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 John’s face felt numb. His nose slowly
swelled to twice its size and he swore he could feel it retracting back
up inside itself. His top lip tasted a light splash of copper whilst his
bottom one quivered under the strain of desperately holding back tears.
If experience was anything to go by, he knew that a vicious pain would
shortly overwhelm his face and that he’d struggle to see them through
the blood and the tears and the natural reaction to close his eyes and
hide in the darkness.
But he’d still know they were there. The same thing happened every week,
yet still they surrounded him like a pack of rabid hyenas eyeing their
first fresh meat in weeks, ready to kill.
John’s ten year-old, plump, pale body shook nervously under the grip of
fear and the instinct to try dodging the makeshift missiles that were
hurled his way, protruding his flabby flesh and striking his bones as
his mind absorbed a barrage of insults, one by one.
“You big fatty!”
“John, your mum’s a dirty scrubber!”
“Look at him! He looks like a fat, ugly beast, what’s up John, you born
in a swamp?”
“Yeah! And he stinks too, I can smell him from here! Tell your mum to
give you a bath you fat scrubber!”
“His mum can’t afford a bath, that’s why John washes himself in toilet
water, and she can’t afford to feed him either, so he eats his own poo!
God John, you are disgusting!”
None of these things were true.
In reality, John was a quiet, polite boy with a short, gentle-looking
fob of fair hair and eyes that, hidden beneath the folds of swollen skin
and a collage of bruises, were a deep shade of blue.
His parents were neither spectacularly wealthy nor staggeringly poor.
His Dad made a decent wage doing a job which John could never understand
and his Mum worked the tills at a local supermarket. He was their only
child, and Mr .& Mrs. Murray did all they could to care for him without
spoiling him.
The truth didn’t seem to matter much to his tormentors though. To them,
he was this lecherous little beast who deserved to be punished, and as
the abuse continued, he wondered why.
He also wondered why it seemed to be that there were never any adults
around when the lynch mob descended, and why even when they did show up,
they never seemed to put an end to the problem.
Instead, week in, week out, a militia of angry kids, all armed with hate
and shielded by ignorance would swarm around him, their bullets of
verbal venom piercing his heart and his head, their violent blows
lashing against his body and hurting every inch of him.
Then, the pain, that sharp pain that his numb face had been preparing
for came, and it stung like hell.
He screamed.
He snapped out of it.
He cursed himself for still allowing these memories to trouble him.
After all, he was 25 now, and all that pain, all that humiliation and
torment existed nowhere but in his head. Mostly, it left him alone, left
him to go about his day to day business like any normal, well adjusted
young man.
Occasionally though, it would spring to life to frighten him a little,
and it usually did so at the most random and inconvenient of moments,
like when he was out on a date with his girlfriend, or sat surrounded by
silent faces on the train home, or like now, in the middle of an
important meeting at work.
As he swallowed the fear back down into some murky hole in his memory
and jolted back to reality, John realised that he’d missed most of what
had been said. Frantically, he began scanning the room, reading the
faces of his colleagues whilst his mind worked double time to translate
all the jargon and gobbledegook being spewed out by the smart looking
bloke at the front of the room.
But it was no use, he hadn’t a clue what was going on. Nervously taking
a sip of his water, John searched in his gut for the confidence to admit
he hadn’t been paying attention.
Sure it would be embarrassing, but what else could he do? For all
intents and purposes, The Cyclone was his project, it was the reason
they were all sat round in this brightly lit room, their shadows
bouncing off the blank walls and sliding over the obtuse table, oak
table that dominated the room.
He could hardly design this thing, promised to be the most innovative
rollercoaster in the world since The Plancha (a coaster in Mexico that
would climb 250ft in the air, and shoot back down to earth through a
series of three huge loops), if he hadn’t a clue what was going on at
the initial meeting.
Luckily, he was saved from embarrassment by the man at the front of the
room; his boss, a tall, portly man with a tree-trunk neck and a hair
that John always thought resembled an oil spill. He face was always
flushed bright red and his voice was just as taut and sharp as ever as
he pointed to John and invited him to step up and make his presentation.
Now it didn’t matter that he hadn’t been paying attention. Now he didn’t
have to worry that he’d been dwelling on the past when he should have
been focussing on the future. Now was his time to shine.
He smiled, adjusted his collar and made his way to the front of the
room.
