There were still, every day, random acts of cruelty, a sly punch or poke in the ribs, a foot stuck out to trip him in the playground, chewing gum placed on his chair, Kick Me notes stuck to his back. But Tommy had learned that if you kept quiet, tried to look as if none of this bothered you, steered clear of those shadowy corners where the worst predators lurked, then life could be just about bearable. There wasn't, he had discovered, nearly so much fun to be had from torturing someone who didn't appear to mind. For this important lesson in survival, Tommy had to thank the unfortunate Piggy Wadlow. Piggy provided sport of an altogether more gratifying nature. When a tormentor snatched his glasses or tweaked his folds of fat in the showers or threw water bombs at him over the cubicle door when he was sitting on the toilet, he would rise like a fleshy tornado and roar after them, even with his shorts and underpants flapping around his plump, pink thighs, his arms scything the air while he screamed retribution and occasionally managed to inflict it.
