Free Haterz by James Goss Page B

comes to mind.
    Absurdly, it was ‘Reach,’ by S Club 7. You know, “Reach for the stars...” Or was it ‘sky’? Oh, yeah, ‘sky,’ because the next line rhymed with ‘mountain high.’ I sang it out loud, and then remembered the other person in the room.
    Staring at me in utter terror. As I sang a song, skipping over the words I didn’t remember. Oddly, he didn’t find it absurd. He seemed completely terrified.
    I leaned over him. “Antony Gillingham,” I whispered, enjoying the power I had. “Do you fancy a beer?”
    He screamed again and then wet the bed, which was gross.
    I shook my head at him, tutting, every inch my third form geography teacher. “Sticks and stones, Antony Gillingham. They’re bad. But words can come back to hurt you too. I have one bit of good news for you. I am not going to break the bottle. I’m not as bad as you are. But you’re still going to learn your lesson.”
    I reached down, plunging the beer bottle into him.
    “You—are—going—to—learn—to—be—nice.”
    Only, it didn’t go in. Probably due to terror, Antony Gillingham was tighter than a miser’s purse. And the screwtop was... catching.
    I was clearly causing him a huge amount of pain, but getting nowhere.
    “Let me do that,” said a voice.
    This time I screamed. The stupid, yelping fear anyone gives when they’re startled.
    She stepped forward from the shadows. She was wearing one of those painter’s outfits with a built-in hood—like a serial killer’s onesie, only painted black. It was drawn over her face. The only thing I could tell about her was her voice. Which was Scottish. And her figure under the overalls seemed... well, not waif-like. The overalls did nothing for her. I don’t know. My mind was racing in all sorts of ways.
    Who the hell was she?
    What the fuck was she doing there?
    Was there an innocent way to explain my actions?
    Christ, I must look utterly absurd.
    What the hell?
    Climb every mountain high.
    There’s a line here.
    And then your dreams will all come trooooo.
    That’s really not right. I’m going to have to listen to this on Spotify when I get home.
    Was she a policewoman?
    Wait, what the hell had she said?
    “Who are you?” I asked.
    She shrugged. “Better at this than you?” Again, that Scotch burr. Not the soft purr of Edinburgh, but something rougher and more practical. Aldi Scotch.
    She flowed forward and took the bottle from my gloved hands. She pushed me aside. Not roughly, but not gently. With enough force to achieve what she wanted.
    Which was exactly what she used on Antony Gillingham.
    He made a lot of noise. Even through the duct tape.
     
     
    I ’D SPENT A lot of time thinking about this. A model once made a carefully-chance remark about her famous ex-boyfriend in an interview. “Yeah, he used to love it when I shoved a vodka bottle up him.”
    I kept thinking about this while watching Antony Gillingham struggle. Because, when the model said that, what had she meant? Was it one of those novelty bottles, shaped like a tower in St Peter’s Square? Had she kept the screwcap on—I mean, surely that would chafe? But she couldn’t have taken the screwcap off, because then there’d be some kind of terrible vacuum, wouldn’t there? Or had she—oh, God—meant the thick end of the bottle? I mean, that was less problematic but also hideous.
    A lot more thought had gone into the sodomising of Antony Gillingham than he’d put into his tweet.
    I stood and watched the girl go to work on him, feeling absurdly left out, as when your mum takes over when you’re trying to cook.
    After the initial horror subsided, there remained awkward questions—like who the hell was she, and how much longer was this going to go on for? At what point did this just become absurd?
    Antony Gillingham wasn’t helping out, his screams alternating with a weird noise. A strange buzzing. I realised the duct tape had turned into a paper-comb-type instrument, buzzing as he twisted and