not too far from the flats. The lorries had spent all week bringing stuff in and dumping it there, and you never knew what you might get your hands on.
One day, when we were thirteen and eleven, Wayne and I were in the middle of the back fields. The only thing you could hear was the occasional cricket. We were weaving our way blissfully through the long wet grass when suddenly Wayne ducked down, covering his head with his hands. He turned and looked up at me, shouting, ‘What’s that?’
I thought it was another one of Wayne’s wind-ups. I just carried on with my stroll. ‘You do my head in, you do, Wayne.’ But then, suddenly, something whizzed past my head, really fast. I turned towards Wayne, but he wasn’t there. ‘Wayne?’ Where’d he gone?
A voice came from deep within the tall grass. ‘Lee, get down.’ Again, something else whipped past my head, closer this time, and cracked into the grass. I folded to my knees, curling into a ball. I waited there for a moment.
Not lifting my head – that stay firmly tucked between my legs – I shouted, ‘Wayne, what was that noise? What you up to?’
‘It’s not me, you tosser. That’s an air gun, that is. Someone’s firing at us.’
I instantly began to sob. I was frightened. ‘I want to go home.’ I heard Wayne moving, and I lifted my head and saw him on his knees, peeking over the top of the grass, trying to get a better look. There was a sudden low thud as another pellet hit the wet mud next to him.
Wayne ducked back into the grass and looked over at me. ‘There’s a bloke over by the flats. I reckon it’s him.’
I buried my head into the flattened grass and began crying into the soil below, confused. ‘What have we done? I haven’t done nothing, Wayne …’
I was snapped out of it by a muffled ‘Bollocks to this.’ I looked up and saw the soles of Wayne’s daps shoot past me. He was making a run for it. I was on my own. I panicked, jumped to my feet and ripped after him. We ran across the field to the sound of the pellets whizzing past our heads and cracking into the grass around us.
Why does anyone fire a loaded gun at two small boys in the middle of a field? The only reason can be that this deficient twat has too much time on his hands. He has saved up his money from the labour exchange and bought a gun. Anyone who has held a gun will know that as soon as you pick it up and hold it in your hands, there is some kind of weird, overwhelming urge to fire it. It’s something to do with an ancestral hunting throwback in our genes. Well, Charlton Heston over there was certainly a throwback.
It must have been quite a buzz that filled his meagre, uneventful day as he aimed at two live humans. Of course, when we started running for our lives that must have made it all the more of a thrilling prospect for him – moving targets! To him, we were just two little dots on the landscape that jumped, bobbed and weaved their way around the inside of his telescopic sight.
We managed to make it to the sanctuary of the back sheds near the flats, slamming our backs against the wall, hearts pumping faster than pistons. We were safe. Sniper boy, on the other hand, would have most likely chuckled to himself, shrugged his shoulders and thought no more about it. He probably moved on to train his sights on other parts of the estate and see how far a lead pellet could penetrate a shed door. Or perhaps he tried to hit one of the clothes-line poles, finding some delight in hearing the little distant ding as the pellet struck the galvanized steel.
Rumours on the estate soon alerted us to the identity of the shooter. He most certainly wouldn’t have expected the two dots on the landscape, mere unconnected ducks at a shooting gallery, to arrive at his front door in the company of a rather larger, rather angrier dot: Dad. Nor would he have expected that loud thumping knock on his front door as he was just about to sit down with his wife for his tea.
I could smell the
One day, when we were thirteen and eleven, Wayne and I were in the middle of the back fields. The only thing you could hear was the occasional cricket. We were weaving our way blissfully through the long wet grass when suddenly Wayne ducked down, covering his head with his hands. He turned and looked up at me, shouting, ‘What’s that?’
I thought it was another one of Wayne’s wind-ups. I just carried on with my stroll. ‘You do my head in, you do, Wayne.’ But then, suddenly, something whizzed past my head, really fast. I turned towards Wayne, but he wasn’t there. ‘Wayne?’ Where’d he gone?
A voice came from deep within the tall grass. ‘Lee, get down.’ Again, something else whipped past my head, closer this time, and cracked into the grass. I folded to my knees, curling into a ball. I waited there for a moment.
Not lifting my head – that stay firmly tucked between my legs – I shouted, ‘Wayne, what was that noise? What you up to?’
‘It’s not me, you tosser. That’s an air gun, that is. Someone’s firing at us.’
I instantly began to sob. I was frightened. ‘I want to go home.’ I heard Wayne moving, and I lifted my head and saw him on his knees, peeking over the top of the grass, trying to get a better look. There was a sudden low thud as another pellet hit the wet mud next to him.
Wayne ducked back into the grass and looked over at me. ‘There’s a bloke over by the flats. I reckon it’s him.’
I buried my head into the flattened grass and began crying into the soil below, confused. ‘What have we done? I haven’t done nothing, Wayne …’
I was snapped out of it by a muffled ‘Bollocks to this.’ I looked up and saw the soles of Wayne’s daps shoot past me. He was making a run for it. I was on my own. I panicked, jumped to my feet and ripped after him. We ran across the field to the sound of the pellets whizzing past our heads and cracking into the grass around us.
Why does anyone fire a loaded gun at two small boys in the middle of a field? The only reason can be that this deficient twat has too much time on his hands. He has saved up his money from the labour exchange and bought a gun. Anyone who has held a gun will know that as soon as you pick it up and hold it in your hands, there is some kind of weird, overwhelming urge to fire it. It’s something to do with an ancestral hunting throwback in our genes. Well, Charlton Heston over there was certainly a throwback.
It must have been quite a buzz that filled his meagre, uneventful day as he aimed at two live humans. Of course, when we started running for our lives that must have made it all the more of a thrilling prospect for him – moving targets! To him, we were just two little dots on the landscape that jumped, bobbed and weaved their way around the inside of his telescopic sight.
We managed to make it to the sanctuary of the back sheds near the flats, slamming our backs against the wall, hearts pumping faster than pistons. We were safe. Sniper boy, on the other hand, would have most likely chuckled to himself, shrugged his shoulders and thought no more about it. He probably moved on to train his sights on other parts of the estate and see how far a lead pellet could penetrate a shed door. Or perhaps he tried to hit one of the clothes-line poles, finding some delight in hearing the little distant ding as the pellet struck the galvanized steel.
Rumours on the estate soon alerted us to the identity of the shooter. He most certainly wouldn’t have expected the two dots on the landscape, mere unconnected ducks at a shooting gallery, to arrive at his front door in the company of a rather larger, rather angrier dot: Dad. Nor would he have expected that loud thumping knock on his front door as he was just about to sit down with his wife for his tea.
I could smell the
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