Funhouse Chapter 13

WARNING: SOME PARTS MAY BE NSFW.

Chapter 13

1

‘Good, you’re here,’ Henry drawled, arrogant as usual, ‘I thought you’d never fucking show up.’ Despite his cocky demeanour, Patrick could tell the greaser was feeling down in the dumps. His hair was straggly and it seemed he hadn’t bothered with his usual DA today - instead were his long, shiny black bangs, too long in fact that they trailed into his dark eyes, giving him an almost mad, rugged look. Patrick thought this was a good look for him. It was wild, almost like his own but dark where his own hair was fair. Cowlicks stood up on end, almost although he’d received an electric shock - and instead of being slicked back in perfect imitation of his rock n’ roll star heroes, it was almost wavy on the ends.

Instead of taking the time to say a greeting, Patrick raised a speculative eyebrow and gave Henry the usual full-body scan.

‘Hey, what happened to your hands?’ Patrick asked, innocent, but with a thin trace of amusement.

Henry’s eyes widened then darted to the left away from Patrick’s. Moistening his lips, Henry remembered he didn’t have to lie so much around Patrick. He was cool. ‘My dad…’ he admitted, hiding his bandaged fingers in the sleeve of his leather jacket, ‘He was real mad, y’know. You should have seen him.’

‘Tell me!’ Patrick yelled, almost sounding angry. He didn’t like to see Henry hurt. It wasn’t a good look on him. Kids like Eddie Kaspbrak, or that stupid Eddie Corcoran, then sure. Fine. Cool. Henry? Not so hot… It was like seeing something you shouldn’t - something that would get you hurt yourself. If you got in too deep, that is.

‘Well,’ he began, averting his eyes again, ‘The other day, we got a letter from those fucking-A doctors, and it said I was sc.. Schizo- schizophrenic or whatever, but you already know that. Anyway, he got real mad, and slammed the screen door shut on my fingers when I was about to walk into the backyard.’

Patrick made an almost comforting noise but it got stuck in his dry throat.

‘Said he didn’t want no fucking mad son.’ Henry added, shaking his head sadly. His eyes looked almost tearful, and Patrick found himself cupping his bandaged fingers in his own. That was until Henry slapped him away.

‘Don’t act all sorry! This is all your fault, Hockstetter!’ Henry hissed, but soon realising Patrick was all he had left. Victor and Belch hadn’t been around in quite sometime, but who could blame them? Henry was losing it.

‘Look,’ Patrick drawled, finally meeting Henry’s eyes despite the height difference, ‘I’m truly sorry, Henry. Do you think I like being called a ‘Sociopath’? What about a ‘Psychopath’, huh?’

Henry shook his head no. Both boys were perplexed with these sudden diagnosis. Yet, so was Oscar Bowers and it caused him to outburst angrily at all possible opportunities. Henry wondered why he still hadn’t run away from his old man, but despite all the times he hurts him, despite all the times he gets called derogatory names, Henry still remembers the times he’d been tucked up in bed by his father, or maybe that time his dad remembered his birthday and bought him a second hand bike.

With a moment of silence, both Henry and Patrick caught each others eye. Henry cracked a wry smile; ‘We’ve only got one day left together before you move away, so why don’t we stop arguing all the fucking time and actually do something?’

2

Despite the stabbing feeling in Patrick’s chest, he gave a laugh of agreement. Last Wednesday, Patrick’s parents had a serious discussion. There had been a lot of rowing, and Patrick wondered if it was to do with that terrible, looming ‘D’ word - Divorce. He’d felt terrible, awful. All night he had listened from his bed to the noise all the way below in the kitchen. They had been yelling all night, and Patrick couldn’t sleep from the stress. Interrupt Patrick’s daily rituals, and that’s probably one of the only things that could get him to become irate. Marching barefoot down those wooden stairs at 1 in the morning, Patrick had stopped and stared his parents full on in the eyes, his expression hard and unforgiving, his hair tousled. In his blue and white striped winter pyjamas, it didn’t seem quite so threatening but giving his almost murderous expression and recent diagnosis as a Sociopath, Patrick’s parents had become quite fearful of their loving son.

Josephine Hockstetter gasped, the tear tracks evident on her paled cheeks. Ronald Hockstetter flinched and clenched the tabletop for support.

Not one of the three said anything, but mixed emotions were very present at that moment in time. Fear, intimidation and angst were riddled throughout the atmosphere, and Josephine had had enough.

‘That’s it!’ she had cried, ‘We’re moving! This place is tearing our family apart, we need to start afresh.’

The following day Ronald Hockstetter found a good office job application in a nearby New England state. Kingston, Vermont. Didn’t it just sound grand? Not really for Patrick… He was perfectly happy in Derry, Maine. However, even Patrick had to admit moving to a new state would be kind of exciting. After all, Derry Elementary will hardly welcome him back with open arms in September after what happened with those Loser kids… Besides, Patrick figured he didn’t have any true friends in this small town. Henry was cool. Sometimes. But Henry wasn’t a friend to Patrick like how Belch was a friend to Victor, how Veronica was a friend of Greta Bowie or perhaps how Stan was a friend to Richie Tozier - and this bothered Patrick. Patrick could tell Henry preferred to be either in a group of three (Victor, Belch and himself) or entirely on his own because like on a clover, four may be lucky, but four’s a crowd - and Patrick was that crumpled, lesser leaf that some cruel teenage boy would come along and pluck off just so that the clover wouldn’t be a genetic freak of nature. He could see it bothered Vic and Belch whenever Henry let him hang around, but he didn’t care so much about what they thought. Victor Criss and Reginald ‘Belch’ Huggins were nothing to him, merely another brick in the wall.

Patrick’s mother spent most of her days trailing around estate agents, looking for nice family homes in Kingston. She had taken time off her part-time job due to illness and spent the time she wasn’t at the estate agent doting over Patrick at home. Josephine worried about him you see. She had no idea that her son could’ve been mentally ill before the recent events. Well, his report cards had always been rather lack-lustre, but she thought that was normal for any young boy. His doodles in his math revision books had always been a little… violent, but she also thought that was normal for any boy what with their odd fixations with war and bloodshed. Now, she reconsidered, and reconsidered again. Patrick never had any friends before. Well, apart from that Bowers boy recently in the past few months. Was Henry a bad influence on her boy? Maybe… He’d always seemed so polite whenever he went round for tea, so Josephine couldn’t understand why Patrick would suddenly become so erratic. What she did understand, however, was that they needed to get out of Derry. It was for the best. Patrick would make new, normal friends, and they could maybe even get him the help he needs, if he needs it that is.

