Chapter Text
When Wat was five, he smashed Geraint Williams over the head with a Thomas the Tank Engine omnibus and was declared unteachable by Mrs Selby. If Wat had known what unteachable meant, he would have agreed that yes, he did not want to be taught by Mrs Selby, thank you very much. She had sharp elbows, smelled of hairspray with a faint overlay of cabbage and had a smile that had far too many teeth.
It was a downhill slide all the way after that. By ten Wat was firmly entrenched in "Remedial Class" or "Stupid Kids" as everyone else called it. They did things like learn how to tie shoelaces and to play the recorder, though not at the same time because, duh, stupid. And there was the small problem of only being in possession of two hands. Wat could read and write and that, but most of the time he didn't bother because some of the other kids could barely remember their names, let alone write them down, and there was only so much teacher time to go round.
So he didn't learn much, except for how many squares of carpet tile there were between the doorway to the hall and the Head's office. See, it was okay if he called his class the DumDums or Thickies or whatever, but it wasn't okay if they did it—the kids in the everyday classes. And it really wasn't okay if they called Jennifer Morris "monger" or "spacker". She was a sweet kid and would never fight back. Wat wasn't, and would. This was what punches to the face were invented for. Wat's knuckles got tougher and the time he spent in the chair outside Mr Yates's room got longer. He taught himself times tables off those carpet squares, all the way up to elevens. The day they got replaced by coconut matting he punched a couple of extra kids on the way home for good luck and refused to go back the next day.
By fifteen, Wat had his own Educational Welfare Officer, an intimate knowledge of escape routes from every comp in the borough, a permanent seat at the Pupil Referral Unit, and a best friend called Roland, who'd got bullied out of school for being a bit fat, liking girly stuff like sewing and forgetting to pronounce the invisible r in bath. Wat had offered to smash some heads together on his behalf, but Roland had said no, it was fine. He liked it at the PRU better anyway because they had a beauty of a Singer sewing machine and gave him free rein on it if he got all his work done.
"My birthday next week," Wat said to Roland as they biked home. "Four more days of this shithole left."
"You're not still going on about that? You can't leave now, what about exams?"
Wat made a scornful noise. "What would I want with exams? What am I gonna get anyway? F F F F U? I don't need to answer stupid questions for that." He grinned. "EFF YOU!" he yelled as he put the hammer down and sped up the road, looking back over his shoulder at Roland. "Here, let my fingers do the talking!" He flicked the Vs and Roland's eyes widened.
"Look out!" he shouted, but it was too late.
Wat turned just in time to see the horrified look on a stranger's face as their bikes collided in a screech of twisting metal. His own machine slid from under him, throwing him sideways onto the road, loose tarmac tearing his clothes and scrubbing his skin raw. His shoulder met the ground with a sickening crunch and he managed to tack on a grunted, "Fuck me," to his forced outward breath before the world inexplicably turned black and he fainted.
He came to to a persistent, "Wat, Wat, Wat, Wat," accompanied by frantic tapping at his face. Automatically, Wat's hand went up to grab Roland's wrist and he clenched his jaw against the searing pain that flared through his shoulder. He opened his eyes.
Roland crouched over him, pale and sweaty, the tightness of his lips relaxing a little as he realised Wat was conscious. "You're not dead!" he said. "Good job!"
"Good job?" said a disdainful voice from somewhere up high. "Oh, yes, good job not watching the road. My bike's a mess and I've only had it a month. Great job there."
Wat couldn't see who the voice belonged to, but it was obviously a dick. He tried to sit up. The pain shot through him again and he yelped, hating himself for showing weakness in front of a total stranger.
"Bloody hell, Wat, what have you done to yourself?" Roland's lips tightened again.
"'M okay," said Wat. "Just help me up will you?"
"Got a stutter have you?" said the stranger, hoving into the periphery of Wat's view as Roland bent forward and tried to slip an arm around Wat's back.
Wat yelped again and the stranger dropped to his haunches. "Here, let me help."
"A stutter?" asked Roland.
"I think he's done his collarbone," said the stranger. "What's his name?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"Yes. Have you two met, like?"
"Only in the loosest sense." The stranger drew his eyebrows down in puzzlement. "Look, what's your name?"
"No, it's not. Wat's his name."
"What?"
"Right. Glad that's sorted."
"I don't…what's sorted?"
"I don't think he is. Come on, give us a hand to get him up."
Wat giggled. He wouldn't usually, but what with the pain and the windup, it seemed like the best thing to do. Between them, the stranger and Roland got Wat into a sitting position and then to the relative safety of the pavement. Every jolt was agony across his shoulder and now Wat was beginning to get other signals, too, from parts of his body that obviously felt neglected in this whole pain thing. Pain, lots of pain.
"Roland," said Wat, choosing his words carefully, "If you don't move your feet they're gonna get covered in puke." The scuffed shoes that swam in Wat's vision moved swiftly out of the way and Wat leant forward and threw up. It didn't make him feel any better and he groaned with unhappiness, the lots of pain refusing to do the decent thing and fuck right off.
"I think he needs to go to hospital," said the stranger from closer than Wat expected.
"Whatever gave you that idea?" Roland's voice was sharp with an edge that Wat knew was put there by fear and not nastiness.
"There's a phone box up the road about half a mile," said the stranger. "I could walk it, but I'm a little beaten up myself and it would be faster on a bike and yours is the only one in working order. I can give you the money if you haven't any."
