The Famous 4 1/2 (& The Did he Jump Or Was He Pushed Mystery)
an excerpt

Chapter 1
It seemed that just about everyone heard the thump as the body hit the ground. No matter who you asked, they would all swear on various family members lives that there was an audible crump sound that they definitely heard, honest and no fibbing. Many of them were quoted in the paper, which was ultimately the aim of the story. The thing is, for all the people to actually have heard what was really quite a quiet noise, Barnworth school would have to be the scabby comprehensive equivalent of the Whispering Gallery at St Pauls. I was only thirty yards away, wondering for the billionth time why I had ever decided taking Geography was a good idea, and I didn't hear a thing. Granted, at the time my attention was focussed on looking at Amanda Skinner's bra strap through her shirt, as if I could undo it by mental power alone, but no one else in the class heard anything either. Afterwards, of course, they all swore blind that they did.
Considering the hundreds of people that heard the crump, especially the ones that swore blind they knew that it was the sound of a body hitting the ground, the news broke pretty slowly. Like I said, I was in Geography at the time, and it must have been a good fifteen minutes before the deputy head Mr Robinson, or Nobby Nobinson as he was known, came in and had a quiet few words with Mr George before scuttling back out with a worried look on his face. Naturally, we all knew something was up. Not due to Nobinson's worried look, mind you, as the bloke always went round with an expression that said he was carrying a couple of live ferrets down his trousers. It was Mr George (also known as Georgie Boy, 'cause he was a young bloke) that gave it away, as his normally ruddy face drained of colour until he made even Jamie Rose, our token Ginger Kid, look healthy. He looked at the class, and twenty five expectant faces looked back at him. It would have been twenty six, but I was back to staring at Amanda Skinner's bra strap again.
“There's been an, um incident,” started Georgie Boy uncertainly. “I'm afraid that we have all been instructed to stay in our classrooms until someone tells us it's okay to leave.”
At this, chaos decided it was time to stick it's nose out to have a play, and Georgie Boy was inundated with questions.
“Is it terrorists, Sir? My Dad says we should shoot 'em all, Sir.”
“Has someone gone mental with a gun, Sir? Shouldn't we hide or something?”
“Is it a war? Will we get called up?”
These and what seemed like a million other questions were fired at Georgie Boy, who visibly withered under their assault. He was only a new teacher, and didn't have the wherewithal to quiet the excited class. Other, more experienced, teachers would have banged something on the desk or shouted in a loud authoritative voice, but poor old Georgie Boy just stood there and said “Um...” for a while until the questions finally died down. He leaned back against the desk and held up his hands until silence descended.
“It's not a war, or terrorists or anything like that. None of you are in any danger, but there has been an accident. The police have been called and they felt it best that they be allowed to sort things out without a load of kids nosing round and asking stupid questions.” As people started to speak again he raised his hands once more and interrupted forcefully. “I can't tell you what happened or who is involved. I'm sure you'll all find out soon enough, but for now we just have to stay here. Just talk amongst yourselves if you like.”
With that, we were allowed to let our imaginations run riot, each one of us expounding a private theory over what was the most likely scenario, based on nothing more than wishful thinking. With so many teachers names being bandied around as potential casualties it was inevitable that Richard Walker would try to make some cash, and right on cue he started circulating and taking bets from people, offering five to one if they got the right victim. As most people went for their most hated nemesis, a lot of dinner money was laid out on The Bastard, otherwise known as History teacher Mr Brown, having met his untimely doom, preferably in a painful manner. Odds on was a disgruntled pupil with a gun: although no one could decide who fitted the bill as the assassin, there were certainly plenty of likely candidates. I had to know what was really going on, but unlike everyone else I had a not so secret super weapon. I raised my hand.
“Sir?” I said in my most pathetic voice.
“What?” said Georgy Boy, looking up with an exasperated look on his face, expecting another stupid ass question about what was going on.
“I need to go, Sir,” I said with a slight tremble in my voice. “I need to go now.”
Normally, me putting my hand in the air and asking to be allowed to 'go' would be met with howls of derision (as long as the teacher wasn't a right cunt, anyway), but this time no one said a thing. It was painfully obvious to all that I was going to try and make a break for it, and equally obvious that if they didn't blow it for me I would be able to give them the inside info on the mystery event at a later date. Georgy Boy, however, had no choice but to let me out of the room, because all teachers know that when Pete Parsons wanted to go for a piss you bloody well let him. Even so, the teacher hesitated for a second.
“Ummm..” he faltered, so I put on my best I-have-to-go-NOW- expression. “Just be quick, okay?” he relented. I nodded and shuffled from my seat, hand convincingly over my cock. “You've got three minutes,” he instructed, going for 'Stern teacher' but ending up with 'Constipated buffoon'. I nodded agreement and hurried out, shutting the classroom door behind me.

