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The road was scalding hot against his skin, and the grazes prickled, but Mark was still gasping and shuddering for breath. He could see the wheel of his racing bike still rotating slowly from where it had been slung on the ground, and the splatters of blood that had come from his nose drying quickly in the uncommonly hot sun.
A pair of feet appeared in his vision - trainers, very scruffy ones with the soles coming away at the tip. ‘Are you all right?’ came a voice.
Mark lifted his head, and squinted through his swollen eyes. It was an older boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair and big round glasses. He was very skinny, and he looked absolutely miserable.
‘Yeah,’ said Mark, heaving himself up. ‘What’s it to you? Come to laugh at me, have you?’
The boy raised his eyebrows; his serious face now looked slightly amused. ‘You’re from number 14, aren’t you? On Privet Drive?’
Mark wiped the blood off his tender face. ‘Yeah. How did you know that?’
‘I’ve seen you on your bike,’ said the boy. He looked down and picked up the bike. ‘Looks all right, none of the wheels are bent. You’ll just need to put the chain back on.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mark, as the boy wheeled it towards him. He was grateful to be able to lean on it - his ankle was throbbing. ‘Mark Evans,’ he told the boy, who nodded but did not say his name back.
‘Dudley Dursley, was it?’ he asked. His face had fallen back into seriousness - almost dulled, like he wasn’t really interested.
Mark gaped at him. ‘Yeah.’
‘Come on,’ said the boy heavily. ‘I’ll walk back with you to Privet Drive - he’s gone up to Summer Hill Playing Fields to drink cider, we shouldn’t bump into him.’
The boy walked slowly alongside him as Mark hobbled along, trying not to let him see how much he was leaning on the bike. ‘I’ll get ‘em properly next time,’ he said, hoping the older boy would think he was tougher than he was.’
‘How about trying to avoid a next time?’ asked the boy.
‘You gotta stand your ground on these streets if you want them to respect you,’ said Mark, holding his chin up, and to his extreme annoyance the boy laughed.
‘We live in Little Whinging, not Croydon.’
‘Dudley Dursley and his gang think they own the place,’ said Mark. ‘I can’t let them think I’m weak.’
The boy gave him a withering sort of look. ‘Malcom got your arms behind your back, did he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And Gordon held one leg and Piers the other, to stop you kicking?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And then Dudley punched you?’
‘Really hard.’
‘Look,’ said the boy, suddenly business like, ‘Piers is a little weasel, he overreacts, one quick punch and he’ll be squealing. Knee Gordon under the chin to stop him grabbing your leg, and if you flick your wrist down where Malcom’s thumb is, it’ll break his grip.’
‘And then I’ll be able to beat them up?’
The boy scoffed. ‘Don’t be stupid, they’re all much bigger than you. It’ll give you time to make a run for it.’
‘They might think I’m weak then,’ said Mark stubbornly, still dabbing at his bleeding nose.
‘Well, you wouldn’t want that I suppose,’ said the boy wryly.
Mark looked up at him curiously. He looked very tired, and he still had that dull, bored expression. ‘You know Dudley Dursely then?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I know the family,’ muttered the boy.
‘My mum tells me to keep away from them,’ said Mark darkly. ‘She says the grown ups are probably trying their best but they just can’t control them. There’s another kid in the family apparently, but you never see him ‘cos he got sent to a borstal-’
‘There’s no such things as borstals anymore,’ the boy said. He kept glancing over his shoulder nervously - Mark supposed he was worried Dudley’s gang might come back.
‘Well, a pupil referral unit or whatever you call it, some kind of secure centre, for really bad kids.’
‘Is that so?’ asked the boy, sounding distinctly uninterested.
Unfortunately, as a ten year old, Mark was not very good at being able to tell when people did not want to continue the conversation.
‘Mum said he hasn’t got any parents, so it’s not his fault really ‘cus he’s troubled. She says that happens with a lot of kids that grow up in care.’
‘He didn’t grow up in care, he grew up with his aunt and uncle,’ said the boy irritably. ‘I don’t think there was a lot of caring involved.’
‘Either way, apparently he’s really dangerous - mum reckons that’s probably why Dudley’s so horrible too, probably didn’t get enough attention what with a troubled kid in the family- she says it’s probably all about attachment disorders and trauma-’
‘She a psychologist, your mum?’ the boy interrupted abruptly.
‘No,’ replied Mark, puzzled.
‘No, I didn’t think so.’
Mark squinted up at the boy’s moody face. ‘How do you know the family?’
‘Grew up with them,’ the boy muttered, checking nervously over his shoulder again.
Mark’s bruised jaw dropped. ‘Are YOU the troubled kid?’
The boy sighed, glaring straight ahead of him, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. ‘Yep,’ he said bluntly.
‘You’re like, infamous round here.’
‘Am I?’ he said wearily. ‘Who’d have thought?’
‘What did you do?’ Mark whispered, looking up at him with excited awe. ‘To get sent there? Everyone says it must’ve been something really bad.’
The boy looked at him out of the corner of his eye, his face dark. ‘I killed a man,’ he said mysteriously.
Mark’s heart was thudding - he was torn between childish excitement and genuine fear. Perhaps it showed on his face because suddenly the boy was grinning in a strange sort of way.
‘I’m kidding.’
‘Oh,’ said Mark, laughing uneasily.
‘He’s not dead, I saw him this summer.’
Mark squinted at him again, his sore nose winkled, his mouth slightly open, unsure if he was being teased of not. They walked onto Privet Drive, but the boy walked past number four, where Mark knew he lived, and continued with him to number fourteen. It suddenly occurred to Mark that his mother would be very angry if she heard he had walked with him, alone.
‘I can take it from here,’ he said.
‘It’s all right,’ said the boy, sounding amused again. ‘Don’t want you wandering the dangerous streets of Little Whinging alone.’
Now that he knew who he was, Mark looked at the boy more carefully. He had a funny shaped mark on his head, and a big long scar on his forearm. It must be a really rough place, where he went. ‘What’s it like?’ he asked curiously. ‘The borstal?’
‘It’s not a borstal,’ said the boy warily. He was glancing over his shoulder again.
‘Orphanage then.’
‘It’s not an orphanage either,’ he said. ‘I told you, I live with my aunt and uncle.’
‘Oh. The secure centre or whatever you call it.’
‘It’s rubbish,’ said the boy, yawning. ‘Stop getting into fights, or you’ll end up there too.’
‘I didn’t get into a fight, they started on me.’
‘Run away from fights then.’
‘I’m not very fast.’
‘Get faster.’
They reached Mark’s house, and paused by the driveway. Mark looked up at the boy. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell my mum you’re not dangerous really.’
The boy looked back at him for a few moments, his face back looking incredibly miserable. ‘S’all right,’ he said. ‘Probably easier to say you made your own way home. Hope your nose feels better soon.’
Then he nodded awkwardly and turned to walk back up Privet Drive. ‘Bye!’ Mark shouted after him. The boy didn’t answer.