bliddy hour till the moment comes. Then a single shot, a single invisible bullet winging through the trees, and one of your mates is gone. Just like that. And it’s like nowt at all has happened, but he’s dead and gone.”
He and Vincent looked at each other again.
“You’ll understand something of that, Vincent.”
“Aye, Mr. Hall.”
Dad passed the gun back to him.
“You ever wish there was a war, Vincent?” he said.
Vincent grunted in surprise, as if he’d never thought of such a thing. He put the sack on his back. He angled the gun over his shoulder.
“Aye,” he said. “Sometimes I suppose I think I do, Mr. Hall.”
Dad smiled. He patted me on the back.
“Gan on,” he said. “Have a good day with Vincent. Mek sure to bring a rabbit or three for the pot tonight.”
Holly was in her garden across the street, before her open front door. She was drawing or painting or writing. Something like that. She looked up from her work as we left the garden.
Vincent groaned.
“That one, eh?” he said. “That little lovely Holly Stroud, eh?”
He walked on.
“But keep your mind on higher things,” he said.
We went uphill, across the waste, across the fields, to the place of the abandoned pits, to the place of rabbits and rats and rumoured foxes and rumoured ghosts and ghouls. We hid ourselves behind hawthorn hedges. We lay in the long grasses. Vincent saw a single rat and shot and missed. I saw a single rabbit and shot and missed. Weird. Some days this place seemed rampant with rabbits and rats, but not today. We sat at the foot of a hill of pit waste. He’d come prepared. He had a bottle of water and a pair of pork pies in the sack. He swigged from the bottle, then passed it to me. I wiped the rim with my sleeve. He laughed, asked if I was scared I’d catch the McAlinden germ. I felt myself blush. Joking, he said. He gave me a pie: thick crust, then amber jelly surrounding the ball of meat at the centre. I ate. I drank.
He had some cigarettes, cork-tipped Park Drives this time. We smoked. I coughed.
“Just do it like you’re breathing,” he said. “Divent force it. Just do it natural. You’ll learn.”
“They kill you,” I said. “That’s what they’re saying now.”
“Your dad smokes. My dad smokes. Everybody smokes. And ye got to die of something.”
I tried again. My head reeled, again he said I’d learn.
“And anyway,” he said, “it’s nowt but death.”
We lay close together and the sun shone down.
I heard the caulker’s din below, the endless tinnitus of this place.
I saw the larks so high high up, and emptiness beyond.
“You and that Holly Stroud,” he said. “You done owt with her?”
“Owt?”
“You knaa what I mean.”
“No,” I murmured.
I thought of just standing up, hurrying home again.
“Get away from him!” said a voice inside me. “Stay with him!”
“You seen her thing?”
I whispered no.
“I would have done if I was you.”
He angled the gun into the air, towards the larks, but didn’t fire.
“Kapow,” he softly said. “Kapow. Kapow.”
We lay silent for a while. I played with the knife, slipping the blade into the turf, into the creamy soil beneath.
“She’s lovely, she is,” he said.
We moved on, seeking more prey. Another rat, shot at and missed. Another rabbit, shot at and missed.
And then he got a rat, which simply scampered to a halt as the pellet hit. Then I got a rabbit, from twenty yards away. I saw its skull in the sights, its twitching ears, I squeezed the trigger and the beast fell. We hurried to it.
It lay in the grass below the brilliant sun. It trembled. Still some life in it.
“Finish it,” said Vincent.
But I couldn’t move. I just waited for the beast to be still.
“Finish it!”
Vincent grabbed my knife. He brought it down with force into the rabbit’s breast and it was motionless at last.
He put his hand on my shoulder, as if to comfort me.
“It’s OK,” he said.
He picked up the corpse
He and Vincent looked at each other again.
“You’ll understand something of that, Vincent.”
“Aye, Mr. Hall.”
Dad passed the gun back to him.
“You ever wish there was a war, Vincent?” he said.
Vincent grunted in surprise, as if he’d never thought of such a thing. He put the sack on his back. He angled the gun over his shoulder.
“Aye,” he said. “Sometimes I suppose I think I do, Mr. Hall.”
Dad smiled. He patted me on the back.
“Gan on,” he said. “Have a good day with Vincent. Mek sure to bring a rabbit or three for the pot tonight.”
Holly was in her garden across the street, before her open front door. She was drawing or painting or writing. Something like that. She looked up from her work as we left the garden.
Vincent groaned.
“That one, eh?” he said. “That little lovely Holly Stroud, eh?”
He walked on.
“But keep your mind on higher things,” he said.
We went uphill, across the waste, across the fields, to the place of the abandoned pits, to the place of rabbits and rats and rumoured foxes and rumoured ghosts and ghouls. We hid ourselves behind hawthorn hedges. We lay in the long grasses. Vincent saw a single rat and shot and missed. I saw a single rabbit and shot and missed. Weird. Some days this place seemed rampant with rabbits and rats, but not today. We sat at the foot of a hill of pit waste. He’d come prepared. He had a bottle of water and a pair of pork pies in the sack. He swigged from the bottle, then passed it to me. I wiped the rim with my sleeve. He laughed, asked if I was scared I’d catch the McAlinden germ. I felt myself blush. Joking, he said. He gave me a pie: thick crust, then amber jelly surrounding the ball of meat at the centre. I ate. I drank.
He had some cigarettes, cork-tipped Park Drives this time. We smoked. I coughed.
“Just do it like you’re breathing,” he said. “Divent force it. Just do it natural. You’ll learn.”
“They kill you,” I said. “That’s what they’re saying now.”
“Your dad smokes. My dad smokes. Everybody smokes. And ye got to die of something.”
I tried again. My head reeled, again he said I’d learn.
“And anyway,” he said, “it’s nowt but death.”
We lay close together and the sun shone down.
I heard the caulker’s din below, the endless tinnitus of this place.
I saw the larks so high high up, and emptiness beyond.
“You and that Holly Stroud,” he said. “You done owt with her?”
“Owt?”
“You knaa what I mean.”
“No,” I murmured.
I thought of just standing up, hurrying home again.
“Get away from him!” said a voice inside me. “Stay with him!”
“You seen her thing?”
I whispered no.
“I would have done if I was you.”
He angled the gun into the air, towards the larks, but didn’t fire.
“Kapow,” he softly said. “Kapow. Kapow.”
We lay silent for a while. I played with the knife, slipping the blade into the turf, into the creamy soil beneath.
“She’s lovely, she is,” he said.
We moved on, seeking more prey. Another rat, shot at and missed. Another rabbit, shot at and missed.
And then he got a rat, which simply scampered to a halt as the pellet hit. Then I got a rabbit, from twenty yards away. I saw its skull in the sights, its twitching ears, I squeezed the trigger and the beast fell. We hurried to it.
It lay in the grass below the brilliant sun. It trembled. Still some life in it.
“Finish it,” said Vincent.
But I couldn’t move. I just waited for the beast to be still.
“Finish it!”
Vincent grabbed my knife. He brought it down with force into the rabbit’s breast and it was motionless at last.
He put his hand on my shoulder, as if to comfort me.
“It’s OK,” he said.
He picked up the corpse
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