Free The Conspiracy Theorist by Mark Raven Page B

it was your can,’ I said.
    ‘What’s it to you?   I'm sick of people telling me what to
do.’
    What
to do .   He jabbed a finger three times in my chest.   The dog started barking.   Without thinking, I grabbed the finger
and twisted it hard.   The boy
yelped.   I bent the finger back,
stepping out of the range of the dog, which began jumping up at us.   I placed the thumb of my other hand into
the hollow between the boy’s chin and his bottom lip.   I pushed his head back and held him there.   It would be a slow pain, but one that
would stop me being hit at least.   I
just hoped he would not let go of the dog.   If he does, I thought, I could end up getting bitten.
    ‘Lee, leave it for fuck’s sake,’ the
other lad called.   ‘Can’t you see he’s
a copper?’
    ‘You would be advised to leave it,
Lee,’ I agreed.  
    I tried to keep my voice as level as
possible, but my heart was beating unpleasantly in my chest.   I cursed my stupidity for getting
involved.   But now I was involved I
had to finish it.   That was the
problem with getting involved: commitment.
    Lee was saying nothing.   As I pushed his head back further, I watched
his eyes burning.   It is the shame
that gets them, I thought, always the shame.   Shame that they are inadequate.   That when it counted, they did nothing or
said too much.   During my
time in the RAF Regiment, I had seen enough new recruits like Lee.   They were the ones who lasted a
week—too thick or too weak to change their ways—and went back home
with bad boy reputations.
    Gently, I moved my thumb down below the
chin, and found the sternal notch.   I increased the pressure there.   The boy smothered a cry, but showed no sign of giving up.   With his free hand he made a grab at my
hair.  
    I swept his legs from under him and pinned
him over the dog.   That’s one way
of doing it, I thought.   I felt the
terrier squirm and wriggle furiously underneath the weight of our bodies.   It started to whine.   I didn’t blame it.   I felt like whining too.   The girl shouted this time.
    ‘Lee, leave it for fuck’s sake!’
    I looked up.   The other boy looked like he was torn between two courses of
action: kicking me in the ribs or running away.   Perhaps he would do both.   The girl pulled at his arm, and said in a hectoring tone, ‘Come
on, Jason.   He ain’t worth it!’
    I was not sure if this referred to their
friend or me.   Am I worth it? I asked myself.
    Jason stood his ground, but the moment
had passed him by.   Now, he too was
like a dog on a lead.   The girl was
holding him back.   Jason called
out, ‘You all right, Lee?’
    Lee had stopped struggling.   Twenty seconds more and I knew he would
lose consciousness.   The terrier
was whining less now, but still wriggling to get free.   I could feel its haunches scrape on the
pavement beneath us.   I released
the boy slowly, keeping an eye on the other two.   As I stood, Lee kicked out at me weakly, the fight gone from
him.   He rolled over and started
coughing.   Finally he let go of the
dog, which fortunately scuttled over to the girl, its lead trailing behind it.
    I turned and walked back the way I
came.   It was a defeat of
sorts.   I listened out for a bottle
breaking and feet running after me, but none came.   Other youths passed me, shirts tucked into their jeans like
flags, making towards the incident, looking at me with interest.
    Now, I had to walk the long way round
to the hotel.   What good did that do? I asked myself.   What good did that do
anybody?
    I went in to the nearest pub and
ordered a pint.   People looked at
me strangely.   I kept an eye on the
door.   I was breathing heavily.  
    There is a delayed reaction to
everything.
    Why do I get involved? I asked myself.
    Not for the first time either.

 
    Next
day I drove down to Hayling Island.   The Marchant residence was on the bluff of a hill.   It was on an estate of substantial
properties,