David looked down at the wide beach from the cliff top, many metres above. Low tide. Plenty of room to manoeuvre, he thought. Leaning on the railings, he spotted a kid in the distance, playing by the rock pools. His target?

  Two women sat on a blanket nearby. No one else was around. Two old grannies, he thought, no problem.

  He didn’t move for ten minutes, just standing and watching, arms folded tight, shoulders hunched, hood up against the wind. Trying to build up the anger within.

  He stared at the boy below. Stupid twat, he thought. Playing on the beach in this weather. He tried to make himself hate the kid. Is he blond? What a complete twat. But the anger was slow to come; the kid had done nothing to him.

  David kept watching, slowly working himself up to a rage.

  Hands clenched. Jaw tight. He forced himself to feel the anger. And it came. Thoughts of the last few weeks, months, even. The bullying; the shoves; the punches; the humiliation. The kids in the year above who’d singled him out for no reason.

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  And then the kids in his own class—who steered clear of him, afraid to get caught in the trouble. No one wanted to be seen with the kid who got picked on. He stood longer, breathing slow—like he’d seen in films—drawing the fire up from inside.

  David was eleven, nearly twelve. First year of senior school. He hated it. Every single day. Everyone either cruel or indifferent. The teachers were cold, unhelpful, and uncaring. The other kids were worse. The lessons, all pointless.

  His mother—when she bothered to notice him—told him to grow up, stand up for himself, and stop snivelling.

  “Next time someone hits you, you hit them back,” she’d ordered, while filling up her wine glass. So he had. Once. And he got punched back harder and received a detention as well. No sympathy from Mother, though. Just more shouting. Somehow it was still his fault. Everything always was.

  The last few weeks had been the worst. The bullying had become constant. If not physical, then mental. He tried not to let it get to him, tried to keep his head down, avoid eye contact. It didn’t help.

  The older kids always found a way to catch him. A knee in the back during assembly. A trip in the corridor. Threats whispered in his ear during the lunch queue. Something had to change.

  He wanted to fight back. Really fight. He’d tried a boxing club, but they’d made him run eight miles around Newquay on his first night—Newquay, Cornwall. Famous for its hills, it had killed him and he hadn’t gone back.

  Still, he needed to learn to fight. Somehow.

  The kid on the beach looked easy. Small. Quiet. Soft. Jab, jab. Two to the face. One in the gut. Drop him.

  Real-life experience. Something he could take back to school. He imagined repeating the jab combination on his bully’s face, and with that, he made the decision and began to descend the steps.