Superior

Chapter 1

For thirteen year old Billy Chambers, it was happening again. It started with the blurring of his vision and a highly localised fog. A fog in the classroom. Teacher Richard Barlow was moving but not in a steady, fluid motion how people normally move. Instead it was in a surreal, erratic way, with gaps where for split seconds when Barlow wasn't there at all. There, not there, there again. At his overhead projector pointing at the screen with his back to the class one second, then without turning around, facing the class. He disappeared, then appeared in front of his desk. He was now looking at Billy, saying something but Billy couldn't hear the words. All Billy could do was sit frozen in his chair, unable to reply or move.

Then Billy got to his feet and cried, 'Stop that! What the hell is happening here?'

Suddenly, Barlow was where he was before at the screen. He turned and saw Billy with his mouth open, staring wildly into space.

Barlow was furious and was pointing at Billy. 'Don't you ever yell at me in class again, lad. Sit down. I just asked you to repeat what I told the class to see if you were paying attention.'

Billy, back in control, sat. Everyone in the room was staring at him, big eyed and mouths open in astonishment. Some were giggling and he heard somebody whisper freak. Clearly, whatever had happened, only he had experienced it. 'I...I'm sorry, sir. I...didn't mean...I couldn't...No, sir.'

'This is not the first time this has happened, Chambers. I know other teachers have experienced this behaviour. You need to shape up, lad. You have exams in a couple of months and this disruption is unacceptable and unfair on the others. An hour of detention might get you in line.' The school bell rang. 'Class dismissed.'

Teacher Victoria Hawthorne inhaled from her electronic cigarette, annoyed with the P C bull that banned her from using it in the staff common room, forcing her to be a social outcast, sitting on the rear door step. There was a chilly breeze, but at least it wasn't raining. She reflected on this futility when the door opened behind her.

Hawthorne waved the gadget symbolically at Sandra Flint and said, 'Unclean. Unclean.'

'As long as it isn't contagious,' said Flint, sitting on the step. 'At least you're trying to stop smoking.'

'Hmm. Being banished into the wilderness is hardly encouraging me. You don't smoke, so why are you out here?'

'I'm just avoiding Randy Dick.'

Hawthorne chuckled. 'You could have phrased that better. You can't blame Richard for having the hots for you. There should be a law against being so drop dead gorgeous. Every boy in long trousers drools when you pass them in the corridors.'

Flint shook her naturally blonde locks and replied, 'That's just raging hormones.'

'Yeah, right. Want me to have a word with Richard? I've known him for years.'

'No. He'll get the message eventually. He's okay, but I never mix work with my personal life. Believe me. I know how awkward that can be when the relationship ends.'

'Is that why you ended up here?'

Flint shrugged and said, 'It was a factor. I just fancied a change.'

'Moving here from London is a bloody big change.'

Across the sports field beyond the school railings was the lane and the farm fields and a hint of the distant hills poking through the threatening rain clouds.

'I like the pace of life out here. Country life suits me.'

Hawthorne put her e-cigarette away. 'Oh, well. Just a couple of hours to go.'

'Three for me. I pulled the detention stint.'

'Let me guess. Billy. It wasn't me who put him on detention. Not this time. That kid is a strange one.'

'He's a good kid really,' said Flint. 'He just gets easily distracted. He can do his homework while I do my marking.'

The bell for the final two hours rang twice and the two women entered the old school. Hawthorne felt even more dowdy and overweight walking with the tall leggy younger woman. Flint seemed oblivious to the leering stares from the older boys. The time passed uneventfully and Flint sat at the desk in room fifteen, sorting out her pile of students battered books when the door swung open and William Chambers entered. Neither teacher nor student spoke, but Flint waved to a desk at the front and Chambers sat. Knowing the routine well, he took his homework from his bag and settled quietly to work.

