Chapter 1 

“I’ve something to tell you, love.  I think you had better come and sit down in the kitchen,” his mother said kindly before she broke the news that would turn Charlie Buttons’ world upside down. 

Why was it that life changing news was always given by its herald in a calm, measured tone?  Was it to stop you standing up and screaming your lungs out?  Charlie Buttons wasn’t sure but he had experienced more than his fair share of gentle deliveries of unwelcome messages.  He had learned to read the signs.  He could see a real beauty bearing down on him now and he dreaded the content.

            He slouched into the tiny kitchen of the council flat that he shared with his mother in a down-at-heel terrace in South London.  The kitchen was just big enough to fit in the kitchen cupboards, the cooker and fridge, but not necessarily the people to use them.  By some miracle his mother had also engineered a folding table for two, which was attached to the wall.  His mother had principles.  Kitchens were for eating in and kitchen tables were needed for eating on.  Charlie bet that if they had to live in a cardboard box, within one day it would have curtains and napkins.

            After squeezing past the table, on which there was a teapot and two mugs (another bad sign), Charlie sat down in his usual place. 

            “Cup of tea, love?”  his mum said. 

            He looked up at her from under the fringe of unruly red hair that he used to hide behind.  Oh, God!  What have I done? What’s she found out about?  He ran through a list in his mind of his pet projects.  He eliminated those from the list that he could not imagine anyone taking offense over, such as conscripting his fellow students into hiding all the school erasers in an empty locker until the end of the year - then “discover” them to loud applause - and focussed on those activities that could cause him problems should his mother ever find out about them.  Could she know that it was him who had gained access to the school administrator’s computer and replaced all the first names on the student roll with Darth?  Was it possible that she had found out that he had been responsible for painting fluorescent monster feet up the front of the school building – with his old partner in crime, Trev - accompanied by the legend, “Here be dragons”?           

            As he sat in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the slowly cooling mug of tea, Charlie thought of Trev.  A hole had opened in his life that was Trev shaped.  Nothing could fill it and all that could be found within was painful to consider.   What had brought him to yet another quiet conversation about the direction his life was taking?

Things had become difficult for Charlie since Trev had died, not that they had ever been easy.  Trevor Blackstock had been Charlie’s best friend since forever.  They had followed each other through school from the age of four.  Charlie was the flip side of the coin to Trev.  Charlie was quiet, thoughtful, and measured in what he did, whereas Trev was loud, confrontational, and impulsive. For some reason the first day they met, sat on the carpet in Miss Markham’s class, they had become friends.  It was almost as if each completed the other, balancing out their extremes.  Trev was calmer under Charlie’s influence and Charlie was less solemn, more inclined to laugh. 

            However, it was, as one head-teacher had called it, a match made in Hell.  Under Trev’s influence, Charlie got into trouble which resulted in more clashes with the school authorities, making him more inclined to go along with Trev’s madder ideas. 

The night they broke into the caretaker’s shed, and planted the crocus bulbs stored there on the school playing fields, had been particularly delicious.  They had been forced to wait two months to see the fruits of their labour. It was a day to remember when the message that the crocuses now spelled out could be read.  It was also the last day that Trev and Charlie attended East Brockley Primary School, when Mr Wiggins took offense to what they had written.  Charlie still wasn’t sure what had given them away but Wiggo’s wig wags in the wind remained for all to see longer than Mr Wiggins expected: after the school body had pulled up the crocuses, the daffodils emerged a month later. By that time Wiggins had inside knowledge of their activities courtesy of some unwise boasting on Trev’s part.

They were greeted at their new school, West Brockley Primary, by a stern looking man, appropriately called Scolding, who warned them bluntly that they had better not put a foot wrong or they’d be out.  They took his words on board, ignored them, and were on their way to their next school before the hissing cockroaches that they released from Class 2’s aquarium could be fully recovered.

