Human Remains

mouth was forming the word: ‘HELP’.
    She came up to me and behind her was another of the sixth form girls, another of those whom I preferred to have nothing whatsoever to do with. I couldn’t even have told you her name. She was striding in our direction and Helen was behind me, not moving further away, just behind me as though I was expected to do something – stand in between them? Act as some kind of physical buffer so we could all continue to walk home in the same direction?
    It was such a peculiar situation. I felt uncomfortable with the whole thing. Not afraid, that would be the wrong word for it.
    And I was more uncomfortable with Helen sheltering behind me than with the girl striding towards us both.
    She had a knife in her hand. I remember thinking, what’s she got that out for? As though everyone carried knives around with them every day, but to have one out on display was somehow completely inappropriate.
    ‘Hiding behind Creepy Colin, are you?’ the girl called. ‘Think he’s gonna help ya?’
    I had stopped walking and stood at ease, my legs hip-width apart. I felt something else now – excitement. It was the thought of a confrontation, something I usually avoided, but this one had a context that gave me permission to behave in a certain way. I was being threatened, after all. Even if the knife was meant for Helen, it was now pointed at me.
    ‘She’s got a knife, be careful!’ Helen said from somewhere behind me.
    ‘Yes, thank you, I can see it,’ I said.
    It took one punch to lay her out. I had no idea it was going to be that easy, and if I had realised I would have taken it a bit more steadily so I could make the most of it. I suppose she just wasn’t expecting me to hit her. It wasn’t done to hit girls, even girls who were coming towards you with a knife in their hand, and of all people she probably wasn’t expecting me to cause her any trouble.
    Behind me, Helen squeaked with surprise.
    The girl, whoever she was, had landed in a heap against the brick wall that marked the boundary with someone’s garden. Somewhere nearby a dog was barking. The girl didn’t move. I looked round at Helen. She was breathing fast, her chest rising and falling, her mouth open with shock. To my surprise, in the light from the street-light, there were tears on her cheeks. I nearly said, ‘What are you crying for?’
    But she just looked from the girl to me and then started to walk away, in the direction of home. Her steps grew faster and faster and then she was running, running fast.
    I looked down at the white legs of the girl on the floor. She was stirring, making a noise as though she was winded, a kind of drawn out ‘uuhhhhh’ as though she was struggling to get her breath. The knife was on the dirty tarmac where she’d dropped it.
    There were many options laid out before me, many. Any one of them I could have taken and it could have changed my life from that point on. But I was not ready for it, then. I often look back at that evening, the nights already drawn in ready for winter, the air chilly but not yet bitter, the sound of Helen’s running feet echoing down the alleyway, the sight of the girl with her legs splayed, her head smack against the bottom of the wall, her face in the glass and litter and dog shit that lined the edges of the path.
    What I did was kick her. I didn’t look where the kick landed, but it was only one, and it was to make sure she was still alive. I didn’t say anything to her. I just walked away, following Helen but with a gait no faster than a purposeful saunter. I didn’t even look back.
    When I got home I went straight upstairs to the bathroom. My mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I wasn’t even sure if she heard me coming through the door; either way, I made it to the bathroom and locked the door. There was blood on the sleeve of my school shirt, and my knuckles were red and swollen, although they didn’t hurt. I had no idea where the blood had come from. I ran the sleeve of the shirt under the tap and scrubbed at it with the nail brush until it was clean, then hung the shirt over the radiator to dry. I was aware of my own arousal, but only in an abstract way until I undressed and got in the shower. Was this what violence prompted in me? I wondered? Or was it because I’d punched a girl? And then the image of her lying there, lying in the dirt and the crap on the tarmac, barely moving – her white legs against the ground, open – and the sound