“I love your tattoos,” I say suddenly, emerging from his sweet, football-field scent.
“Random.” He nods. “But thanks.” He spreads out his arms. His sleeves are rolled up and he flexes, making the jags and swirls of each intricate design appear like running ink.
“Did you design them yourself?” I ask, and he nods again. “So what do they mean?”
“They’re wards. Talismans. Protections against evil. They keep me safe.”
“Do you run into much evil?” I laugh.
He’s silent for a while, and I’m terrified I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Every now and then. And if I’m right about you, Dylan, you’ll run into it too one day. Most of us do. So…” He sighs. “You like comics?”
I’m so pleased he didn’t say “graphic novels” that I start giving him the full geek chorus: how I first fell in love with The Fantastic Four when my dad bought me a colouring book at an airport; my Avengers-themed fifth birthday party, back when nobody knew who the Avengers were; my and Mike’s invention of the candyfloss-themed supervillain Slaughter Master.
“Okay.” El nods. “But why ‘Slaughter Master’? Shouldn’t he be, like, the Pink Peril?”
“Oh.” I consider. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Or do you think that’s a bit gay?”
“No! It’s just, we were kids and probably didn’t work it out properly and—”
“Frecks, I’m teasing.”
“Oh.” I press my hands between my knees. I want to hold his hand, but I’ve retreated again. “So, do you like comics?”
“Are you kidding? Steve Ditko’s my hero! Those original Spider-Man designs? Wow. You know I draw a bit, right?”
“Yeah! I mean, I’d heard you do art A level.”
Plus I’ve been sneaking into the school studios and looking at your portraits and sculptures every lunch break.
“I’m going to draw you when I get home,” he says.
“Right. Are you?”
He shrugs. “I’ve got an idea. A hide-and-seek idea. We’ll see… But first, Mr Frecks, will you leave your super-restricted lair and walk me to my car?”
I nod. It’s all I’m capable of.
Mrs J is grinning like a loon when we pass the issues desk. I think she’s dying to give me a thumbs up as well but she manages to resist, so I throw her a quick smile.
We walk side by side, out across the street and right through town. It’s busy, shoulders barge me, but I hardly notice. I’m now fixated on how close our hands can swing without actually touching. I think he knows this game and he’s teasing me, letting his little finger arch outwards then pulling it back, but I’ve discovered something about myself today. I like being teased. At least, I like being teased by Ellis Bell.
El knows. He must. Anyway, I’ve decided that I’m going to tell him. And maybe I’m completely misreading things, because I really can’t see how he could ever be interested inme, but if he is then—
“What the hell?!”
We’ve turned down a side alley and El has broken into a run. I join him on the kerb in front of a rather beaten-up Nissan Micra. The driver’s window has been busted in and a whole heap of rubbish thrown onto the front seat. A couple of bluebottles drone around the gloopy contents of old takeaway boxes while a random shoe pokes out from between a mountain of crisp wrappers. El looks up and down the street but no one’s in sight.
“We should call the police. Hey.” I click my fingers. “Do you think this could’ve been Alistair Pardue? Revenge for how you kicked his sorry arse at the bonfire?”
He shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t think this was Alistair. He wouldn’t have the balls. I think…” He pauses for a second, his gaze roaming back down the street. “Probably just some silly kid.” Ellis bends down and picks up something from under the front tyre. A shattered snow globe, a few specks of white still floating in the broken bowl. “Ah shit. My aunt gave me this as a moving-in present.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighs. “I don’t know how I’m gonna get the window replaced. If I make a claim my insurance will skyrocket.”