            And so a pattern was set.  It was one of incorrigible mischievousness that always ended up with another move to a dwindling selection of local schools.  Never malicious, the boys could justify their actions to themselves. For instance, the cockroaches had been liberated from imprisonment, not simply released for a laugh.  However the authorities rarely saw it that way and the boys would end up in an office, listening to someone explaining to them in a calm, measured tone why the only sensible course of action would be to try another school.

When Trev died, Charlie’s life of Robin Hood-like banditry came to an end. 

At the age of twelve they had transferred to St Edwards Community College and had soon begun to find their feet. Typically, they would start by provoking the meanest children in their year, to the delight of their downtrodden fellow students.  Identifying the crew that the bullies ran with was easy, after that it was just a matter of making them look thick at any given opportunity.  Charlie and Trev thought that bullies would find it difficult to intimidate people when they were being laughed at, and so did everything in their power to make that happen.  Trev could get away with this because he had the same build as his father: tall, brawny, and bull necked.  Trev could stand up for himself, as well as for those around him. Charlie was less fortunate, being rather short and slender.

            On a typical day in the Easter Term, Charlie’s life changed forever.  Trev and Charlie had been chatting with some classmates in the main corridor at school - Another boy and two girls who shared their unlikely love of eighties electro-pop - when they had been intercepted by a group of older boys led by one particularly nasty piece of work called Darren Holding. 

Darren believed himself to be some kind of major league gangster, feared by the school community.  His speciality was to intimidate.  Once trapped, arms wrenched behind their backs, to extract their dinner money, children would thrust their coins into Darren’s grubby, outstretched hand, desperate to prevent worse happening.   At heart he was a thug.  A mean spirited, ignorant boy who was too thick to see how little he knew and how much there was to know.  For Darren, the world was his school, his street, and the people living there, whom he despised and who despised him.  His world was one of constant, wearing confrontation with teachers, children, neighbours, social workers, policemen, and his dim-bulb, doting mother.  

Normally Charlie and Trev would spot Darren coming and walk out of their way to avoid him.  Because of Trev’s physique, Darren equally tended to avoid the pair.  However, things were different if Charlie was alone, or Darren had his little crew of cronies with him.  On this occasion Darren, or Daz to his gang, came swaggering along the corridor, accompanied by two of his lieutenants, pushing past students, sneering at teachers, and generally being obnoxious.

            He paused in front Charlie, Trev, and the group they were with.  “Hangin’ with trash, girls!  You can do so much better than those two losers!”  He leaned in close to the two girls in the group, enveloping them with halitosis, “Remember, tomorrow’s payday so bring your money in, or else me and my bruvs’ll see to you!”  Leering, he cackled with his side-kicks when the girls turned and hurried away. Darren turned to Trev and Charlie, saying, “See ya, Butthead and Stockcube.  Stay out my way in future!”  Then he strutted on his way, cronies trailing like pet dogs yapping at his ankles.

            Bridling at Darren’s arrogance, Trev could not resist the opportunity to bait the older boy.  For him, taunting Darren was a guilty pleasure.  He loved the danger of doing so; it added a kind of spice to the experience.  Trev imagined it would be like holding a spitting cobra by the tail – interesting. 

“Hey Darren!”  he called after the bully, “Do you have to take your shoes off to count to twenty?” This was followed up very quickly with, “Ifyoureasthickasabricksaywhat!”

            “Thicker than two,” Charlie muttered, smiling to himself.

            Darren turned, puzzled that Trev would call out at him, not quite understanding what had been said, “What, Stockcube?”

            People turned to watch Trev and Darren the second that their threat radar had picked up the tension in the air.  Now they erupted into laughter, safe in the knowledge that Trev was the target and not them.

            “I said, do-you-have-to-take-off-your-shoes-to-count-above-ten, Darren!  Are you really this dim or do you work really hard at it?”  replied Trev casually.  In a much quieter voice he said to Charlie, “I hope you’re ready to shift!”

            Darren roared in fury, astonished that he would be so publicly challenged.  He plunged back down the corridor at the two boys, arms flailing, driving through the students like a swimmer.  Red faced, out of control, he charged heedlessly, intent on reaching Trev and hurting him as much as he could.  Trev waited calmly.  Then, when Darren was almost within range of his grasping fingers, he had spun gracefully out of the way.  Darren shot past and stumbled over Trev’s carefully placed rucksack.  After falling to the floor, he slid along its polished surface helplessly.

