crows and magpies. A few other things. Nowt wrong with it. Normal boys’ stuff, normal men’s stuff.”
He spoke to me again.
“In the army they said that in the real gunman there’s no difference between the gunman and the gun. Not a matter of how to
do
it right, but of how to
feel
it right. And it was the ones that could feel it right become the snipers, the sharpshooters. And even in the jungle they were cold as bliddy ice.”
Mam clicked her tongue.
“Such nonsense,” she said. “Give the gun back, Dominic.”
“If you can’t watch this, then get inside,” he told her. “What d’you think’s going to happen, woman? We’re going to start slaughtering ourselves?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said.
“Don’t call me stupid. Do as you’re told and go inside.”
She sighed. She went inside.
Dad winked at Vincent, winked at me.
“Women!” he softly said. “They don’t get it.”
I held the gun. I tried to imagine it being part of me. Tried to imagine being cold as ice and firing it at somebody, like the Japanese, or at Vincent McAlinden.
Kapow! I said inside myself.
“Die!” I breathed aloud.
“Try a couple of shots,” said Dad. “Let’s see how you get on and then we’ll know how safe you’ll be. OK, Vincent?”
“OK,” he said.
Vincent took the sack from his back, took a box from the pack, took a pellet from the box. A little grey lead thing. He took the gun, snapped it open, placed the pellet into it, closed it again, passed it back.
“There we are,” he said.
“Now keep your finger off the trigger,” said Dad to me. “And point the barrel away from us. Safety first. It’s not exactly lethal, but it’d take an eye out. It’d go deep into your flesh. That’s right, Vincent?”
“That’s right, Mr. Hall.”
“Now,” said Dad, “what you going to shoot at?”
I looked into the little back garden.
“That half-brick there?” I said.
He came to my back. He held my arms, he raised the gun, he put his head by mine and leaned against me.
“Relax,” he said. “Look at the barrel, look at the brick. Stay calm, stay still. Imagine the pellet hitting the brick.”
I felt his warm breath on my cheek, smelt the tobacco on him, felt his breathing, his heart.
“Ready?” he whispered.
“Ready.”
He stepped away. I squeezed the trigger, the gun recoiled, dust spurted from the earth four feet from the half-brick.
“That’s OK,” said Dad. “It’ll come. Another one, Vincent?”
Vincent picked another pellet from the box.
“Got plenty,” he said. He rattled the box. “Dozens of them, Mr. Hall.”
I fired again. Closer this time.
“Good lad,” said Dad. “I think you’ll be OK. You think he’ll be OK, Vincent?”
Vincent nodded, and they grinned at each other. I imagined Dad’s thoughts as they did so: he’s just a lad, they’re both just lads. Better a lad like Vincent McAlinden with all his faults than the weird draughtsman’s daughter from across the street.
He took the gun from me.
“Can I?” he asked Vincent.
“Aye,” said Vincent.
Vincent passed Dad a pellet. Dad put it into the gun. He raised the gun.
“That white pebble there,” he said.
He fired, missed by inches.
“Out of practice,” he said. “Do that in the jungle and it’s bliddy curtains. Give us another. Just one more, eh?”
Another pellet. He put it into the gun, held the gun to his shoulder, swivelled so that the barrel pointed into the air. A crow flew over. He followed it, and I watched him, and I watched him pull the trigger, and couldn’t breathe. He missed again, but the crow in its flight jerked at the sound of it, veered off in another direction. I breathed.
Dad held the rifle before his eyes, as if it were a thing of great substance, great beauty.
“Them sharpshooters,” he said. “They were something. But even they were nowt compared to the bliddy Japs. Made of stone, were they. Still as death, silent as death, dead as death, for hour after
He spoke to me again.
“In the army they said that in the real gunman there’s no difference between the gunman and the gun. Not a matter of how to
do
it right, but of how to
feel
it right. And it was the ones that could feel it right become the snipers, the sharpshooters. And even in the jungle they were cold as bliddy ice.”
Mam clicked her tongue.
“Such nonsense,” she said. “Give the gun back, Dominic.”
“If you can’t watch this, then get inside,” he told her. “What d’you think’s going to happen, woman? We’re going to start slaughtering ourselves?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said.
“Don’t call me stupid. Do as you’re told and go inside.”
She sighed. She went inside.
Dad winked at Vincent, winked at me.
“Women!” he softly said. “They don’t get it.”
I held the gun. I tried to imagine it being part of me. Tried to imagine being cold as ice and firing it at somebody, like the Japanese, or at Vincent McAlinden.
Kapow! I said inside myself.
“Die!” I breathed aloud.
“Try a couple of shots,” said Dad. “Let’s see how you get on and then we’ll know how safe you’ll be. OK, Vincent?”
“OK,” he said.
Vincent took the sack from his back, took a box from the pack, took a pellet from the box. A little grey lead thing. He took the gun, snapped it open, placed the pellet into it, closed it again, passed it back.
“There we are,” he said.
“Now keep your finger off the trigger,” said Dad to me. “And point the barrel away from us. Safety first. It’s not exactly lethal, but it’d take an eye out. It’d go deep into your flesh. That’s right, Vincent?”
“That’s right, Mr. Hall.”
“Now,” said Dad, “what you going to shoot at?”
I looked into the little back garden.
“That half-brick there?” I said.
He came to my back. He held my arms, he raised the gun, he put his head by mine and leaned against me.
“Relax,” he said. “Look at the barrel, look at the brick. Stay calm, stay still. Imagine the pellet hitting the brick.”
I felt his warm breath on my cheek, smelt the tobacco on him, felt his breathing, his heart.
“Ready?” he whispered.
“Ready.”
He stepped away. I squeezed the trigger, the gun recoiled, dust spurted from the earth four feet from the half-brick.
“That’s OK,” said Dad. “It’ll come. Another one, Vincent?”
Vincent picked another pellet from the box.
“Got plenty,” he said. He rattled the box. “Dozens of them, Mr. Hall.”
I fired again. Closer this time.
“Good lad,” said Dad. “I think you’ll be OK. You think he’ll be OK, Vincent?”
Vincent nodded, and they grinned at each other. I imagined Dad’s thoughts as they did so: he’s just a lad, they’re both just lads. Better a lad like Vincent McAlinden with all his faults than the weird draughtsman’s daughter from across the street.
He took the gun from me.
“Can I?” he asked Vincent.
“Aye,” said Vincent.
Vincent passed Dad a pellet. Dad put it into the gun. He raised the gun.
“That white pebble there,” he said.
He fired, missed by inches.
“Out of practice,” he said. “Do that in the jungle and it’s bliddy curtains. Give us another. Just one more, eh?”
Another pellet. He put it into the gun, held the gun to his shoulder, swivelled so that the barrel pointed into the air. A crow flew over. He followed it, and I watched him, and I watched him pull the trigger, and couldn’t breathe. He missed again, but the crow in its flight jerked at the sound of it, veered off in another direction. I breathed.
Dad held the rifle before his eyes, as if it were a thing of great substance, great beauty.
“Them sharpshooters,” he said. “They were something. But even they were nowt compared to the bliddy Japs. Made of stone, were they. Still as death, silent as death, dead as death, for hour after
Similar Books