Soon enough, Josephine found the perfect home. It was small for an all-American home, but there were only three members of the Hockstetter family. The house was in a quiet neighbourhood not so far away from a little pine forest and to Josephine it looked like something out of a fairytale picture book that she’d read when she was a little girl. The garden was huge and lush. Perfect for planting vegetables and having summer tea parties with the women from the local Vermont Ladies club. She figured Patrick would like it too and planned to buy it. A week later, the house was vacant and she’d gone right ahead with Ronald’s approval and bought it. Patrick of course didn’t have a say in this matter; he was in disgrace.

Time had flown by with Henry and Patrick being banned from seeing each other (yet, did you really expect those boys to follow those rules?) and Patrick was moving the following day. His bags were packed, his wallpaper stripped and he wasn’t that depressed about it, but somehow he found himself wishing Henry could go right along with them where he’d be safe from his horrible father and his disgusting girlfriend who could make awesome apple pies.

He’d told Henry that he’d miss him something awful, and Henry had simply smirked humorlessly and told him not to be so stupid, that he’d make better friends than him and maybe even get a nice little girlfriend. Henry was jealous of Patrick’s fresh new start in Vermont. He’d be forever stuck in Derry, Maine along with his deranged father and his falling-to-shambles farm. He’d grow old and bitter in this town, and eventually he’d die and be buried in Derry’s Cemetery along with all the other small town deadbeats. However, he decided he’d be a good friend. That was what he always wanted to be if he couldn’t be clever, or very handsome or charming. He’d be a good friend - and good friends would be happy for their friend to get a fresh chance in life and make things all better. That’s what Henry decided he wanted to be then and there. In the past he had been cold and somewhat un-loyal to his pals Victor and Belch and now he decided he’d quite like to be as great to them as they’d been to him. Well… before Patrick came along. But where were Vic and Belch now? Henry hadn’t seen them for some while now and was starting to get suspicious.

3

‘Hey, I was thinking we should do a little something for the Losers before you go,’ Henry chortled, his eyes shining with malice, ‘It’s the least we could do for getting us into this mess!’

Patrick guffawed in agreement, nodding his head vigorously. In the boys’ opinion they hadn’t done anything wrong. It was all the Losers’ Club fault and they should be the ones that get punished! Rats deserve to be treated badly - break that unspoken rule and you were fresh bait, left for dead by all your closest friends.

‘Yeah! That’s great Henry!’ Patrick beamed, his usually dead eyes alive with excitement. ‘I really, really hope you kick their ass when I’m gone, Henry!’

‘Don’t you worry, baby,’ Henry lied easily, his expression a lazy, almost sleazy smile, ‘They’ll wish they never fucking messed with us!’ Together the boys were hanging out at Derry Harbour where they wouldn’t be found quite so easily. It was where they’d first met up properly besides school, and Henry thought it was very sweet and fitting for it to be the place they’d say their final goodbyes. After they’d found the Losers and given them a good, old-fashioned beating that is. Secretly, Henry knew he didn’t want anything to do with the Losers anymore… He wanted a fresh start just like Patrick - and the only way he could do that was to avoid them point-blanc. Well, after today he would. He promised himself he’d straighten out and start preparing for his future like a real man. He was only fourteen, but it was never too soon to start growing up. He wasn’t a ten year old any more and it wasn’t like Oscar Bowers could make any sensible, logical decisions for his son. From tomorrow on wards, Henry would think about Patrick in the back of his parents car, probably stuffing his face with candy and giving himself butterflies thinking about all the stupid kids he’d make friends and enemies of in his new town. If Henry could do that, he just knew he’d be inspired to get his life back to normal, whatever that was.

As it was almost deserted at the harbour, Henry allowed Patrick to swing his arm around his waist just like they’d done at Sundae’s. It felt comforting to have somebody that enjoyed touching him and wasn’t afraid he’d freak-out and punch them or something silly like that. All of the pupils at Derry Elementary knew he didn’t like to be cuddled and messed around with, and even his closest friends were reluctant to give him any kind of physical contact without warning him beforehand. Because he once kicked Eddie Corcoran in the shin for giving him a one-armed hug, everyone knew to leave him right alone, apart from Patrick Hockstetter obviously. He didn’t quite fit into the normal social regime of things you see… Henry knew he’d miss Patrick’s free hugs and how easy it was to allow Patrick to touch him. Who else would give him affection when Patrick was gone? Nobody - they were all too intimidated by him, another reason Henry wanted to turn his reputation around.

Swinging his arm around Patrick’s broad shoulders, Henry pulled him closer to his body and directed him towards the barrens. Hopefully, the Losers would be there. Perhaps playing in their pathetic little underground clubhouse, maybe building a stupid little baby-dam. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that they got their slither of revenge. Which, by the way, is never best served cold. That’s just not satisfying enough. Henry would rather have immediate revenge than get revenge on somebody that can’t even remember what they’d done to upset him and deserve their punishment.

Sure enough, there they were. Patrick admitted they were cute together; especially that whore Beverly Marsh and big, blundering Ben Hanscome. He was only one year older than the Losers, but he still felt it gave him an advantage over them, especially with Henry around - he was fourteen! Hidden by the tall grass, both Henry and Patrick crouched down so that they were almost able to fully see the Losers. In between the blades of grass were the fiery shades of Beverly’s hair that bobbed up and down every now and again. Henry guessed she was talking animatedly, nodding her head with enthusiasm. He could hear their silly, childish voices that had yet to deepen echoing all around them, bouncing off the steely drums and pipes of the nearby sewer system. Richie’s voice was louder than usual and for some reason, he seemed to be talking in an Irish accent. Henry resisted the urge to giggle it was that ridiculous.

In Henry’s satchel were a small collection of curiosities; four cherry bombs, ten firecrackers, two M-80s and five eggs. He didn’t usually carry around a satchel, it’s just he didn’t want to be stopped by some nosey old hag. He was already well-known by the adults of Derry to be a troublemaker and if they were to see him with these items (especially lately) he’d most likely be stopped and taken to the police station. Henry didn’t plan to kill the Losers any longer. Pennywise wasn’t real. Some nice lady at the child psychiatry had told him that much... But why did Patrick see him too? Henry guessed that would always remain a mystery, although he did secretly think Patrick would agree with or do anything he said, even ‘jump off a cliff’ or ‘go kill yourself’.

