Jules

Jule, a short story by Monica Clarke

JULES

He did not like to be touched. They pushed too much, so

he waited until last, until all the others had left the classroom.

He was always the last one to leave.

Jules needed a drink. He needed a coke. If he had not

been so thirsty though, he would not have had to walk that

way. He would not have had to walk past the boys. There were

four of them standing next to each other in front of the cool

drink machine, staring at him, blocking his way.

He wanted to turn back, but the double doors had

already closed behind him, so he continued to walk towards

them, slowly, not knowing how to escape.

Fear attacked him. It pounded inside his temples, a hot

stone swinging inside a boxing glove, bashing behind his eyes,

muddying up his already muddled brain. His thin body felt

drained of strength. His knees turned soft, and his small body

shrank, a feeling of sinking down into his large shoes, which

held his extraordinarily big feet. He walked forward a few

steps, then stood still, his head down, looking at his feet,

which poked out from under his over length trousers like the

big feet of a wader hesitantly scavenging for food.

Panicking, Jules looked for another way out of the

narrow passage. There was none. He had to walk past the

boys.

He walked forward, slowly, his eyes fixed down on his

embarrassingly big feet. His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick

and coated. He tried to peel his dry gummy tongue away from

a dry sensitive palate, then he bit the insides of his cheeks to

get some moisture. The blood tasted wet, salty and

comforting.

He knew what was coming.

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Butch the bully came walking towards him, slowly. Jules’

downcast eyes fell on Butch’s doc Martins. Black leather.

Thick rubber. Mean steel tips.

With long, sinewy arms stiff and jumpy inside his school

blazer, Jules came to a complete standstill. Wet with sweat,

the nylon lining of his blazer clung to his forearms,

compressing them like vacuum-packed meat inside two

airtight tubes. Nervously he wiped a bony palm against his

jeans. His hands were trembling.

Butch stood still, waiting menacingly. The other boys

were quiet. His thick neck bursting out of a tight, round

necked t-shirt, Butch stood, looking at Jules with small, close-

set blue eyes. His thick, muscular arms were crossed over a

broad chest. A smear flattened his broad lips over huge, even

teeth.

‘Give a man a coke,’ Butch hissed through the smear of a

smile stuck on his lips, which were hardly moving. He stepped

forward, forcing himself into Jules’ space, a dart of spite

hitting the boy in the face.

His cheeks stinging, Jules stepped back. With all his

mind he kept his eyes down on his feet, which had drawn

themselves close together in fear.

Jules’ heavy glasses started to shift off his nose, riding

down on a slippery slope of sweat as his head sank further

down in defeat. His shoulders sagged forward as he let go

even before the fight had started. He swallowed to calm the

scorching muscles in his throat. They burnt with dread and

dehydration and his bladder started screaming.

Butch came right up to Jules and pushed a fresh, wet can

of coke onto the boy’s cheek, the tin fizzing invitingly, drops of

ice melting down the side.

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‘Take it, fool.’ Butch kept his eyes on Jules and saw fear

creep up in pink blotches over Jules’ pale cheeks. A snigger

from one of the boys slapped Jules in the face.

He reached for the can. But one of the other boys

stepped forward and snatched it away before he touched it.

Then he had to lift his eyes, which caught Butch’s flat face,

now only a few inches away.

At that moment Jules’ nose gave up and the heavy

glasses slid down his sweating nose. Instinctively he reached

up to catch them with one hand, while the other hand pushed

forward, towards Butch. With bent elbow he tried to make

space between himself and the bully.

But his movements were nightmarishly slow. Butch

caught his hand easily.

‘Shit!’ Butch shouted, pulling his hand away, shaking it.

He moved hid head up and around in a circle, his eyes

following an imaginary arc from his hand to the floor as he

continued to shake his hand, is if water were falling from his

fingers to the ground.

Again, ‘shit!’ he shouted, this time looking at the other

boys with a silly, mocking smile, his eyes darting from face to

face. He breathed in deeply, extending his chest. His deep,

exaggerated in-breath sucked explosive laughter from the

boys.

Jules’ face filled up with blood. And more sweat.

‘He’s bleeding sweating with fear!’ Butch mocked.

