Chapter One

   In this busy world, the ant is often overlooked. There are estimated to be 22,000 species of ant on the planet and yet, simplified, one can divide up any ant colony into three divisions: Workers, Soldiers and Queens. This level of simplicity is also evident to some extent within humanity, one could argue: Fast food workers, Housewives and Yacht Salesmen. Of course there are other occupations to be occupied, but the fact still remains. It will have been done before.  Ants I find are oblivious to this depressing truth. Whether this is due to their philosophical acceptance or their microscopic brain, I will remain forever ignorant.

I am peering into my bathroom window. I avoid my mirror, as it reflects back an image that is too greatly concentrated. The window is ideal because it provides the correct amount of fuzziness to obscure the less desirable parts of my face and yet maintains a good enough reflection so as to let me focus on the nice bits. I like my nose: it is a nose with character; an undulating slope would best describe it. To love one’s nose is very rare I find, as it is the most prominent feature on the face, resulting in the slightest flaw being easily noticeable. I am extremely lucky in this regard, as I bear no ill will towards mine. Wind howls past the house and permeates through the glass in which transient brown eyes float and, staring back at me, seem to take on sentiency, narrowing in disapproval at the normality of the face they are obliged to occupy.

Putting aside the unremarkable appearance (excusing the nose) I believe my brain to be unique. Not at its ability to factorise quadratic equations (I would rather receive paper cuts on my eyeballs), but for its ability to make things up. This has always been a skill of mine: from the age of four I have had a steady stream of fiction pumped into my skull. Reading was my favourite pastime, but when I grew tired of books, I would sit in my dark room and watch films endlessly until my skin was pasty white, my face an expressionless gawp and my eyes were glazed over like morbid crispy-crème doughnuts. From the exterior I must have seemed vapid, but what was happening on the interior was quite the opposite. I would forge my own worlds, embarking on quests, crusading and climbing mountains. I would live life as I wish I could, if I were not trapped within this world: a world of workers, soldiers and queens.

I conclude my evening facial examination and amble over to my room, on the other side of my house. I share this house with my mother Anne Finch, my sister Clara Finch and cat Rodger. It is hard to distinguish between them sometimes, as they are all warm, well groomed creatures who are equally likely to try and claw your eyes out. I swing open the door to my room with blinding speed. This is due to the fact that my hinges creak like a thousand fingernails, two hundred chalkboards and ninety nine grade 1 violinists all put in a large bag and shaken a bit. I therefore open the door as quickly as possible in order to minimise the time spent cringing at the hinge-squeak. I have developed an entire philosophy around the premise of the hinge-squeak. Swing the door shut quickly and the hinge-squeak happens quickly and is relatively painless, whereas a drawn out and slow shutting of the door leads to prolonged hinge-squeak and in turn, burst eardrums. In short, this theory revolves around the premise of: do it quickly and it hurts less. I suppose it’s very similar to the “ripping off a plaster” analogy, however I prefer hinge-squeak, as it has a catchier title: “hinge-squeak”. I could say it all day.

I first put the practice of hinge-squeak into use when I accidentally stood on my sister’s goldfish. Now I am aware that there are two questions immediately raised by this scenario: what were my motivations behind extinguishing this fish’s life, and what series of events can possibly lead to a goldfish being in a position to be stepped upon. The latter must be answered first, as it may inadvertently provide an answer for the former. I will first begin by explaining Alexander Lawrence and his significance within this tale of woe. Alexander lives opposite me and shares my birthday. I first discovered this on my twelfth year of existence when I looked out of my bedroom window and saw balloons both on my side of the road, and his. I proceeded to tell him to find another day on which to celebrate, as the excess of balloons on both sides of the road was likely to distract the cars. I believe this was the initial catalyst for our friendship, however, his gawky appearance, thick framed glasses and social ineptitude also added a certain charm. Characteristics such as these have always been admirable in my mind, as I have found that stereotypically ‘beautiful’ people set the bar high with their appearance and inevitably disappoint you with their vacuous personalities. However, if a person’s main concern is not their appearance, then their personality tends to be quite unique and inspiring, and if this is not the case, then at least the external representation is reliable.