            “Time to go, Trev,” Charlie said quietly.

            They ran in the opposite direction as fast as they could.  Darren’s lieutenants attempted to block them but gave way when Trev made a sudden mock-karate move that Charlie called the “Way of the Octopus”.   Laughing their heads off, they left the school buildings and burst on to the playground.  Working hard to lose Darren amongst the maze of buildings that populated St Edward’s Community College grounds, Charlie and Trev ended up hiding behind the Eco-block rainwater collection tank, giggling.

            “That git is such a moron!”  Trev sniggered.

            “That moron is such a git!”  Charlie agreed. 

            The end of the dinner hour came and the boys spent a hot afternoon in a stuffy classroom half-listening to Mr Murphy getting overexcited about French irregular verbs.  Eventually the torture of foreign languages came to a close and the children of St Edwards sprang from the school like battery hens freed from their coops. 

As Charlie and Trev were walking down the road opposite the school, talking about their plans for world domination, heads together and oblivious of the world around them, a meaty hand descended on to Trev’s shoulder.   Another grabbed his collar.

            “Time to learn some respect, Stockcube!” a familiar voice growled.

            Charlie turned, just in time to see a small fist getting much, much bigger.  It struck him fore-square on the nose and Charlie dropped like a sack of potatoes onto his backside.  Pain blossomed across his face like hot flames and blood burst from his nose, streaming down his mouth and chin.  Dazed, he turned to Trev.

            Darren’s two friends stepped past Charlie and proceeded to lay into Trev, who was struggling to escape Darren’s hold.  Fists flew in hard short strikes, to the body and to Trev’s face.  The boy cried out in shock, “Charlie!”

            Charlie was confused.  His legs didn’t seem to want to work and everything seemed to be tilted on its side.  He felt dizzy and the pain in his face appeared to be stopping him from knowing what to do.  Charlie found out later that he was found lying on his side, choking on the blood that had run into his mouth, oxygen starved.   He shook his head, trying to clear it from the fog that seemed to be affecting his thoughts.  He just knew he needed to say something important.   Watching Trev being savagely hit seemed to bring the word he wanted to the front of his mind.  “Run!”  he coughed.

            Somehow, Trev had jerked and twisted out of Darren’s grasp.  He stumbled dizzily up the pavement, weaving drunkenly, followed by his tormentors.  His head had cleared as he developed some distance and picked up speed.  Swearing, Darren realized that Trev was going to get away and chased after him. Trev spotted an escape route across the road by the newsagents: the alley that led to the back of Trev’s favourite place - the old gas works, a labyrinth of rusty pipes, shattered outbuildings, and derelict gasometers where Trev had long since scouted out the best hiding places. 

He’d stepped off the pavement.

            The driver claimed that the boy had simply run in front of the bus.  He did not have time to sound his horn, or even to apply the brakes.  The bus had slammed into Trev at 30 miles per hour and catapulted him down the road.  Charlie, Darren, Darren’s cronies and about 100 other children and adults turned at the sound of squealing tyres and gaped, open mouthed, as they watched what must have been a child tumbling along the road, broken limbed.  Trev came to a stop, the vibrant young man suddenly reduced to a mound of torn clothing, twisted arms and shattered legs.   Charlie watched uncomprehendingly as a middle aged woman, who had been coming out of the newsagents, ran to Trev and knelt by his body, mobile phone pressed firmly to her ear.  Funny time to make a phone call, Charlie thought to himself fuzzily, just as he passed out from the oxygen starvation.

            Charlie had been more seriously hurt than expected and spent the night in hospital having his broken nose set, hooked up to a supply of oxygen.  It was in the ward that his mother had come to him.  Wild eyed, with tears streaming down her face, she held him close, whilst a sombre policeman had confirmed in calm, measured tones that Trev had not survived the accident. 