"999 is free, actually, Mr Money Bags," Roland pointed out, squatting down beside Wat, well out of the way of the neat pile of vomit. "Wat, I've got to go and phone an ambulance, but I'll be back right quick, okay?"
Wat nodded and immediately regretted it. He held in the whimper that was threatening to escape by the skin of his teeth. He heard Roland clatter away on his bike and then there were the two of them. They sat in silence for a few seconds, which suited Wat just fine, but then,
"What is your name?"
"Yes," said Wat, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face.
"Don't start that again," said the stranger, "Your name can't possibly be Y…oh."
"Oh?"
"What's your name? Your name is Wat. Nicely done. I'm rather fond of wordplay myself. My name's Geoffrey, by the way."
"Geoffrey? What kind of poncey name is Geoffrey?" With concerted effort, Wat turned and took a proper look at the stranger for the first time. He was a boy of about the same age as Wat. Same height, too, seated at least. There was a streak of dirt across one cheek and the dark blue blazer he wore was caked with mud down one side, half-obscuring the badge that made Wat's lip twist with scorn. This Geoffrey was a St. Thomas' boy. It fit. His blond hair flopped over one eye in that timeless uniform of posh, public school twats everywhere. Wat made up his mind to hate him.
"The kind my parents gave me? And here's you without a literal and metaphorical leg to stand on, Wat."
Wat bristled. "My folks are socialists. Fuck you."
Geoffrey put his hands up in surrender. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. It won't help the paramedics if they have to cut them off."
It was almost a soothing feeling, the anger bubbling up inside him. At least it took his mind off the constant messages of pain the rest of his body was sending. Wat's fists clenched at his sides and it was only the sure and certain knowledge that lifting them even the smallest amount would cause him to keel over and maybe never get back up that he didn't punch Geoffrey in his smug little smile right that second.
"Piss off, why don't you?" he said. "You already broke my bones, ain't that enough?"
Geoffrey shrugged. "You broke my bicycle. I admit it hardly seems like a fair exchange, but your bones will knit by the miracle of nature and my bike will need a miracle if I'm ever to ride it again, so it probably evens out."
The pain was fogging Wat's brain, but even in a muddled state he could see that wasn't quite right. "Hang on just a minute," he said. "You crashed into me."
"Far be it from me to hit a man who's already down, but no. The crashee was most definitely me. You weren't looking. You weren't even on the right side of the road. I'm sorry, but that's how it was. You can ask your friend if you don't believe me."
Well, that tore a hole through that theory, didn't it? And now Wat remembered everything, including the impact as he hit the ground. He winced.
"Sorry," he said. "It's not like I meant to, if that's any help."
Geoff's eyebrows shot up. "You're admitting it? Just like that?"
"What did you expect?" Wat had never been one for shifting blame. If you were going to fuck someone up, do it in front of an audience and maybe get an extra day or so of peace for your trouble. Lying was for people who could afford it.
Geoff's mouth opened and then shut again, obviously thinking better of what he was going to say. Just as well, Wat thought, because broken collarbone or no, he'd've found a way to punch him in the face if the posh git had tried to insinuate anything about Wat's honour, such as it was. His moral compass might be a little dinted and wonky, but it worked, after a fashion.
"Look. I'll come by and fix it up for you, if you like. After I've fixed myself up, though, yeah?" Wat said it just for the look on the other boy's face. It was worth it. Flabbergasted, his mum had said that time his dad rolled home from the pub with half a dead cow and a grocer's dozen of toilet rolls in tow. Her expression then was a close match to Geoff's now. It made Wat grin and forget the pain for a split second. Of course, the swift movement jolted the injured bone and the grin turned into a grimace.
"Fucking hell," Wat said, fingers scrabbling at the pavement like he was plucking at the edges of consciousness that were threatening to melt away from him. The world slipped to an odd angle and then slowly, gently righted itself again as Geoff shuffled closer and braced himself along Wat's side.
"Don't fret over my misfortunes," he said. "I can see your friend coming back. The ambulance will be here soon and you'll be right as rain in a lamb's shake, as my grandfather used to say. Not sure what the lamb was shaking, but somehow I don't think that's the point. Perhaps we can renegotiate when you're better. It's not as if I can fix it myself in the meantime. I've no allowance left and Father won't spot me a loan after the incident at the Bottomley's garden party, so you're it, I'm afraid."
"You talk too much," mumbled Wat, staring into nothing and wondering why it had so many holes.
"I know." Geoff sounded unreasonably chirpy. "I haven't decided if it's a blessing or a curse. You won't be surprised to learn some people have already formed their own opinions, I'm sure."
Wat considered snorting, but it wasn't worth the potential agony.
There was a squeal of uncared for brakes as Roland drew to a stop beside them, squatting down in front of Wat.
"They'll be here soon." He glanced over at Geoff. "You can go now if you like. I've got him."
"I'll wait," said Geoff, cheerful in the face of Roland's scowl. "I like to see things through."
"I'll bet you do," Roland muttered darkly, and it made no sense at all to Wat.
When the ambulance arrived there were a lot of questions and movement that seemed designed to hurt Wat in every way that was possible and then invent some more ways on top of that. In the confusion, Wat barely registered the hand slipping something into his pocket and then he was lifted up, the doors closed and the ambulance pulled away.
Roland's face loomed in Wat's vision. "Well, I'm not telling your mum," he said.
***