Bully

​Short Fiction ~ Stephen Smythe

First Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 


​You’re legging it through the back alleys of your childhood estate, training for the West Yorkshire Marathon, when you crash into an old man, sending him sprawling. You gulp, scared you’ve hurt him. As you go over to help, you realise the crumpled heap between the bins isn’t an old man, after all – it’s Jacko, the boy who made growing up around here hell.
 
Except now he must be fifty-two – you’ll never forget he’s two years older – and his flaming mop has turned white, his angry crimson cheeks pale, his fierce blue eyes watery and widening as though he’s seen a ghost. But you’re real and, hands on hips, you’re panting. Even as you tower over him, you have to tell yourself not to be daft – this shell of a man can’t hurt you. 
 
He eases himself onto his elbows. He doesn’t seem injured, but you chide yourself for even caring. Frowning, he looks you up and down. He knows who you are, alright, even though he’s not seen you since you left for university.
 
He holds out his shaking hand and you yank him up. Despite your soaking sweatshirt, his pong overrides anything else, the stench of chip fat, whisky and weed coming from the army surplus greatcoat swamping his skinny frame.  
 
You wait for him to speak, to explain himself. All he does is look away. You always thought he was taller, even when you shot up past him at sixteen, but he’d been bullet-headed and barrel-chested with arms like Popeye. He called you names for years – weirdo, freak, wimp – chased you, pushed your face into the muddy field when he caught you, kicked you up the arse for laughs, but it was on this spot where he humiliated you the most.
 
That summer day couldn’t have started better. You’d had a letter saying you’d passed ten O-Levels. Your dad gave you twenty quid and you went to town and bought a cream Ben Sherman shirt. In the evening you went to The Regal with Joanne Carter. You’d liked her for ages, but she had to ask you out because you were too shy. After the film, you walked her home and she slipped her hand into yours. You turned into a back alley – this back alley – and like now Jacko was waiting, only he was with Skinner and Nudge, all three leaning against the wall blowing smoke rings. As you tried to go past, Jacko blocked your way. You shifted to get around him, but he shuffled across so you couldn’t. He curled his lip and put his cigarette out on your arm, burning a hole in the sleeve of your new shirt. The other lads guffawed as you yelped.
 
Joanne squeezed your hand, and you both edged forward.
 
Jacko sneered and said to her, ‘Why are you with that wimp?’
 
She looked at you, maybe hoping you’d do something, but all you did was stammer.
 
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Jacko said. ‘You’re a slag.’
 
‘Get lost, carrot head,’ she said.
 
Jacko tugged her ponytail and she yelled.
 
 For a moment, you forgot your fear. ‘Leave her alone!’
 
He let go of her, but rabbit punched you instead. The scorching pain seared through the back of your head, and you staggered before keeling over.
 
He bellowed, ‘Let’s see what the wimp’s got.’ Skinner grabbed you in a chokehold, putting you on your back, while Nudge pinned your arms. You writhed in vain to cover yourself as Jacko pulled down your jeans and underpants. They pointed, in hysterics, while Joanne screamed, ‘Stop it!’
 
Your cheeks burn as you remember. You want him to look you in the eye, see you’re not frightened anymore. You spit out his name. ‘Jacko.’
 
He reaches inside his greatcoat and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. His hand trembles as he lights up. He blows smoke out of his nostrils like an impotent dragon.
 
His voice is thin. ‘I’ve not been well. Had the flu.’
 
And the rest, you think. Booze, fags, drugs. No wonder he’s got the shakes.
 
‘My missus died last month,’ he says. ‘Lung cancer.’
 
You bet he was husband of the year. Now he wants you to feel sorry for him.
 
It starts to rain, but you’re going nowhere. ‘Why did you treat me like that?’
 
He looks at the ground and sniffs. ‘It were a long time ago. I were nowt but a kid.’
 
‘Huh. Some kid. More like an eighteen year old hod carrier, that night with me and Joanne Carter.’
 
At least he blushes when you mention Joanne’s name. There’d been no second date.
 
You’d spent longer than you wanted trying to figure out why he’d tormented you. You even had therapy. Was it because you went to the grammar school? Or was it that you had no mum? Or your dad was in a wheelchair?  Eventually, you stopped speculating. Even though you came across bullying with your job, you thought you’d got over Jacko.  
 
He flicks away his cigarette and coughs so hard he hacks up a clump of yellow snot. He puts his hand on one of the bins for support and comes round. ‘Well, I’ll be going.’
 
You shuffle across and block his way.
 
He looks up at you. His thin voice deepens. ‘What’s going on?’
 
You sweep your hair off your forehead to stop the rain dripping into your eyes. ‘Why did you do it?’
 
His greatcoat is sodden. He fumbles for his cigarette packet, this time offers you one, but you wave it away.
 
          He curls his lip. ‘Never had any vices did you? Still a goody-goody.’
         
‘Here’s me thinking you might feel a bit sorry.’
 
‘Why should I? Hear you’ve done alright for yourself, Mr. Headteacher.’
 
The fractured sound of a detuned radio escapes from somewhere. There’s nobody else around, only ghosts. You’ll let him finish his cigarette, wait until he stops coughing his guts up, before you rabbit punch him.
 
~

Stephen Smythe is a Mancunian writer. In recent years he has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize (Flash Fiction category), longlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award, came third in the Strands International Flash Fiction competition, and completed an MA in Creative Writing at Salford University. In 2022, he won the Bangor Literary Journal FORTY WORDS competition. His debut book, ‘Looking for Love,’ 40 x Forty Word stories, was published in 2023 by The Red Ceilings Press. Later that same year, his Novella-in-flash, The Night Shift, was published by Flight of The Dragonfly Press. 

---