“Damn,” he said again. “I never thought you’d do it.”
Close up she was much larger than she had appeared from the gate. Her eyes were the palest blue. She lay on her side, squealing, trotters churning the air. I hoped vainly that I had only grazed her. Then I caught sight of the blood, welling up through the mud on her belly.
We both stood watching, transfixed.“My dad’s going to kill us,” Davy said above her screams.
“I thought you said it was okay.”
“What sort of idiot are you? Pigs are worth money. You don’t go round killing them. Give me the gun.”
I was about to do his bidding when suddenly I grasped his intention. Instead I threw the gun, clumsily, as far as I could. Davy started toward it; so did I. And then we were wrestling over it, struggling to keep our footing. Within seconds we were dragging each other down. I was underneath, my clothes instantly soaked. Davy was on top, red-faced, panting. I could feel, through his jeans, that he was excited and I knew he could feel that I wasn’t. He pushed my head back into the mud—he was much stronger than me—and, quite suddenly, he leaned forward and bit my neck.
or the rest of that year I worked to pay Davy’s father back for Mabel, and during all those months, while I mucked out the byre and fed the hens and watered the cows, Davy didn’t speak to me. Several times I tried to explain that I’d never, in a million years, thought I would hit Mabel, but he cut me dead. I soon gave up and followed his example, keeping my head down when our paths crossed. At school we changed our desks to sit on opposite sides of the room, and when classes ended in June we went our separate ways—he to study French at Aberdeen University, me to do chemistry at Glasgow—without even
saying good-bye.
After I graduated, I worked in a laboratory in Glasgow for five years before moving to London. A few friends lived there, and I’d been offered a well-paid job, developing new colors of paint, that promised to be more interesting than my current one. Fiona had started work at the
company as a secretary the month before, and she was kind about showing me where to keep my lunch, how to request supplies. She was tall and ungainly, with a mobile, expressive face and a light, girlish voice. Her short, fair hair framed her face in little wisps. One afternoon when I found her having lunch at her desk, folding an origami crane, she told me that she’d gone to art school and had thought a job with a paint company might somehow benefit her work. “What an idiot,” she said, holding up a blue crane. That evening we went for a drink, and from then on every few weeks one or the other of us would suggest a trip to the pub. Once we went to the cinema; afterward we caught our separate buses home with a casual wave. Then one day, when I had been in London for six or seven months, she asked if I’d like to join her and some friends that weekend for a picnic in the rose garden at Regent’s Park.
Sunday, 15 June 1969, was a perfect summer day, warm with a light breeze, everything still fresh and green and not yet soiled by the heat. People smiled as they passed me, walking along in my white trousers and blue T-shirt, carrying a plate of cucumber sandwiches; I was taking part in some recognizable English ritual. I was almost at the garden when I caught sight of Fiona kneeling beside a dark-haired child, a girl of about eight or nine, who was wearing red trousers and a white blouse patterned with butterflies.
“Annabel,” said Fiona, “this is Cameron.”
“Hi,” said Annabel. She had the kind of face we call heart-shaped: wide across the eyes, narrow at the chin. Her teeth were slightly too big for her mouth. “Please,” she said to Fiona. “One more go.”
“I’m sorry,” said Fiona.“I have to help with the picnic. Annabel wants another shot on the swings,” she added to me.
Unhesitatingly I held out my plate of sandwiches to Fiona and bent
Close up she was much larger than she had appeared from the gate. Her eyes were the palest blue. She lay on her side, squealing, trotters churning the air. I hoped vainly that I had only grazed her. Then I caught sight of the blood, welling up through the mud on her belly.
We both stood watching, transfixed.“My dad’s going to kill us,” Davy said above her screams.
“I thought you said it was okay.”
“What sort of idiot are you? Pigs are worth money. You don’t go round killing them. Give me the gun.”
I was about to do his bidding when suddenly I grasped his intention. Instead I threw the gun, clumsily, as far as I could. Davy started toward it; so did I. And then we were wrestling over it, struggling to keep our footing. Within seconds we were dragging each other down. I was underneath, my clothes instantly soaked. Davy was on top, red-faced, panting. I could feel, through his jeans, that he was excited and I knew he could feel that I wasn’t. He pushed my head back into the mud—he was much stronger than me—and, quite suddenly, he leaned forward and bit my neck.
or the rest of that year I worked to pay Davy’s father back for Mabel, and during all those months, while I mucked out the byre and fed the hens and watered the cows, Davy didn’t speak to me. Several times I tried to explain that I’d never, in a million years, thought I would hit Mabel, but he cut me dead. I soon gave up and followed his example, keeping my head down when our paths crossed. At school we changed our desks to sit on opposite sides of the room, and when classes ended in June we went our separate ways—he to study French at Aberdeen University, me to do chemistry at Glasgow—without even
saying good-bye.
After I graduated, I worked in a laboratory in Glasgow for five years before moving to London. A few friends lived there, and I’d been offered a well-paid job, developing new colors of paint, that promised to be more interesting than my current one. Fiona had started work at the
company as a secretary the month before, and she was kind about showing me where to keep my lunch, how to request supplies. She was tall and ungainly, with a mobile, expressive face and a light, girlish voice. Her short, fair hair framed her face in little wisps. One afternoon when I found her having lunch at her desk, folding an origami crane, she told me that she’d gone to art school and had thought a job with a paint company might somehow benefit her work. “What an idiot,” she said, holding up a blue crane. That evening we went for a drink, and from then on every few weeks one or the other of us would suggest a trip to the pub. Once we went to the cinema; afterward we caught our separate buses home with a casual wave. Then one day, when I had been in London for six or seven months, she asked if I’d like to join her and some friends that weekend for a picnic in the rose garden at Regent’s Park.
Sunday, 15 June 1969, was a perfect summer day, warm with a light breeze, everything still fresh and green and not yet soiled by the heat. People smiled as they passed me, walking along in my white trousers and blue T-shirt, carrying a plate of cucumber sandwiches; I was taking part in some recognizable English ritual. I was almost at the garden when I caught sight of Fiona kneeling beside a dark-haired child, a girl of about eight or nine, who was wearing red trousers and a white blouse patterned with butterflies.
“Annabel,” said Fiona, “this is Cameron.”
“Hi,” said Annabel. She had the kind of face we call heart-shaped: wide across the eyes, narrow at the chin. Her teeth were slightly too big for her mouth. “Please,” she said to Fiona. “One more go.”
“I’m sorry,” said Fiona.“I have to help with the picnic. Annabel wants another shot on the swings,” she added to me.
Unhesitatingly I held out my plate of sandwiches to Fiona and bent
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