There was a moment of silence from the Losers and even Trashmouth had stopped his jibber-jabber - Henry thought for one terrible second that somebody had caught sight of them perhaps, and soon they’d either fight of flight (or freeze if your name is Eddie Kaspbrak). In that moment of panic Henry threw his first cherry bomb, and it landed next to Beverly with such a loud bang that clouds of dust travelled through the air. All seven kids let out a shriek of surprise, some of them jumping so high that Patrick feared they’d land on him. Thankfully for the girl, it hadn’t hit her. Henry’s aim was way off. She’d sometimes hear of some poor, unfortunate kid that lost a finger or an eye playing around with cherry bombs, and recognised the noise right away. Her friends weren’t too fast to react, Mike still sat on the ground, brown eyes wider than saucers.

‘Get up!!’She hollered, taking full command, ‘It’s Bowers! Get up now!’

‘SHIT!’ Cried the no-longer-Irish Richie Tozier, ‘Shit, just leave us alone Bowers.’

‘Y-yeah. Fuck. O-off,’ Bill said forcefully, standing up to join his two friends.

‘It’s us six against you two loons,’ Stan whispered distantly, placing a hand to his head where Patrick had shoved it underwater not so long ago. ‘And you aren’t even supposed to be together anymore.’

At that, Henry spluttered with laughter, throwing back his head and leaning against Patrick for support; ‘Yeah? Yeah! Sure! Shit!’ he giggled, tears dripping down his cheeks with a sudden case of hysterics, ‘I don’t fucking care, Uris.’ Placing his arm back around Patrick’s shoulders, he pulled him closer again - ‘Just because you losers beat up Princess Patrick here… doesn’t mean you can even think of messing with me - huh?’

Patrick gave him a quick eye-roll. His expression clearly stating he wasn’t impressed with his new nickname.

‘Enough tough talk bullshit from you, Henry,’ Beverly hissed, seething that Henry had the nerve to show his face after letting his retarded friend drown Stan. ‘If you won’t leave us alone, I guess we’ll just have to kick your ass again.’

‘Go right ahead,’ Henry replied smugly, ‘You’re just a stupid little girl.’

‘Beverly’s not stupid,’ Ben yelled, wobbling over to where his friends were gathered opposite Henry and Patrick, ‘And we’re going to beat you. Again.’

After another bout of laughing, Henry’s face straightened out. He was now completely serious and somewhat depressed. Before the Losers could even think about moving he had already thrown a firecracker in their direction.

Grass and bits of debris flew up into the Losers path, causing some to shield their faces and others to flee from the danger. The unlucky ones had their bare legs cut by shards of glass. Beverly landed not so far away from Bowers, as agile as a big cat on her hands and knees, her green eyes just as furious as one too. Her legs were pale in the bright sunlight but with a shock of red where the glass had struck her - Fortunately, it could have been a whole lot worse. Plaits flying as she lunged at him, Henry found he was far too amused to move. Placing his hands in a joking ‘get away from me!’ gesture, he was surprised to feel Beverly’s fist plunge into his jaw. With a dull crunch, he backed away slowly, eyes alarmed.

‘I thought I told you creeps to stay away from us,’ she grinned, obviously feeling elated at her sudden surge of power. Her friends stood around with their mouths wide open. Obviously they’ve seen their Beverly kick some ass before, but that was with Patrick Hockstetter - he was different! Henry Bowers was a whole different case. He was the kind that could beat up a high schooler boy without batting an eyelid.

Patrick stood there dumbfounded, but at the same time feeling very amused by the situation. Henry stared, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth - in a daze, he licked the blood from his chin. Giving Patrick a quick grin, he yelled, ‘NOW!’

Tucked in the sleeve of Patrick’s long shirt was another cherry bomb. He threw it through the air and it landed not so far away with a satisfactory ‘bang!’. Henry gave a boisterous cry of laughter and threw the two eggs in his hands, one of them splattering all over Bill Denbrough’s head. ‘Haha!’ He cried, fumbling through his satchel and throwing another two. Patrick reached into his bag and grabbed a M-80 - he knew they were dangerous - he didn’t care.

With the yolk dripping down his forehead, Bill Denbrough trembled. For a second it looked although he wanted to cry. He’d had a tough summer alright and that egg was just the icing on the cake. His parents ignored him, his brother Georgie had been dead two years, an evil clown was trying to kill them, and not only that - but now Henry Bowers was hot on his case again!

‘T-th-throw o-one more t-th-th-thing and I’ll k-kill y-you!’ Bill yelled, tears now falling from his eyes. He didn’t want to cry in front of his friends - he was the leader - but this time, oh this time, Bill had enough. ‘I-I m-mean i-it, B-b-b-bowers! I want y-you t-t-to guh-get the f-fuck o-out!’ Pointing a shaky finger at Henry, Bill chuckled, tears still pooling in his eyes. Patrick watched emotionlessly, arms crossed across his chest. Henry smirked, his eyes smoldering with a certain kind of infuriating power that only people like himself could possess.

Henry had got what he wanted. He was satisfied. Did he really want to kill the Losers? Not really. Dr. Annie told him that deep, deep down he didn’t really - and that it was just his sick brain playing nasty tricks on him. He agreed happily enough. What he really wanted to do, however, was to humiliate them for the amount of times they’d humiliated him. And more. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. He had made Bill Denbrough, leader of the Losers Club cry and that was good enough for him. At least for now whilst that Pansy Princess Patrick was still around.

‘You know what? Fine,’ Henry drawled, raising his palms skyward in self-defeat. ‘I made you cry like a little baby and that’s all I wanted for today. See you fuckers later!’

‘Buh-bye, babies!’ Patrick called after them, linking his arm back around Henry’s waist and sticking out his tongue, ‘This is sadly the last time I’ll be seeing you cuties, so goodbye!’

Ignoring the jeered insults and hawked spit directed towards their retreating backs, Henry and Patrick wondered back to the direction they came from, lost in their own crazy little world.

4

‘So this really is the last time I’ll see you?’ Henry enquired, his face seeming depressed.

‘Yeah…’ murmured Patrick, casting his eyes away from Henry’s, ‘But mom said I could always write to you, and that sometimes, I could maybe even visit you. If you’d like.’

‘Really?’ Henry said doubtfully, cocking an eyebrow. Somehow he doubted Patrick’s mother would let her son see him so easily again after what happened with Stanley Uris.

‘Yeah,’ said Patrick again, this time his eyes seeming shiny and red, ‘Henry?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Promise me you’ll always reply to my letters, even if they are lame and boring.’

Henry gently slapped his hands either side of Patrick’s face, squishing both his cheeks. They were standing outside Patrick’s home in his front garden, and Henry could feel his nosey next-door neighbour watching them with her steely, prejudiced eyes. ‘You’re real dumb, Patrick. Of course I’ll write back to you!’

Patrick met Henry’s eyes. ‘Thank you…’ he looked down at his sneakers, wishing once again that Henry could come with them to Vermont.

