back.
She’s tried resuscitation for twenty minutes now.
He threw a fucking rock, says Fabián Rodriguez, disbelieving. He was standing on the roof, threw a rock at me and then he
slipped. Must be icy up there. Fell off the roof and hit his head.
The body of Horse Boy lies at our feet, a shocking wound just above the hairline, a slick of oily blood polluting the rabbit-fur
of his head, moving slowly onto the shingle.
He threw a fucking rock, says Fabián again.
Up to their knees in blood, says Joe Fish.
We carry the body up to high ground, overlooking the colonies and the small cluster of huts. The sea is immense and troubled,
the island shrinking. We lie him on his back on the frozen ground. Sarah tucks a woolly hat over the wound.
His poor head, she says.
We begin to pile stones around and over the body.
A burial cairn like a Bronze Age king, says Joe. Like Agamemnon.
Wait, I say, and run down to the huts, helter-skelter over the shingle, my boots skidding and sliding on the wet and silent
stones. I return with the paperback, and lay it on his chest with what I hope is the appropriate degree of reverence.
What was his name? asks Sarah. I never heard you call him anything but Horse Boy. It seemed a bit rude.
Trevor, I say, Trevor Collins. He used to be in the Household Cavalry, something like that. Hence the nickname. He hated Trevor.
He was always reading that book, says Fabián Rodriguez. Never looked up, for hours and hours.
He couldn’t read, says Joe.
We look at him.
He couldn’t read, he repeats. Never really went to school much. He once asked me what the title of the book was, in case anybody
asked. Swore me to secrecy.
I bend down and close one of the stiffening hands over the yellowed pages. We continue to add stones and rocks to the pile
until the bodyis covered, no trace of the brightly coloured clothing visible from the outside. The wind is blowing, as always, tugging at
the flaps on our waterproofs, tugging at the corners of our eyes and mouths. An albatross looms close over us, parachuting
down to the familiar nest heap among thousands, snow white against the grey clouds and black rock. The immense bird doesn’t
register us at all. If, on its descent, it glances in our direction, it sees perhaps only a group of oddly coloured stones
among millions of others.
7 . Pallas’ Warbler
(Phylloscopus proregulus)
Today I’m doing a webcam setup for the local archaeology unit – the only decent job I’ve got on at the moment. They want to
film parts of a dig in realtime and link it back to their website. It’s an Iron Age settlement, quite a juicy one apparently,
and when Matt rang to offer me the contract I bit his fucking hand off.
For a start, I’m out of the office, away from that non-ringing phone. And it’s good to be out on the gently rising clay lands
north of the Tees, looking across the sprawl of Teesside to the Cleveland Hills, the contorted shapes of industry, the Transporter
and the Newport Bridge all throwing back the insipid spring sun. They’ve stripped the ground back with an excavator and against
that cheesy glacial clay you can see the scrawl of vanished ditches, houses, pits, blooming like black hieroglyphs. Matt bounds
over to a trench, webcam in hand. It’s a wireless one – saves them dragging cables in the mud.
I feel like Tony fucking Robinson, he yells, running about with this thing. Here we have the first Teessiders, looking out
across the impenetrable forests of Stockton, dragging their knuckles on the floor.
Less of the cheek, I tell him.
I was born here as well, he says. I’m allowed to rip the piss.
He shows me round the site. The diggers are cleaning up where the machine’s been working, shovelling and trowelling, wrapped
up against a raw April day.
Good thing you brought wellies Dan, says Matt. The developerturned up in shiny shoes. Brogues, or something. Buffed to within an inch of their lives. Wanted a look
She’s tried resuscitation for twenty minutes now.
He threw a fucking rock, says Fabián Rodriguez, disbelieving. He was standing on the roof, threw a rock at me and then he
slipped. Must be icy up there. Fell off the roof and hit his head.
The body of Horse Boy lies at our feet, a shocking wound just above the hairline, a slick of oily blood polluting the rabbit-fur
of his head, moving slowly onto the shingle.
He threw a fucking rock, says Fabián again.
Up to their knees in blood, says Joe Fish.
We carry the body up to high ground, overlooking the colonies and the small cluster of huts. The sea is immense and troubled,
the island shrinking. We lie him on his back on the frozen ground. Sarah tucks a woolly hat over the wound.
His poor head, she says.
We begin to pile stones around and over the body.
A burial cairn like a Bronze Age king, says Joe. Like Agamemnon.
Wait, I say, and run down to the huts, helter-skelter over the shingle, my boots skidding and sliding on the wet and silent
stones. I return with the paperback, and lay it on his chest with what I hope is the appropriate degree of reverence.
What was his name? asks Sarah. I never heard you call him anything but Horse Boy. It seemed a bit rude.
Trevor, I say, Trevor Collins. He used to be in the Household Cavalry, something like that. Hence the nickname. He hated Trevor.
He was always reading that book, says Fabián Rodriguez. Never looked up, for hours and hours.
He couldn’t read, says Joe.
We look at him.
He couldn’t read, he repeats. Never really went to school much. He once asked me what the title of the book was, in case anybody
asked. Swore me to secrecy.
I bend down and close one of the stiffening hands over the yellowed pages. We continue to add stones and rocks to the pile
until the bodyis covered, no trace of the brightly coloured clothing visible from the outside. The wind is blowing, as always, tugging at
the flaps on our waterproofs, tugging at the corners of our eyes and mouths. An albatross looms close over us, parachuting
down to the familiar nest heap among thousands, snow white against the grey clouds and black rock. The immense bird doesn’t
register us at all. If, on its descent, it glances in our direction, it sees perhaps only a group of oddly coloured stones
among millions of others.
7 . Pallas’ Warbler
(Phylloscopus proregulus)
Today I’m doing a webcam setup for the local archaeology unit – the only decent job I’ve got on at the moment. They want to
film parts of a dig in realtime and link it back to their website. It’s an Iron Age settlement, quite a juicy one apparently,
and when Matt rang to offer me the contract I bit his fucking hand off.
For a start, I’m out of the office, away from that non-ringing phone. And it’s good to be out on the gently rising clay lands
north of the Tees, looking across the sprawl of Teesside to the Cleveland Hills, the contorted shapes of industry, the Transporter
and the Newport Bridge all throwing back the insipid spring sun. They’ve stripped the ground back with an excavator and against
that cheesy glacial clay you can see the scrawl of vanished ditches, houses, pits, blooming like black hieroglyphs. Matt bounds
over to a trench, webcam in hand. It’s a wireless one – saves them dragging cables in the mud.
I feel like Tony fucking Robinson, he yells, running about with this thing. Here we have the first Teessiders, looking out
across the impenetrable forests of Stockton, dragging their knuckles on the floor.
Less of the cheek, I tell him.
I was born here as well, he says. I’m allowed to rip the piss.
He shows me round the site. The diggers are cleaning up where the machine’s been working, shovelling and trowelling, wrapped
up against a raw April day.
Good thing you brought wellies Dan, says Matt. The developerturned up in shiny shoes. Brogues, or something. Buffed to within an inch of their lives. Wanted a look
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