Wolf Iron

Chapter 12 / Beauregard's Warning

When Barlow got home that evening, he wasn't worried at all about an earful from Auntie Sandra. He knew the school would first ring his parents, but that neither of them would pick up. Next on the picket line was Dr. Aversham's office and if they couldn't be bothered, then it was passed on down to good old Auntie. And she was about as much use as a wet carrot. 

Walking into the caravan park, he sidestepped a soiled box full of drug needles and newspaper clippings and spied his Auntie's caravan from a distance. What great heights he thought as he pulled his sweater up over his throat, still red from the thrashing at lunchtime. 

No doubt it's all over Reeve by now. People calling him a wanker and a tosser and whatever other word they would come up with to describe someone who had been lumped black by a girl. The truth of the matter was that Barlow Morris has never been hit like that before. Oh, he had had some rows in his last school, but never one in which his greater size had been negated quite so thoroughly. 

He massaged the sore mound at his temple and winced. What a cracker of a punch, he thought, while trying his best to cover it up with bangs. 

Barlow had kicked about at the Valry Thicket after the final school bell had rang because he didn't want to see anyone, nor did he want anyone to see him. I must've looked a frightful mess he decided when looking at his reflection in a pond. Face and throat all red, a golfball sized lump on my head. And then blacked out by some chick, in front of everyone, even the last-years. He was going to get it tomorrow at school, that was for sure. 

And yet, for some reason, he wasn't worried. 

He had switched schools before and reckoned it would be quite a few other schools before he graduated, nevermind took the GSCE's. His father could send him to another school as quick as he wanted, money wasn't a problem. Just like that. Perhaps boarding school really was the ticket. 

His keys had no sooner touched the door lock when a mad frenzy of barking started from inside the caravan. He turned the knob and was ferociously attacked by a snappy black terrier, jumping at his feet. From the telly room, he heard the familiar theme from Eastenders and then his Auntie.

"Oh, Barlow? Barlow, dear, is that you? Be a dear and do trot out Beauregard, it's time for his walk."

"Oh, Auntie-" Barlow said, covering his nose in his sleeve-"have you let him out at all today? It stinks in here like droppings." 

He threw his keys down on the peeling counter and saw the source of the stench; a tightly coiled and quite rigid Beau dropping right in the middle of the kitchen floor. 

"Cripes..." Barlow muttered under his breath as he thrust his hand through a bag and picked up the waste. He walked to the kitchen sink and opened the window, tossing the bag out. Then he reached for the doggie leash hanging from the pan rack he himself had installed a fortnight ago.

"Alright, alright you, I'm taking you out in a bit," he said to the dog, while kneeling and clipping the leash on. That telly is excruciatingly loud, he thought. 

Barlow knocked at the doorway to the telly room. No response from Big Mad Sandra. He knocked harder and then yelled. 

"Hello! Granny! It's me, Barlow. Alright?" 

The old woman turned and looked towards his way and sometimes Barlow wondered what she would be like when she didn't recognize him anymore. 

"Oh hello, dear. Back from school, are we?"

Barlow looked at the clock on the wall. 6:12 p.m. 

"Yes, Granny. I just got back. Are we alright? Have you eaten?"