‘Don’t cry,’ Henry instructed, ‘It’s faggy.’ He let out a little chuckle as he felt himself trying his hardest not to shed a tear.

Henry knew then that Patrick was his best friend. Possibly the best he’s ever had. He could share painful secrets without feeling bad, he could let Patrick embrace (and sometimes even kiss!) himself without feeling terrible, and, most of all, he trusted Patrick. Patrick was cool. Would there ever be another Patrick? Henry didn’t think so. Wiping his nose on his jacket sleeve, Henry gave another weak laugh.

‘We’re being stupid aren’t we?’ Patrick laughed, imitating Henry’s nose-wiping move.

‘Mmm. We’ll see each other at Christmas when you come to see your Grandma. I’ll make sure of it,’ smiled Henry, feeling his chest being crushed. ‘And …I’ll write you every week. Even if nothing happens.’

Patrick’s mother popped her head from around the porch door, dragging a suitcase far to heavy for her to carry; ‘Patrick-baby? Henry? I’m sorry, but are you boys ready? We really need to hit the road.’

‘Yes, Mrs Hockstetter,’ Henry said without a smile, wanting to give Patrick’s mother a higher opinion of himself, ‘We’ve said goodbye.’

‘Would you like a-’

Henry knew what she was going to say, but he felt he couldn’t keep his emotions under check any longer, ‘No thanks. I’ll just walk. You seem very busy.’

Patrick hopped into the backseat after giving Henry a quick hug. He waved his hand sadly in Henry’s direction - but Henry was already halfway down the road, willing himself not to cry. When he reached Bowers farm, he threw himself down on the porch and had a long crying session - the longest he’d ever had since his mom ran away when he was ten years old.

Funhouse Chapter 12

WARNING: SOME PARTS MAY BE NSFW.

Chapter 12

1

Brushing a trembling hand through his DA, Henry began to grow anxious. Derry Elementary ran a summer school for the unfortunate kids who couldn’t quite keep up with the curriculum, and amongst them were the infamous Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter. By the skin of their teeth, Victor Criss and Reginald ‘Belch’ Huggins had just managed to escape the torture and boredom of the programme, but their good friend and leader, Henry hadn’t been so lucky. Today, Henry would prepare for the final exam coming up in early August - and he had to admit to himself that he had worked hard. His father had been pressuring him from one end, Pennywise from the other (Patrick’s mother had also bribed both boys with the promise of home-made chocolate chip cookies if they’d just revise together for an hour or two every day).

Henry bit onto the lid of his fountain pen and at the same time bumped out the rhythm to Elvis Presley’s ‘Hound dog’ on his desk’s leg. Well, until Mr Cassidy had stopped by and told him to be quiet as others were trying to work. The veins in his forehead stood out as the blood pounded in his head. There was always one exam question in particular that had always puzzled the boy: ‘Explain what an element is and give five examples of them.’ How the hell am I supposed to know? I really don’t give a fuck about science but my father will kick my ass if I flunk out again…

Looking up from over his practice exam paper, Henry stole a glance at Patrick Hockstetter. Henry knew he was far behind Patrick; although looking at Patrick’s paper right now, all he could see was a large and rather well drawn-out picture of a fancy question mark. Snickering, Henry got back to his own work. ‘Expand the following equations’ brackets - 3(x+2x) + 2(3x-4)’ Oh God…

‘Patrick… Patrick! Listen to me,’ Henry hissed across the room, ‘Do you get any of this? I’m so gonna end up flunking out.’

Patrick acted as if he couldn’t hear the older boy. ‘Don’t act deaf you pansy! Tell me the answer!’

‘Mr Bowers,’ Mr Cassidy drawled, looking down his bespectacled nose at the boy, ‘Please do leave Hockstetter alone and get back to work. Can’t you see he’s trying his hardest to achieve success?’ Obviously the old bastard’s never even glanced at Patrick’s test paper.

Giving the old man a scowl Henry decided to simply answer the questions another day. After all, it’s summer, it’s too hot to think and I ain’t no good at Chemistry or Algebra. In between the folds of his Science text book, Henry had slipped a torn off piece of lined paper. He quite enjoyed doodling when he was supposed to be working. He supposed it was a hobby of his besides tormenting people just for the heck of it and throwing cherry bombs out at the dump. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry dared to give Patrick another look. He could only see him in profile, but he still admired the way the light shone on his dirty-blond hair. Swapping his pen for a rather blunt pencil, Henry got to work on sketching Patrick from where he was sat.

Henry had no idea why he was drawing Patrick Hockstetter. Just the other day the pair had something of a fallout and Patrick had been acting funny since. He had taken to murmuring things under his breath more than usual - and stuffed into the cuff of his shirt was a large wad of toilet paper and handkerchiefs. His eyes would skim the room, wide with fear and brimming with tears from time to time. Any other day Henry would have probably thought this very funny - after all, Henry thrived on others’ pain and misery. Yet he couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for Patrick’s little breakdown. If I had been there with him then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

‘Patrick,’ Henry whispered, waving his hands fanatically in the air, ‘Look here, Patrick. I’ve drawn something for you.’

Patrick turned around and gave Henry a dirty look, his green eyes turning misty once again and his lower lip trembling.

‘Patrick! Just listen to me, would you?!’ Henry exclaimed angrily, banging his fingernails irritably on the table.

‘Bowers! Just concentrate on your work. Now! Leave Mr Hockstetter alone.’ Mr Cassidy bellowed from over at his desk. ‘You can sort out your lovers quarrel later in your own time.’ With that, the classroom howled with boyish laughter. Mr Cassidy looked rather pleased with his little gag.

‘But I can’t sir. I just don’t get-’

The classroom door swung open, distracting Mr Cassidy from telling Henry off any further. A pretty young woman scrambled through, embarrassed by the amount of attention she attracted from the boys, and whispered something into the teacher’s ear. He seemed to not quite hear her, and screwed up his face in over-exaggerated confusion. Mr Cassidy made sullen eye-contact with Henry and waved him over with one gnarled old hand.

‘C’mere, boy,’ There was almost a slight tone of sympathy in his voice, and Henry knew this could be either very good or very bad - ‘Mr Hart would like to speak to you in his office.’

‘Why?’

Cassidy’s forehead wrinkled even more, ‘Don’t ask why, boy. Just go.’

The whole class stared as Henry trailed miserably through the door the young woman was holding open for him. Slumping because of the humidity, and giving the door frame a little kick out of aggression, Henry knew to expect the worst and prepare for it.