With an open palm Butch hit Jules on his overloaded

backpack, which made the frightened boy stumble forward.

His frozen legs suddenly thawed into a microwave of activity

as he was propelled forward by the weight of his backpack.

He ran.

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With superhuman focus and every last ounce of strength,

he ran, drowning out the jeers, which echoed behind him

along the passage. As he ran around the corner, he saw his

hollow cheeks and frightened eyes stare back at him from the

glass windows. He ran through the glass-panelled corridor to

the double doors on the other side. Short-sightedly, hurriedly,

he bumped himself into, and through, the swing doors, out

into the sunlight.

By then he knew they were not following him, for he

would have heard them. But he kept running, across the yard,

out through the big gates, and across the park, while pressing

a fist into his tummy on each in breath to stop the sharp stitch

which was paralyzing his insides.

§

The nightmares became worse after that, so bad that

they persisted into his days. A confusion of thoughts and

voices jumped around in the boy’s head, visions real and

imagined, mixing nightmares and mashing up daydreams.

Eventually he was unable to tell them apart.

Jules stopped going to school.

§

Constable Dan Cope could easily have seen what was

happening on the bridge if he had looked out of the window.

The top of the bridge was clearly visible from the window

where he had been sitting.

The velvet curtain kept the inside of the pub to itself

over tightly closed windows. This, despite the fact that it had

been a hot day and the August evening was sticky and humid.

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The pub was full and the queue at the bar counter five

deep. Dan waited patiently. He was in no hurry, for the day

had been a long one. A boring Monday of paperwork and

irritable superiors.

As soon as he was given his pint, even before he had

paid for it, Dan bent down and sipped thirstily, his thoughts

far away.

The pub door burst open.

‘Call the cops!’ a man shouted. Dan swung around and

saw the man hurrying out of the pub. He left his drink on the

counter and rushed out behind the man.

A small crowd had gathered outside the pub.

‘Police, excuse me, out of the way, please,’ Dan said as

he forced his way through.

A slightly overweight woman stood in the centre of the

group, with a young girl crying in her arms. The girl’s thin

body shook as she tried to control her sobs.

‘It’s ok, sweetheart,’ the woman said. She had both arms

around the girl. ‘Tell me what’s upsetting you,’ she said, for

the girl could not stop crying. The woman glanced up over the

girl’s head at Dan.

‘Police,’ Dan said, with a questioning frown.

‘The police are here,’ the woman said softly to the girl.

This seemed to have an effect, for the girl’s body stopped

shaking and her sobbing subsided into a tremulous in-breath.

‘Will you tell the policeman what happened?’ the woman

asked softly.

Before the girl could answer they heard a loud shout

from behind the crowd, ‘Police here yet?’ A man’s deep voice,

coming from under the bridge somewhere. ‘Will someone

please call an ambulance!’ the voice rose with hysteria.

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Dan turned and ran across the road, down the steps,

which led to the bank of the canal under the bridge. As he

came to the bottom of the steps, he saw another girl lying on

her back on the narrow canal pathway. Her left elbow was

folded under her tiny body, her long black hair a mess of

congealed blood and mud. A short, stocky man was on his

knees by her side, his shabby black coat soaking up the

muddy water in which the girl lay.

‘Police!’ Dan called as he knelt down next to the man,

immediately reaching out to feel the girl’s pulse.

He could not feel anything.

‘How long has she been lying here?’ he asked the man

while bending forward over the girl’s face. He did not hear the

man’s reply. With an ear close to the girl’s mouth, he reached

to feel for a pulse in her neck. There was a very faint pulse in

her, and, deep down in her throat, he thought he heard a

gurgle.

‘She’s still alive,’ he said as he glanced up. By this time

two paramedics were coming running down the steps.

Dan did not wait there. He ran back up the steps, back

to the pub. The woman was still there, outside, holding the

first girl by the hand. They were sitting on a small brick wall

next to the pub.

‘She did not see how it happened,’ the woman told Dan

before he had said a word. The girl sat with her head down,

straight blond hair falling over her shoulders. She looked up

as Dan came to stand in front of them. She had a pretty, small,

pixie face and a pert, freckled nose.

