Free The Wall by William Sutcliffe

timid in the tackle but in this game I feel no fear, and slide in on people, taking pleasure in the crunch of their legs against mine as I compete for the ball.
    I begin to sense people looking at me strangely. I see a gaggle of boys at the far end of the pitch muttering to one another and staring in my direction, but I don’t stop. For the first time since going into the tunnel, the knot of tension inside me feels as if it is loosening. The other boys in the game, usually my sort-of friends, today seem distant, unimportant, not entirely real.
    When I score a goal, barging between two defenders and whacking a shot into the bottom right-hand corner, I run the whole length of the pitch as a celebration, but no one on my team joins in. If anything, they shrink away from me, but I don’t mind, and after kick-off I just redouble my efforts, running even faster after the ball, tackling even harder, until I become aware that my heart and legs are screaming at me to stop, and my stomach is tightening, moments away from throwing up.
    I stop, walk to the sideline, and sit on the ground. Nobody comes with me or asks if I’m OK.
    While my nausea subsides I watch the football, a little dizzily. The other boys seem further away than ever, their shouts muffled and hollow, their excitement at the game strange and not quite comprehensible.
    As I begin to feel more normal, a wayward shot flies out of nowhere, straight towards my face. The only way to avoid a broken nose is to flatten myself against the tarmac, which I do just in time to feel the ball skim millimetres above my hair. When I sit up again, the boy who kicked it is staring at me, smirking. Several other boys have similar expressions on their faces, and I realise this wasn’t an accident at all, but a well-aimed missile. I look away, pretending not to have noticed. I decide to give myself another minute or two before I leave, so they won’t think they got me.
    Just as I’m getting ready to stand, David appears with his friend Seth, a chubby boy with a droopy bottom lip which always glistens with saliva. Seth hates me. They stand so close I have to crane my neck to see their faces.
    ‘Seth wants to hear about the tunnel,’ says David.
    I blink into the sunlight, which is forming a shimmering halo above their heads. ‘What tunnel?’
    ‘The tunnel you found in the building site.’
    I stare at David, fixing my mouth into a rigid, secretive slot. ‘What are you talking about?’
    The two boys gaze at me for a few seconds, then, as if to some invisible cue, they burst out laughing and walk away.
    I’ve told David too much. I can’t trust him.

A hand on my shoulder sends my body lurching upwards. My throat emits a strangled gasp that is almost a scream. Half my face is numb.
    For an instant, my brain scrabbles and flails, not understanding where I am or what is happening. A person is standing over me, a woman, her brow creased with an anxious frown. It’s my mother. This place, all around me, is not where I was a moment earlier.
    I’m in my room. I’m at my desk. In front of me is my homework. I must have fallen asleep with my head on an exercise book.
    ‘Dinner’s ready,’ says Mum. ‘I’ve been calling and calling.’
    ‘Sorry,’ I say, the word emerging as a dry croak.
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘You look awful.’
    ‘I . . . I think I had a bad dream.’
    ‘What was it?’
    ‘Nothing. I don’t know. It’s gone.’
    ‘Come and eat.’
    ‘OK.’
    She tries to help me out of my chair, but I shrug her off.
    ‘I’ll come in a minute.’
    ‘OK. But quickly. And wash your hands. It’s getting cold.’
    ‘I’ll come,’ I snap. ‘Just give me a minute.’
    She retreats, leaving the door half open behind her. I close my eyes again, groping after the receding threads of my nightmare. I was in the tunnel again, but it was wet at the bottom, a layer of water thinly covering everything, but it wasn’t cold, and it was OK to be crawling