Maggot Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

bloody nose and a half-shut eye that refused to open. He was holding his cane, tap-tap-tapping it on the palm of his hand, and his tongue was sticking out sideways from his small mean mouth. It was then that I had a revelation of sorts. I was taller than he was. I could see his tank arms were well oiled for a beating. I could see that like it or not he was forced to look up at me. Just as he had to look up at Hector.
    “You can’t keep hitting me,” I said. “I’m taller than you. Pick on someone your own size.”
    The whole class was watching, awestruck. Since Hector, no one, and I mean no one, not even the Head Perfect, talked back to a teacher. The wheels of Mr. Gunnell’s mind were visibly turning.
    “Treadwell, your shoelaces are undone.”
    I bent down, ducking the fists, feeling the cane on my back. I glanced up quickly, saw his chin jutting out, and without a second thought, I stood to attention fast, making sure I hit him as hard as I could under the jaw. I heard with pleasure the sound of his teeth clacking together, then pushed my hand out in a salute, as hard as it could go, straight into his chest. I must say, even I was surprised by my own strength. Mr. Gunnell tripped backwards, and his toupee, a dead rabbit, came free from its trap and jumped unceremoniously onto the pavement.
    The entire class started to laugh, including Hans Fielder, but it was Little Eric, he of the short trousers, of the bleach-bowl bright hair, who was laughing the hardest. He couldn’t stop himself, especially when Mr. Gunnell took another step backwards and accidentally stamped on his toupee.

I was thinking,
this is no laughing matter and now Mr. Gunnell will do me in.
His eyes were glazed over with a look of pure hatred. He came towards me, cane lifted. I waited for the blow but at the last minute he had a change of plan. You see, Little Eric was still laughing. Mr. Gunnell pulled the boy towards him by his ear then he started to beat him, first with the cane until it broke, then with his fists. He didn’t stop, his punches coming harder and faster. Little Eric was on the ground, curled into a ball, crying for his mummy.
    This seemed to fuel the rage in Mr. Gunnell, for he was now kicking, kicking the shit out of Little Eric, screaming, “Don’t you ever laugh at me again. . . . I am to be treated with respect!”
    The more Little Eric wept, the harder Mr. Gunnell went at him. We all watched paralyzed as gobbets of blood splashed on the pavement. Eric Owen wasn’t moving, and I knew exactly what Mr. Gunnell was about to do as he lifted his army boot high above Little Eric’s head.
    I rushed at Mr. Gunnell and I hit that frick-fracking bastard as hard as I could. His boot narrowly missed smashing Little Eric’s brains in. To make doubly sure Mr. Gunnell could do no more harm, I hit him again hard on his nose. I heard it crack and he yelped in pain, bloody mucus rolling into his moustache.
    Miss Phillips had been sent by Mr. Hellman to find out what was keeping us. We were the only class not in the assembly hall, and in five minutes history would be made: the rocket would be launched from the Motherland. At first Miss Phillips couldn’t properly see what had happened because all the boys were gathered round Eric Owen.
    “Mr. Gunnell,” she snapped, “what is going on?”
    “A matter of discipline, that is all,” replied Mr. Gunnell.

Miss Phillips pushed her way through the terrified pupils and saw Little Eric Owen lying there like a twisted sack, his hair no longer bleach-blond but bloodred, his face raw mutton, one of his eyes hanging out of its socket.
    Mr. Gunnell was standing upright. Everyone was silent. We watched Miss Phillips bend down over what was left of Eric Owen. She lifted his floppy broken arm, hoping to find a pulse. She turned to one of the sheep.
    “Go and get help — quickly.” The boy ran off. “Who did this?” she asked, shaking with anger. “Who is the monster that did