“Hello,” he said with an air of confidence that the ten year-old John
he’d just been could only ever have dreamed of as he fiddled around with
the laptop in front of him and his presentation shone brightly onto the
white wall.
“My name is John Newby, I’ll be the senior designer on this project and
I must just say before I start that I’m very much looking forward to
this exciting challenge.”
He clicked the mouse, the presentation slide moved forward one and he
was off, talking about The Cyclone with all the enthusiasm of a young
child.
Rollercoasters had been a passion of John’s for as long as he cared to
remember. As a child, they offered an escape from the pain of the
playground, a chance to forget about the abuse he suffered at the hands
of his bullies and experience a burst of pure adrenalin and enjoyment
that turned his scared lips upwards into a smile and lit up his bruised
eyes.
There was no other job he could ever see himself doing other than
designing the one thing that had offered him happiness through his
childhood, and as he stood in front of his audience of engineers,
financial backers and sundry other connected folks, describing every
whish and twist and loop, he could feel them, seeing himself riding his
latest, greatest creation and loving every moment of it.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is The Cyclone,” he said, bringing and
end to his presentation and a beginning to the months of work that lay
ahead.
* * * * *
Those months passed quickly. Long days turned to long weeks, and with
each one, those nightmares and frightful day dreams grew more frequent,
more vivid, more intense.
They always did when John felt stressed. It was as though all the
anxiety and pressure that came with working so hard triggered reminded
him of when he felt those same feelings as a child, and with each
passing day and each draft of his designs, Billy Johnson would arrive
and beat the living hell out of John’s childhood self.
But John was used to this by now, and as much as such visions of the
past disturbed him and kept him awake at night, he knew that they
wouldn’t be so intense forever.
Usually, once the months of stress had passed and his designs were being
implemented by the engineers, he could return to normality, and once he
had, his nightmares had a habit of calming down.
John was looking forward to this period, and waited for days on end for
a time when he could through his whole day without seeing himself
battered and beaten by Billy Johnson.
It never came.
It could have been that just worrying about the nightmares gave them
enough power to torment his dreams for longer than usual, or it could
have been that, in the back of his mind, he knew what was coming in the
weeks ahead and just couldn’t shake it, but whatever the reason, every
day John would disappear into his own little world, where young children
would throw rocks at him in the street, fists at him in the playground
and sand in his eyes in the park.
He would become lost, sometimes for only a moment, sometimes for whole
minutes, as he remembered crying himself to sleep, caressing his bruises
and scars and praying to some unknown force to make it stop.
Eventually it did. John’s parents moved him away to a new town, far away
from those who harmed him, and he spent most of his teenage years and
early adult life being a happy, reasonably calm person. He’d gone to
Uni, picked up his degree, and after the inevitable knock backs that get
in the way of anyone who’s ever chased a dream, landed his ideal job
designing rollercoasters.
He’d settled down with Elizabeth, a petite, effervescent girl who he’d
met at a club and rapidly fallen in love with, and had been generally
enjoying life until this whole ‘Cyclone’ project had come about.
Sure, he loved his job, but once it was finished, John knew that
something terrible was going to happen, and there was no way he could
avoid it.
*******
The big day finally came. The grand launch of the ‘the biggest thrill on
earth – The Cyclone’.
It was 5pm, and John presented himself, all suited up nice and smart, at
Paradise Valley, the most famous amusement park in the country.
“Ah, John, I’d like you to meet Mr. Johnson, he’s from Toynbee’s, you
know, they make that wonderful ‘2001 Cola’ drink? They’re sponsoring the
ride.”
Billy Johnson buffed his chest out like a pigeon and his bald head
glistened in the early evening sun. His crisp suit clung to his large,
well-built frame as his enormous hands clasped John’s tightly.
“Hi,” John muttered. “John Newby, chief designer.”
Billy Johnson laughed.
“John Newby. I used to know a lad in school by that name. Right little
geek he was,” he sniggered, almost to himself.
John smiled nervously. There was no reason for Billy Johnson to
recognise him. He was much taller, much slimmer, much more grown up than
he had been when he’d last seen Billy.
“Would you like to take your seat inside the train, Mr. Johnson, we’re
due to launch in a few minutes.”
Now it was Billy Johnson’s turn to look nervous.
