Free The Beauty Is in the Walking by James Moloney Page B

it.’
    He listened, smiled and behind his eyes I could see he was proud all over again because I was doing exactly what a hero was supposed to do – I was talking the whole thing down.
    When Tyke called I almost groaned. Not again, and I’d been hoping to talk with him about other things, but with all this hero crap there’d be no chance to discuss Amy.
    â€˜This is getting embarrassing, Tyke. I’m a bloody fraud,’ I told him, once I’d taken the phone to my room and flopped down on my bed. ‘What I did was pathetic, really, and it’s not like I was hurt.’
    I poured out the full story, then, without false modesty and without hiding the viciousness of what Hattendorf’s mob were up to. For the first time, I explained the background, as well, about the rumours that had built up and how they must have broken over the only target those blind idiots could find close at hand.
    Tyke didn’t interrupt and even when I went quiet he held back from the kind of things Dad had been saying. He took me seriously, that’s the thing. God, I missed him.
    Finally he spoke, like a judge who’d been nutting out his verdict. ‘You could have gone for help like Amy, but instead you stepped in front of the Muslim kid.’
    â€˜I knew there wasn’t time. I was trying to buy some, that’s all.’
    â€˜That’s exactly what you did, Jake. Sounds to me like you made all the difference. Do you know how long it takes to make a mess of someone? Seconds, that’s all. Believe me, I’ve seen it. He wouldn’t have held them off for long, not seven and especially when this Hattendorf character got in on the act. Don’t be so down on yourself. You saved him a lot of grief.’
    â€˜There was no one else,’ I said.
    â€˜No, and there didn’t need to be.’
    Wow, those last words blew it open for me and at last I gave way to real pride in what I’d done that day – a legitimate pride, in myself.

8
    saturday
    I woke on Saturday with sunlight heating my bed and an ache in front of my ear. I was on first shift at Blockbuster, but it was a rare day I didn’t check Facebook before leaving home and I was curious to see if Amy had sent me anything to enhance my status as hero.
    Holy crap! My page had exploded and none of it was about what I’d done yesterday. Word was out that Mahmoud Rais had been seen near the school the night Charlotte was killed. There was a witness, with a name. Mrs Bagnold. I knew her – everyone did.
    That was the start of it. The rest was plain ugly; comment after comment saying they wished Hattendorf’s mob had torn Mahmoud apart. Those were the actual words, as though he’d been found guilty in court and the punishment was to mutilate him like those animals.
    Shit, shit, shit. Just because he was seen nearby didn’t make him the killer. Hadn’t these kids ever watched CSI or Law and Order ? I began replying to the avalanche of comments, but even if I’d had all morning, the sheernumber would have beaten me. I gave up after the second one and rode to work beside Mum in the Astra with a cold stone in my gut.
    My boss at Blockbuster was Rory, who was fat and didn’t care. He was also a funny guy, not in the jolly roly-poly way, but clever-funny. He could quote every put-down line he’d ever seen in a movie and knew just how to slip them into a conversation.
    â€˜Nice tie,’ he’d say to any bloke who came in without a shirt on and we had a few of those. That morning he had a surprise for me when he came in about eleven. ‘You asked about The Truman Show , right? Well, old man Drakos got out of his coffin long enough to return it,’ he announced, holding up the DVD.
    I tossed it in my bag, thinking I’d take a look after my shift, but, home again, I logged on straightaway and found messages from Amy, plus more on my phone. All said the same thing: call