Okay, I understand that some of you may be sitting there wondering why the hell I can just be allowed to walk out of a classroom during what seems to be a pretty serious time without even a serious questioning by the teacher. Others will already have determined the answer, which is because when I need to pee, I really need to pee. I have a condition that we may as well call weak bladder syndrome, as the Latin name wouldn't make anyone the wiser except Romans, and knowing Romans they'd just ask me to piss on them during an orgy. Basically, once my bladder wants to empty itself I don't have a workable muscle to stop it. Where you hold it in, I let it out. Nowadays there are medications and operations to help such problems, but when I was in fifteen, back in the bad old Eighties, there wasn't much I could do except rush out to the bog or wear incontinence pants. When it came to the embarrassment of either wearing these horrendous things or just going and having the piss (yeah, I know, ha ha) taken out of me for going in the middle of lessons, I much preferred the notoriety of being 'That kid who pees all the time' than 'That kid who wears pants like my Nan – let's steal them!'. As a result of my condition, every teacher in the school was aware that if I wanted to go I was to be allowed to go without any fucking about. Sure, I got a lot of shit over my condition, but that's pretty much par for the course with kids. I found that I could either turn into a mental and lash out at everyone who said something, or I could just accept it and not make a fuss. I chose the latter, and as time progressed the harsher insults fell away when they were perceived as having no entertaining effect, leaving plenty of mickey taking, sure, but of the good humoured variety. As my initials are, unfortunately, PP, I was inevitably knows as Piss Pants, or Captain Piss Pants to the especially comical. There. Now you know. In case you were wondering, I'm not troubled by it any more, thanks to modern medicine, but I felt you should know.
Once I was out, I could feel the adrenaline coursing through me, although thankfully not any urine. Bypassing the bogs, I scuttled down the stairs, stretching my senses and tiptoeing as quietly as I could. Luckily, there was no one about, so I had a moment to try and work out where the hell I wanted to go now. I figured that I might get a clue if I went outside, exciting events being known for making exciting noises and all that, so I made for the door.
“BOY! COME HERE!” came the booming American voice, just as I was about to open said door. My heart sank as I realised that I had been nabbed by Mr Tucker, our librarian. Tucker, whose nickname should be blatantly obvious to anyone with a rude rhyming dictionary, had the loudest voice of any librarian, and was fond of calling every pupil either BOY or GIRL, booming it across the library if he saw them so much as fold over the corner of a page to keep their place. It didn't help that he was American, with a deep south twang to his voice. A favourite way to wind him up was to sit innocently in the library and hum the banjo music from 'Deliverance' until steam came out of his ears. He didn't really have any power over us like a teacher would, but was happy to frogmarch wrongdoers to the Head's office on occasion, so we all walked a fine line when confronted with his purple face.
“What are you doing, boy?” he asked, looking down at me from his lofty six foot four peak. Luckily he wasn't the brightest spark to com from Librarian Collage, and I could usually get the better of him.
“Haven't you heard, sir?” I gasped, looking like a frightened bunny during a prison riot.
“Heard what, exactly?” he blustered. “All I have been told is that no one is allowed outside the library until further notice. I would therefore assume that means you as well, boy, mmm?”
“Yes,” I stammered. “I mean, yes you should keep everyone in the library, but not me, oh no. Only I can save him, you see.”
“Save who?” he said, looking very confused by this point.
“The head!” I exclaimed. “Look – I've got to go or his blood will be on your hands Mr Tucker. You wouldn't want that, would you?”
“Good Lord no! Go on, boy, go save him!” By this point he was probably imagining he was in Vietnam or something, saving the life of a comrade. He always said that he'd been there, but we all thought he was full of shit.
I ran off, only breaking into a shit eating grin when my back was to him. I exited the library block (as it was unimaginatively known) and just stood for a second. I could hear commotion and even a police siren towards the back entrance to the school, where the swimming pool and gymnasium were situated. No one was about, although I was invariably spotted from a few classrooms. The thing was, any teachers couldn't come out after me as they couldn't trust their own class not to make a break for it, so I was pretty safe although I would surely catch it later. Oh well, later was later, and right now I had to get to the bottom of whatever as happening. Captain Piss Pants to the rescue, and all that.

