Nice Jumper by Tom Cox

been downright negligent: leaving your brand-new Adidas shoes sitting out in the open, in the locker room, while your auntie treats you to teacakes in the clubhouse was never going to be a good move with Ashley, Jamie and me in the vicinity. As for the mouse, it hardly looked dignified, sitting there in the cellar of the pro shop, its forehead glued to a seven-year-old Kit Kat. I surmised it was the least I could do to honour it with a proper burial. The prank was an act of common sense more than anything else, and when it resulted in no immediate outcome – the Sweeney was far too cowardly to report us, we assumed – none of us were particularly surprised.
    Three weeks later my mum arrived in my bedroom, wearing a look on her face I was well acquainted with. I’d seen it on the local news, on the faces of parents of teenage drug-dealer rapists. ‘I’m ashamed of you, Tom,’ she said.
    I racked my brain for recent transgressions. Dirty socks left under living-room sofa? Grade E in Business Studies coursework? British Home Stores glass lampshade smashed with three-iron? ‘What now?’
    ‘What do you think? Putting that poor bird in that poor boy’s shoe. I can’t believe you could do such a thing! Bob Boffinger’s just been on the phone, and he’s horrified. He says he wants to see you and Robin in the competition room tomorrow at four o’clock. And take that ridiculous smirk off your face.’
    I couldn’t help smiling. It had been three sodding weeks . I’d assumed, quite logically, that I’d got away with it. What had the Sweeney been doing ? I knew for sure he’d played at least three rounds of golf since the mouse’s interment. Had he been walking around the course, wondering why his left shoe seemed to fit just that bit more snugly than the right one? Did he mistake that slightly moist, decomposing smell for that of his own socks? And what was all this bird nonsense?
    At school, I had a foolproof method for seeing myself through punishment with a straight face. I thought about the back of Beau O’Dowd’s head. Beau O’Dowd was the boy who sat in front of me in Maths, and treated me to a view that was a miracle of vapidity and uncomplicatedness, even in the notoriously vapid and uncomplicated arena of backs of heads. If I focused on it intensely enough, I could remain poker-faced under even the most extreme didactic pressure. I can picture it now: its lacklustre yet neat arrangement of hairs, its overwhelmingly underwhelming sense of sheer headness . I’ve even been known to call on it in more recent times of real crisis – when I’m in danger of losing an argument, say, or finding Mark Lamarr funny by mistake.
    I’m ashamed to say, however, that that time in the white room with Bob Boffinger, Robin and Hell’s Trucker, even Beau let me down.
    ‘This is really unforgggivabbble,’ stressed Bob, who had an endearing habit of reverberating on his ‘b’s and ‘g’s upon becoming riled. Not quite a stutter – something more guttural and impressive.
    ‘May I ask if either of you boys know who’s responsible for this blatant victimization?’ said Hell’s Trucker.
    ‘Haven’t got a clue,’ I said, shaking my head in horror.
    ‘I really don’t know, Mr Captain,’ pleaded Robin, somehow making the note of sarcasm in his voice audible only to me.
    ‘Gruuurgggle,’ said Bob’s stomach.
    ‘I mean, a dead bird in a boy’s shoe!’ said Hell’s Trucker. I felt a nudge from Robin. ‘Rick Sweeney might not quite fit in with the other juniors, but he’s got as much right to play golf, peacefully and undisturbed, as anyone else.’
    ‘This is really unforgggivabbble,’ stressed Bob.
    ‘And I suppose you killed the bird as well?’ asked Hell’s Trucker.
    Another nudge from Robin, followed by an uncomfortable silence. One of two things was going to break it.
    ‘Blllurgle,’ said Bob’s stomach.
    Beau O’Dowd’s head, Beau O’Dowd’s head, BeauO’Dowd’sheadBeauO’Dowd …
    A