Free Half Bad by Sally Green Page B

all . . . are you?”
    And I’m not. I’m not sorry about any of it. I’m too full of hate to be sorry about anything.
    “Let’s try again, shall we? On this side. This must be the White half.”
    The T-shirt is stuffed back in my mouth and I feel the blade across the right side of my back, close to my spine. All the cuts he has made so far are on my left side and I know what is coming. That was the whole point of his talking; it was just so that I would know what to expect.
    The cuts are bad, but all the time I think about the powder. That’s what I fear. Kieran is in no rush, though . . .
    * * *
    “Wakey, wakey.” A slap on my cheek. “Nearly finished. We still have my favorite bit left. Leave the best till last, that’s what they say, isn’t it?”
    I’ve given up thinking; given up praying a long time ago. I look at the sand. The small grains: orange, brick orange, red, some tiny black ones.
    “Do you want to put the powder on him, Niall?”
    “No.”
    “No? So it’s up to you, Connor.”
    “Kieran.” Connor sounds really quiet. “I . . .”
    “Shut up, Connor! You’re doing it.”
    Kieran kneels close to my face and says, “Make sure there isn’t a next time, you Half Code heap of shit, because if there is I’ll cut your balls off before I rip your innards out.”
    And I hate him and curse him and scream at him into the T-shirt.
    * * *
    It’s dark. The ground beneath me is cold. And I am cold inside, but my back’s on fire. I can hardly move but I have to put the fire out. I roll on the ground. Someone, somewhere far off, screams.
    * * *
    Shouting . . .
    Arran’s voice . . .
    The trees are like sentries, but they’re moving past me.
    Blackness.
    * * *
    “Nathan?” Arran’s voice is soft in my ear.
    I open my eyes and his face is close to me. I think we’re in the kitchen.
    I’m on the table. Like a chicken served for dinner. Gran has her back to me; she is making gravy. Deborah is carrying a bowl that steams. Maybe it has potatoes in it.
    “You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay,” Arran says. But he says it in a strange way.
    Deborah puts the bowl beside me and I know it doesn’t have potatoes in it, and I’m afraid, so afraid. She is going to touch my back. And I beg Arran not to let them touch me.
    “They have to clean the cuts. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”
    And I beg him not to let them touch me. But I don’t think the words come out.
    He holds my hand tighter.
    * * *
    I wake again. Still a chicken on the table. Arran’s hand locked on mine. My back is hot inside but cool on the outside.
    Arran asks quietly, “Nathan?”
    “Stay with me, Arran.”
    * * *
    The sun is warm on my face. My back is tight and throbs fast with my pulse. I don’t dare move anything except my fingers. Arran is still holding my hand.
    “Nathan?”
    “Water.”
    “Move your head really slowly. I’ll put the straw in your mouth.”
    I blink my eyes open. I am lying at an angle on my bed with my head on the edge of the mattress. Below me is a glass of water with a long straw.
    After I drink I doze for a few minutes then I wake as my stomach churns. I throw up into a bowl that has replaced the glass of water, terrified because each lurch of my stomach sends tight spasms across my back.
    * * *
    When I next wake up Arran is still by my side. He says, “Gran’s made a drink for you. She says you have to take small sips.”
    The drink is disgusting. It must have a sleeping potion in it as I remember nothing else until I wake again in the evening.
    I move my fingers, but Arran isn’t beside me. It’s dark in the room, but I can see the shape of him in his bed, asleep. The house is quiet, but then I hear subdued voices and I move my head a little to see through the crack in the door. Gran is on the landing with Deborah. They are talking and I strain to hear what they are saying and then I realize that they aren’t talking; they are crying.
    * * *
    The next morning I