The Heart of Darkness

We were used to being pushed around and losing, but this time it was if we were possessed by the Devil himself. The boy was a couple of years older than us and normally he just took what he wanted, in this case the new football we were playing with. But this day was different. I don't know why – perhaps we just snapped. When he tried to take the ball, we pounced on him like enraged furies, brought him down onto the grass, punched and tore and ripped and soon his new white trousers were covered in grass stains. He stared in horror at the mess, started to sob and limped away. We’d won. And we knew that it wasn't our surprise attack that had made him cry. It was knowing that his ruined trousers would earn him more than his usual beating when his father came home. We all knew that his father beat him, but no one said anything. It wasn't a village where you stuck your nose into other families’ business.

Of course, this insubordination had to be punished. A few days later he got hold of us in the playground, and led us to a hidden- away corner where his mates held us fast while he punched and punched. We returned after the break, all teary- eyed and roughed up. Naturally we said nothing to any adult – it just wasn't something you did – but it was obvious that our teacher had got the wrong end of the stick and thought that my friend and I had been fighting each other. How I would have loved to tell her that that wasn't the case, but the playground culture of silence stopped me. Despite my pain and humiliation, I took tacit pleasure at the thought of the beating he must have been given when he got home, which was probably much worse than he’d given us. The pecking order had been re- established, but that intoxicating feeling that revolt was possible stayed with me.