said.
“Aye,” I said. “I will.”
He yelled for the dog, put the chain on it again. We went back to his house. He hauled the dog through the gate, tethered it to the clothes post, went inside. I heard shouting. He came back out with an air rifle angled across his shoulder and a canvas sack hanging at his back.
“We’ll gan slaughterin,” he said. “Just jokin.”
We set off uphill through the estate. Horror howled as we walked away.
“I should tell me parents,” I said as we approached our house.
“Aye,” he said. “Good idea. Don’t want them worryin.”
I led him through the gate, past the outhouse, towards the back garden, the back door. Mam was hanging washing on the line.
“Vincent!” she said.
“Howdo, Mrs. Hall.”
Her eyes were on the gun. I wanted to tell her what she’d told me, that we had to care for Vincent, had to include him in what we did.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hall,” said Vincent. “We’re not gannin murderin. Thought we might do some target practice on the wastelands. If ye approve of course.”
Mam’s shoulders slumped.
“A rifle?” she said to me.
“Air gun, Mrs. Hall,” said Vincent. “Wouldn’t hurt a . . . But mebbe it’s not the thing, eh? Mam sends her regards by the way.”
She thanked him.
Tell him it’s not the thing, I wanted her to say. Tell him you don’t approve. Send the boy and the gun back down again.
Dad came to the door, in his white vest, wiping shaving cream from his face with a white towel.
“Vincent,” he said.
“Aye,” said Vincent. “Your lad brung us up here.”
“Aye?” he asked me.
“Aye,” I said.
He lit a cigarette. He eyed the gun.
“I thought we might get some rats, Mr. Hall,” went on Vincent. “Even some rabbits up on the fields.”
“And mebbe a pigeon or two, eh?”
“Aye,” said Vincent. “Food for free. Just like in the olden days.”
“You’ll not get me eating poor little slaughtered beasts,” Mam said.
Dad grunted.
“What about the lamb that you’ll be chompin on tomorrow?” he said. “What about this mornin’s lovely crispy bacon?”
“That’s different,” she replied.
Dad reached out for the gun. He raised it, looked through the sights, pointed to the sky.
“Everybody likes a gun in their hand,” he said.
“Not everybody!” snapped Mam.
She lifted away a shroud of white washing that blew across her from the washing line.
“You OK these days, Vincent?” he said.
“Aye, thanks. Gettin over things, you know.”
“That’s good. You’ll be workin soon, eh?”
“Soon enough.”
“That’ll help.”
“Aye, that’ll help.”
Dad swung the gun through the air.
“Loaded?” asked Dad.
“No,” said Vincent. “D’you want a pellet in it?”
“No, son.” He clicked the trigger. “Kapow!” he snapped. He clicked again. “Kapow!”
He weighed the gun between his hands.
“Nice,” he said.
“It was me dad’s.”
“They make them good these days. Back in my time they were as dangerous to the shooter as to the thing to be shot.”
He looked at me.
“You ever used one of these afore?”
I shook my head.
He passed it to me. He came close. He moved my hands so that I held the barrel with one hand, had my finger by the trigger with the other. Raised my arms so that the stock rested against my shoulder. Tilted my head so that I could look through the sights.
“How’s it feel?” he murmured.
“Feels OK,” I said.
“Got to be more than that. Got to feel part of you. Got to feel natural when you pull that trigger. Let the gun ease into your body. Let your body ease into the gun.”
“Francis,” murmured Mam.
“I was in the army, remember? I was trained. And in me young days there was a ton of these around. Nobody come to no harm.”
“To no harm,” she scoffed.
“It’s natural,” he said. “Back then, princes and kings was shooting the tigers. Film stars was blasting at elephants. Us kids on the Tyne got rabbits and rats. We got
“Aye,” I said. “I will.”
He yelled for the dog, put the chain on it again. We went back to his house. He hauled the dog through the gate, tethered it to the clothes post, went inside. I heard shouting. He came back out with an air rifle angled across his shoulder and a canvas sack hanging at his back.
“We’ll gan slaughterin,” he said. “Just jokin.”
We set off uphill through the estate. Horror howled as we walked away.
“I should tell me parents,” I said as we approached our house.
“Aye,” he said. “Good idea. Don’t want them worryin.”
I led him through the gate, past the outhouse, towards the back garden, the back door. Mam was hanging washing on the line.
“Vincent!” she said.
“Howdo, Mrs. Hall.”
Her eyes were on the gun. I wanted to tell her what she’d told me, that we had to care for Vincent, had to include him in what we did.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hall,” said Vincent. “We’re not gannin murderin. Thought we might do some target practice on the wastelands. If ye approve of course.”
Mam’s shoulders slumped.
“A rifle?” she said to me.
“Air gun, Mrs. Hall,” said Vincent. “Wouldn’t hurt a . . . But mebbe it’s not the thing, eh? Mam sends her regards by the way.”
She thanked him.
Tell him it’s not the thing, I wanted her to say. Tell him you don’t approve. Send the boy and the gun back down again.
Dad came to the door, in his white vest, wiping shaving cream from his face with a white towel.
“Vincent,” he said.
“Aye,” said Vincent. “Your lad brung us up here.”
“Aye?” he asked me.
“Aye,” I said.
He lit a cigarette. He eyed the gun.
“I thought we might get some rats, Mr. Hall,” went on Vincent. “Even some rabbits up on the fields.”
“And mebbe a pigeon or two, eh?”
“Aye,” said Vincent. “Food for free. Just like in the olden days.”
“You’ll not get me eating poor little slaughtered beasts,” Mam said.
Dad grunted.
“What about the lamb that you’ll be chompin on tomorrow?” he said. “What about this mornin’s lovely crispy bacon?”
“That’s different,” she replied.
Dad reached out for the gun. He raised it, looked through the sights, pointed to the sky.
“Everybody likes a gun in their hand,” he said.
“Not everybody!” snapped Mam.
She lifted away a shroud of white washing that blew across her from the washing line.
“You OK these days, Vincent?” he said.
“Aye, thanks. Gettin over things, you know.”
“That’s good. You’ll be workin soon, eh?”
“Soon enough.”
“That’ll help.”
“Aye, that’ll help.”
Dad swung the gun through the air.
“Loaded?” asked Dad.
“No,” said Vincent. “D’you want a pellet in it?”
“No, son.” He clicked the trigger. “Kapow!” he snapped. He clicked again. “Kapow!”
He weighed the gun between his hands.
“Nice,” he said.
“It was me dad’s.”
“They make them good these days. Back in my time they were as dangerous to the shooter as to the thing to be shot.”
He looked at me.
“You ever used one of these afore?”
I shook my head.
He passed it to me. He came close. He moved my hands so that I held the barrel with one hand, had my finger by the trigger with the other. Raised my arms so that the stock rested against my shoulder. Tilted my head so that I could look through the sights.
“How’s it feel?” he murmured.
“Feels OK,” I said.
“Got to be more than that. Got to feel part of you. Got to feel natural when you pull that trigger. Let the gun ease into your body. Let your body ease into the gun.”
“Francis,” murmured Mam.
“I was in the army, remember? I was trained. And in me young days there was a ton of these around. Nobody come to no harm.”
“To no harm,” she scoffed.
“It’s natural,” he said. “Back then, princes and kings was shooting the tigers. Film stars was blasting at elephants. Us kids on the Tyne got rabbits and rats. We got
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