North Face comes tumbling over the edge of the rusty blue, dropping arse over tit onto his back with a clang. Three little heads pop over the edge, gobs all smacked. Nikair, Mud and Chips. Chips is giggling, little bugger. “No Jam!” I shout up but he shouts back “Mak Jam!”.
But it’s OK cause North Face is groaning and rolling about.
I smear the claret across me face and sleeve. Then an idea takes me.
“Langlanglanglanglanglanglanglang!” I’m hollering like a special. This is me doing school bell. They know what it means.
They all jump down and then they help Bleeder, making sure he gets down with no scrapes. Bleeder is always the teacher. So I line up with the others while he pretends to do a reg. He shouts out our school boy names.
“Mister Face! Mister Skellington! Mr Potato Chips!”
“Here sir!” We call back.
“Tuck your shirt in Mr Manleb.”
Even Manleb wants to get house points.
A bug fat ad drone flies low over us, painting us all in pretty lights as we file into the blue tin that we use for playing schools. Don’t normal come this close to riverside cause of jackers and witches, must be glitching. I swear for a second the writing in my eyes changes. Something blinks. Then a whisper. Then the drone is gone, floating off back towards Westminster where the people can afford what it sells.
Then we all get sat down. We lined up a bunch of crates to make a classroom. It’s a game but sometimes Bleeder actually tries to teach us stuff.
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“Let’s do our numbers!”
Everyone races to count as fast as they can.
“Oi Oi Mister! Can you check my homework!”
I have to shout cause it’s still raining. Like sitting inside a drum.
I got a big fat pen. Got it from a ganger who dropped it running from the feds. Graffiti pen. Real beauty. Manleb said I could keep it counts of I done a good scav that day.
Suddenly all the boys are huddling me as I write my homework on the crate in front of me.
“Come along boys, let's all see this fine bit of work!” Shouts Bleeder.
I keep half a peeper on Manleb. His fizzgog is all poker.
But I got to know what this bleedin’ writin’ says. I focus on the lines I can see in the bottom left corner of my seeings. And I copy them real slow. Real careful.
“When did you learn to write?” The rain has stopped. Bleeder’s voice has gone normal.
“You havin a menbung Bleeder? You taught me.” I’m lying. Not sure why.
“So what’s it say then?” Says Chips.
“Rhizome version 1.0.2 Beta”
Means nothing to me. Disappointed, but then I notice, Manleb is in a right two and eight. Something got to him. He can see it too. Not the others, but he can.
He snatches the pen out of my hand and scribbles it out.
“We can’t play little tykes all day my brothers. River rats gotta eat. Enough games.”
“Yeah.” I agree. Peace offering.
“Bleeder, do the housework while we’re out. Make sure to keep the rain outta the salt makers. Check the nets. Watch you don’t cut yourself.”
Bleeder doesn’t need to hear it. Knows his job. But it helps all the lads, when Manleb bosses us about. Helps morale.
We put our shoes in plastic bags and tie them to our wrists. Then we dive off the barge into old father Thames. All the neons shimmering on the river at night, like diving into heaven. That one second in the air. That slap when the water takes you. Feels for a second like being a River Rat is the best thing in the world.