Skin Deep. Laura Jarratt

You said it would be different once she took the mask off.’

      ‘It’s only been a few weeks. She needs time to readjust. She’s gone back to school. That’s a start.’

      ‘But it seems as though she’s getting worse, not better. And what was all that about in the library today?’

      ‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.’

      ‘I know you’re worried too. I can see it in your face. She’s shutting herself off from everyone. I don’t want her getting like that poor bastard next door. He’s practically a hermit since Lindsay died.’

      And I couldn’t stand to hear any more after that. I slunk back upstairs, the milk forgotten. Back to the safety of my room where I could lock the door on them all.

6 – Ryan

       I snuck out of the library after the girl and her mother left.

      Outstanding success there. Major league. I’d made her cry again. Only this time I didn’t have a clue why.

      She was crazy. I hadn’t done anything.

      If I saw her again, I was going nowhere near her.

      I stood in the town square and pulled the sketch map out of my pocket. How did I get to the canal from here? When I looked up to get my bearings, three lads hanging around a black car were staring at me, narrow-eyed. I stared back at them just long enough to let them see I’d noticed, then I leaned against the lamp post next to me and examined the map. Just another set of small town lads who thought they were hard men. I found the street I needed and set off. I could feel their eyes following me and they straightened and stiffened as I passed them, but when I carried on ignoring them, they turned back to the car. It’s all in the body language, Cole said, in the way you stand, the way you walk. Get it right and they won’t touch you.

      I never got it right before Cole came, but he sorted me out all right. He’d ridden into our lives four years ago on a Harley. We’d moored up by a skanky little place off the Llangollen canal – Mum’s Welsh phase – and Mum and I had gone to the Co-op to get some supplies in. The shop assistant followed us round from the moment we entered the shop. My face heated up as Mum strolled around filling her basket with lentils, carrots and peppers and the woman behind us watched, scowling.

      ‘Mum, hurry up, please.’

      ‘Quiet, Ryan. Don’t rush me.’

      ‘Can I wait outside?’

      ‘Oh, go on then. But don’t wander off.’

      I went outside and sat on a bench. Some boys my own age, around twelve, kicked a football round the empty car park. It looked like a laugh, but I didn’t go over to join them. No point.

      Quarter of an hour later and Mum still hadn’t come out of the shop. The boys noticed me and looked over, moving together into a pack, muttering. It set the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I knew this script, but Mum had said don’t wander off.

      They came over, swaggering more the closer they got.

      ‘You a gyppo?’ one called. He was shorter than me, but stockier.

      I shook my head.

      ‘You look like one. Don’t he look like one, Rhys?’ He turned to the boy nearest.

      I balled sweaty hands into fists. I didn’t look like them, for sure, in the tie-dyed crap Mum made me wear back then.

      ‘Can’t you speak?’ the third asked, stepping closer.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Ha! He’s English. An English gyppo.’

      ‘I’m not a gyppo.’

      The five surrounded me. The one called Rhys slapped me on the head. I scrambled up, meaning to make a dive over the back of the bench and run into the shop, but the stocky one grabbed me and kicked me in the knees.

       Crunk!

      I hit the pavement hard and brought my arms up to protect my face. The first kick wasn’t as hard as I expected – a taster. Maybe they hadn’t done this before. But it landed in my stomach and winded me all the same.

      ‘Go on, Huw! Boot him!’

      The second kick slammed into my arms as the boy aimed at my face.

      I heard them laughing.

      ‘Gyppo!’

      ‘English bastard!’

      ‘Kick his head in!’

      Feet hit into me from every angle, in my back, my legs, my arms still curled around my head, my chest, stomach. I never got a chance to hit back.

       Please don’t let Mum come out and see this. Please.

       But please make it stop . . .

      The feet kept kicking. Above the sound of their laughter, I heard another roar. An engine. Coming closer.

      The kicks to my front stopped suddenly.

      ‘Brave little shits, aren’t you? Five on one.’

      The kicks behind me stopped as well.

      ‘Get out of here. Unless you want to take me on too.’

      Feet slammed on tarmac, running away. Big hands hauled me up.

      ‘You all right, kiddo? Let me see.’

      He pulled my arms away from my face. A big man in leather trousers and a vest, tattoos down both arms – bands of Celtic knots, brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a beard. His chest hair poked over the top of his black vest. The Harley engine thrummed next to us.

      ‘Getting a bit of hassle?’ He grinned at me and wiped blood away from my nose with his hand. It was hot from the sun and as hairy as the rest of him.

      I nodded.

      ‘No harm done?’

      ‘No, I’ll be OK.’ I sat up properly. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘No worries.’ He held out his hand for me to shake. ‘Cole.’

      ‘Ryan!’ Mum shrieked as she dropped her bags and ran towards us. ‘What happened?’

      Cole stood up. ‘He had some trouble with the local kids, but he’s fine.’

      Mum stopped in her tracks.

      He looked at her. She looked at him. And that was that.

      A week later he moved in.

      I walked through the town, keeping an eye open for craft shops for Mum. There were a few potentials. I scribbled the names down. Better give her something to sweeten her up because when she found out what I was planning, she’d go mental.

      The town looked like most of the country towns we stopped in, except for the lake on the edge of it – the mere that gave it its name. There were a few streets of shops and a mixture of houses, from the big, posh places to pokey cottages. You could probably walk from one end of it to the other in under half an hour. I passed the edge of a council estate and then I turned into a lane with a sign pointing to Whitmere Marina.

      The boatyard was bigger than I expected, but there didn’t seem to be much going on there considering how many boats they had in. A ginger cat eyed me from its sunbathing spot on top of a van. There was an old guy in the dock area working on a flue on the roof of a narrowboat, his bald head burnt red. He looked up as I went over, squinting his eyes before he shielded his face from the sun.

      I decided to get in first. ‘Excuse me, is the boss about, please?’

      He looked me up and down. ‘Aye, lad, over there, back of that shed sorting a delivery.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      The