Archer examined the tiny room for somewhere to
conceal his bow and quiver. Under the cot may suffice – no, Julie called it
a bed. His new foster mother had instructed him to “hang out” with the
other boys when he finished unpacking. Opening the back door, he was half
expecting a gallows mob and sure enough, they surrounded him like predators.
‘So, Archer, think you’re Robin Hood, mate?’
‘Yeah, what’s with the bow and arrows?’
‘Most people throw their toys away when they reach
puberty.’
‘He obviously thinks he’s still a baby – calls his
bed a cot.’
Where I
come from, babies sleep in cradles. Archer said
nothing. This was familiar territory; he learnt long ago to show no reaction.
He knew only one way to deal with bullying, deny the wolves their sport until
they got bored or caught the scent of fresh meat.
Their howls followed him into the house where his
new foster father, a gruff man called Dave, was staring at a box in the corner
of the room. Archer gaped in horror at pictures of a battle with mighty
explosions and wounded people.
‘Can we not help those people? They need…’ he tried
to fathom how best to treat a leg torn off at the knee and pumping blood.
The image changed to women on a beach as Dave
glanced round. ‘Close your mouth son, never seen a woman in a bikini before?’
‘What happened to the wounded men?’
‘Are you for real? They’re in the Middle East.
Didn’t they have a TV where you came from?’
‘A TV? Is that what you call the box? How does it
work?’
‘I don’t
know. I’m no electrician.’ Dave’s sigh was evidence of his annoyance. ‘I’m sure
it’ll tell you on the internet. Well it would if Peter hadn’t kicked his
football at the monitor and smashed it. Try the encyclopaedia. ’ He nodded at a
shelf. ‘You can read can’t you?’
Archer smiled as he saw something he could
understand. Books. He took the one marked S-U, up to his room and lay on the
bed, catching up on several hundred years’ worth of inventions.