I knew I couldn't just walk up to the gym area, so I doubled back a bit and made my way there via the back of the tennis courts. The tennis courts bugged me, because only girls were ever allowed to use them, which seemed a trifle unfair. I mean, here I was in my fourth year, and not once had I picked up a tennis bat, or whatever they were called. As I came into the view of the gym I saw a weird sight: there were policemen on top of it. Oh, this was where the action was all right. There wasn't any at the back – either they were done there or I was just lucky. Either way I realised that I only had one shot at this, so I crept round the side. There was an officer in front of me as I headed to the front of the gym, but he was facing the other way, so I steeled myself and just walked past him brazen as you please. In front of me were police cars, an ambulance, a lot of fuss and a dead body. I tried to take in as much as I could in the two seconds I got before a big police hand clamped me on the shoulder. As he said something about me not being allowed there and turned me away I was still in shock at what I'd seen. You see, it wasn't just any dead body sprawled on the concrete. This was big – The School Cunt was dead.

Chapter 2

Sitting in the headmaster's office was a new thing for me. I have to admit that in the main I was a very well behaved young man, or at least a poorly behaved one that didn't get caught. There were kids who seemed to end up here every week for one reason or another, and the School Cunt was definitely one of them. Look, I know there's gonna be those of you out there that think it's a orrible word, but that's what he was. Every school has one. Sure, parents, newspapers and copies of the Beano may well refer to the particular individual as a 'School Bully', but to all of the pupils he was without a doubt the School Cunt. His name was Jason Nethercott, and he was not what you would call a shrinking violet. In the first year he was the boy in the showers who seemed to have more pubes than a Seventies porn star and a genuine reason for shaving. Whereas I was bused in from a nearby village, Jason was a local, his parents owning a hardware shop down the road from the school. He had tight black curls, a sneer Billy Idol would have been proud of and eyes that could bore through your head in an instant. He was, naturally, good with his fists and not afraid to back a smaller kid (which was most of us) into a corner and administer a quick rabbit punch to the guts. Sometimes it would be for the old favourite, dinner money, other times just because he could. He was notoriously a bit thick at English, but back then people weren't so aware of dyslexia as they are now. I reckon that's what he had, because he never had much trouble in other subjects. In short, he was a cunt, but he was our cunt.
As I sat at his desk, Mr Robinson looked me over. As I wasn't a regular he didn't know the best way to handle me, so he went for long intimidating pauses. I was smart enough to know that abject humility was the best way to go in these situations, and was wearing a penitent look that would shame many a Gregorian Monk.

“Well, Parsons?” said Nobinson with an affected air of disappointment. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“Sorry Sir,” I muttered in a small voice.
“Sorry Sir,” he echoed, an old teachers trick. “But sorry for what, eh boy? Sorry for tricking poor old Mr George? Sorry for telling Mr Tucker that I was dying? Sorry for entering a crime scene? Hmmm?”
“All of it Sir,” I replied, covering the bases. I had been studiously looking at my feet, an old student trick, and chose this moment to raise my head and give him the puppy dog eyes, the ones that effectively said 'I'm sorry I shat on the floor, please don't send me to the pound'. Then I pulled my trump card. “It was a dare Sir,” I ventured, lying through my teeth.
“That doesn't mean you have to do it, for God's sake!” he said loudly. “Just because someone dares you! If someone dared you to jump off a cliff, would you do it, eh?”
Why is it that adults always, without fail, mention jumping off a cliff when you do something because your friends pushed you into it. I think it must be one of the first things they are taught at Parent College, along with the phrase “I'm not angry, I'm disappointed”.
“No Sir,” I replied, letting him take the lead. The dare thing had paid off exactly as I hoped, as it was a good way to get away with doing stupid things. Sure, the adult would call you an idiot or whatever, but in their mind the blame would shift to whichever little sod had taken advantage of your stupidity.
“Of course not,” he said from his moral high ground. “Look, Parsons, you did a very silly thing today, and you're lucky that nothing was really affected by your blundering in. What happened this morning was a tragedy, and I'm sure you're felling all sorts of things at the moment. In light of this, I'm going to let you off with a warning.” he paused, expectantly.
“Thank you Sir,” I said obediently.
“Yes, well, I suppose there was no harm done. It was all going to come out regardless. Mind you, I don't want you spreading silly, exaggerated gossip around, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Do I have your word?”
“Yes Sir. No silly exaggerated gossip Sir.”

