Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

Nope, Bobby thought, and swung the bat. It connected with the same satisfying thud he’d felt at Lake Canton when he’d gotten his third and best hit, the one to deep left. Connecting with the small of Harry Doolin’s back was even better.

Harry screamed with pain and surprise and went sprawling. When he rolled over, Bobby brought the bat down on his leg at once, the blow this time landing just below the left knee.

‘Owwwuuuu!’ Harry screamed. It was most satisfying to hear Harry Doolin scream; close to bliss, in fact . ‘Owwwuuu, that hurts! That hurrrts!’

Can’t let him get up, Bobby thought, picking his next spot with a cold eye. He’s twice as big as me, if I miss once and let him get up, he’ll tear me limb from limb. He’ll fucking kill me.

Harry was trying to retreat, digging at the gravel path with his sneakers, dragging a groove with his butt, paddling with his elbows. Bobby swung the bat and hit him in the stomach.

Harry lost his air and his elbows and sprawled on his back. His eyes were dazed, filled with sunbright tears. His pimples stood out in big purple and red dots. His mouth — thin and mean on the day Rionda Hewson had rescued them — was now a big loose quiver . ‘Owwwuuu, stop, I give, I give, oh Jeezis!’

He doesn’t recognize me, Bobby realized. The sun’s in his eyes and he doesn’t even know who it is.

That wasn’t good enough. ‘Not satisfactory, boys!’ was what the Camp Winnie counsellors said after a bad cabin inspection — Sully had told him that, not that Bobby cared; who gave a shit about cabin inspections and making bead wallets?

But he gave a shit about this, yes indeed, and he leaned close to Harry’s agonized face.

‘Remember me, Robin Hood?’ he asked. ‘You remember me, don’t you? I’m the Maltex Baby.’

Harry stopped screaming. He stared up at Bobby, finally recognizing him. ‘Get . . . you . . .

‘ he managed.

‘You won’t get shit,’ Bobby said, and when Harry tried to grab his ankle Bobby kicked him in the ribs.

‘Ouuuuuu!’ Harry Doolin cried, reverting to his former scripture. What a creep! Nimrod Infants on Parade! That probably hurt me more than it hurt you Bobby thought. Kicking people when you’re wearing sneakers is for dumbbells.

Harry rolled over. As he scrambled for his feet Bobby uncoiled a home-run swing and drove the bat squarely across Harry’s buttocks. The sound was like a carpet-beater hitting a heavy rug — a wonderful sound! The only thing that could have improved this moment would have been Mr Biderman also sprawled on the path. Bobby knew exactly where he’d like to hit him.

Half a loaf was better than none, though. Or so his mother always said.

‘That was for the Gerber Baby,’ Bobby said. Harry was lying flat on the path again, sobbing. Snot was running from his nose in thick green streams. With one hand he was feebly trying to rub some feeling back into his numb ass.

Bobby’s hands tightened on the taped handle of the bat again. He wanted to lift it and bring it down one final time, not on Harry’s shin or Harry’s backside but on Harry’s head. He wanted to hear the crunch of Harry’s skull, and really, wouldn’t the world be a better place without him? Little Irish shit. Low little —

Steady on, Bobby, Ted’s voice spoke up. Enough is enough, so just steady on. Control yourself.

‘Touch her again and I’ll kill you,’ Bobby said. ‘Touch me again and I’ll burn your house down. Fucking nimrod.’

He had squatted by Harry to say this last. Now he got up, looked around, and walked away.

By the time he met the Sigsby twins halfway up Broad Street Hill, he was whistling.

In the years which followed, Liz Garfield almost got used to seeing policemen at her door.

The first to show up was Officer Raymer, the fat local cop who would sometimes buy the kids peanuts from the guy in the park. When he rang the doorbell of the ground-floor apartment at 149 Broad Street on the evening of August sixth, Officer Raymer didn’t look