Twenty years before Now.

The first punch might have broken Aaron’s nose. The second definitely did. The third and fourth were just for good measure. Plenty more good measures might have followed if Alex hadn’t driven a fist into Paul’s belly.

Straight in with the body shots—an interesting choice, Paul thought. He preferred to aim for the face, and that’s exactly where his fists went as he launched wild attacks at Alex’s head. Soon, his knuckles were stained with both Aaron and Alex’s blood.

It was going rather well, all things considered. Both boys had bloodied faces, and as they backed off, Paul began to think the fight was his. It might have been if Kyle hadn’t charged through the crowd of jeering onlookers—fellow students who had gathered to watch the sceptical—and tackled him from his blindside, sending Paul crashing into the wall of a demountable classroom. The two of them tumbled together.

Three against one was a bit much, and now Paul was in the terribly precarious position of being on the floor during a fight. Paul took a flurry of kicks and punches from Aaron and Alex while Kyle struggled to get up. Thinking fast, Paul leapt onto Kyle’s back. He warped an arm around Kyle’s neck and bound him with his legs before twisting his body and flipping them both. Kyle, now his shield, took the blows meant for Paul.

Paul held Kyle firmly as he struggled. He felt someone, several someones in fact, tugging at his arm, trying to break his grip on Kyle’s throat, but he refused to let go.

He was deaf to the shouts around him and blind to the crowd closing in. All he could hear was his heart, pounding like a war drum in his ears. Then one voice cut through the noise: “You're gonna kill him!”

Suddenly, Kyle felt heavier in his arms. Realising the boy might of passed out, Paul released him, pushing Kyle aside. He hit the ground with a gasping splutter. Not dead then, Paul thought. Probably for the best.

Aaron and Alex had ceased their assault and rushed to Kyle’s side, shoving back the gathered students. “Let him breath!” Alex yelled, trying to get room for their crying friend. Pussy, Paul thought.

As quickly as the words passed through his mind, Paul felt himself yanked to his feet and dragged through the crowd. Whoever had grabbed him was too big to be a fellow student. Shaking off the adrenaline haze, Paul glanced up and saw the back of a balding, stubbly head. Half Head, the headteacher. Shit, Paul thought.

“You can let go, you know!” Paul shouted, nearly stumbling as he was hauled along the playground.

“Oh, we’ll be letting you go, alright!” Half Head barked. “You're done, you little fucker. I’ve had just about enough of you. That was the last straw. You’re lucky I don’t knock nine bells of shit out of you myself. I’m calling your father—he’ll pick you up, and you're never coming back.”

Deal, Paul thought.

Paul watched with growing trepidation as his father made his way out of the school's front office and toward the car where Paul had been left to wait. Half Head’s rage hadn’t bothered him, nor had the disapproving looks from the staff. He wasn’t even fazed by the names his fellow students called him—“savage prick,” “thug,” or “stupid violent cunt.” Kyle’s mates had come by to tell him they’d get him back later, and honestly, that sounded like fun. But waiting alone in the car for his father was a different story. It was the most anxious Paul had ever felt.

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When his dad opened the driver-side door and sat down, Paul felt his throat tighten and his breath grow cold in his chest. His father gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his face like thunder. But as soon as he turned to look at Paul directly, the tension cracked, and his father chuckled.

“Three on one then, huh?” his dad said, and Paul sighed in relief.

“Yeah,” Paul confirmed after a moment, turning away and pulling his seat belt across. As it clicked, his dad started the car and pulled out of the school’s car park. “And I won, too,” Paul added with a smirk.

When they were ten minutes down the road, Paul’s father finally broached the subject of the fight. “So, what was that all about then?” he asked.

“Just a fight,” Paul answered.

“You start it?”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“Well, what’s your point of view then?”

Paul thought for a moment. “They started it.”

“How?”

“They were throwing books at me.”

“Books?” his father repeated, puzzled. “On the playground?”

“No,” Paul clarified, “in geography.”

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to start any more fights in class,” his father reminded him, shaking his head, clearly exasperated.

That annoyed Paul a little. He didn’t like the accusation that he was dishonest or that he somehow didn’t keep his word and spat his response back quickly. “I didn’t!” he snapped. Waiting to calm down a bit and secretly hoping for good comedic timing, he followed it up with, “I waited till lunchtime. Then I started the fight.”

“That’s not better,” his father retorted.

“Hey, you set the parameters—no fights in class. Not my fault the parameters weren’t very good.”

“Paul.”

“Dad,” Paul mocked in the same tone. Silence followed.

He’s disappointed, Paul thought, looking at his father's deflated posture. That made his head hurt a little, and his body went chill as his father’s disappointment became his own. I best explain, he thought.

“Come on, Dad,” he started, “you know what it’s like. Same story as always. They were throwing books at me, telling me to learn to read, like they always do. They do it in front of everyone, and I hate it. I wanted to make sure they never threw another book at me again.”

“Well,” his father said after a pause, “I suppose they won’t be throwing any books at you anymore.” Good, Paul thought, but then he realised what his father meant.

“I’m expelled then?”

“Looks like it,” his father said with a nod. “Mr Hill’s mad. I don’t think we can talk him into another option.”

“Half Head’s a dick,” Paul muttered.

“Yes, he is,” his father agreed.

The car fell silent, and Paul watched houses and trees whizzing by as they drove home. Then Paul remembered something.

“Thinks he can take me, though.”

“What do you mean?” his father asked, glancing quizzically sideways.

“Said it himself,” Paul explained. “Said I was lucky he didn’t knock nine bells of shit out of me.”

Paul lurched forward as his father slammed on the brakes, his heart leaping into his chest. When he fell back into his seat again, he looked at his father with bewildered shock. Before he could say anything, however, his father growled, “He said what?”

Paul repeated himself and his father turned the car around.

Paul had expected shouting from the other side of the door, but the eerie silence was far more unsettling. His father had brought him back to school and told him to wait in reception while he let himself into Half Head’s office. Ms Perry, the receptionist, kept glancing nervously from her computer to the door. The sinister aura that prevailed didn’t just unnerve Pual, it seemed.

When the door finally opened, his father walked out calmly and instructed Paul to follow. Once they were in the car park, Paul asked, “What’s happening?”

“You’re not being expelled,” his father replied. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Cool, Paul thought.