Flint got half way down her pile of books when she paused for a break and glanced over at the boy. He was thirteen, below average height for his age and slightly built. His brown hair was cut in the long and short style popular with his peers. He had intense blue eyes, fixed in an unsmiling face. She had rarely seen him smile but he was a handsome young man when he did.

'So. Billy. Why are you here this time?'

Chambers put his pen down but didn't reply.

Flint said, 'Mr Barlow put you on detention, right?'

Chambers shrugged and replied, 'Yeah. I didn't do anything.'

'Didn't do what?'

'He says...Mr Barlow said I was playing up. It wasn't like that.'

Flint wondered if it was too soon. Billy had to open up without her prompting. It was the only way and she could only push him a little. 'Care to tell me about it? From your point of view?'

Chambers glanced out of the nearest window at the playground. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

'Billy?'

He looked at her again and pursed his lips as if struggling to find appropriate words. 'It's like...' He clammed up again. For the last couple of months he'd developed an uneasy relationship with many of the teachers, falling foul of a couple of them because of his perceived odd behaviour. Spasmodic moments when Billy would become trance-like, as if he wasn't even in the room. Flint herself had experienced this once, but understanding the real situation more then most, had simply ignored the boy until he returned. That's why she had volunteered to take the detention hour, to give Billy the chance to open up. But Billy's lips were firmly shut as he stared at his homework. The moment had passed, as did the rest of the detention time.

'Off you go, Billy.'

Chambers stuffed his bag and without a word, left the classroom. Flint's phone rang and she fished it from her pocket.

'No. Almost, but no. No. We've had that discussion. I'll keep an eye on him and be ready for when he wants to talk. I just need to gain his trust. No. I'll call you when I have something to report. Right? Bye.'

Flint turned the phone off and slipped it in her pocket, gathered her work and stood to leave. The door opened and Richard Barlow entered.

'I heard you were in here,' said Barlow.

'Not for much longer. I'm out of here.'

'This is due to me giving Chambers detention. Sorry. I thought it might get him to buck his ideas up.' Barlow, a thirty-one year old divorcee, self-assured with athletic good looks, considered Flint's rejections as simply work in progress. 'Let me make things up to you. I'm going to a club I like in Smockton tonight. Care to join me?'

'Prior commitments. Sorry.'

'Come on, Sandy. I'm really quite human when you get to know me.'

Flint pushed past him, pausing at the door. 'I don't doubt it. And I hate being called Sandy. Sandra or Miss Flint will suffice.'

'Well, Sandra. Can I carry your bag to your car?'

'No thanks. Enjoy your evening. I'm sure you'll meet somebody...nice.'

Barlow stood with his hands in his pockets watching Flint walk down the corridor.

'Nice,' he muttered to himself. 'But she'll not have a backside like yours.'

Chapter 2

Sandra Flint drove her seven year old Nissan Micra through the village of Little Trubley, population seven hundred and nineteen, nine miles from the town of Smockton, and pulled onto the potholed driveway of the small, converted seventeenth century chapel. The reality was less quaint than it sounded. The amateur developer had bought the half-ruined building cheap with the intention of making it into a home. Divorce had ended that ambition before the renovations could be completed. He'd moved away for work and had rented the place out to to Flint for just enough to cover the monthly expenses like the mortgage. Flint had made one bedroom, the lounge and kitchen liveable.

The ornately carved oak door creaked as she entered. Flicking the light-switch got nothing, then the bulbs flickered into life. Throwing her bag onto one of the two mismatched armchairs, she went into the small kitchen, put the kettle on and tossed a dinner for one into the microwave.

'Maybe I should have let Randy Dick buy me dinner after all.' She checked the little yellow sticker on the empty wrapper. 'But then again, doing that would cost me a lot more than one ninety nine.'

A voice from the lounge called out. 'Sandra. Sandra.'

'Shit.' She ignored the voice, made a mug of instant coffee and took it into the lounge.

'Pick up, Sandra.'