Horrified shock and disbelief soon became delusion.  Charlie knew better.  Trev wasn’t dead.  He was just spinning out an incredibly elaborate practical joke.

Eventually, Charlie went home and carefully avoided any conversations with his mother that touched on the “accident”, as she called it, hating the concern he could see in her eyes.    He would sit in his room all day staring at the ceiling listening to goth misery music – as Trev would have called it – on his mp3 player.  Over and over again he would mouth the lyrics yet not be able to recall a single line later.  His mum would come in and try and sit with him but he would just turn his face away from her, finding interesting spots in the carpet to concentrate on.

It was a couple of weeks after the “accident” that Charlie realised that Trev was not hiding.  Trev’s funeral shook him out of his torpor.  Seeing the Blackstocks crying, destroyed by their loss, Charlie knew that Trev wasn’t just going to pop up from behind a headstone and shout, “Gotcha!”  Trev would never do that to the people he loved, and who loved him.  Where’s Trev? he thought to himself.  Trev’s dead, baby!  a familiar voice seemed to answer.

That night he had cried out his loss.  He’d cried for his friend.  He wept for himself, consumed by grief.  At some point he slept fitfully but the next morning he awoke, drained but dry eyed.  His grief had transformed into something harder, colder, and fuelled with rage.  School uniform on, rucksack slung over one shoulder, he slid a present that his grandfather had given him on his ninth birthday up the sleeve of his jacket and left the flat.

Walking to school, he ignored the gentle greetings from curious classmates journeying for the day.  He had always hated being at the centre of attention. It had come naturally to Trev and Charlie had happily stayed in the background.  Now he just felt as if the world was staring at him, treating him like a specimen on a microscope slide in the Biology Lab of St Edwards.  Well, he would give them something to stare at!

With grim determination, he stood on the playground enduring the stares.  People around him thought that he was behaving oddly, standing stiffly, blank faced, looking slowly left and right through narrowed eyes, ignoring greetings, and ignoring friends.  They were wrong.  He wasn’t behaving oddly, at least not to him.  He was behaving quite logically, if one considered what he planned to do next.

Just before the bell went for the start of school, he spied what, or who, he was looking for.  Darren Holding was standing in the corner of the playground, alone.  He seemed abandoned by his cronies, who were nowhere to be seen. In fact, he seemed smaller, shrunken.  His uniform was neat, he was wearing black shoes not outrageous orange trainers, his hair was combed conventionally, rather than styled, and his face was sullen, blank and withdrawn.

Charlie came to life.  Seeing Daz, he made a beeline for the older boy.  Children parted around Charlie as he walked across the playground, sensing trouble, waiting for the confrontation, eager like hyenas watching a kill.  Weirdly, Daz didn’t seem to notice Charlie until he stood in front of him.

“Buttons?”  Daz said quietly with a look of confusion on his face. “I…I…never meant for Trev to…” his voice petered out.

Charlie glared at him savagely.  He had nothing he wanted to say to Daz, nothing at all.  The present slid down his sleeve and nestled snugly in his hand.  His granddad’s truncheon from his days as a policeman was long, sleek, worn, and – crucially - heavy.  Daz looked down at Charlie’s hand and then looked up, understanding painted on his face.  He nodded slightly.

Charlie raised his arm, the truncheon hard and ugly in the confines of the school yard, and struck Daz across the face with all his might.  Once, twice, three times, he beat Daz and then stopped, his chest heaving from the effort.  Daz lay at his feet, whimpering through broken teeth.  Quite calmly, Charlie took off his rucksack and put away the truncheon.  After removing his mobile phone from an inner pocket, he dialled his mother’s number, as he watched the Headteacher and Deputy Head run from the school buildings, heading towards Charlie and Daz.

“Hello?” his mother said, her voice tinny in the mobile’s speaker.

“Come and get me, Mum.  I’m leaving St. Edwards.”    

 ---------

 Thanks for reading.  Please do post any suggestions for improvements.  If you have enjoyed this please do VOTE!  Keep following for further updates to the Prisoners of Solitude.