God for that!’
‘You’re just like the other people in the village, you bastard. You hate the Bekk family. You’ve got a grudge against them.’ Tom stormed out into the rain.
Chester ran after him. ‘Listen, we need to talk.’
‘I never want to talk to you again.’
‘Tom—’
‘If you don’t let go of my arm I’m going to break your jaw.’
Chester spoke gently: ‘Go ahead, punch me. But I’m going to tell you something important.’
Tom said nothing.
Raindrops streamed down Chester’s broad face as he continued speaking: ‘You must have seen for yourself. Nicola doesn’t talk.’
This statement flabbergasted Tom. ‘Of course she talks.’
‘OK, she says a word here and there.’
‘No. I’ve had conversations with her.’
‘We’re talking about the same Nicola Bekk, aren’t we?’
Tom looked him in the eye. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Come inside.’ Chester’s voice was friendly. ‘There’s something you should know . . . It might just save your neck.’
NINETEEN
T he rain kept slamming at the roof. Once again thunder crashed from the clouds. Fury and anger were there. As if Mother Nature threatened to punish the population of Danby-Mask.
Chester Kenyon handed Tom a mug of coffee before pulling a book from a shelf on the workshop wall. That done, he sat down on a chair alongside Tom.
Chester thought for a moment before speaking. ‘I’m going to show you something. I want you to know that I’m not doing this to insult you, or hurt you. But it’s important that you know the truth, even if that means you knock my teeth out.’
‘After what you’ve said about Nicola I might just do that.’
‘OK, you say she’s your girlfriend. You kissed her. But haven’t had sex yet.’
‘Chester?’ Tom’s voice held the same warning growl as the thunder.
‘Listen. I’m twenty-three years old – the same age as Nicola. We went to the village school together. When she was twelve she stopped going. That was the end of her education.’
‘So explain why you think Nicola has learning difficulties.’
‘For seven years I was at school with Nicola. In all that time I never heard her say a sentence of more than three words.’
‘You only have to look at her,’ Tom protested. ‘She’s normal. And she – she’s beautiful.’
What’s got into Chester
, he wondered.
Why’s he trying to break Nicola and me up?
Chester opened a book covered with children’s drawings. Tom showed him the first page; a title had been printed in green: CLASSROOM FRIENDSHIP BOOK.
‘We used to do these at the end of the school year,’ he explained. ‘The teacher told us to swap the books round in class. We’d draw a picture of the owner of the book and write messages. That way everyone in the class would have drawn your picture and written something about you. You know, a memento?’ He flicked through the pictures. Lots showed a broad-faced boy that was clearly supposed to be Chester. ‘We did this one when I was eight.’ Each page had a child’s drawing of Chester – in one he was playing football, in another eating gigantic cakes; one even had him being fired from a canon. One caption ran:
Yo! Fat Neck Kenyon.
‘Fat Neck?’ Tom gave him a questioning look.
Chester touched his formidable neck. ‘Yeah, the nickname stuck.’
The drawings were typical of those by an eight-year-old. The girls’ pictures tended to be neater and dispensed with the ‘Fat Neck’.
‘I’m showing you the next page,’ Chester said, ‘because it backs up what I’ve been saying about Nicola.’
Tom’s blood drained from his face, leaving him cold inside as Chester turned the page. In the centre of the white paper was a dense black scribble. All jagged lines. A frenzy of black pen-marks. This wasn’t so much a picture as a savage attack on the page. An adult hand had written:
Nicola Bekk says, ‘Hi, to my nice friend, Chester.’
For a moment, Tom couldn’t speak. ‘Nicola did
‘You’re just like the other people in the village, you bastard. You hate the Bekk family. You’ve got a grudge against them.’ Tom stormed out into the rain.
Chester ran after him. ‘Listen, we need to talk.’
‘I never want to talk to you again.’
‘Tom—’
‘If you don’t let go of my arm I’m going to break your jaw.’
Chester spoke gently: ‘Go ahead, punch me. But I’m going to tell you something important.’
Tom said nothing.
Raindrops streamed down Chester’s broad face as he continued speaking: ‘You must have seen for yourself. Nicola doesn’t talk.’
This statement flabbergasted Tom. ‘Of course she talks.’
‘OK, she says a word here and there.’
‘No. I’ve had conversations with her.’
‘We’re talking about the same Nicola Bekk, aren’t we?’
Tom looked him in the eye. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Come inside.’ Chester’s voice was friendly. ‘There’s something you should know . . . It might just save your neck.’
NINETEEN
T he rain kept slamming at the roof. Once again thunder crashed from the clouds. Fury and anger were there. As if Mother Nature threatened to punish the population of Danby-Mask.
Chester Kenyon handed Tom a mug of coffee before pulling a book from a shelf on the workshop wall. That done, he sat down on a chair alongside Tom.
Chester thought for a moment before speaking. ‘I’m going to show you something. I want you to know that I’m not doing this to insult you, or hurt you. But it’s important that you know the truth, even if that means you knock my teeth out.’
‘After what you’ve said about Nicola I might just do that.’
‘OK, you say she’s your girlfriend. You kissed her. But haven’t had sex yet.’
‘Chester?’ Tom’s voice held the same warning growl as the thunder.
‘Listen. I’m twenty-three years old – the same age as Nicola. We went to the village school together. When she was twelve she stopped going. That was the end of her education.’
‘So explain why you think Nicola has learning difficulties.’
‘For seven years I was at school with Nicola. In all that time I never heard her say a sentence of more than three words.’
‘You only have to look at her,’ Tom protested. ‘She’s normal. And she – she’s beautiful.’
What’s got into Chester
, he wondered.
Why’s he trying to break Nicola and me up?
Chester opened a book covered with children’s drawings. Tom showed him the first page; a title had been printed in green: CLASSROOM FRIENDSHIP BOOK.
‘We used to do these at the end of the school year,’ he explained. ‘The teacher told us to swap the books round in class. We’d draw a picture of the owner of the book and write messages. That way everyone in the class would have drawn your picture and written something about you. You know, a memento?’ He flicked through the pictures. Lots showed a broad-faced boy that was clearly supposed to be Chester. ‘We did this one when I was eight.’ Each page had a child’s drawing of Chester – in one he was playing football, in another eating gigantic cakes; one even had him being fired from a canon. One caption ran:
Yo! Fat Neck Kenyon.
‘Fat Neck?’ Tom gave him a questioning look.
Chester touched his formidable neck. ‘Yeah, the nickname stuck.’
The drawings were typical of those by an eight-year-old. The girls’ pictures tended to be neater and dispensed with the ‘Fat Neck’.
‘I’m showing you the next page,’ Chester said, ‘because it backs up what I’ve been saying about Nicola.’
Tom’s blood drained from his face, leaving him cold inside as Chester turned the page. In the centre of the white paper was a dense black scribble. All jagged lines. A frenzy of black pen-marks. This wasn’t so much a picture as a savage attack on the page. An adult hand had written:
Nicola Bekk says, ‘Hi, to my nice friend, Chester.’
For a moment, Tom couldn’t speak. ‘Nicola did
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