“And there was about, I dunno, a hundred policemen there!” I exaggerated ten minutes later. “And Northcott was on the ground right in front of me, lying in a pool of his own blood.” Okay, so it wasn't strictly true, but it was a hell of a lot more interesting.
“Fucking hell, you must have bricked it!” said Cabbage, drinking in every word.
“Well, they tried to grab me,” I explained, “but I was too quick for 'em. Took three of 'em to catch me in the end. I got rugby tackled to the ground – you can see the bruises if you want.” The four kids surrounding me all nodded eagerly, and I showed them the impressive marks from where I'd slipped up on the stairs at home that morning.
“Fuck!” breathed Radar slowly, stretching the word like Northcott himself used to stretch a line of gob over a kids face as he sat on him.

“That's bollocks!” said Blobert, trying his best to spoil my fun. “They'd have arrested you if you'd done that, not just handed you over to Nobinson.”
“Where did I get the marks from then?” I retorted defiantly. Rule one of bullshitting was definitely keep it up.
“Huh... knowing you, you fell on the stairs whilst running for a piss!” he snorted, uncomfortably close to the truth.
“Well, if you don't believe me I'll just shut up then,” I said huffily, staring him the eyes and mentally daring him to take me up on the threat.
“Oh for fuck's sake, don't be a cunt,” he said. “Just tell the fucking story you fudge magnet.” Blobert, as you may have noticed, was quite oblivious to the finer points of the English language. He was fascinated by swear words and liked to insert one wherever he could.
“Yeah, stop being a twat,” came a voice from waist height. “What happened next?”
“Did someone speak?” I asked innocently, jumping into a running joke that amused everyone but Stump. I looked at the faces of the other three as they all over mimed confusion with huge shrugging gestures reminiscent of a bunch of Frenchmen who've been asked which one has the soap.
“Hah fucking hah,” said Stump. “Tell us what happened next, or I'll punch you in the balls.” As he was at exactly the right height for this action, I carried on.
“Not much, really,” I said truthfully. “Nobinson was there, of course, and he just ordered me to wait outside his office. Half an hour later he turned up, gave me a bollocking and let me go.”
“What defence did you use?” asked Radar.

“Dare.”
“Hmmm... good move Pisspants,” he approved. “Always a winner for your first offence.”
Radar was our intellectual. Every group should have one, and he should be weedy and wear glasses. His real name was Steven, but we called him Radar because of his huge ears that stuck out of his head like jug handles. He was one of those kids that seem to be in the top set for everything, destined for University and a plum job with wads of cash. Because of this, some people saw it as their duty to knock him off of his pedestal before he actually had a chance to climb on it. Let's face it, being a weedy kid with glasses was just asking for trouble, and being brainy on top of that added another layer to the enjoyment of twatting him in the face. The thing was, Radar wasn't bullied at all after about 6 months of the first year. Inside the frail body, you see, was a mad bastard struggling to get out and glass somebody in the face. Outside, he was mild mannered Steven Taylor, but inside he was a drunk Glaswegian who had just been called a puff. I witnessed it once, and it was a terrifying sight. Some kid decided he looked ripe for conquest and backed him up against a wall. Instead of cowering like he was supposed to, Radar turned a funny colour and started yelling and lashing out as violently as possible. Unprepared for such a bizarre attack, the bully suffered a good few smacks to the face and a kick in the balls for good measure. This happened a few times before people realised that it just wasn't worth it. He still got comments and jibes, but that didn't bother him. It was only when threatened with actual physical violence that he went off – apart from that he was a very unassuming nerd and happy to be like that.
“He could've suspended you,” commented Cabbage. “Or caned you.”

