Conquest of Paradise edition. (aka Bike) Part 1492 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_TfW0yzQSA&feature=related

The ride home from the police station was rather subdued and I was seething. I should have been feeling on top of the world, instead some little toerag with a house key or a coin had messed up my day–part of me would have liked to copy the scratch on my car onto his face–with a soldering iron–before I ensured he never bred–using a pair of garden shears to do the deed. If you think that’s bad you should see me angry, or maybe not.

We arrived back at the ranch and the girls ran into the house rather than stay with their somewhat unbalanced mother. I was looking at the scratch and talking to Mr Darnley on my mobile when Stella came out to see me.

“Bring it straight back,” I nodded to Stella, “I’m on my way.” I switched off the Blackberry and spoke with Stella, who commented on the scratch.

“I wonder what sense of achievement doing that gives the little twat who did it?”

“Not half as much as catching him would give me,” I replied. “Look, the repair man said to bring back down, can you watch the kids?”

“Yeah, aren’t they gonna want feeding?”

“I’ll bring back fish and chips.”

“Healthy eating night, okay.”

I drove back to the repair shop as quickly as the traffic would allow. Mr Darnley inspected the damage and called his paint-sprayer to see it. They reckoned they could repair it while I waited. I sat in the office and fumed, in two senses–I was angry and I could smell the cellulose paint they used.

“We’ve seen these marks before,” said Darnley, “I think you’re the third, we wondered if it was someone’s signature or initials?”

“My daughter is quite good on computers, I’ll get her to play with the image and see if she can identify them.”

The paint had dried and providing I didn’t bump it or get it wet before the morning, it would be okay. They also did it for nothing as they had the paint mixed from the previous repair. I drove home feeling much better, until I left the chip shop with a huge bill for fish and chips, some cartons of mushy peas, baked beans and mushrooms in batter, plus one of curry sauce for you know who. The cost was over sixty pounds.

They wrapped everything in double paper to keep it warm and I sped home, the car was a dream to drive–although a flashing blue light on the top would improve its way through the congested streets.

Simon had just arrived home and helped me carry in the cooling comestibles–I left the boot lid up to get rid of the smell of fish and chips. Despite it being less than hot, the food was well received–a real treat for the kids–I don’t let them have chips too often.

Trish was set to work to see if she could enlarge the scratcher’s logo or make sense of it. During this process, Danny went to try on his new socks and came back to show the girls. They all admired his hairy legs and teased him, however, his presence was valuable. He saw the image of the scratch which Trish had enlarged.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“The scratch that was on Mummy’s car, why?”

“I know who done it,” he proclaimed.

“Did it,” corrected Trish.

“Yeah, whatever.”

My ears pricked up as I heard bits of the conversation–usually, I’m monitoring to make sure no one is saying anything too nasty to the others. “Did you say you recognise the mark?” I asked Danny.

“Yeah, it’s a kid in school, he does it on everything–desks, doors, walls, chairs–you name it he does it. He’s a right nutter.”

“D’you have a name?”

“They call him piggy or somethin’, I’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Good lad, I’d be obliged if you could–then I shall go and see his parents.”

“If they’re anythin’ like him they’ll be big fat slobs with ’orrible ’abits.”

“Horrible habits?”

“Yeah, he smells–I think that’s why they call ’im piggy.”

“Lovely, perhaps I'll see the headmaster and let him deal with it.”

“It didn’t happen on school property, did it, babes?” I hadn’t noticed Simon behind me. “So he won’t be too interested.”

“If he knows the boy’s a one man crime wave of vandalism, he might.”

“Half the boys in school are morally challenged–you ought to know that as well as anyone.”

I took his point, but then I was an easy target and targets tend to attract psychotic marksmen, who feel they have a duty to take pots at you. I occasionally got revenge in school, showing them up as being dumber than I was, preferably before the whole class. I also got thumped once or twice for doing it and on one occasion it backfired and I got humiliated instead.

The boy in question was a nasty piece of work called Dobbs, Michael Dobbs but his nickname was Psycho and half the teachers were scared of him. He was firing pellets at the people in front of him with an elastic band catapult improvised on his fingers. Several boys jumped when he hit them, but none more so than I. It hit me smack in the back of my head, just above my ponytail–you’ll remember I had very long hair in protest at the school–and also because I liked to style it different ways when I was alone at home.

I jumped and squealed, “Ouch,” when the thing hit me–it bloody well hurt.

“You have something to add to the lesson, Miss Watts?” asked the maths teacher who was writing on the board when the assault happened.

“No, sir, I felt something hit me on the head–sorry, sir.”

“Something hit you on the head, Miss Watts?”

“Yes, sir.” I was blushing profusely, he was one of those homophobes who disapproved of boys with girlish hair as he saw it–so I wasn’t on his Christmas card list.

“I take it, it wasn’t the solution to this problem, Miss Watts.”

“No, sir.” I blushed some more–I struggled with mathematics unlike biology where I was pretty much top of the class.

“I suggest you keep your pretty little head focused on the subject in front of you rather than waiting for the universe to drop the answer into that girlish brain.”

“Yes, sir.” I was so embarrassed but the rest of my form enjoyed it, especially Psycho, who fired several more pellets at me though only hit me once more causing me to squeak again. This time the teacher saw him and made him scrabble about on the floor and pick up all the pellets and put them in the bin.

I was humiliated yet further because while Psycho was scrabbling about under my desk and chair, the teacher instructed him, “And no looking up Miss Watts’ skirts while you’re down there.”

Of course that just encouraged the little sociopath, who flapped at my blazer and said, “Oh pink frilly ones today, Charlotte.”

I was so embarrassed, I blushed enough to catch fire but was still quick enough to step on his fingers while he was under my desk, he jumped up and smacked his head on the underside of the desk–only his hair was extremely short, as in crew cut.

The teacher thought we were now quits and told him to behave or he’d send him to the head.

Psycho was one of a group who made it their career to try to humiliate me–however, life paid him back–he joined the army and got his legs blown off by the Taliban–I suspect it probably didn’t do much good to his middle wicket either.

“If I speak with the headmaster, at least I can get some idea about the family,” I said to Simon, I wasn’t going to let the little bastard get away with it if I could help it.

“What’s he going to do, even if you can prove it was him you can’t actually do anything and he’s probably too financially challenged to pay for the repair.”

“He has to know what he’s doing is wrong.”

“He probably does, babes, assuming he has a rudimentary sense of right and wrong, though loads of kids today seem unaware of the principles. So how d’you propose stopping him? Cut his hands off?”

“Just his thumbs would be enough, but no, just to warn him off. I don’t want my car damaged again.”

“I think watching where you park it would be more profitable than pursuing some halfwit juvenile who smells like a compost heap.”

“He’s worse than that, Dad,” offered Danny, and the girls given the cue, all went, ‘Yeewch’. Yeah my kids are predictable at times.

“I’d just drop it, babes–you got it fixed–it’s not your job to correct juvenile delinquents–c’mon, let’s have a glass of wine–you lot, bed in half an hour,” he said to groans of disapproval.