Flower of Scotland 2 by William Meikle Read Free Book Online Page B

the last to get caught. Granddad said he was ‘Tuppence short o’ a bob’ and Tony, although he didn’t quite understand the phrase, knew that it meant that Nick wasn’t one of life’s good guys. He trusted his Granddad’s judgement, but he couldn’t see what made Isobel so attracted to the boy. He supposed it was something he might understand when he got older.
    He had to reply quickly, otherwise, he’d lose them all - Ian was already trying to struggle upright. He firmly pushed his friend back down and turned to face the rest.
    "All right then. If it doesn’t work, I’ll give you all ten pence each."
    "Ten pence. That’s no’ goin’ tae break the bank is it? If ye want me tae stay, you’d better make it fifty at least."
    Nick was still grinning at him, that big cheesy grin that meant he knew he was on to a good thing. Fifty pence was all that Tony had, and if his trick didn’t work he’d have to pay out over three pounds. He was about to pull out when he caught Isobel looking at him, big lashes fluttering. He felt a warm tingly feeling in his stomach and had to lower his eyes. There was no way that he’d back down with her watching him.
    "OK then, let’s do it."
    After they had placed themselves around the prone figure, he started to chant.
    "He looks pale."
    "He looks fat, " a low voice replied and they all burst out laughing. All that is apart from Tony. He was furious.
    "OK. If you’re not going to take this seriously I’m off. I’ve got better things to do anyway."
    He looked around and felt a warm smile of pleasure inside which he daren’t let reach his face. He had their attention again - he was the magician once more.
    There were several protests, not the least of which came from Isobel. He permitted himself one small smile as he looked across at her.
    "All right then. I’ll try it again. But don’t blame me if this doesn’t work - I told you that you had to be serious for it to happen."
    He placed his hands on the side of Ian’s head, feeling heat at the ears underneath Ian’s hair.
    "He looks pale," he began.
    "He is pale."
    This time they all replied, not quite in unison, but the atmosphere of the occasion was beginning to get through to them. Even Nick Bayliss looked like he was taking it seriously. Tony permitted himself a quick glance at Isobel, but her eyes were closed and she was frowning in concentration.
    "He looks ill."
    "He is ill."
    Six voices replied. Nowhere existed except for that room, that moment. It was going to work, he could feel it.
    By now they were all caught in the special atmosphere, so much so that no one noticed the whitening around the lips of the boy between their hands.
    "He looks dead."
    "He is dead."
    "Dead?" whispered the lips in the head held tightly between Tony’s hands.
    "Sshh." Tony said, pressing his reddened palms even tighter against the large boy’s ears.
    "We are now entering the world of Illusion"
    Twelve fingers and one pair of hands lifted, but found the body already afloat, bobbing like a helium balloon on a piece of string.
    Tony looked down a double row of faces, a triumphant smile on his face, a smile which was wiped out by the sight of Nick Bayliss. The older boy grinned widely, the same old manic grin. Slowly, looking at Tony all the while, he removed his fingers from beneath the body. The grin never left his face.
    Time slowed for Tony, like a projector running down. He had a bad taste in his mouth, the taste of cold metal.
    Ian fell stiffly to the ground, head striking a corner of the large boiler with a loud crack. They all stepped back, first one, then two steps and then there was a moment of silence as they looked at the unmoving body at their feet.
    Tony stared at the ground, at the blood and grey fluid that was seeping from Ian’s head and at the red and white chalk dust in the boy’s blond hair.
    He opened his mouth wide, took in a lung full of air, and prepared to scream.
    　
    ~-oO0Oo-~
　
Just a Par to Win
    He was trying