Page 102 of A Long Way Back
Ink nodded once.
“You’ll feel better once you’ve told me.”
“No, I won’t. And you won’t feel better for knowing.”
“Then…maybe I don’t want to hear.”
“If I believed I could keep it from you, I wouldn’t tell you, but you need to hear this from me before you hear it from someone else.”
“No one knows who you are. Your picture is in theMetro,but not your name.”
Ink took a deep breath, then grimaced against the pain. “My name hasn’t always been Ink Farrow. For the first twelve years of my life, it was Killian Byrne.” Ink looked directly at Tay and waited.
He didn’t know for sure that Tay would recognise the name. Tay would have been sixteen when Killian was twelve. But knowledge of what had happened in that Nottinghamshire town had gone several times around the world. Ask almost anyone in the UK if they remembered the case and they would. Whodidn’tknow?
“Oh God,” Tay whispered and Ink saw realisation dawn as Tay paled.
“You know what I was supposed to have done.”
Tay nodded.
“I’m not twenty-six years old, I’m twenty-four. My parents are not dead, as far as I know, but I’ve not seen them for over thirteen years. I was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, the normal substitutesentencefor life imprisonment when the offender is a juvenile. I spent ten years locked up. First in Young Offender Institutions, then in prison.”
Ink had to force himself to keep looking at Tay. Maybe it was just as well that his body wouldn’t let him run. If Tay asked him to leave, he’d have to call George. Ink had memorised his number when he’d bought a new phone.For a day like this?
“I came out of prison two years ago, but anyone who’s sentenced to life is never free. Giving me a new identity was supposed to let me rebuild my life, but I’m out on licence and if I don’t comply with the conditions, I can get taken back inside.”
Tay took hold of his hand and held it tight. “Tell me what happened. Tell me all of it.”
Twelve years ago
KILLIAN PULLED ON HIS RUGBY shirt as fast as he could. He didn’t want his PE teacher, Iron Balls Jones, to notice he was still wearing his T-shirt underneath, because if he did, he’d make him take it off and he’d see the marks and the gates of hell would open and Killian would get torn apart by razor-toothed hounds who’d…
“Get a move on, Byrne,” Iron Balls shouted from the changing room door.
Killian wasn’t the only one not ready, but he felt like he was always the one picked on. Did he havevictimtattooed on his forehead or something? More likelyloserwritten on a piece of paper stuck to his back. He fastened his boots and hurried out of the changing room, trying to think of a way he could not only get back first after this torture was over, but shower and dress without anyone seeing him, and most importantly, leave school without being waylaid by Wes Dower.
He stepped outside into torrential rain. Only thunder and lightning would stop rugby. His shoulders dropped.
“Twice around the pitch,” yelled the teacher. “Fast as you can.”
Killian wouldn’t be running as fast as he could. Apart from the not minor detail that he still ached from the beating Wes and his mates had given him three days ago, no way did he want to reveal that he was actually a fast runner or he’d get roped into competing for the school. Not standing out at anything was the way he operated, one of his survival techniques. He stayed quiet and kept his head down, and Wes had just seen that as a challenge.
As it happened, Killian didn’t stand out at much. Useless at maths. Confused by physics. Terrible at religious education because he loathed the teacher. Not bad at history and geography—they were interesting. Good at biology. Awful at design and technology—he’d barely progressed beyond the drawing skill of a chimpanzee. And good at English. Killian couldn’t help standing out in that. Though he rarely contributed to discussions in class, and only answered questions that were directly addressed to him. He’d come top in both language and literature exams last summer. Subjects that didn’t matter according to his father, who as far as Killian knew, had never read a book in his life.
“Faster!” shouted Iron Balls.
Killian was in the middle of the pack, trying to keep away from Wes, trying not to come to the attention of Iron Balls. In his opinion, PE teachers were inherently evil monsters, thinking up the most painful type of exercise, making you run in circles around a freezing playing field wearing shorts, while they stood there in tracksuits holding mugs of coffee.Bastards.He could see Wes working his way towards him, but there was no room for Killian to move. Wes flung out an elbow and knocked him sideways into someone else who shoved him back with enough force to send him crashing to the ground.
Ouch.He picked himself up and carried on. He was covered in mud before the game had even started. It was so tempting to sprint past everyone and get back first but he didn’t. Instead, he pretended he was running with wolves, imagined Mick, who was just ahead of him, his backside bouncing in his shorts, was his mate and aching to be caught. Though he didn’t actually fancy Mick. Nor anyone else in his year.
One reckless response to a taunt and he might as well have drawn a target on his back.You’re gay,Wes had yelled and Killian had yelled backTakes one to know one.Those few words had been enough to seal his fate. Wes was determined to make Killian’s life completely shit. The irony was that Killian thought Weswasgay.
The game went predictably badly. Killian tried to avoid being in a position where the ball might be thrown towards him, but sometimes it was and he had to try to catch it. If he did, he got rid of it as fast as he could. At least the mud he was covered in from his fall made it look as if he was taking an active part in the game. He was freezing. Even the extra layer offered by his T-shirt wasn’t making a difference.
Killian half-heartedly trundled after a guy running with the ball, then stopped when he realised he wasn’t going to catch him. His attention was drawn to the sycamore trees at the side of the pitch. The wind had picked up and hundreds of helicopter seeds swirled in the air like crazy Russian dancers.
“Byrne! Stop staring into space and help your teammates.”
