discern who the weaker players were. He already knew the rules, as his father had always made them watch matches together and so it wasn’t something he couldn’t pick up. It was strange not to be kitted out and protected, strange to just run on into danger. Connor liked the idea of it.
Mr Wallis, the P.E. teacher, blew the whistle and subbed Connor into the game. There were only a few minutes left, but he got the ball and ran hard with it, right into the fray. Within seconds, he was under a pile of guys. The whistle blew again.
‘Can I have a word, Connor?’ Mr Wallis called him over before shouting at the class. ‘Everyone back in formation. Start again.’
Connor ran to the teacher, slightly breathless, slightly out of practice. He had been kicked off the team a few months earlier at home and so his physical fitness was not as hot as usual. It wouldn’t take him long though, a bit of training and he would be back on top.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You sure you’re up for this? You’ll have to unlearn a few things, and despite what you might think, it’s quite different to the football you’re used to, not harder – but different. Rugby is tougher in the sense that players play the ball continuously. But with American football, because of all the breaks, you get to play harder when the ball is in play. You’ll need to conserve energy at certain times with rugby. You don’t need to go full out every time you have the ball. You’ll learn soon enough, but if you play like that constantly you’re going to end up with some pretty nasty injuries in no time.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘I’m sure you think you can. But for now, humour me.’
‘OK, sir.’
Mr Wallis blew the whistle and the boys stopped playing immediately. They all rushed back towards the school building with much more enthusiasm than they had when playing rugby.
‘I read about some of your sporting achievements at your other school and we’re lucky to have you here. You just have to keep it together. We play rugby on Mondays and Fridays and then general games on a Thursday, until next term, and then we switch to football – or soccer as you might call it – for spring, then back to rugby in the summer term. We’re looking forward to seeing what you can do.’
‘Thank you, I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now go get showered and changed.’
Connor grabbed his things and headed for the changing rooms. When he got in, all the other boys were out already and drying themselves off which was a relief as it meant he got to shower alone. One of the other boys in the class smiled at Connor as he opened his locker.
‘Hey, Connor.’
‘Hi …’ he replied.
‘It’s Neil. You did great out there, it’s good to have some fresh blood on the field. How did it feel without all that padded crap you guys wear?’
‘It felt pretty good.’ Connor was used to this kind of talk; he had heard it his whole life from his father.
‘Hey, I have my driving test soon. If I pass we’re all going out. Do you want to come?’
‘Sounds cool, sure.’
‘Great,’ Neil said, ‘I’ll let you know.’
Connor waited for Neil to turn his back and then slipped into the shower when he was sure no one was looking. He got under the water, the heat of the shower soothing against his bruises. They didn’t hurt as much as they should have because he was used to feeling bruised. The first few times it was much worse, but now, he could take it. This was the norm and maybe it was exactly what he deserved. Playing rugby would provide the perfect excuse for the large purple lesions left behind by the buckle on his father’s belt; it had pierced the skin as it always did, faded versions of the same marks mottled the rest of his body. There were several marks across his torso. It was the reason he threw himself into football back home. Because people just accept that you get bruised when you play sports. He never got asked any questions, not once.
Connor put his clothes on, his hair still wet, the collar of his shirt cold and damp against his neck. He gathered his things and threw his backpack over his shoulder, both eager to get out of here and anxious to get home. He hoped his father would be out at work today, he couldn’t handle the pretence and he hadn’t seen him all weekend, not since the beating.
Walking home, he saw the girl from the house next door on the opposite side of the street to him. She kept her head down as she walked. He hadn’t noticed her at all at school during the course of the day. She obviously hung in different circles. He could tell she knew he was there, she must have seen him and she didn’t want him to speak to her. She walked a little faster and then disappeared into her house. He found himself walking faster to get home, to get to his tree house, to watch her.
‘Nothing,’ Adrian said flatly.
‘What do you mean, nothing?’ Imogen put two cups of coffee on the desk and sat down next to Adrian, looking at the clock – it was a little after ten in the morning. He picked his up immediately and started drinking. She wondered how long he had been sitting here.
‘Absolutely nothing on the CCTV, not even her. I’ve watched everything from around the cathedral and the circle outwards to her house. I even got hold of the surrounding shops. Everything that was working, anyway. It’s taken forever and there’s not one single image as far as I can see.’
‘What about the drawing? The one Tanya Maslin instructed on?’
‘Here. Take a look at that and tell me what you see.’ He handed her a photocopy of the picture Tanya Maslin had come in to create with the sketch artist that morning before she started work. There was something very familiar about him.
‘Isn’t that Kurt Cobain?’
‘She must have her wires crossed or something. We know it wasn’t him at least, he’s dead.’
‘Well, if you believe the theories, then he’s living on a desert island somewhere. Or at least I like to think so.’ Imogen had cried when she’d heard that Kurt Cobain had shot himself; she had idolised him as a teen. Now just reduced to being another member of the twenty-seven club, an ever-expanding group of celebrities who’d died at that age – Cobain, Winehouse, Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison. Strangely, all musicians that Imogen had listened to growing up. Twenty-seven, the same age as Imogen.
‘According to Tanya Maslin, he was in The Bay Tree with Erica Lawson,’ Adrian said.
‘She didn’t seem like a liar, maybe he really did look like this.’
‘Seen anyone like that wandering around town?’
‘Maybe he wasn’t local.’ Imogen shrugged. ‘What did the DCI say?’
‘She didn’t think he was that hot.’ Adrian let out a cheeky smile.
‘I mean about what she wants us to do with it.’
‘Hit
