Crossing the Line by Gillian Philip Read Free Book Online Page A

artery. Kevin Naughton murdered Aidan Mahon.
    Kevin Naughton was my friend.
    What were you thinking?
Dad would scream at me in the days afterwards.
Why did you get involved with that scum? What the hell were you thinking?
    Quite, Dad. What was I thinking? You may well ask.
    I like to tell myself that when your mother does the local Whatever-God-You-Fancy slot – and occasionally uses you to illustrate a twee point about her amusing family life – you have to be meaner, tougher and sicker than anyone else, or you’re dead. And there’s an element of truth in that.
    It’s complicated, though.
    I first laid eyes on Kev Naughton on my first day at Craigmyle High. I knew right away he was as scared as the rest of us newcomers, but what he was most scared of was his big brother. Mickey Naughton was a lot older and he’d left school, but he liked to keep an eye on Kev. He had a job selling bull semen to farmers – the back of his car was full of little tubes of spunk – but he must have picked some irregular hours for impregnating cows, because it left Mickey plenty of time to loiter near the school and monitor Kev’s progress.
    Maybe it was his intimate involvement with cattle; maybe over-familiarity had bred contempt. Mickey Naughton wanted to stay at the top of the food chain, and he wanted Kev up there with him. Naughton family values were Darwinian, smart and cold. Just like Mickey.
    I was dead impressed with Mickey.
    Yes, he was a scary bastard. Charming and all, but then I think the charm was part of the fear factor. I couldn’t imagine Mickey taking crap from anyone, bureaucrat or traffic warden or snotty neighbour. I bet no kid would ever dare pee in Mickey’s garden and run away laughing. Mickey would never quarrel with his boss over something pointless; he wouldn’t clamber up on to his dignity and fall off. Mickey did not smell faintly of stale wine, and he did not wear a ponytail or the T-shirts of his lost youth. Mickey was dapper, with a nice line in shirts and jackets. Mickey had a white dazzling smile and notattoos. I used to look at Mickey – nervously, out of the corner of my eye – and think, now that’s what I call a role model.
    Besides, my dad never saved me from getting the crap kicked out of me.
    Exhibit A in my dodgy defence: Calum Sinclair. Let’s take Calum Sinclair into consideration.
    I was never that friendly with Calum at primary, but at Craigmyle High, for the first few weeks, we gravitated together. We came from the same part of town. Our parents knew each other vaguely. We liked the same films, we liked the same games, we pretty much liked the same music. I’d given him half the songs on his iPod, so I suppose I took it personally when some thick ape from third year tried to take it off him.
    We were outside the school gates but it was a quiet time of day and the two of us were backed up against the wire fence. Josh the Ape wasn’t that bright but he had a reputation, and large friends, two of whom flanked him as he held out his hand for the iPod, making beckoning motions with his fingers. I scowled at him.
    Calum wasn’t scowling; Calum, from the look of him, was about to soil himself. There were tears of fury in his eyes, but he was about to hand over the iPod, I could see his hand going to his pocket. I couldn’t believe what I was not-quite-seeing.
    â€˜Don’t give it to him!’ I blurted, and one of the side-apes grabbed me by the throat and kicked my knee hard. Iwent half down, my leg crumpling, but now I was as mad as a cat with a firework up its arse. Calum had frozen in terror, so I lurched for his arm and grabbed it to stop him giving away the iPod. I got kicked in the side for that, which made me lose my grip. Calum was knocked down and away from me, and it took two kicks in his belly before he was shoving the iPod at them, gasping and squeaking at them to take the frigging thing.
    Understandably,