Free He's After Me by Chris Higgins

soon as they’d cleaned him up.’
    ‘How do you know?’ asks Ben.
    ‘What?’ He’s caught me off guard. ‘It says here.’
    ‘It says he’s recovering. Which means he’s getting better. Which means he must have been in a bad way.’
    I feel sick. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Ben’s so nice. I think he’s wrong, I think it’s just a phrase the papers use, but I can’t be sure.
    ‘This guy is the king,’ insists Max.
    ‘The king?’ says Zoe.
    ‘He’s the best, man. You don’t get it, do you?’ Max smiles down at her in that annoyingly superior way he has that she couldn’t see when she was going out with him, even though she has a million more brain cells that he has. I think she sees it now.
    ‘No,’ she says, her voice ominously quiet. ‘Tell me about it.’
    Max rolls his eyes. ‘It’s political, innit?’
    ‘Political?’
    ‘Yeah, man. He’s anti all this capitalist rubbish. Bankers and lawyers and that. He’s making a protest.’
    ‘About what?’
    ‘You know. Stuff. People who make too much money. Rich people who rip the poor off.’
    ‘The poor?’
    ‘Yeah. Ordinary people like you and me.’
    ‘You? Poor?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You in your designer trainers and designer jeans?’
    Everyone laughs. Max goes red. ‘Shut your face! Everyone has this stuff. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t care about it.’
    ‘Don’t you?’ There’s a gleam in her eyes. She picks up her yoghurt and peels the top off. Oh no. ‘You sure about that?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    With a flick of her wrist, yoghurt shoots out of the pot. Max yelps and jumps backwards, but he’s not quick enough and the yoghurt lands squarely on his crotch and drips down his legs. A cheer goes up around the common-room.
    ‘Oops, sorry about that,’ she says with a grin. ‘Just think of it as a political protest.’
    Max backs away, cursing and swearing, dabbing ineffectually at his jeans as all his mates roll about with laughter. Zoe grins at me cheerfully.
    ‘He had that coming to him. Waste of good yoghurt though.’
    She looks so pleased with herself I can’t help grinning back. ‘Um? Remind me? What’s the difference between throwing paint and throwing yoghurt at someone?’
    ‘Yoghurt tastes better. I waited a long time for that.’
    ‘Revenge is sweet.’ We smile at each other in satisfaction. But then, stupidly, I can’t resist adding, ‘You’ve got to admit it though, he’s got a point.’
    She shakes her head impatiently. ‘That tosser doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just reciting garbage he’s heard other people saying.’
    ‘These graffiti artists,’ I persist. ‘This guy, JAWS. He’s making a political statement.’
    ‘Is he? And there’s me thinking he’s just a sad loner with no one to talk to. So he writes up his thoughts for all the world to see instead. But nobody cares …’
    ‘ I care!’ I say, but she rants on regardless.
    ‘… plus, he’s not quite brave enough to use his own name.’
    ‘Rubbish!’ I spring automatically to Jem’s defence. ‘He’s amazing! He’s anti-authority. He’s fighting against the establishment … against consumerism. He cares about people … about society. He’s a rebel. An urban terrorist.’
    ‘Yeah? So why doesn’t he come right out and say who he is then? Put his money where his mouth is. Osama Bin Laden – we all know his name, don’t we?’
    I could scream with frustration. Zoe is so hard to beat in an argument.
    ‘Because he’s not an egotist, that’s the point. He doesn’t want to be in the limelight. It’s what he believes in that’s important, not notoriety.’
    Where did I pluck that word from? I’m pleased with it though because it shuts Zoe up at last. Then I realize she is staring at me, wide-eyed.
    ‘You seem to know a lot about him.’
    ‘So?’ My heart starts to beat rapidly. Me and my big mouth. We’d be in big trouble, if anyone found out. ‘You can’t help knowing about him. He’s