“Oh no, er. I’d best not, wouldn’t want to mess up my suit. No, no, you
go ahead,” he said, and at once John knew he was lying.
If there was one thing John new well, it was fear, and in Billy’s dark
eyes, he could see fear. Billy Johnson wasn’t bothered about his suit,
he was terrified of heights.
****
The launch went off without a hitch. The Cyclone debuted amidst a
fanfare of fireworks and frivolousness, its trains spiralling off into
the sky and careering back down to earth accompanied by the elated
screams of their passengers.
John knew that he should have felt ecstatic at this point. He knew that,
having finally seen his work brought to life, a cool shower of relief
should have drenched his entire being.
But seeing Billy Johnson again, John grew stressed, anxious, nervous and
terrified. Even at the post-launch party he couldn’t relax, instead
standing alone in a corner, clutching a double straight whiskey and
eyeing Billy Johnson with a sinister gaze as his former tormentor
laughed and joked.
He watched as Billy pulled a cigarette out of a shiny silver case and as
he did so, all John’s nightmares and vivid daydreams about his childhood
came flooding back to him at once.
Billy excused himself, leaving the building to light up his cigarette,
and without really giving it much thought, John followed him out.
“Alright, Newby. Great job with the little ride thing there,” said Billy
Johnson with an air of arrogance and a sense of smugness.
“Yes.” Replied John as his fists clenched of their own accord.
“Not big on them myself mind, for kids aren’t they? But you know,
whatever floats yer boat.”
John said nothing. His fists pushed upwards through the whistling wind
and struck Billy Johnson’s chin with force, sending his cigarette flying
and catching him under the eye.
“Woah!” cried Billy. “Don’t take it so personally mate, just because I
don’t like rollercoasters, no need to smack me.”
“Of course there is,” John replied bluntly, and smacked Billy Johnson
again. John didn’t care whether or not Billy liked rollercoasters, all
John cared about, as he grabbed Billy by the throat and began to choke
him, was that Billy realised how much pain he had caused him. All John
cared about, as Billy’s face turned blue and he sank to his knees, was
that Billy died.
John stood over Billy Johnson, his legs
apart, his fists clenched tight and a flush of rage and hatred sweeping
across his face. Billy stayed on his knees, trickle of blood staining
his pale, frightened face as he quivered with terror.
“Look, please. Whatever you want, its yours, just leave me alone.” He
pleaded.
John said nothing. He simply glared with evil intent towards his former
tormentor and kicked him hard in the gut. Billy doubled over in agony,
howling in pain as John raised his boot into the air and stomped down
with vicious force across Billy’s back, sending him face down into the
dirt.
Up above, the clouds burst and heavy bullets of rain crashed to earth,
landing hard on the flesh of Billy and John.
As he wiped the water from his face, John realized that he didn’t
actually know what he was going to do with Billy. All he knew was that
he had to pay, and to that end, he picked up a long cable from some
abandoned fairground attraction and used it to tie Billy’s arms and legs
together. At least this way he’d have some time to think.
“Please,” begged Billy. “Please stop. What did I ever do to you?”
John laughed sadistically.
“What did you ever do to me?” he quipped. “Well, now there’s a question.
How about the time at school when you tied me to the railings in the
playground and repeatedly kicked a football at my face? How about that
time you pushed me in front of a bus and almost got me killed. Or how
about that time in class when you pushed me off my chair and I had to go
to hospital with concussion? Do you remember Billy? Do you remember what
you did to me. Well, do you?”
Billy Johnson buried his head in his chest.
“You,” he whimpered.
“Yes, Billy, me.”
“Look, John, I’m really, really sorry. I mean, we were kids, I didn’t
know any better, if I could take it all back now, I would.”
“Well it’s too late now, Billy boy.
“Please, John, I’m begging you, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Stupid Billy? Like all those times you beat me up at school? Stole all
my clothes after PE lessons and left me feeling humiliated and
embarrassed.”
Billy Johnson was crying now. Tears streamed down his face and he winced
every time John raised his fist, teasing blows yet never connecting.
“Oh John, I’m so, so sorry!”
“Well that’s all very well being sorry. Every day I think about what you
and the others did to me. Every day I’m tormented by the memories of how
wicked and evil you lot were to me. Well now it’s time to put those
memories to rest once and for all. Come on, Billy, we’re going for a
ride.”