2

There was a tap on Henry’s left shoulder. Whipping around to see who it was, there was nobody there. Turning to his right, Patrick was sat next to him grinning a sickly sweet smile that in all honesty, gave Henry the creeps. Mr Hart hadn’t arrived just yet so the boys had a chance to talk; much to Henry’s displeasure.

‘Thanks for ignoring me, jackass,’ Henry hissed, leaning closer to Patrick so Mr Hart’s secretary wouldn’t overhear, ‘Especially seeing as I fuckin’-’

Patrick waved a dismissive hand in the air and that ended the conversation. Still, that disturbing smile was plastered on his face.

‘You’re fucking dead, Hockstetter.’

‘Oh, please,’ Patrick whispered with a roll of his eyes. Henry could see him clenching his handkerchiefs tightly through his shirt. His nails dug into the starchy cotton. Obviously he’s never been threatened by me before. I should do that more often.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Came a voice from the corridor, making Henry jump to attention - he had slipped back into his daydreams from the day before. Mr Hart walked in with the air of a man who found himself to be very important. He was tall and barrel-chested, yet whenever he talked he sounded like he had the lung cancer that everybody was talking about nowadays…

Mumbling a garbled ‘Afternoon,’ both boys averted their eyes from both each other and the teacher. Obviously they weren’t in here for a good reason; but at least they were out of the heat. Keeping his eyes on the wall, Henry racked his brains wondering what he could have done this time. For the past week he had been on his best behaviour, and Mr Hart had praised him for his efforts. Yet, just yesterday the Terrible Awful thing had happened, but Henry had no idea how Hart could have found out about that.

‘Do you know why you’re in here?’ Mr Hart began, reclining against his desk and crossing his long legs.

‘No, sir,’ Henry murmured.

Patrick gave an odd shake of the head.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Henry,’ Mr Hart put a lot of pressure on that first word, ‘Do you really think I was born yesterday?’

Biting back a cheeky response, Henry lowered his eyes to the carpet.

‘Nothing? Alright then. I’ll ask Patrick instead,’ Hart turned towards Patrick, his eyes sharp and keen, ‘Patrick, could you please tell me what happened yesterday, as Bowers is not feeling too chatty today.’

Patrick bit on a thumbnail. Hesitated. Blinked a few times, then… ‘Nothing happened, Mr Hart. Henry and I were out playing at my house.’ He had to admit it sounded dumb, but it was far better than telling the truth.

‘Really?’

‘Yessir,’ Henry rasped again, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. He resisted the urge to do something bad to Patrick.

‘I’ve had a phone call, boys. No, not just one, but three,’ Hart smirked grimly, picking up a pencil and wiping imaginary dust from it. Despite the heat not a bead of sweat covered his face. ‘Do you have any idea what this is about?’

Oh, shut up you old fool and just get this over with!

‘No. No sir, I don’t.’ Patrick was reminded of how liars go to hell.

3

The sun blazed down on two boys curled up on the lawn of Derry’s Memorial Park. At a first glance one might have thought the pair were cuddling by the fountain, and would have walked away rather puzzled. However, as Patrick burst free of his almost catatonic state, he found he and Stan were not quite alone.

‘Y-y-you ju-just leave hi-m-m alone, p-puh-pansy!’ Bill hollered from across the length of the grass. His eyes were blazing with fury and he looked just about ready to kill somebody.

‘We’re coming over and we’re going to fucking kill you, Patrick,’ Beverly screeched, ‘I’m sick of yours and Henry’s bullshit. Pick on somebody your own size!’

Coming about his senses, Patrick gave a dull laugh. With a dead-panned voice, he added: ‘See if I care. If I die, you die, and I can’t even be killed!’

‘Ohh, you are so stupid. I just can’t believe you could even think that, mush-for-brains.’ Richie chuckled, marvelling at how retarded some people could actually be, ‘Go any further, and we will kill you.’

Patrick gained a tighter grasp on Stan’s limp, soggy body as if he were a lifesaver or a stuffed teddy bear, ‘I don’t believe you.’

That was enough for Beverly Marsh; ‘Try us, fag!’ she roared, charging forwards, oddly beautiful in her anger. Ben gasped in awe as she loaded her slingshot in one swift motion and fired directly between Patrick’s dusty eyes. The melted down silver missed the boy by literally a few millimetres and skimmed past his ear, grazing it and drawing blood.

‘L-let h-him go. Now,’ Bill hissed, dark shadows crossed his eleven year old face, making him look a whole lot older.

Patrick had no intention whatsoever of letting Stan Uris go. In fact, he hugged him even closer until Stan was practically sat on his lap, head resting weakly against the lip of the fountain. Repressing a tremble of rage, Beverly loaded her slingshot once again. She had willed herself not to miss her target again. With pride, she launched her second bullet through the air and it cut into Patrick’s cheek. Blood splattered against his face, looking morbid against the fairness of his skin and hair.

Richie let out a cry of triumph and Beverly high-fived him, cheeks blazing with pride. Instead of being angry Patrick was deathly calm. So calm, in fact, that the world seemed entirely in black and white to him. The black was the Losers club, bad for Pennywise and bad for Henry. The white was himself and Henry, making sure the Losers wouldn’t live another day.

‘Let me tell you, kid,’ Began Mike solemnly, ‘In case you don’t know, you’re on the right track for dying. And if you’re not feeling particularly suicidal today, you should haul some ass before we hand it to you on a plate.’

Patrick stared.

‘Wow, you’ve got some balls, Hockstetter. Now hand him over,’ Richie snarled, suddenly becoming furious about the fact Patrick very nearly drowned his bestest friend. For a while, the two groups of children stood wearily looking each other up and down. What were the odds for Patrick beating them in a fight? He was only five-foot-five. He was also pudgy.

4

Henry was annoyed. Annoyed that Patrick had told him to shut up. Annoyed that Patrick could even look him in the eye. Annoyed remembering that time at the dump where Patrick had kissed him full on the lips. As his father pulled into the drive way, Henry decided the day was too hot for picking corn. It was also too hot for stabbing Losers for that matter.

‘Dad, I’m going to the shops to get some Cool Aid. Want some?’

His dad ignored him, lost in his own world. Henry shrugged in a suit-yourself gesture and ran off down the dusty tracks before his father could even realise what just happened. Wow, he’d be getting a beating later.

5

Soon realising his mistake, Patrick let out a small howl of fury. Blood trickled down his pasty face and he could feel something must be broken. My mom’s gonna be so upset with me…

He’d been tricked into handing Uris over. Laying alone on the grass, he could hear the crickets humming, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of police cars wailing. Taking his time to sit back up, he rested his bleeding head where Stan had not so long ago. He was dizzy. Beverly Marsh sure had got him! Resisting the urge to puke, Patrick pulled himself up to his knees and took in the scene before him; blood was everywhere. Not just down his starchy shirt and sweater vest, but all over the grass and all over the fountain. Not a Loser was in sight.

