by Pat Young
I unlock the kitchen door and open it enough to squeeze through. There’s a smell of rain, that grassy, leafy wet smell it’s got in the summer. The gun gets stuck in the doorway and bangs against the door when I try to move it. I stand there, waiting to get caught.
No one comes.
I hurry across the courtyard with my head down. When I pass the tower, I’m tempted to go in and hide the gun. I could wait till tonight and put it back. Dad will never know I took it. But then nothing will change. They’ll go on acting as if I don’t exist.
I sneak over to the wall of the toilet block, catching the smell of disinfectant and something else, not so nice. I stop and listen for Joyce singing. She always sounds happy and it usually cheers me up. But Joyce won’t be here for hours. She doesn’t get off the bus till after eight o’clock. Then she needs a coffee and a ciggy before she starts.
The sun isn’t even properly up yet. Brown Carrick casts a deep, dark shadow and I’m cold. Wonder if I can go back and get a sweatshirt.
A man steps out of the Gents right in front of me. His hair is pure white and wispy, all sticking up as if he’s just got out of bed. I expect him to speak. Say, ‘Oi, lad! Where d’you think you’re going with that gun?’ Or even, ‘Morning.’ But he says nothing as if he doesn’t even notice me. It’s like I’m invisible to everyone.
That makes up my mind for me. No going back for a jumper. No going back at all. I’m going to prove to myself that I’m not scared of the woods. I’m going to shoot some rabbits and prove to Dad I’m not a wee boy any more. I don’t care if they’re angry about the gun. In fact, I hope they are. At least they won’t be ignoring me. Miss Lawson calls it attention-seeking behaviour when Mackenzie McMullen shows off and gets everybody to look at her. It works. She gets much more attention than poor wee Jayden who sits quietly and never does anything bad.
Soon I reach the sign that says, ‘To the Carrick Hills and Vista Point.’ Dad makes the signs himself. Burns the letters into the wood. Mum says it looks rustic and classy. She’s always on about classy. Dad wanted to put ‘view’ on this sign, but Mum insisted on ‘vista’.
The one thing nobody ever argues about is the view. From the top of Brown Carrick Hill you can see for miles and miles in all directions. Sometimes even to Ireland, if it’s a really good day. The hillside’s covered in bracken. Last year’s stalks are dead and brown but they’re disappearing under the brand-new ones. The lime-green fronds uncurl like fingers reaching for the sky. By summer they’ll be as tall as me and full of midges that drive the campers crazy. Dad always tries to keep this path clear. Not because of the midges or the campers. For their pets. Dogs are welcome at Brackenbrae but they can get ticks off the bracken. Dad isn’t allowed to put poisonous weed killer on it because of the sheep that wander about, so he’s got to come out here with a big scythe thing. I watched him last year. He made it look so easy, swinging the scythe from side to side. Swoosh, swoosh, slicing through the stems, the ferns all collapsing on top of each other. Dad could tell I wanted to try but when he let me have a go I couldn’t even lift the scythe. ‘You’re too wee, Charlie. You need to wait till you get some muscles,’ he said. Thanks, Dad.
At the end of the narrow path through the bracken I get to the thick gorse. I wish the sun would come out. That’s one of the things I remember from that day, the last time I was in here. How dark it seemed in amongst the bushes and how lonely. With no one to help me.
Five years ago, almost. I was nearly seven. Robbie was twelve. I push the memory away. Today will be different. I’ve got a gun and if anyone tries to hurt me or make me do stuff, I’ll shoot him.
Like the scythe, the gun looks light when Dad’s got it. But it’s heavy and I’m tired. No sleep. No breakfast either. I’ve got plenty of reasons to turn back if I want to.
Up ahead, the little path splits in two. Both ways look the same. Not sure which way to go, I put the gun down till I decide and swing my arms back and forward, giving them a rest. A crowd of birds fly out, making me jump. They sound annoyed at me for interrupting them.
A tiny shiver tickles the back of my neck, like something bad is going to happen. Need to stop being a coward. ‘Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Charlie.’ Mum’s always telling me that. Maybe she’s right.
Maybe there’s nothing for me to be afraid of. Not now. The memory starts to slide out of its black corner again, like slime. I shove it back into the darkness and look up at the sky, hoping for sunlight.
Right or left? Left, I think, because it’s aiming towards the top of the hill. Through the glen. Up close, the gorse smells like Mum’s expensive suntan lotion. Now I know why I’ve never liked that smell. It reminds me. But the wee flowers are lovely. So tiny. Bright enough to turn the whole hill yellow.
The path’s full of hollows and dips. It’s easy to walk on the downhill bits, but the uphill bits are hard with this big gun to carry. I need to watch out for roots and boggy bits too.
The bushes are getting taller now and the branches are thicker. It’s much cooler too. Wish I’d put a jumper on. I need long sleeves. Gorse might look pretty, but if you get too close it’ll rip your skin off. Like the feral cat that used to slink about our yard.