John kicked Billy back down into the dirt again. He grabbed him by the
scruff of his collar and dragged him hard across the ground, scraping
his elbows and knees across the concrete past the Ferris Wheel, past the
Log Flume, down along the side attractions and through the amusement
arcade. The faint smell of candy floss and hotdogs and petrol from the
rides lingered in the air as the rain lashed down and blood trickled
from the gaping grazes on Billy’s body.
Finally, John stopped dragging Billy across the floor. He smiled,
laughed and kicked Billy with the sharp of his foot in the groin.
Billy cried out in pain then looked up to see the towering, imposing
structure of The Cyclone looming overhead.
“Please, John, let’s be reasonable,” he cried.
“Too late Billy, on you get.”
The wire meshed gates to The Cyclone were locked up. For a moment, John
contemplated raising his foot in the air and smashing it through. Then
he had a better idea.
Heaving Billy up by the scruff of his pits, he punched him once, square
in the jaw, then launched him through the fence. Billy heaved and
groaned loudly as the mesh wrapped around his skull.
His hands and legs still bound by the cable, he struggled to his knees.
John grabbed him by the collar again and launched him further still,
this time into the front carriage of The Cyclone’s train.
He climbed in himself, punching Billy repeatedly in the face and body
and screaming wildly at him.
“This is what you get! This is what you get! You want more? You want
more? Take this!”
And then he hit him again, and again and again and each time Billy
screamed and cried in agony.
Next, John reached across from the open carriage and kicked a long black
lever forward.
“We’re goin’ for a ride Billy Boy!” he yelled. “We’re goin’ for a ride!
Yeehah!”
John was hysterical now, yelling with violent joy as the train slowly
climbed to the top of the track.
“Oh God, Oh Please, no, Oh God.” Billy was talking as much to himself as
anyone else now, pleading with some higher power to save him, but it was
useless, and John reminded him so.
“Too late now Billy, we’re going up, up, up and over the edge my boy!”
Up they went, higher and higher into the dark night sky. The rain darted
from the clouds and John turned his back on Billy, standing up at the
front of the train, his arms raised high in the air like some renegade
captain of an old ship.
Down below, a group of party goers had left the building to smoke, and
at once they noticed The Cyclone in motion, John going crazy at its head
and Billy fearing for his life in side.
The train moved higher still, and as John yelled into the air, behind
him, Billy struggled. He knew there had to be away to free himself from
the cable, and forced himself back into the seat, throwing his legs over
the side of the carriage and scraping the cable along, hoping the
friction would cause it to snap.
“There’s people up there!” cried a distressed young woman on the ground.
“Jesus, it’s not safe, and that guy’s stood up.”
A tall, heavy-set man raced across the park towards The Cyclone and hit
the leaver. Just as the ride reached its peak, the train stopped and
John and Billy were left stranded high in the air.
“What the?”
John looked down to the ground.
“Hey! Switch this thing back on,” he yelled. He was far too high up for
anyone to hear him, but that didn’t matter to John. He leaned over the
front of the carriage and continued yelling down the ground.
Snap!
The cable tying Billy’s legs together broke. Panicking, he placed his
foot hard between his hands and pushed hard until the cable holding his
arms together fell from his wrists.
“Hey, Johnny boy!” he said, smiling a wicked smile.
John turned around, his face awash with fear and surprise as he caught
sight of Billy Johnson stood equal to him.
“How the?”
“You gonna behave now Johnny?”
“Not a chance.”
John lunged at Billy, fists flying and rage in his heart. Billy lunged
forward to, and in the tiny carriage they fell to the floor, brawling
and beating on one another until John got the upper hand.
He caught Billy by the neck and dragged him over the side of the
carriage, forcing him to look down at the ground far below.
But Billy fought back, struggling to stay alive. They both got to their
feet. Billy hit John, John hit Billy. Billy stumbled, tripped, grabbed
hold of John’s jacket and fell, over the side of the train, dragging
John down with him.
They fell fast through the air, holding on to one another, looking at
each other with fear, dread, venom and hatred, all manner of hostile
thoughts running through their minds until a few seconds later, the
great black concrete ground rose up to meet them and they crashed.
Side by side they lay, under The Cyclone, in the rain. John had finally
rid himself of his tormentors, but it had cost him his own life to do
so.
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