Somehow he just couldn’t remember what happened. All Patrick knew was that his head hurt like hell and all he wanted was his mom.

The sun was now setting and Patrick had a chance to admire the birds that Stan loved so much. I see why he thinks they’re so beautiful. God, I wish I had my fridge right now. The sirens were getting louder and Patrick’s head burst with pain at every slight noise. Now pulling himself to his feet, Patrick considered his options; fight or flight. Which was it to be?

6

Henry Bowers could have puked. Laying there in the long grass against the fountain was the slumped body of Patrick Hockstetter.

When he had called over to him, he hadn’t quite heard the mumbled reply to ‘go away…’

‘Patrick! What the fuck happened?!’

Tears pooled in Patrick’s eyes. Henry had never seen Patrick display much emotion before and it came as quite a shock. Throwing himself to his knees besides the boy, Henry could see that Patrick had fainted. His skin was paler than usual (if that was even possible) and he was all weak and floppy instead of the enigmatic, amiable Patrick that Henry would typically see.

As if it were some kind of afternoon TV programme featuring a murder mystery, Henry winced as he heard sirens screaming in the silence. Sure enough, they were for Patrick.

‘C’mere, buddy. We need to leave.’

‘…No,’ Patrick whispered, hiding his face from his friend, ‘I’ve been bad. The Losers got away.’

‘Are you just gonna let the police get you like this?’ Henry growled, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him up. Being weak from lack of blood, Patrick slumped against him. This time Henry didn’t mind so much.

‘Either way, we’re dead boys, Henry. Can’t you see?’

‘Shut your mouth, Patrick. You don’t know anything!’

Despite the aggression, Henry’s heart was thundering under his shirt. He knew all too well that Patrick and himself were dead meat - not only once but twice they had failed to kill the Losers. Pennywise was not at all happy.

‘Patrick! We need to go! Now!’

Patrick attempted to stand but soon slid back down to the earth, face in a grimace of pain. Henry watched helplessly as Patrick threw up at his feet.

If we get caught now… It’s all over. Everything.

Instead of wasting time waiting for Patrick to gain strength and leave, Henry hauled him up from under his armpits and lifted him over his shoulder. Working most of his life on his father’s farm had made him awfully strong for a 14 year old. Patrick groaned nauseously and hung limply over his back.

‘What the fuck happened?’ Henry repeated. This time his voice was desperate as he jogged as fast as he could out of Memorial Park.

Patrick didn’t waste his breath. He felt he was going to be sick again. Slipping into a daze, he relaxed himself against Henry’s body. It would have been perfect for him if it weren’t for the constant churning of his stomach.

Obviously somebody had seen the Losers and all that blood and called the police; Patrick didn’t care. Patrick really didn’t care. Tell if you want, I don’t care. I’ll just hurt you twice as hard next time, Stanley Uris. Everybody can point the finger at me - saying ‘he’s the one that tried to drown Stanley Uris!’ - but I don’t care. They’re dead. I’ll kill them all.

7

‘I hope you know this is a serious matter, boys,’ Mr Hart lamented, giving each a stern glance in turn, ‘Killing is wrong. Killing is evil. You’ll go to Hell for killing people, boys… Think about it... Just what in the world possessed you to do such a thing, Patrick? What did Stan ever do to you? I’m truly shocked. No, I’m dismayed. And I can’t believe I waited another day to talk to you on this matter; your parents will be getting a call, Mr Hockstetter. You’re lucky I didn’t call the police in right away. If you hadn’t ran away like a coward, you could be in jail right now.

‘As for you, Henry. You’re also in on this - I can tell. Now, you may not be involved in the… a-attempted drowning, but you certainly helped Patrick get away. An eyewitness account told me that-’

Henry let out a snarl of discontent. Patrick blinked in surprise - he didn’t think they’d get caught so quickly. Both boys turned two different colours; Patrick white and Henry red.

‘Can I continue? The eyewitness, who would rather remain anomaly, told me that you helped Patrick away from the scene. Is this correct?’

Sighing, Henry gave a brief nod of his head. He could hear Patrick quietly snivelling into his hankie. A cowlick fell into his eyes sparkling with angry tears.

‘You do know the police are bound to get involved sooner or later?’ Mr Hart whispered sullenly.

Both nodded with tears in their eyes.

8

Patrick was five years old when Avery died. His mother had been distraught, his father heartbroken. Instead of sharing their sadness, Patrick was numb. At first the doctors just assumed he was in shock and would eventually come to terms with his baby brother’s death - however, nobody knew Patrick Hockstetter was a sociopath from the day he was born. And, perhaps he will be until the day he dies.

After Avery died in December there was a month or two where Patrick would be ignored by both his parents. They were too busy grieving the death of their youngest son to compliment Patrick’s dark squiggle of a Christmas Turkey, or perhaps some day a boy, or a self-portrait. Whatever. Patrick didn’t care. They could ignore him all they liked just as long as they didn’t interrupt his secret plans and rituals.

It was that joy whilst killing Avery that gave him the urge to kill all those animals in his Amana. Also, it was also that pleasure he thrived on to give him some kind of sick thrill whilst attempting to drown Stan or slit Eddie’s throat.

At first Josephine couldn’t believe the phone call home she’d received from a Mr Hart. How could her precious son possibly hurt somebody like that? It all came back to her from the day her youngest son had died. No… She couldn’t quite believe it. She wouldn’t believe it… Instead, she pushed it to the back of her mind along with the fact she was currently not responding to her cancer treatment; and also that children in Derry were now dropping dead like flies. Nowadays she dared anything to try and shock her - She’d been through it all.

Patrick had cried in his room for a little while; refusing to eat his tea and ignoring the cupcakes his mother had sneakily left him in compensation. Usually when in trouble he’d feel empty and utterly refused that he had done anything wrong. Today he could do nothing but sob into his pillow and block out the cooing noises his mom was making through the door. He briefly wondered if Henry was doing the same (well, if Oscar Bowers hadn’t murdered him yet.) and then decided that he didn’t care either way. From the back of his mind Patrick knew that Henry had ratted him out.

When Mr Hart had called the parents of both boys, he had specifically requested the police to allow for a psychiatric evaluation - what boy in his right mind would attempt to kill his classmate right out of the blue?! Mrs Hockstetter had been reluctant, but then slept on it, tossing and turning all night. In the end, she decided it was simply for the best. If her Patrick was mentally disabled, then so be it. She’d still love him no matter what. He was the world to her.