Cabbage was totally wrong, of course, and I told him that caning wasn't allowed any more.
“I wish someone would tell my Dad that,” he replied mournfully, and we all felt immediately guilty even though we hadn't done anything.
Cabbage came from a family that was unashamedly working class. His Dad was a labourer and general thieving git, whilst his Mum cleaned people's houses, usually until she was caught nicking something. Poor Cabbage was often deemed guilty by association, and also by the fact that he, too, could be a thieving git at times. With him it was more kleptomania than malice, and he often found things in his pockets that he didn't even remember nicking. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, languishing in the bottom set for most things, and was a kid who would only ever be good at the 'dummy' subjects such as woodwork and the like. I admit that calling a stupid kid Cabbage may be perceived as slightly non pc these days, but we found it funny and that was all that mattered. Also going against him was his real name, which was Dennis Dennes, which as a co member of the alliteration squad I sympathised with. For a while he had been known as Dum Dum because of this, but Cabbage just seemed to fit his gangly mop headed frame better. One thing he was good at, against all the odds, was Dungeons & Dragons. By coincidence, Jason Nethercott had also loved the game, and this shared passion had allowed Cabbage to go unmolested, protected by Jason's assertion that he was 'All right'.
“I still think you're making it up,” said Blobert sulkily. He hated anyone else getting the attention.

Blobert was, as his name suggests, a bit fat bastard. His assertion that he was 'big boned' was always met with howls of derision, his size attributed much more easily to the prodigious amounts of food he stuffed in his face. As his real name was Robert, the nickname was a no brainer. He was absolutely mad on music, specifically heavy metal, and was trying to grow his hair, which unfortunately for him was having none of it. Where others would have a ponytail or perhaps a mane of rocking hair, his only seemed to grow to his collar and then curl up like some Edwardian fop. As hair products back then were for girls or queers (or glam rock bands), he was stuck with it. One thing he did have going for him is he looked way older than he was, and made a good living getting other kids alcohol.
“Feel free to fuck off, Blob,” I said with a big smile on my face. “Go and listen to Shitallica or something, we ain't stopping you.”
“It's 'Metallica' you twat,” he asserted, grabbing me by the throat and snarling. He had a grip of iron, did Blob, and was prone, like vampire, to go for people's throats. Coupled with a short temper and a large bodyweight, he was another kid who didn't need to worry about bullies. I held up my hands for peace and he let me go, whereupon I called him a wanker and said that Metallica were gay. A small scuffle ensued until we both stopped when we realised we each had a hand cupping our balls. The hand belonged to Stump, a boy who had long ago realised one of the few advantages of being a shortarse.
“Stop it, you nobbers,” he said, squeezing a bit. We stopped. “Shake hands,” he instructed. We shook hands, and he let go. I got on with Blobert, but he could be an arrogant cock at times and I felt it was my duty to bring him down a peg or two. Stump, however, everyone loved Stump.

At a not so mighty four foot, Stump was a rather tiny kid. He wasn't a midget or anything like that, he was just short. He made up for this by being everybody's friend, and by being a funny fucker when the mood took him. He was one of five brothers, but was the only short one, leading to oft repeated speculation that his Mum had had it away with a circus midget or something. Girls thought he was sweet, and boys thought he was a laugh, so he had it pretty easy. Like Radar he got plenty of stick, but it was usually pretty good natured, and he had learned not to take offence.
“Cumrag,” said Blober deadpan as we stepped apart, grinning. At this, everyone laughed, as it was a totally new one on us, and one we would ourselves be using at every opportunity from now on.
“So come on, Captain,” said radar. “What happened? Was he murdered?”
“Who'd murder Jason Northcott?” said Cabbage incredulously. We all thought for a moment, then Stump piped up with an observation that we'd all been thinking.
“Who wouldn't?"