HOBIE       

Hobie shivered as he turned the corner and Cressington Road Comprehensive came into sight. He dreaded the day ahead and the butterflies in his stomach turned into sick fear as he passed through the gates into the asphalt playground. He pulled his shoulder bag close to his anorak making for a corner near the main door where he could  quickly move inside as soon as the doors were opened.

            Hobie was eleven and suffered from various problems. Firstly he was from the Sudan, or at least his parents were. They had arrived in the UK when Hobie was two, refugee Christians from the South, having escaped with their lives when Muslim fanatics from the North had descended on their village, killing and burning. Hobie spoke English now as his first language, and Sudanese at home with his parents.

            Then again, Hobie did not own a mobile phone. Only he and two others in his class were without one. His father worked as cleaner with a contract company, his mother lunchtimes and in the evenings in a local fish and chip shop. They were hard put to it, by the time the week's outgoings had been accounted for, to be able to put a couple of pounds in a savings account they had opened at a local bank.

            Many of the other kids in the playground stood around in bunches, their mobiles in their hands, laughing as they compared messages they had received or were sending. This was all the craze now. If you weren't in with the crowd, you were right outside, not a hope. Texting wasn't expensive, only 10p a shot, much cheaper than talking and a lot more fun too. And it was great using all the short forms, there were new ones to learn every day. You could pick up the new ones from the internet or get them from your mates.

             Whats more, texting was great for pulling the girls. They were worse than the boys for using text, you only had to chat them up to get their numbers and the rest was easy. Man, it was fun. Firstly you could pass the word around your mates as to what was going on, all the chat, then have some fun with the girls, what a gas.

            Poor Hobie, he was right out of it. What's more, he got a hard time from the others. They had Hobie as an object of derision , a butt for all the jokes. He was an oddball. There were lots of Indians in the West London area, Caribs too, as well as other blacks. But Sudanese? Nah.  Most of the time it was  "Get lost Hobie, you ain't got no chance".

            All this hadn't helped Hobie in his schoolwork. He was a fairly bright lad, but the bullying had got him down. He didn't like putting himself forward, answering questions, there were rude noises and catcalls when he did, so he kept quiet and went with the flow. In the playground he was Hobie the hobo. Nearly every day he got pushed around, got his head drubbed, or tripped over. The more he played the innocent, not fighting back, the worse it got.

            So whats to do for Hobie? He miserably drags himself home to the council flat five floors up after school, more times than not, the lift being out of action, he has to climb the stairs. The ugly graffiti over the walls, the smell of urine in the stair-wells , how was he to get away from all this? It was hard for his parents too, he could see them getting older, weighed under by the life they were trapped in. Occasionally they got together with other Sudanese refugees in a club the other side of London, but that was it.

Hobie was an only child. He made his own world of escape. He liked walking, thinking, almost talking to himself, what he was going to do when he left school, what he wanted to see in the world. He invented imaginary friends, conjured up scenes in his mind where he came out on top, where he, Hobie was the hero of the moment, he won the prize, came first, was sought out as the boy to be with. Alas, it never was like that in real life.

Who was going to make friends with a Sudanese boy? He was brown but not black, as many of his race were. He had big doe eyes, and that didn't help him in the playground fights either. Like most Sudanese he was tall, but willowy, not tough enough. "Get out the way Hobie, 'fore you get  a kicking, got it?."

But he read. He's always got his head in a book, that boy", his Mother would say. "He'd shut himself in his room, turn up the old radio he had on some pop station, and not come out till it was time to bid his parents goodnight. And then his light would be on till his Father would call out Hobie, "put that light out, you'll never be fit for school in the morning"

            Sometimes he would get out to the library when he finished his homework, it didn't shut until eight, so as to allow folk to get there after work. But when it was a cold dark wet night most people preferred to stay at home in front of the tele. Then there was just the odd weirdo perhaps with a muffler and a beard sitting reading the newspapers. It was like that tonight as he donned his anorak, tucked his book under his arm and headed out with a muffled "See you later Mum".

 He had just finished a book about a single-handed sail around the world, one man against the sea, the wind and loneliness. He would have liked to read the latest Harry Potter, but it hadn't got into the libraries yet. All of the other boys at school had read it weeks ago.

 He picked himself a book from the travel section, mountaineering this time., pulled up his collar and braced himself against the blustering rain. The long wall was dark and lonely, out of the way of the shopping mall, which was closed anyway now. He turned a corner, and under a set of concrete stairs up to an overhead multi-story carpark ran into a group of three youths. They seized Hobie by the hood of his anorak, catching him off balance.

"Give us yer mobile you, or you get it", Hobie felt and smelt the closed fist hard up against his face.

            "I haven't got one", he protested, but before he had finished his head was thrust against the concrete of the stairs and seeing stars his legs gave way beneath him. He felt them go through his pockets as he lay in the wet, his head throbbing, the taste of sick in his mouth.

"Yeah, he hasn't got one", he heard one say. He felt a hark kick in his side and screamed in pain. He felt his head lifted as one of them spat in his face.

"You'll get it now, give him a kicking" and they set into him as he writhed in agony.

One of them recognised him as Hobie the hobo from school, "I'll get you now, you useless little git". He pulled a knife from a pocket and went to cut his face. But at that moment Hobie turned and the knife went into his throat, under his jaw.

The blood poured out of him as they turned and ran. He passed in and out of consciousness and some moments passed. He was next aware of a male voice, and the feel of a pad against his throat.

"Don't worry son, I saw them run as I came round the corner, we'll soon get you to Hospital" . But the last sounds that Hobie heard as his heart failed with loss of blood, were the sound of the beeps as 999 was dialled and the mans voice saying: "Lucky I've got my mobile with me".

Max Frost

5 Feb 2001