Mr Bowers senior had been a different case altogether. He has screamed and ranted down the phone that no son of his was bat shit-crazy, and that if they even booked him an appointment he would sue.

9

It was after curfew. Both boys had disregard for the rules and didn’t care who knew it. Just the other day Henry and Patrick had been banned altogether from seeing each other. It was hard - they had to admit. Being in such an uneasy state, both boys had hardly touched their food and were now suffering the consequences. Tomorrow, they’d be interviewed one by one by a ‘special’ doctor. One of those doctors that sat you down in a room full of different chairs and asked you about your troubles. Neither Henry nor Patrick had any desire to disclose anything to that kind of doctor, but in the end they knew they’d have to come clean with why they attempted to kill Stanley Uris…

‘I miss you, Henry,’ Patrick simpered, his head resting on Henry’s lap. Both boys let out a nervous giggle and decided to spend the rest of the evening not talking at all.

Henry broke apart from Patrick’s kiss and stared him fully in the eyes. He had the look of a person searching for the answer to a difficult equation: ‘Maybe… Maybe this is for the best for us,’ he began, ‘Maybe this ‘Pennywise’ character was… all in my head.’

‘As if I’d be stupid enough to blindly believe you if I hadn’t seen Pennywise too,’ Patrick scoffed, attempting to go back to kissing Henry’s jawline, ‘I would have just thought you were bat-shit and got on with life!’

‘You… saw him too?’

‘Yeah, man! On the moon, at Sundae’s… He was everywhere! Sometimes he would even be in my bedroom late at night.’

‘Oh,’ was all Henry said. He left it at that.

10

The next evening the boys had met again and spent it exactly as they had the night before; making small talk in between making out. If the adults had thought segregating Henry and Patrick would loosen their bond, they were certainly wrong. If anything, it had brought them closer together.

Yesterday the doctors had talked to them. There was a young woman with a notebook and pen, an old, kind-looking man with little to no hair and a middle-aged woman by the name of Annie. Henry found it was odd that she’d allowed him to address her by her first name. But then he remembered - I’m here to be called crazy! I’m here to tell the doctors I tried to kill some people because I felt depressed about life, or whatever bullshit they want me to feed them, and then they’ll take me and Patrick away to Juniper Hills where we’ll live and die together.

In Henry’s case, the three doctors had listened attentively to his story about this ‘clown called Pennywise on the moon.’ Sure enough, they declared him as having symptoms of a psychosis. After talking for another hour and a half (Henry was getting tired of talking and felt himself becoming ashamed) they had finally gotten a feel for the boy - Henry Bowers was a Schizophrenic. He was paranoid, delusional and often suffered from both auditory and visual disturbances. Not only that, but he seemed to have periods where he felt particularly low in mood; anxious and depressed.

This of course was a dirty lie and Henry refused point blank to listen to them. His father was equally as reluctant.

With Patrick, the doctors had listened to his tale with an equal amount of interest and sympathy. From the moment he started speaking, at least one of the doctors knew they were conversing with a Sociopath. He had seemed deeply in love with himself (and maybe even the boy they’d just interviewed before? Who knows? They’ll investigate that at a later date) with a high sense of grandiose. Once they had came close to discovering about Avery, and Patrick had quickly dodged the question Patrick’s dad had discreetly asked them to place in the interview: ‘What did you feel on the day your baby brother died?’ The boy had answered every question emotionlessly. Almost coldly in manner. He had told them everything; about the beetles and his mother’s sewing needles, about the cats and dogs and the Amana, about how much he wanted to please Henry… At the end of the interview, the doctors felt they knew the boys quite well.

How unfortunate it was for these two boys to meet. Perhaps if they hadn’t ever met, then maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess?

Funhouse Chapter 11

WARNING: SOME PARTS MAY BE NSFW.

 Chapter 11

1

‘Are you alright, man?!’ Mike.

‘Hey, Stan! What the fuck happened?’ Richie.

‘Stanny! It’s alright, everything’s fine. Jus… just don’t go to sleep. We’ll get you to hospital if you need it…’ Ben.

‘Stan! Stan! Listen to me!’ Beverly.

‘Just take it easy. We’ll look after you. Everything will be fine, buddy, so don’t worry.’ Eddie.

Stan lay fazed and rattled on the grass of Memorial Park, Derry. He could only half hear the soothing voices of his six closest friends, but to be perfectly honest all he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep forever under six feet of earth. Stan had finally had enough. He was the weakest of the Losers club and boy - didn’t everyone know it?!

‘E-e-enough!’ Bill’s voice rang loudest of all. ‘E-eh-everyone just b-back off, okay?’

Murmurs of ‘fuck you’ and ‘whatever’ were heard by Bill but that doesn’t mean he took any notice of them. To Bill, Stan’s weakened state meant that he’d really want to be left alone. He could see in Stan’s eyes that all he wanted was some peace and quiet. Beads of sweat stood out on his deathly pale face as he unconsciously muttered the names of birds under his breath. Blue tit… Black bird… Speckled dove… Sparrow… Stan looked as close to a panic-attack as Bill had ever seen a person. He rocked himself gently, trembling arms clasped tightly to his gasping body, nails gripping his once-clean shirt as tight as death. His hair was soaking wet and he hadn’t even bothered to dry his face of the water and pond muck. This was very unusual for Stanley Uris. He loved to be clean more than Richie loved doing voices - more than Ben liked to read.

‘Wait - Bill’s right,’ began Richie, fiddling with his thumbs as he spoke, ‘Give him some space, guys… He doesn’t look so hot.’ Trashmouth gave his gang a knowing nod and a smile, positive what he was doing was right. Immediately the other five backed away a few metres, leaving Richie to look after his closest friend. It had annoyed them of course but they wanted the best for Stan.

‘Hey there, man,’ Richie said, suddenly feeling conscious of all the Loser’s eyes on him and him alone. He had an audience. Placing a comforting hand on Stan’s shoulder, he leaned closer and made his tone as gentle as possible; ‘You want to tell us what happened?’

Stan attempted a croak but all that would come out was vomit. Richie averted his eyes respectably, his own stomach turning. The rest of the Losers club stared with sympathetic eyes. With tears in his own eyes, Stan shook his head miserably - there was no way he could speak anytime soon without heaving all his guts up over his new shoes. Heat prickled his skin and sweat ran down his cheeks, mingling with the tears despite how cold Stan was feeling. Ben began to bite his hangnail as Stan’s shivering became violent.

‘Perhaps we should take him to the hospital?’ Ben fretted, his face pinched with worry and almost as pale as Stan’s own.