‘What’s your name, love?’ Dan asked. The hazel speckles

in her eyes were sparkling with tears.

‘Myra,’ she whispered.

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‘Is the other girl under the bridge your friend, Myra?’

She nodded. Fresh tears started out of her eyes. She did not

blink, but kept her eyes on Dan’s face, while the tears ran

freely down her cheeks. She stared at Dan, not moving.

‘Were the two of you together?’ Another nod.

‘Was anyone else there?’ At first the girl shook her head,

then she frowned.

‘Did you see anyone?’ Dan prompted.

Yes, she nodded.

‘A girl?’ Another shake of the head. ‘A boy,’ she

whispered.

‘Do you know him?’

Yes. Another nod. Then she started sobbing again. She

bent herself double, dropped her face on her knees which she

held tightly together, and sobbed into her hands.

‘It’s ok, don’t worry,’ said Dan. ‘We won’t talk about it

now. You go home and have a rest. I’ll come and see you at

home tomorrow, OK?’

She nodded without looking up.

‘I’ll walk you home if you like,’ Dan said, reaching for

her arm. She stood up slowly, trembling against his hand.

§

‘I saw the boy there, on the bridge,’ Myra told Dan the

next morning. She looked much calmer, her long hair tied

back in a tidy ponytail. But her thin face was very pale, her

eyes big and round.

‘Do you know the boy’s name?’

‘I don’t know what his real name is, but I think they call

him Jules,’ she said.

‘Where was he when your friend fell over the bridge?’

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‘I never saw him before she fell over, but I’m sure he

pushed her.’

‘Why do you think he pushed her?’

‘Coz she screamed before she fell and I came running

back when she screamed, and I saw him just after she fell.’

‘Where were you?’

‘On the other side of the bridge.’

‘Could you see her from where you were?’

‘No, I was too far away. But I heard her scream.’

‘And that was when you came running towards her?’

‘Yes. Then I saw the boy.’

‘Jules?’

Yes, she said. He was running away from Myra. He ran

down the road, off the bridge she told Dan.

He must have pushed her friend, Myra insisted. Today

she felt angry. Her friend was still unconscious, critically ill.

She was sure that that weird boy, Jules, had pushed her

friend, she said.

‘He’s real weird,’ she told Dan.

‘What do you mean weird?’ Dan asked.

‘He looks strange like, you know?’ she said. ‘Always

alone. Kinda sad, like, coz no-one ever talks with him at

school. He mumbles to himself, acts crazy like. And he smells.

His clothes smell. It’s gross, the way he is. Scary-like,’ she

said, no longer crying, her lips pinching up as if the smell

were there, coming from Dan.

§

The voices were all talking at the same time now. They

were saying all sorts of things. Important things, like that he

should not desert his gran, that he should look after her. He

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listened to them. He did look after her like they told him. He

did this very seriously, for she needed him, now, more than

ever before.

That morning, as he had done for many days, he took his

time, carefully putting the ointment on her face for her. The

ointment was meant for her hand, he knew, but he had

nothing else, so he offered to put it on her face, and she did

not object. He patted it on her cheeks, taking his time, for the

skin was very delicate and he could not rub it in without

hurting her.

The bossy voice said, ‘Stop that, you silly ass. Can’t you

see that she’s not enjoying it?’ He looked up at her, wondering

if she’d heard the voice too, but she just kept her eyes closed,

enjoying the way he gently stroked her cheek with the

ointment. He hated the bossy voice most of all. He ignored it,

and he carefully crooked his index finger and scooped up

more ointment.

‘Turn this way, Granna, I can’t reach your throat,’ he

said to his grandmother. Gently, lightly, he turned her head to

face him, and he thought he saw a small smile on her lips

while she kept her eyes shut.

A wetness returned on her cheeks. ‘Don’t cry, please

Granna, don’t cry,’ he told her softly, trying to wipe the wet

away. With his little finger he lifted a wisp of grey hair from

her forehead and applied the ointment above her eyebrows.

He worked gently, taking his time, loving her.

The little voice encouraged him. Ask her to read you a

story, it said. She will do it for you, you deserve it, the way

you are looking after her. Go on, ask her. Bet she agrees, it

whispered.

