wriggled in closer against your cheek. It pulsed. It changed and squirmed and would not allow you to ignore it. Trying to ignore it made Jake feel sick. He looked at Tamsin and saw that her face had turned pale.
“You know what it is,” Tamsin said. “You know what it is.”
“I feel sick as well,” Jake said.
“What is it?” Will asked.
“Anna was right. It’s one of those sonic fucking child repellents,” Tamsin said. “Old people can’t hear it.”
Of course it was. It was like a phone that would not stop ringing. It was like walking along the street and hearing your name called, always from the side or behind you, spinning round to confront strangers who continued forward blankly, not registering you. It was like a fist punching the base of your skull, at the back, always at the moment when you started to relax, eventually making relaxation impossible. It was like a bell calling you from another room, out of sight, knowing that it was not your job but knowing that the bell would not stop ringing until you were on your feet and walking, calling “Yes, sir” to make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.
This is the story I wanted to tell you.
“I’m going to go,” Will said. “This is wank.”
He spat at the shop fronts. He could see the old guy who ran the laundrette watching us through the window. He seemed curious, waiting for a reaction.
It was like a long, rusty needle pushed in through one ear and fed through your brain until the sharp tip could be seen poking from your other ear.
Will gave two fingers to the laundrette owner and shouted, “Fuck you!” as loudly as he could. It was loud but without conviction.
“You coming?” he asked Tamsin and Jake. Tamsin stood up.
“That fucking pee-do,” she muttered.
Jake looked at them both, standing over him. He felt nauseous and, even though he tried to ignore it, the shrill whine of the child repellent would not let him concentrate. If there was a choice to make it was not one he could make with his intelligence or reasoned argument, being only thirteen at the time and under attack. Surely there was a choice, but made already for him by all the preceding years, by intuition, fate, or by the erratic balance of hormones that were at war inside him. If there was a choice it was like the choice whether or not to lift your leg when the doctor hits your knee with a tiny mallet.