‘Yeah, and get Patrick sent to Juniper Hills,’ Beverly snapped, causing Ben’s heart to sink. ‘Do that… and don’t you realise Bowers will never get off our cases? It will make him a million times more angry with us if we rat Patrick out and get him sent away.’

‘S-so w-w-we’re jus-just gonna l-l-l-l-let H-h-h-Hockstetter skip free?’ Bill hissed, never usually taking that tone with Beverly Marsh.

Beverly shot him an icy glare, obviously disgusted, ‘I don’t know! We can’t let them know what happened though! Aren’t they gonna ask us all kinds of questions if we turn up with Stan having hypothermia in the middle of summer?! Oh yes! Sorry, I forgot! We were just simply hanging around the Arctic when Stan caught his death!’

Her deeply sarcastic tone would have made Richie laugh on any other day - but today was much too serious for so much as a snicker. ‘We can’t just leave him to go home like this, Beverly! He needs to see a doctor or he’ll get sick.’ Ben murmured before Richie could so much as open his mouth. ‘Stan? Do you think you need a doctor?’

Stan managed a brave smile - so brave despite how terrified he was feeling that Beverly almost felt she could cry for the boy - his smile turning to a frozen look of terror as he realised he couldn’t find his Bird-spotting Manual. Whimpers escalated from his throat causing his friends to whip around in fear, wondering what he could have seen behind them.

‘What’s wrong?’ Mike asked solemnly, realising there was no danger just Stan panicking as a late reaction to the trauma he’d just faced. ‘Can you see somethin’?’

Stan shook his head vigorously at Mike and went back to mouthing the names of birds. Green finch, yellow canary, robin… Starling… Seagull…

All six of the Losers exchanged anxious looks. Obviously Stan needed some kind of medical attention; he was damn near hysteria! Every few minutes he would start fresh blubbering in fits and bursts, eventually stopping and then picking up where he left off from last time. Richie rubbed his back in comfort, not quite certain how he could help his friend without hurting him.

‘S-s-Stan… W-w-we n-nuh-need y-you t-to tell u-uh-uh-us what happened s-so w-w-w-w-we c-c-can help you.’

The eleven year-old glanced up at his friend and leader, feeling like a small kid in comparison to Big Bill. His eyes filled with fresh tears as he weakly rasped; ‘Hockstetter drowned me… He nearly… killed me.’

‘We know it was Hockstetter,’ Richie said a little too loudly for Stan’s comfort, suddenly irritated in his moment of worry, ‘But what did you do to provoke him?’

‘He didn’t do anything! It was that big, crazy Hockstetter doing everything Henry tells him to! Don’t you think Patrick would drown Stan if he didn’t have some massive crush on Henry Bowers?’

There were some murmurs of agreement. Stan could still only hear some parts of the conversation - they got tangled and confused in his brain that just couldn’t seem to stay focused on the real world. Instead of listening to his friends, Stan focused on bird song in the distance. Somehow he felt calmer listening to their singing.

Stan began to warily get to his hands and knees. His friends stared as he trembled to his feet, using Richie as a make-shift crutch. Still trembling like a leaf, the young boy slowly began to get a grip on the situation; Patrick had tried to kill him and failed. Patrick was insane. Stan was still alive and Patrick had gotten free… A glare formed on Stan’s face, mirroring his friends’ equally furious expressions. I don’t want to be the weaker member of the Losers Club any longer. I want to be as brave and strong as Big Bill. Why should we be so afraid of Patrick Hockstetter? He’s just some fanatical crazy boy with a big crush on someone as equally mad as him! I want Patrick and Henry to get what’s coming to them… I want them to be sent away... I’m sick of living my life afraid that Henry Bowers might be around the next corner. Next year I want 7th grade to be a happy memory. I don’t want to be anywhere near those loons. If I’m in their class, I swear I’ll just-

‘I’m fine. Really… I just needed a moment,’ Stan whispered hoarsely.

Nobody believed him. Instead of trying to persuade him to let them take care of him, the Losers club each went their separate ways home, each as downhearted as the next. Both Richie and Ben wrapped their arms around his middle and trailed at a comfortable pace back to Stan’s home. If they went any faster Stan would begin to complain and clutch at his wet shirt in anxiety. About twenty minutes later when they eventually reached Stan’s house, his mother hardly said a word to them; instead, gave Stan one look and burst into tears, obviously sensing something awful had happened from both the atmosphere and the sirens wailing in the distance. His father joined her at the door and frowned worriedly, his brow deepening and the corners of his mouth sagging so much that Ben himself felt he would begin to cry just like Stan’s mother. Not one asked what happened and instead took their traumatised son off the two boys and turned back to the parlour, hardly even thanking them for their help. All they could get out of him was the same lines over and over: ‘I lost my Bird-spotting Manual… I lost my book. I want it back.’ Any other day, being probably the most sensible and logical boy in Derry, Stan would admit he was being ridiculous. Today, he just didn’t care to be mature and laid-back - he almost died and his bird book was missing. All he could do was cry along with his mother. Right now, he didn’t even know what he was crying about; he was safe, he was now warm, his mother had given him something to soothe his stomach and some herbal tea, his father had promised him a brand new bird-spotting book and a pair of top-class binoculars to make up for the ones that broke and not only that - but Mrs Uris had called the police and reported the incident so there was no way Stan could wind up getting hurt like that again. Yet, he refused to tell her just who hurt him so there wasn’t much the police could do for them…

Laying in bed without his book by his bedside table, Stan couldn’t concentrate on falling asleep. Typically that was something that came naturally to him. His mother began to grow worried over time; Stan still not telling her what caused him to panic so much. He’d only tell her it was because he misplaced his bird bible, and that she shouldn’t be so worried about him all the time. Despite all his fussing and excuses, Mrs Uris wondered if it were something to do with the paedophile stalking Derry, killing both boys and girls by random. If he’d been abused, why wouldn’t he tell her? Mrs Uris bit down on her nails and cried, desperately hoping that her son hadn’t been attacked by some horrible monster of a man. What she didn’t know however (many other parents of Derry included) was that actually, that ‘paedophile monster’ was a real monster living in the sewers. Once you get past adolescence you stop believing in those kinds of things. After all, it’s not always the adults that know best. Sometimes kids can be right too, you know?

None of Stan’s friends found sleep easy to come by that night. The situation had been close. Too close. Who was to say Henry and Patrick couldn’t have succeeded if it weren’t for Patrick being such a weakling? Sure he was pudgy. Sure he was only five-foot-five... But he was crazy alright! Don’t crazy people like Hockstetter have no sense of hurting or being hurt?