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He bent down and picked up the open book and put it on

her lap. Lightly he lifted her hand and put it on the open book,

to keep it in place. Her eyes were still closed, her smile now

faded as she went deeper into her silent world.

‘Please read to me, Granna,’ Jule whispered, hoping she

would open her eyes and read to him. He, too, now closed his

eyes and he sank back into the corner on the floor opposite

her chair, pulling his knees into his chest. He put his head on

his knees, his legs up in front of him, hugging his knees, as he

used to do when he was very little.

‘But Big Ears,’ his grandmother’s soft Noddy-voice

drifted through his comforting infantile world, ‘Mr Plod said

that I should stay here with you.’

Jules kept his eyes tightly shut, savouring the sound.

Although her voice was soft, it still managed to block out the

bossy voice and drown out the little voice inside his head.

Slowly he opened his eyes. He stretched his neck and peered

over his grandmother’s arm, at the picture in the book which

lay open in her lap, under her hand, just where he had place

it.

He jumped up, shocked, as the doorbell rang.

His head hit against the door as he tried to get out of his

confusion. He stumbled forward through the door. He had still

not got his glasses back, and he could not see through the

gloomy passage. He stopped, feeling disorientated, not quite

sure what to do, what had shocked him out of his half-sleep.

He stood with his back against the wall for a moment,

breathing heavily, blinking his eyes, trying to settle his

jumping, confused mind. The voices were all quiet now,

nobody told him what to do.

The doorbell rang again, longer this time, insistently.

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He could see the shape of the man through the lace

curtain as he stepped forward. He was two steps from the

front door, but his legs would not take him further. He

stopped, scared, stiff, hardly breathing, hoping that the

person would leave.

But the doorbell rang again. This time it did not stop.

Slowly, heart pounding, he stepped forward. One step. A

big drop of sweat trickled down his spine. A second step and

his underarm slid on the sweat in his armpit.

He stopped. The bell had gone quiet.

Dan had stopped ringing the doorbell. Something looked

very wrong, but he did not know what it was. He knocked on

the shiny green door, loudly. He opened the top button of his

shirt, pulled at his tie, which had gone very right in the hot

sun.

From the corner of his eye he saw the lace-curtain fall

back behind the window next to the front door.

Everything was very still in the cul-de-sac. The little

garden in front of the green door looked tidy, but in need of

water, for the flowers neatly bordering the path looked

withered. He raised his hand to knock on the door again. Just

then it opened, very slowly.

The young boy did not open the door very widely. Dan

could just see a thin nose through the opening, opaque eyes

staring obliquely and short-sightedly at him.

Jules tweaked the fine tip of his nose up. This made him

look very young and vulnerable. Sweat appeared like drops of

water out of his waterlogged skin.

‘Yes?’ his voice squeaked in broken adolescence. He

blinked up at the policeman, into the bright sunlight behind

his bigness.

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Dan took off his hat. He opened his mouth, then shut it.

The smell which rushed out from behind the boy almost

knocked him back into the street.

‘I must talk with you,’ Dan said. He did not wait for a

reply, but stepped forward and pushed past Jules, who did not

resist.

The smell inside the tiny, dark passage was almost

unbearable. Dan looked at Jules, who hung his head, staring

down at his oversized shoes.

‘You know what I’ve come about, don’t you?’ Dan asked

the teenager.

Jules nodded. He did not take his eyes off the carpet.

‘Is your name Jules Delaney?’

‘Yes,’ Jules said, in a hoarse whisper, his eyes still down.

He had not used his voice for days. His breath smelt of rotting

teeth.

Dan realised that there was something very wrong in the

house. The boy’s eyes darted from Dan’s face to the cupboard

under the stairs, then back to Dan. The door to the cupboard

was slightly open.

‘What’s in there –‘ Dan said, pushing past the boy to the

half-open door.

Jules jumped forward, trying to block Dan’s way. Dan

grabbed him by the arm and pushed past him.

With incredible speed Jules turned around and kicked

Dan in the shin. Dan’s leg folded back and he tripped. His

head hit the banister and he went flying into the hall table,

which the boy had pushed away from the wall as he ran out of

the front door.

