The boys were dressed in school uniform. They carried backpacks and sports bags rather than briefcases. One of them was bouncing a football on the pavement. The steady banging echoed off the buildings and made Daniel feel a little uneasy. He felt even more unsettled when the boys spread out to block his route.
‘Where you going?’ said the lad with the ball.
Daniel pointed. ‘Home. I live there. 1204 Erskine Court.’
The boy grinned, and his mates sniggered.
‘Why’ve you got a briefcase? Are you a bank manager or something?’
The laughter grew more intense. Another boy said, ‘Maybe he’s the prime minister.’
‘Is that right?’ said the first. ‘Are you our leader? Are you going to save the country?’
‘No. I—’
‘What’s your name?’
‘D-D-Daniel.’
‘Duh-Duh Daniel? That’s a funny name. Well, Duh-Duh, what’s in the briefcase?’
‘Yeah, Dodo,’ said a voice behind him. ‘What’s in the case?’
Daniel turned to face the new interrogator, and the ball hit him on the back of the head. He whirled back to face the group’s leader.
‘Sorry about that, Doo-Doo. My hands slipped. Anyway, you were about to tell us what’s in the briefcase.’
‘My lunchbox,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s empty now. I ate all my sandwiches and my fruit and my biscuits at lunchtime. Oh, and my picture is in there too. I drew a picture, and Mrs Collins gave me a gold star. I’m going to show it to my mum.’
There was another splutter from behind, and again when Daniel turned, the ball was bounced off his head.
‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s not nice.’
‘It was an accident,’ said the lad. ‘Come on, then, Dumbo. Show us your picture.’
Daniel contemplated the request. He wasn’t very good at working out whether people were being sincere or not. He liked to be honest at all times, but experience had taught him that the words of others didn’t always match their thoughts.
‘It’s for my mum,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, if it’s good enough for your mum, it’s good enough for us. Don’t you agree, lads?’
There was a chorus of assent. Another voice said, ‘Get on with it, Dildo. We haven’t got all day,’ and when they all laughed and Daniel turned, the ball once again smacked the back of his skull.
‘Nice header,’ said the leader as he caught the ball. ‘Keep that up and you’ll be playing in the World Cup soon.’
‘I don’t want to play in the World Cup. I want to go home. My mum’s waiting for me.’
‘Well, we don’t want to stop you going home now, do we? All you’ve got to do is show us your picture, and then you can go home to Mummy.’
It sounded a fair enough deal to Daniel. Not such a great hardship to let them see his drawing if it meant he could go. And besides, it was a drawing to be proud of, to be appreciated by an audience.
He unclasped his briefcase, pulled out the piece of paper.
The lad whipped it out of his hand. He wasn’t being the least bit careful with it, and Daniel worried that it might get creased.
‘What’s this, then?’
‘It’s . . . it’s Adam-9. He’s blowing up a rocket.’
‘Adam-9, eh? Off the telly? Wow. What do you think, boys?’
The other lads nodded, whistled, uttered words of appreciation. Daniel began to think he had finally made a good impression, and that this might convince the gang to be a bit more friendly towards him.
‘Yeah,’ said the leader. ‘This is really . . . shit.’
And then he ripped it up. Tore it in half and then into quarters and then let the pieces be snatched away by the wind.
‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Butterfingers again.’
Daniel felt a sudden stab of pain behind his eyes and in his heart, and without knowing what he planned to do next he took a step towards the boy, and yet again the ball was fired in his direction, but this time from the front, and it hit him with full force in the face, and he felt the hurt, the sting, and he halted in shock and looked into the eyes of the boy and saw that they no longer carried amusement but instead a fierce aggression.
The lad sneered. ‘What are you going to do about it, Danny boy?’
What Daniel wanted to do was cry, but crying was for babies and he wasn’t a baby. He wanted to run, but running away was for cowards. He wanted to fight, but if there was one thing his parents had told him time and time again, it was that violence was never a solution, that it always made things worse rather than better. And yet his fists were bunching, the leather-bound handle of his briefcase squeaking in complaint against the tightness of his grasp.
Yes, the briefcase . . .
‘Well, Duh-Duh? What’s your answer?’