Something moves near my feet. Gone before I can spot it. My heart’s banging. What if it’s a snake? What if it’s an adder? They can kill you. Jonathon Brown in Primary Six saw one once. Lying on a stone beside the path. But that was on Arran. Not here. Don’t think we get snakes here.
I try to get away, just in case, out of these bushes. I swipe at a branch, but it whips back and hits me in the face. Scratching me with its thorny claws.
I blow out a huge breath and try to calm down.
Got no idea where I am. Can see sunshine further up the hill, but down here it still feels a bit rainy, like there’s mist in the hollows. Or ghosts, waiting for me.
I’m usually too scared to come this far, even with the boys from school. They came round one day last summer holidays, for my birthday, and we played commandos. They wanted to go up into the woods, but I shook my head and wouldn’t go. We were running all over the place, with no teachers or parents to spoil the fun. Before it was time for everyone to go home, we had dinner in the café. Big Mark gave us all the toppings we wanted on our pizzas and we got endless refills of fizzy drinks because Mum wasn’t about. The boys said it was supercool but I kept wondering why Mum wasn’t there. Then she came in with a new frock on and Dad was behind her with a big cake and eleven candles burning. Big Mark brought the fire extinguisher through from the kitchen. Said I was getting so old the cake was a fire hazard. Everybody laughed and then sang: ‘Happy birthday, dear Charlie,’ and I blew them all out. In one breath.
I like it when the boys in my class come up here. Doesn’t happen very often. Mum says we live too far away and it’s not handy.
A long shadow falls on my path and I nearly drop the gun. I look up, expecting a giant. It’s only a tree with dark liquid oozing out of the bark, like blood on a skinned knee. I touch the trunk and the stuff sticks to my fingers. Smells like the cleaning spray Joyce uses on the toilets.
My stomach’s so empty it’s grumbling at me. Skipping breakfast isn’t good for you, Mum says, so that’s probably why I feel a bit sick. Or maybe it’s that stinky pine stuff on my fingers. I wipe them on my shorts, rubbing my hand up and down. Trying to get rid of the smell and the stickiness. Stupid to wear shorts today. Just because it was sunny and warm yesterday. Dad says we can get all four seasons in one day here. ‘If you don’t like the weather,’ he says, ‘hang on half an hour. It’ll change.’ He’s right. The rain’s gone off and I can see a wee bit of blue sky up through the branches.
There’s a commotion and I think it’s me, disturbing the birds again. One bird, much smaller than the rest, is fluttering from branch to branch, surrounded by big, black crows. Each time the little guy settles, a crow dive-bombs it. I’m going to fire the gun and scare them off. I unwrap the red fleece and put my hand in my pocket for a sh
ell. Then I hear the bushes moving. Someone’s coming.
8
I wriggle under the thickest gorse I can find, ignoring the spikes, and flatten myself to the ground. If I keep my head down long enough, the person will walk straight past and never see me. I’m good at hiding.
I hold my breath.
The noise gets closer and closer. Louder and louder. Then quieter again. Think he’s walking away.
I count elephants, in my head. It’s a good trick for counting seconds. I usually imagine a chain of them traipsing past me, like the parade in The Jungle Book film. When I get to sixty, that’s a minute.
I don’t even get to ten. Can’t concentrate. I lift my head. One centimetre at a time, trying not to make a single sound.
Someone’s standing on the path, watching me.
I curl into a ball. In case he’s got a dog. Saw a hedgehog do that once, when it was frightened. It worked. The dog lost interest and walked away.
I stop breathing. Keep my eyes shut tight. Try not to twitch the tiniest muscle. Pray he hasn’t seen me.
Dead bracken whispers near my ear. My nose is so near the ground I can smell the earth. Think I might sneeze. I let out my breath a tiny little bit at a time but it still sounds loud as thunder.
Another few minutes pass, or maybe it’s just moments.
‘Hey, kid. You okay?’
When I don’t answer he says, ‘What you doing out here on your own at this time of the morning? You should be tucked up in bed.’
My legs are trembling, my hands too. I curl up tighter. Squeeze my knees to my chest so hard I can hardly breathe.
‘Come on. Up you get.’
I don’t move.
‘Hey, listen. You need to get up. You can’t lie there.’
I slowly raise my head. I see a face with wide, hairy nostrils and eyes that bulge as he leans towards me. His breath reminds me of the old dog Pops had when I was small.
The man touches my elbow and I flinch away from his hand. The bad memory’s so strong my stomach feels like I’m falling down a flume.
‘Easy, buddy, easy.’ He takes a step away from me. Holds his hands up like he’s under arrest.
I have to stand up and show him I’m not afraid. I crawl out and get to my feet, trying to hide the gun behind me.
‘Playing cowboys?’
He waits, as if he expects me to say something.
‘All by yourself?
My legs are shaking. Wish I had long trousers on to hide them.
‘You lost or something?’
I shake my head.
‘Come on over here. Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.’
