“Bully” – a short story
There he is again: the school bully.
Thirty-two years since we left, I still see him about. Same arrogance. Same “’Fuck are you looking at?” eyes.
He came to our school in the second year. They said he’d battered a teacher with a baseball bat at his last place. Got expelled.
He was big even then. One of them lads with beards and pubes by the time he was 13. He didn’t say much when he joined St Anne’s. But then he had a scrap with Macca – the ‘cock’ at the time – and leathered him. He was relentless, stingy jabs to the nose and then big right crosses to the mush. Blood everywhere. Teeth – Macca’s – on the floor.
All the lads buzzed off it. But they knew he was a different level to everyone else. Not just hard, but nasty. Effective. He got a nickname: ‘Drago’ after the Russian boxer in Rocky IV. He loved it.
His reputation spread. Fights with other boys at other schools followed. He won them all.
There was a time when he started on a lad at a youth club disco. We were all 15, 16 by then. When the fight went to ground, he pinned this kid down and knocked him out. But kept on punching. And punching.
By the time Drago had finished, the kid was unrecognisable. Apparently, he’s still a mess. Never got over it, his mum says.
He was a bastard to everyone, Drago. “Lend us your odds for me dinner,” he’d say. “Gis your crisps or I’ll batter youse.” No one ever said no.
He loved flicking other lads’ ears from behind or spitting through his teeth onto your clothes. No one said anything. You couldn’t.
Four years of that. While he had his hangers-on, no one liked him. Like Millwall.
Then we all left school. Most people lost contact with him. Others said that he was a doorman. Or a drug dealer.
But what’s the point of a school bully when there’s no school?
What happens to them? Do they carry on? Or just become like everyone else?
“That’s a tough question, Drago,” I say to the mirror. “We’ll have to see.”
And with that, I’m off. There’s people I need to have a word with.
Thirty-two years since we left, I still see him about. Same arrogance. Same “’Fuck are you looking at?” eyes.
He came to our school in the second year. They said he’d battered a teacher with a baseball bat at his last place. Got expelled.
He was big even then. One of them lads with beards and pubes by the time he was 13. He didn’t say much when he joined St Anne’s. But then he had a scrap with Macca – the ‘cock’ at the time – and leathered him. He was relentless, stingy jabs to the nose and then big right crosses to the mush. Blood everywhere. Teeth – Macca’s – on the floor.
All the lads buzzed off it. But they knew he was a different level to everyone else. Not just hard, but nasty. Effective. He got a nickname: ‘Drago’ after the Russian boxer in Rocky IV. He loved it.
His reputation spread. Fights with other boys at other schools followed. He won them all.
There was a time when he started on a lad at a youth club disco. We were all 15, 16 by then. When the fight went to ground, he pinned this kid down and knocked him out. But kept on punching. And punching.
By the time Drago had finished, the kid was unrecognisable. Apparently, he’s still a mess. Never got over it, his mum says.
He was a bastard to everyone, Drago. “Lend us your odds for me dinner,” he’d say. “Gis your crisps or I’ll batter youse.” No one ever said no.
He loved flicking other lads’ ears from behind or spitting through his teeth onto your clothes. No one said anything. You couldn’t.
Four years of that. While he had his hangers-on, no one liked him. Like Millwall.
Then we all left school. Most people lost contact with him. Others said that he was a doorman. Or a drug dealer.
But what’s the point of a school bully when there’s no school?
What happens to them? Do they carry on? Or just become like everyone else?
“That’s a tough question, Drago,” I say to the mirror. “We’ll have to see.”
And with that, I’m off. There’s people I need to have a word with.
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