An Extract from 'The Ventriloquist'

To say Warrick was a quiet boy would be something of an understatement- he did not speak. Never had a word passed his sixteen year old lips, and as he sat in the school cafeteria with his head bent over his textbook, silly twittering schoolgirls laughed at him. He heard snippets of their conversation; ‘I’ll give you ten pounds if you kiss the freak!’ One jeered. ‘Eww no, he’s probably got some sort of disease!’ Another replied, her high pitched squeal ringing out across the crowded hall, piercing through the chattering buzz, and nestling itself right next to Warrick’s eardrum. He shook his head microscopically, exhaled in a sort of weary way, and tried to focus on the quadratic equations set out before him, chewing on his pencil which hung loosely from the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, he felt a sting across the back of his head, and he lurched forward as he heard his books clatter to the floor, quickly followed by Aaron’s familiar smirk. ‘What’re you doing, freak?’ He taunted, standing behind the mute boy, a heavy hand upon his shoulder. Warrick remained silent. ‘What’s a matter? Cat got your tongue?!’ He jabbed his fingers into the side of Warrick’s neck, and his disciples laughed along with the joke, yet the boy, tall and wiry in frame with thick golden hair, did not utter a syllable. Not even an exclamation of pain was heard, as Aaron slammed his head into the desk, and left the cafeteria, his cronies in fits of snarling laughter. Warrick set about retrieving his books, and proceeded to settle down again to work, and though salty tears stung the corners of his eyes, they were not tears of sorrow, but tears of rage.

Later, his therapist scratched his head thoughtfully, his trusty pencil tracing over the outline of Warrick’s name as he sighed deeply. ‘Well lad,’ he muttered, shaking his head,  ‘I don’t know what this mother of yours thinks I can do for ye if ye don’t tell me what’s wrong.’ His thick northern accent sounded as though he was trying very hard to be friendly, his bushy grey beard giving him an almost Father-Christmas-like appearance. He looked old enough to be Warrick’s grandfather, and the cracked leather sofa he was sat on smelled terrible. Warrick’s lanky frame was sat awkwardly, his pointed elbows resting on his knees, his long, elegant fingers cupping his chin, staring intently at the psychologist through dark green eyes, like the colour of an emerald before it is honed, and remained silent. His huge emerald eyes were set into his narrow face in an attractively disproportional manner. Not at all balanced by his defined cheekbones, thin lips and pointed chin, they stood out from the rest of him, two glowing green beacons in the pale sea of his skin. They say the eyes are a window into the soul, but Warrick’s eyes were more than that, they seemed to consume you if you looked at them for too long, so still and quiet and calm and huge were they. The therapist changed tack, smiling brightly at the boy and asking ‘So, ye like school?’ and then, after a pause ‘What do ye like doing with yer time, got any ‘obbies?’ No response; nothing.  ‘Your mother tells me you’re getting bullied at school; do you want to talk about that? Perhaps you’d like to write it down, or draw a picture maybe, Warrick?’ Still staring, the silent boy shook his head, and stood up, as to indicate he wanted to leave. He shook the doctor’s hand and rolled his eyes when he heard ‘Nice to meet ye then son, see ye soon.’ When he walked back into the cool, clinical waiting room, his mother’s gaze met his and eagerly she inquired ‘So, how was it? Did you like him? He’s a lovely gentleman isn't he? Really lovely, yes, I think he’ll do nicely, you never know, you might even get to like him one day! We’ll come and see him at the same time next week, yes?’ Warrick could never understand why his mother had to fill every silence with idle chatter. To him it just seemed like a waste of effort, all that nonsensical small talk that she had for hours with her girlfriends over the phone, it wore him out just listening to it.

© Alice Daley 2014