Alexander visited our house regularly, awkwardly greeting me and my family as he stumbled through the door. It was during one of these visits that the incident occurred; Alexander arrived last year under the pretence of sharing some of his Biology notes from school. His ulterior motive, it seems, was to find the nearest aquatic creature and smother the life from it. He of course protested he only wanted to ‘conduct an analysis of the creature’s upper and lower cadual fins’ (Alexander being the most disgustingly inquisitive b*****d I have ever known) however he did not take into account the slippery nature of the fish in question, which resulted in it flying from his grasp and ending up on the floor before me as I walked in the room with the aforementioned biology notes. I stepped on the fish. I was barefooted at the time which made the experience even more traumatising, especially as I had to wipe the creature’s ‘cadual fins’ from the sole of my foot with a wet wipe. This trauma was heightened by the fact that I then had to explain to Clara why her beloved fish was now in the dustbin. I then decided to put the hinge-squeak philosophy in to practice. I strode into her room immediately, stated “Clara, I have stepped on your fish, I’m very sorry” and then left. This was followed by a lot of crying, hitting and apologising, but I felt relieved that I had dealt with the situation so swiftly. The issue could no longer affect me, as I had embraced the unpleasantness quickly and with relatively little pain. Hinge-squeak.

Walking into my room, I am greeted by thirty-one eyes staring down from their various positions on my wall. Thirty-one eyes belonging to fifteen faces, belonging to eleven canvases hang from the nails jutting from my walls. They protrude at assorted angles, displaying paintings of my sister, my mother, Rosie and Alexander. The centrepiece of the menagerie is a small canvas, barely two hands in size, sitting ajar in the centre of my wall. The other paintings seem to flock to it, yet maintain a respectful distance. It is a painting of me. On my left is Rosie. I look out from the painting and the grey sea sits behind us. I copied it from a photograph taken on a school trip to somewhere or another. The photograph struck my attention because it was so beautifully normal. The grey ocean air illuminated the scene with a drowsy sense of imaginings and the two figures standing in the mist, one with her head turned slightly to the side were silhouetted in the tableau. I cannot describe why the grey painting with the two figures stands out to me. It is boring and colourless, but knowing that in that painting is people, and in those people are stories makes me grin uncontrollably.

I collapse on to my bed and the inevitable cloud of dread begins to form, as it slowly dawns upon me that school starts tomorrow. I lie awake, the time is now 12:00 and my skull feels two sizes too small for my brain. Closing my eyes, I pray for the pain ricocheting around my head to stop. My eyes feel like two plastic bags filled with water, being stood on by three obese men. It is 1:30 and I bury my head in my hot pillow, praying to any celestial being out there to make me sleep. By 2:45 I have promised my soul to a total of five religious deities.

My cat, Rodger sits at the end of my bed looking at me with his large grey, sullen eyes. I honestly regret with every fibre of my being, the decision to bring this fluffy vermin into our lives. Having a cat is the equivalent to hiring an omnipresent judgemental force to follow you around and I feel very poignantly that Rodger is judging me now. The irony of this situation is that I am not the one who licks their own genitalia when they have nothing better to do, however I often wonder how humanity would respond if we had this capability. I hurl my pillow in his general direction and continue with my attempt to sleep.

Eventually after a multitude of wriggles, kicks and squirms, I reach a semi-conscious state of inertia, my head still thronging with pain.

***

Rosie sits next to me on the bus. She has curly red hair, green eyes and pale skin. She sometimes sits in my room on the large red stool and I paint her. Rosie is the only female I have had in my life who inspires me to write poetry. I find that writing romantic poetry is in many ways similar to how sex has been described to me. The pleasure occurs when doing it, and afterwards, one is met by an overwhelming sense of emptiness and nausea at what they have just done. Needless to say, I have burned all the poems written for Rosie and never spoken of them to anyone.

The long road stretches ominously out before me, and at the end of the tarmac expanse, a small white bus will be waiting to take me, my sister Clara, and the others to school. Clara is in the year below me, so we rarely see each other during school hours. She left the house before me this morning and is almost definitely sitting on the back row. Apparently sitting there makes you ‘cool’. It just always tends to make me travelsick. I kick a small flint rock into a hedge as I walk and wonder if anyone will have sat next to Rosie. My pace quickens. Trees sprout from the ground on my left like elderly fingers, and small white flowers dapple the bank like acne on a prepubescent’s face. I’ve never really liked flowers... My foot hits the linoleum floor of the bus, just as its engine whirrs into ignition. Rosie’s green eyes meet mine from across the bus. Lines furrow her brow, and she greets me with a look both of rage and crippling beauty which the Amazons would have cowered at. “Something wrong?” I ask approaching her with caution.

