Day by A. L Kennedy

if you only use your arms, they won’t give you enough, even if you get that snap and twist in at the end, you’ll be no use.
    Alfred’s father didn’t understand the theory and was not fit. He just hit people. He hurt them. Alfred found that offensive.
    And it wouldn’t be a thing to think of: not now, not to keep your temper.
    Sergeant Hartnell had taught them how an RAF man ought to walk and ought to stand and ought to clean his kit and use it and then had taken them out to the football pitch and put them into pairs for combat training, let them square up to each other – grievous assaults for the use of – and learn how an RAF man ought to fight. He explained to them the softness of the throat, the invitation to damage beneath the jaw, the weakness of the neck, the knees, the ankles, the fear you can put in your enemy when you go for his eyes, for his balls. Sergeant Hartnell had a special fighting knife of which he was very fond. He said that it would always do the job.
    â€˜Worked with a knife, did you, Day?’
    â€˜Yes, Sarnt.’
    Worked with my hands frozen, gutting stinking little bodies with stinking little eyes, cutting my fingers and never feeling it. The pail full of heads and the meaningless fucking eyes. The pail full of staring.
    I wore gloves to bed and still couldn’t sleep for the stink of fish. In the end, you know you won’t notice it any more and then you’ll be done for – you’ll be a fish man the whole of your life and not have to care – so you run for the RAF, just as soon as you can. Self-defence.
    â€˜What does a knife do, Day?’
    â€˜The job, Sarnt.’
    Alfred understood this was true, but also knew that if he was sitting behind four Browning .303s he would do the job on Sergeant Hartnell
and
his knife, would cut him in half.
    â€˜Come at Sims again, Day, overarm strike with the knife – even if you’d be a fool to use it – overarm strike to give him practise, Day. And this time,
mean it.
’
    Alfred stepped back, tried meeting Sims’s eyes and saw that Sims was close to laughing, which should have helped, made him annoyed – only it didn’t, because he couldn’t let it, couldn’t tell what would happen if he did. His wrists got heavy and bumped against his thighs, his spine curled, lost faith.
    You never would do this when he’s waiting for it. You hit your man when he’s sleeping, drunk. You stand on his bollocks when he’s passed out drunk. You kick him when he’s fallen, when he’s lying in the passage and won’t remember. There’s nothing you can do like this.
    Alfred lifted his arm and immediately felt he was inside the wrong shape. He pushed himself off from his left foot and landed flatly on his right. He was almost no further forward, which was odd. A small breeze shoved at him from across the running track, reminded him of his sweat.
    â€˜Day! You are upsetting me.’
    Alfred froze, wobbled.
    â€˜Do you want to upset me? Don’t you love me as I love you, Day, Alfred F.?’
    Alfred supposed he shouldn’t answer this, stood, panted against the hot weight of being stared at by the rest of the men and found it made him more unsteady. Close to his ear, Sergeant Hartnell sighed.
    â€˜All right, Day. You defend and I will attack you. Defend yourself, Day – or you will be killed.’
    Which did it, cleaned the day back to its bones and made everything so white that Alfred couldn’t see and it let him lift, fade, disappear up into a beautiful burning. All he could ever recall of what happened directly after was his own, huge smile.
    And then looking down at Sergeant Hartnell while standing with one boot stamped in his superior’s armpit and twisting and also holding, folding back his sergeant’s wrist. The breath packed high in Alfred’s chest leapt out as a type of bark and he thought that he seemed decidedly well in