— Open yawr fookin mooth, the man snarled.
Ray Lennox shut his eyes. Then felt the back of the man’s big, heavy hand as it rapped across his jaw. Fireworks went off in his head, pursued by a brief but almost liberating numbing of the senses.
— Open yawr fookin mooth!
He shook his head, staring up at the man in the shadows, trying to locate his eyes with his own beseeching orbs. — Dinnae, mister, please dinnae… I need tae get back tae my ma’s.
There was nothing in the man’s gaze but a fearsome, burning indifference. He took the whisky bottle from his pocket, slugged back the last inch, then battered it against the wall of the tunnel, breaking off the base. He held the jagged bottle in front of Ray’s face, then rested the smooth, cold glassy side against his cheek. — Open yawr mouth or I’ll carve your fookin face up.
Ray Lennox opened his mouth. The man packed his stiff penis into the boy’s face, making him gag first on the taste and smell of urine, then again as he drove it to the back of his throat. All Ray could think of was his nose, to keep breathing through his nose. His small teeth tried to threaten, but the man showed him the bottle again and he let his jaw fall slack as burning tears of salt stung his cheeks and the hands on his shoulders crushed his knees further into the dirt.
Gagging and struggling for air, he almost passed out. Too weak to understand the instructions the mocking voice conveyed, a torturous soundtrack to his ordeal, he could only try to comply as renewed hair-wrenching threatened to separate scalp from skull. The man’s accent he would later think of as Birmingham. Play back every syllable in his head. Cast the net wider; West Midlands, Black Country.
Then the shouts from the other guy, the one fighting with Les, became more urgent. — Ah said gie us a fuckin hand! We’ve got a lively yin here! Help ays break him in, and he said a name that sounded like ‘Bill’ or ‘Bim’: a nickname of sorts, perhaps.
The unshaven man promptly withdrew, leaving Ray gasping and choking, struggling to fill air into his lungs. His shoulders ached, his knees were torn and his scalp throbbed. Looking around, he saw that the crew-cut man was on top of Les, struggling, trying to pin him down. Les was screaming and swearing, shouting, — FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF! RAYMIE!
His own adversary looked at Ray and punched him hard on the nose, causing his head to spin again and his eyes to gush. He let out a long squeal of a prayer as he saw his blood hit the ground in droplets. — Keep a hold of this bitch, Unshaven Man told the young blond guy. — He’s getting done big time after this other little stallion gets broken in!
Then he sauntered over to his friend.
In a doe-eyed overture for mercy, Ray scanned the young man for traces of humanity. — Please let me go, mister. I’ll no say nowt tae naebody. Please, he begged. He saw that the youth’s eyes were soft, watery and hesitant, and he continued in desperation. — Ah just need tae get hame. Ah’ll no say nowt. Ah promise!
They both looked over to where the two men were with Les. It was dark but Ray could see Les’s bare leg kicking out. We’re going to die, he thought. He looked back at the blond guy, who nodded, released his grip and Ray staggered to his feet. Suddenly, all he could think about was his bike and the consequences of its loss. He picked it up, climbed on it, pedalling manically as he heard the defiance ebb out of Les’s screams, become pleads, — Stoap it, stoap it, then a disbelieving, — naw… naw… Raymie…
— You fookin idiot, get after him, one of the men, it sounded like Unshaven Man, who was holding Les’s face down in the dirt, screamed at the blond. The young man gave chase, as Lennox pedalled for his survival, calf muscles exploding and lungs thrashing as he emerged from the dark tunnel into sunlight filtering through towering trees. He tore on frantically, not looking back until the tunnel and all its inhabitants were out of sight. When he stopped it was at a platform that overlooked the angled breakwater in the river below. Shouting for help along the deserted path, he searched for something that might serve as a weapon (although he knew he would be too scared to go back alone). Picked up and dropped a couple of weak pieces of wood, useless in his small boy’s hands. After screaming in impotence, he headed on towards the road.
Then he saw them climbing up the green metal stairs that led from the wooden bridge over the river up to the walkway; two men, a woman and a dog. — MISTER! he screamed, as they ran up the steps towards him, out of breath as he frantically explained that some men were hurting his pal in the tunnel.
There followed a nervous discussion about whether they should proceed to rescue Les or find a phone and call the police. Eventually, they headed back down the walkway, Ray shaking with fear, his stomach flipping as he tried to work out what use this party of well-meaning people would be against the terrifying gang that had seized them. The tunnel was further than he thought. And just as he got to its mouth Les emerged, pushing his bike and hobbling. His face was cut and streaked with tears and dirt.
As he advanced towards them, Les seemed in shock, almost as if he couldn’t see them. — Are you okay? one of the men asked.
— Aye, Les said.
There was no sign of the attackers. Ray was relieved that they’d retreated in the other direction. The adults wanted to get the police, but Les insisted he was okay. They escorted the boys back on to the main road, before leaving them to the short walk home.
— What did they dae? Ray asked fearfully, looking at his friend in profile, his tears smearing with the muck on his cheeks as Les phlegmatically stared ahead in silence. — Did they batter ye?
Les halted abruptly, and turned as if seeing Ray Lennox for the first time. — Aye, but ah didnae let them get the bike, Raymie.
— Is that aw they done? Cause ah thought—
Then Les’s face contorted with rage. — They battered ays! They battered ays, right, he briefly sobbed, before fury burst through again. — N you’d better say nowt tae nae cunt aboot this, Raymie!
— Ah’m no gaunny say nowt, he protested.
— No tae Curtis, or yir ma or dad even, Les urged. — Promise?
— Aye… but we should get the polis ontae them.
— Fuck the polis! Les shouted in his face. — Promise, Raymie?
— I promise, young Ray Lennox had said.
That night he sat in his room staring out the window. His school books lay in front of him on a small table where he normally did his homework. There were also two pieces of paper: an application form for one of Edinburgh’s more prestigious Merchant Schools, and a reading list of the classic novels he was expected to have completed before sitting the entrance exam to this institution. He ripped the form up into tiny pieces, and crushed the list of books in his fist, putting it into the pockets of the shorts he then stuck in the bottom drawer of his