It was not too difficult to catch Jules, who ran without

energy, with the listlessness of the hungry, as if he wanted to

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be caught. Dan grabbed him from behind by his sticky neck

and brought him down onto the pavement.

§

The decaying corpse was sitting tidily on a small

armchair in the cupboard under the stairs, an open book in its

lap, held open by fermenting fingers. The bulb above its head

was yellow with age and gave very little light. It cast shadows

over the muddy cheeks, which were covered with a white

ointment. The boy had tried unsuccessfully, for days, to stop

the flow of body fluid from the oozing eyes which were closed,

the mouth set in a rigid smile, congealed by death. Crusty

white layers of body fluid, slimy in places, which had flowed

from the nose and ears, had settled in the folds of her neck.

The boy had tied her to the stool, and the rope was

hanging loosely around her sagging body, looped through the

drain pipe behind her against the wall to keep her from falling

forward. She had once been an obese person, for her rotting

flesh was hanging in empty, uneven, bags under her high-

necked floral dress and apron, from under which came the

most suffocating stink Dan had ever smelt.

It was a long time before the police managed to get the

boy to talk about it. Under police guard, Jules slept for days,

first with the drugs which the doctors gave him, then in a

semi-conscious, exhausted stupor.

His concern when he finally awoke was for his

grandmother, his loving Granna, whom he had found lying in

the passage when he had come down from his room for

breakfast one morning, the nurse told Dan.

‘She doted on the boy,’ said a shocked neighbour. A thin,

curious woman, with widespread fingers covering a bony

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chest, she spoke with the sombre, sanctimonious sobriety of

the curious, all the while peering inquisitively over the fence

between their two houses. She was eager to speak.

‘Brought him up from when he was four, when his

mother left them. How terrible. Just upped and left the child

with the poor dear. They never got on. Never heard from her

again. That were nine years ago,’ she said.

Jules’ grandmother had died from natural causes, a

heart attack, the police doctors reported, while Jules lay in

semi-consciousness avoidance.

He had found her lying at the foot of the stairs, Jules

mumbled to the nurse during a brief, reluctant bout of

consciousness. Slowly the young nurse pieced the story

together while she tended to him over the next few days.

The harsh reality of his grandmother’s death eventually

dropped like a stone into his befuddled brain, starting fresh

ripples of insecurity over an already fragile life. He eventually

started to speak his grief in broken tones, his cracked voice

splintering under the strain. Between freak outs and

blackouts, voices and dream attacks of steel blades ripping

bloodless flesh into metal strips, Jules’ mind relived his

distress. The young nurse had a job piecing the story

together, had a worse time protecting the boy’s delicate

personality from complete fracture.

His gran was all he had. Now she was gone, and his

brain refused to accept it.

His grief and fear had made it impossible for him to part

from his gran, the nurse reported to the police. The voices had

told him to put her in the cupboard. They had given him the

strength to drag her there and pull her onto the small chair,

given him the super determination to do so. She would not sit

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up, so he had tied her to the pole behind her, ‘..gently, I never

hurt her,’ he made sure the nurse understood - so that he

could rub the cream over her face, the cream which the

doctor had given her for the cracks in her hands. This he

knew.

His dreams had kept her alive for him. And the voices

had assured him that she was alright, as long as he stayed

close to her. That’s why he dared not go to school.

The doctors would not allow the police to question Jules

for many days.

‘It might turn into a murder charge,’ Dan told them, for

Myra’s friend was slipping further into unconsciousness as the

days went by.

On the fourth day Dan was allowed to interview Jules,

with a nurse standing close by.

The girls had not at first seen him, Jules said. In fact, he

did not think that they saw him at all, for he had stood out of

their sight, under the bridge all the time, while the two girls

were playing around on the bridge. Even when Myra’s friend

with the white trainers had leaned over the railing and spat

out her gum, she did not see him, he was sure. He had

watched the gum as it sailed down slowly, as it took a turn

and landed a foot away from his toes, where he had stood

behind the bush under the bridge.

‘I looked up,’ he mumbled to Dan, who listened intently,

not wanting to disturb the tenuous connection he had

established with the boy by writing things down.

Then one of the girls had raised the edge of her school

skirt to wipe her nose, Jules said. This detail he remembered,

recounting it to Dan with clarity, as if it proved his innocence.

