I'm the King of the Castle: Chapters 7-11

If he had been vindictive, this was his chance with Hooper. But he was not.

Hooper was completely beside himself, wrapped up in his fear, oblivious of everything except the storm, and his terror of it.

Fine steam began to rise up from the sodden ground, and the tree trunks, and the smell of it came thickly into Kingshaw's nostrils.

But there was nothing that Kingshaw could do, except go very warily down after Hooper, testing the ground step by step.

'We're not getting anywhere, it isn't coming out to the open, it's just darker and darker,' Hooper said in a querulous voice.

He saw Hooper's legs, waving like the fronds of a sea anemone.

The farther trees looked shadowy, and almost black, and the stream was suddenly opaque, eddying about Kingshaw’s thighs.

The farther trees looked shadowy, and almost black, and the stream was suddenly opaque, eddying about Kingshaw’s thighs.

We could get stones, and build a sort of hearth.

It’s pretty damp down here, as well, you couldn’t set the trees alight or anything.

Kingshaw looked up in exasperation, and leaned back on his heels.

His momentary burst of exultation, and his feeling of superiority over Hooper counted for nothing, they were always short-lived.

Now, he cared, his pride had risen, he could no longer be docile about himself.

He felt closed in, and stifled, with the everlasting dark greenness overhead, shutting out the sky.

The legs and feet scrabbled madly, and he saw that its eyes were bloodshot, rolling with fright.

Hooper was devious, never to be relied upon, or trusted.

Hooper’s shirt, and the top half of his jeans, were soaking wet, and it was almost impossible to get them off at first, he was so inert and heavy.

Hooper put up a hand and explored it tentatively with his fingers.

Kingshaw stared at him, incensed by the unfairness of the remark, unable to say anything at all to counter it.

He tried not to think of how it had gone on writhing and lashing about, without any water.

It was quite heavy, and glutinous between his hands.

An owl came, with an ominous, swift whirring of its wings, down on to something in the grass.

He was lying on his side, but now he flung himself over hard on to his back, and began to talk in an incoherent, moaning sort of way, on and on.

It was ludicrous that he could be accused of leading him away, ludicrous, but entirely possible.

All through the night, the woods had felt secretive, things had lurked and hovered, eyes had watched, there was something fearful in them, an air of suppression.

To Kingshaw, the lies were so crazy, so blatantly unlikely, he thought anybody must see through them.

You are being very vulgar and very unkind.

Kingshaw felt his stomach contract.

His mother fiddled with the sugar bowl, a blithe expression on her face.

There was an allotment, which nobody looked after, and nettles grew, waist-high.

The walls and roof were made of corrugated metal, bolted together.

Kingshaw put out his hands and began to grope his way slowly round until he came to the corner with the sacks.

There were no more sacks, only a pile of the straw, matted up in the corner nearest the door.

The Punch and Judy stall was made of striped canvas, red and white, with a frill round the little square stage.

He saw that they had real, human heads, above the billowing cloth bodies, and when the beating part began, Punch's skull broke open and poured blood, and the voice of the Judy puppet began to shriek and shriek, as the body throbbed up and down, and the shriek turned into the caawing of a crow, the puppet stage was full of hooded crows which began to take off, one by one, and circle above the heads of the boys, crowded together on the cold sand.