Turning off the answer phone, she said, 'Not now.' The microwave pinged. 'I'm about to eat. Go away.'

'Tomorrow is Saturday. Call me at ten in the morning.'

'I'll think about it.'

'Sandra!'

'Okay.' She ended the call.

Forcing herself to calm down, she put the television on, and sat with the unappetising meal on a tray on her lap and watched the news, taking in little of the world's events. Later after a tepid shower, she climbed into the single bed and listened to the radio as she thumbed an old magazine before dropping it on the floor. Then she lay down and stared at the ceiling with the flaking paint and the stain where the roof leaked.

'This had better be damn well worth it.'

She turned off the light and moonlight pierced the thin curtain casting evil shadows across the bed. Even so, Flint slept soundly, woken by the cold room. Dressing hurriedly in her slobs, an old tracksuit she'd be ashamed to be seen in but too comfortable to trash, she ate one slice of toast with juice. It was five minutes to ten when she sat at the small table where she kept her laptop. As soon as she had Skype on, he was there, call waiting.

'How kind of you to spare me the time,' he said.

'This constant badgering was not part of the deal. Just let me alone to get on with the job.'

'You assume the luxury of the time to do that. I'll remind you yet again I am your boss. You have until the end of the month.'

Flint said, 'Shit! Something has happened, right?'

'Things have...accelerated apace. We need to get this done.'

'You told me he has to open up to me, not for me to explain things to him. You said...'

'I said a lot of things. All of them true. We can only control so much. We need to be adaptable. We need the boy.'

So many implications. 'Fair enough. Billy likes me. I'll push a little harder.'

'The end of the month, Sandra.'

He ended the call.

Chapter 3 

'Got everything?'

'Yeah, dad. Thanks for the new boots.'

Martin Chambers ruffled Billy's hair, knowing his son hated that. 'Hey. Five years from now and you'll be playing for Manchester United. Then I can retire early.'

'You make loads of money. You can retire now.'

Martin laughed and said, 'We do okay, but not that okay. Now get in the car or they'll be at half-time before we even get there.'

Billy's mother, Jane, was already in Smockton with her best friend Maggie, hair and nails being done before a cafe lunch. Billy tossed his soccer kit on the back seat of the new Jag and climbed in beside his father. The car still had that new car smell. They drove down the driveway of the grade two listed seventeenth century manor house, the Chambers family home for close on two hundred years.

Billy knew they lived a very comfortable lifestyle, but nothing flashy or over the top. His dad made his living working from home as an online shares trader. Not making millions, but enough to live really well. Holidays anywhere in the world twice a year and dad bought a new car every year.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up at the empty Smockton Town stadium, the fourth division stragglers at an away game, leaving their pitch for the two school teams, Little Trubley and Smockton Comprehensive to clash on it. The Little Trubley school's pitch was barely playable so it was a good arrangement. When Smockton Town were playing at home, Billy would go with his dad to cheer the team on. Then it would be a burger or fish and chips after which Billy would play computer games or swim in their pool if the weather was fine. Billy made few close friends, but he would occasionally spend Sundays at the go-cart track with a couple of them. But Saturday was soccer day if there was a game on. True, there were often more on the pitch than spectating, but it was still fun.

'Go gettem, tiger,' urged Martin.

Billy left his father in his usual place and joined his team with volunteer coach Mr Andrews in the changing room.

'Do we think three wins from eleven is good enough?' Andrews shouted.

'No, coach,' came back the chorus.

'I didn't hear you.'

'No, coach,' they yelled back.

'So what do we do about it?'

'We win, coach.'

'What?'

'WE WIN, COACH!'

'Better. Get out there and make us proud. Billy. I want a word first.'

Billy let the others go. 'Coach?'

Andrews said, 'On a good day, you can be a game changer. You're small, but fast. Use that. Remember what I told you?'

'Stay in their half, eye on the ball, use my speed to strike.'

'Good. Hey. Nice boots.