“Thomas, they’re going to cut down the tree at the weir” she says to me as I take my seat beside her. Rosie only ever uses my full name when she is mortally concerned. “You’ve never been to the weir, Rosaline” I reply, putting emphasis on her full name.

“Yes…but I want to!” she rolls her eyes and brushes a knot from her hair “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful tree”

“It is I’ve sketched it a few times” I murmur. She ignores me and continues her trail of thought.

 “I don’t think anyone else cares, Tom. That it’s being cut down.”

“I can’t quite understand why you do, Rosie”

“Because it’s beautiful Tom! You of all people should appreciate that. Artists are meant to appreciate beauty”

“Well I’m not quite an artist am I now, Ros”

“That picture you did of me got an award!”

“…from the school Rosie”

“You’re the best bloody artist I know!” Rosie never swears, and ‘bloody’ is the closest I’ve ever heard her come to cursing. My heart jumps at the passion she imbues in the words. Rosie senses my smile forming and quickly subdues it with a jab to my ribs. “I’m visiting the weir after school and you can come if you like” Rosie whispers in my ear as if the words are sacred. There is the noise of the bus engine starting in the background as we slowly make our way to the school. “I’ll bring my pencils” I whisper back, trying with every fibre of my skinny acne ridden being to sound sexy.

School infects us with a permeating solemnity as we stagger through the towering gateway leading to St Francis’ College. The doors slide open before us and Rosie gives an audible sigh. “See you after school then, Tom” she states resignedly as she walks off to her lesson. Rosie dislikes school very much. It is strange how much another person’s behaviour can affect your own, especially if they are someone you care for. Rosie succeeds in making me miserable during school. She becomes quiet, reserved and aloof, refraining from any unnecessary human interaction. The only way I managed to befriend her in the first place was through barraging her with kindness and making stupid romantic gestures like offering to buy her milkshakes at lunch. If there is one thing I have learned from my 16 years of living, it is that you should never underestimate the power of a milkshake.

Roise Dawson moved into Ashford last year with her father and was immediately noticed by me and Alexander. After many milkshake purchases, she eventually began to talk to me and even began to make eye contact during conversation. Rosie found in me a person to whom she could confide, and she held on strongly. This only made her happy for a short while however, and after a month she began to relapse into her previous state of unhappiness. I do not know where Rosie’s unhappiness stems from; she will sometimes seem distant but only for a brief second. Nobody seems to notice these short lapses, but they are there if you look close enough. I suppose I have nobody to blame but myself for letting her negative demeanour affect me so greatly, but it does, and I find that there is nothing I can do to stop it.

It is just as she is walking away that Alexander sidles up to me and says “I hope you realise that you ignored me the whole bus journey when I was only sitting just behind you.”

“Sorry, Alex, won’t happen again” I reply with a mocking bow

“Alexander is my name.” I observe a minute rage that has been awoken within him as he pulls my arm towards our English lesson. I have made this mistake before but have never seen him react like this: brooding over the prized syllables I have neglected. I put it down to the fact that we didn’t talk all weekend, and I was too preoccupied with Rosie on the bus. Alexander is a man of subtext. “You can let go of me now” I state. Alexander stops and releases my arm. “Sorry.” He says with a detached serenity “you know I prefer to be called by my full name. It makes me feel unique, you don’t get many Alexanders knocking around… probably because of the four bloody syllables making it a b*****d to say whenever you want my attention, but nevertheless…” He leaves it there. Alexander has a god complex and must always feel unique. I suppose we all feel this on some occasions and that’s why some people get tattoos, dye their hair red and ride unicycles. Alexander’s ‘unicycle’ is that he must be referred to by his full name. He has reacted especially badly today because of the ignoring on the bus, so I conclude I will endeavour to cheer him up during English.