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He had watched the girl carefully. Myra was not there

then. He knew Myra’s name, but he did not know the other

girl, the one who had fallen over the bridge.

After that it had happened very quickly.

Someone must have walked up to Myra’s friend, he said.

‘Did you see anyone?’ Dan asked.

‘No, I never saw him, but I heard them talking with the

girls on the bridge. I think it is one of the boys from my

school.’

Jules wanted to get away before the other boys saw him.

He was just about to step out from behind the bush where he

was hiding under the bridge, he said, when he saw Butch

running under the bridge. ‘He ran past the bush and I waited

for him to pass. He ran past me. He did not see me,” Jules

whispered, close to tears. ‘He ran fast. He did not see me,’ he

repeated.

He watched Butch scramble up the bank, onto the

bridge.

Then Jules heard the girl scream, while he was still in

hiding.

‘I was too scared to come out,’ he said.

Dan did not believe him. Myra had not said a word about

anyone else having been there. She had seen only Jules.

‘What did you do then?’ he asked Jules.

‘Nuffink. I was too scared,’ Jules said from behind closed

eyes. He had withdrawn from Dan. ‘I heard the girl

screaming. Then I saw her fall over the bridge,’ he said,

almost inaudibly.

He drew himself back deep into the bush under the

bridge, he said. He could see the thin girl’s legs and lower

body lying on its back on the cement path from where he was

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standing. Her legs were spread wide apart, and blood was

running from a gash in her leg, onto the pavement.

Everything went quiet on top of the bridge. The boys had

run away, so he came out and ran up the steps, onto the

bridge and away.

‘He’s lying,’ Dan thought, watching the boy carefully,

wondering what line of questioning to follow next. He stared

at the boy, who did not open his eyes again.

‘Why should we believe you,’ Dan asked softly, almost to

himself. The boy had slipped away into his comfortable world

and did not answer. Then, louder, ‘Why should we believe you.

How do we know that you had not pushed her?’

From somewhere, from very far away, Jules heard Dan.

And with Dan’s voice came a vague memory. He tried to grab

it, then it faded away, out of his grasp. He frowned, and Dan

knew that the boy had heard him.

Dan remained silent, watching the boy intently. Slowly

Jules’ frown settled and his face relaxed. The memory

appeared again, further forward into the present this time,

and took shape in a reluctant cloud of fact. Jules pushed it

forward to the front of his mind with great effort, making it

jump over other images, dart between the voices which had

started to mumble in the back of his life as they ducked to

allow the memory to flow over them and past jumbled

thoughts, down into Jules’ dry mouth.

‘Butch’s knife,’ Jules said.

‘What?’ Dan asked, caught by surprise.

‘Butch dropped his knife. I saw it. I kicked against it

when I ran away. It must still be there, next to the bush,

under the bridge.’ His words collided over each other

excitedly. He opened his eyes, frowning at Dan accusingly.

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As quickly as it had risen, the fight in Jules subsided.

‘The knife must still be there,’ he finished weakly. What’s the

use, they won’t believe you, the bossy voice clearly said, and

that was that. Jules closed his tired eyes. The natter of the

voices increased and he went to join them, for that was where

he received his comfort, where he was safe. He ignored

everyone else and slipped away back into sleep, even while

Dan and the nurse where still waiting for him to finish talking.

Dan nodded at the nurse and left the room quietly while

the nurse drew the curtains to allow the boy to enjoy, with

undisturbed relief, his own world, the only place which offered

him safety from the other world of cruelty and loss.

‘What will happen to me now?’ he asked as soon as he

woke up. The room had gone dark. He had slept and slept.

The sun was gone. The policeman had just come back. He was

standing at the door, talking to the nurse.

Hearing Jules, Dan turned to him.

‘You get yourself better, son. That’s what must happen

next,’ Dan said, glancing at the nurse as he walked out and

closed the door quietly behind him.

Butches’ bloody knife was inside a plastic evidence bag

in Dan’s pocket. He signalled to the policeman on guard

outside Jules’ hospital room and together they walked out into

the sunshine, out of the boy’s fragmented life.

end

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Jules

Health & Medicine

Transcript of Jules