We take our seats at the front of the class, as the social hierarchy dictates we do. The behaviour of students is a fascinating subject, and I devote much of my school time to the study of it. There are roughly three subsets of the student community: The ‘Popular’, the ‘Average’ and the ‘Unpopular’. This hierarchy is comparable to that of the African wilderness: the ‘Popular’ group are the lions who eat the ‘Average’ Gazelles who in turn eat the ‘Unpopular’ Grass. I am a blade of grass in this analogy which doesn’t bother me in the slightest because I know that one day the Gazelles and Lions will be eaten or killed. Grass is pretty much everywhere, and even after it’s been munched it still grows back bigger and better. However, when Gazelles and Lions get munched they tend to perish. In short, when we all leave school, the ‘nerds’ will most probably come out on top. It doesn’t frustrate me whatsoever belonging to the ‘unpopular’ group, I feel it is a choice I have made. Nerds I find are the best kinds of people.

Mr Connelly is talking at us again. He is one of those teachers who lures you in like an angler fish with his deprecating humour and wicked smile until you come close enough to be bitten, then he turns cold and snaps at you, setting obscene amounts of work to assert that he is in fact not your friend, but a teacher who must be respected. He is the most temperamental man I have ever met. Alexander leans over to me after Mr Connelly leaves the room for a coffee, “Tom I have something to show you” he pulls a sheet of pristine paper from his backpack.

“What’s that?” I ask intrigued at Alexander’s covert allusion to the paper now in his hand.

“I’ve comprised a graph to map out Connelly’s fluctuations between friend and foe”

“Oh god, Alexander shouldn’t you have been revising”

 “Tom, did it ever occur to you that Connelly’s mood swings may have a detrimental effect on our grades, his emotional wellbeing may determine a pass from a fail.” Alexander’s self-worth is in direct correlation with his grades and this is one of the many projects he has set himself in order to ace the inevitable exam approaching.

“You see these peaks here?”  Alexander moves his bony white finger to the high points on the line graph. “These are when Mr Connelly is most approachable; the downward slopes of the line after these peaks indicate the decline in approachability. These declines are caused by many variables, the main two are the negative environment in the English department caused monthly by the female teacher’s synchronised periods, the other is Connelly’s need to distance himself from the students and maintain the cold harsh student-teacher relationship. Do you follow?”

“I think so” I say hesitantly, Alexander charges on.

“Now these peaks and troughs occur roughly over a three to four week period, so with enough gentle subconscious suggestion, we should be able to negotiate a peak to occur directly during exam week. This will result in a happier Connelly and a happier test result. You may now pat me on the back.” I look at him in wonder. Mr Connelly then returns to the classroom, sweaty brow furrowed and slightly balding black hair slicked back on his head. Alexander quickly fumbles with the paper, creasing it and forcing it into the bag under his desk. The coffee steams in Mr Connelly’s hand as he sits down behind the monolithic desk separating him from us. Alexander complements him on his tie. Mr Connelly peers through the coffee steam at Alex’s quivering form, turns to the whiteboard and writes “Essay due Wednesday.”

“But sir that only gives us two days!” Lucy Harper shouts from the back of the class

“It’s your own education, don’t do it if you don’t want to but you’ll only be hurting yourself.” Mr Connelly is a cruel man. This is his best and worst trick; he does not punish us conventionally when we neglect his work, but messes with us psychologically. Last year, Lucy made up an excuse why she didn’t complete an assignment, and he looked at her for a second too long, just enough to make her uncomfortable, then he said he was disappointed, looked genuinely hurt, and walked right away. I don’t think anyone has ever missed an assignment since then. Mr Connelly is a brilliant man.

We sit through fifty minutes of English buzzwords. After three minutes, my mind wanders to thoughts of the weir and Connelly’s talk of metaphor, syntax, anaphora, couplets, similies, metaphysical, etceteraetceteraetcetera slowly takes the form of a steady stream of logorrhoea. The drone lulls me to a state of quasi-inertia and Connelly’s coffee fumes instigate the onset of a hallucinogenic nightmare. I find myself in maths class. I am not sure if I have woken up yet. Alexander turns to me and asks me how my parabola is doing. I give him a dirty look. The voice that finally confirms that I have awoken from my nightmare is that of Rosie, who taps her pen on the desk with fury and speaks in a strange alien language comprising of monosyllabic exclamations “5-x-18-y-2!” is what she is repeatedly stammering at the moment.  She catches my eye and reverts back to human-talk. “Remember the…”