That’s what Robbie said.
Inside my head, something snaps. I feel full of courage. I look the stranger right in the eye and bring the gun from behind my back.
‘Going to give me a look at your gun? Cool.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Hand it over, then.’
I don’t hand it over. I snap it shut, like I’ve seen Dad do. I smell metal and oil as the mechanism locks into place.
‘Shit! That doesn’t sound like a toy. Is it some kind of replica?’ He holds out his arms this time. ‘Can I see it, please?’ He smiles as if he expects me to just do as he says.
Without taking my eyes off him, I slowly raise the gun. Till it’s pointing at his chest. The smile slides from his face like slime off a stick. He moves away from me. A branch catches the back of his leg and he stumbles. I raise the rifle a little more. Settle it against my shoulder. Copying Dad. It feels so heavy I think my legs might buckle, but I don’t feel a bit afraid. I feel powerful.
I rest my cheek on the gun. Make a show of placing my finger on the trigger.
He starts to scramble through the gorse, backwards. His eyes never leaving my face. The thorns snag his shirt but he doesn’t seem to notice. Suddenly he stops and stands with his hands in the air.
‘Take it easy, kid. Watch what you’re doing with that thing.’ His voice sounds kind of wavery. ‘Put it down now, please. The joke’s over. You’ve had your fun.’
I want him to keep going. Run. Get away from me.
He doesn’t move. Well, just his arm. He stretches it out towards me, in slow motion. ‘Come on,’ he says, very quietly, coaxing. ‘Just do what I tell you and you won’t get hurt.’
Like the last time.
I stare at him. Right down the barrel. Slowly, very slowly, I shake my head. Then I pull the trigger.
9
Ayrshire, Scotland
Monday 28 May
Seb slows to a stop, disheartened. Why didn’t he pay more attention to where he was going? Or stay in bed for a few more hours then take a taxi? He’s hungover, hasn’t slept and could really use a shower. This is not the kind of first impression he’d hoped to make on his employer. As Father likes to remind him, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.
This job is too important to lose. He couldn’t bear to have to return home a failure after all the fuss and upset he’s caused by coming here.
A watery sun is drifting free of the horizon and starting its climb. The rain seems to have cleared and the sky’s a slightly paler grey than before. It might turn out to be a decent day yet.
He takes off his fleece, rolls it up tightly and squeezes it into one of the side pockets of his rucksack. He runs his fingers through his hair and smooths it back off his brow. Mother’s always stroking his hair, going on about the colour, claiming she sees highlights of pure gold in the copper. Says it’s exactly like she remembers her father’s hair when she was a child. He smiles, remembering how he always responds to this soppy nonsense. ‘World’s maddest mother!’ he says and they both laugh. Or at least, they used to.
He should have had a haircut before he left. A long, floppy fringe falling into his eyes all the time might not impress a new boss. Normally he’d have asked Mother what she thought, or she’d have given her opinion without being consulted. But not this time. Same with his packing. No help or advice whatsoever. He did all his own washing and ironing and had to make up his own mind about what clothes to bring. Father’s no use at that kind of stuff. Mother usually packs for all three of them. Already he’s had to buy more socks and he could use another T-shirt or two. He’ll get some in Ayr, on his first day off. Once he’s been paid.
It’s so quiet up here. A million miles from the city bustle he’s used to. If it’s true that some cities never sleep, Paris is one of them.
In the bright yellow bushes, little birds are singing their hearts out, and some crows in the taller trees shout at each other with their throaty, raspy call. Perhaps they’re singing too, in the only voice they’ve got. A big pine cone drops, tumbling from branch to branch, like a bauble in a Christmas tree. A busy workforce of insects hums in the hedgerow, and down on the main road a motorbike engine roars, screaming for a gear change.
Seb steps off the road and walks on the grass. After weeks of pounding the tarmac, it feels soft as a silk rug, springy as a trampoline. The bounce comes back to his step and he lengthens his stride.
Apart from a blister on his heel he’s had since the outskirts of Manchester, he’s in fine shape, probably the fittest of his life. As long as a raging hangover, a headache and a growing thirst don’t count. If he hadn’t been stupid enough to get lost, he’d be there by now, enjoying a glass of cold water. He thinks longingly of the bottle of Evian that Mother always keeps cooling in the fridge. He imagines the blast of cold air in his face as he opens the door. He feels the touch of the bottle under his fingers, can almost taste those first mouthfuls, shockingly cold and thirst-quenching.
Cans of Fanta, Cola and 7up float before his eyes, their sides running with cool beads of moisture. His childhood favourite, Orangina, in its funny, fat bottle and that diluted fruit syrup his grandmother always made. With ice cubes clinking against the glass. This must be what it feels like to see a mirage in the desert.
They were talking about it last night in the pub, debating the best quencher for
a hangover thirst. One man claimed nothing could beat milk and set off a chorus of gagging sounds. Someone said, ‘A pint. Hair of the dog.’ At the thought of beer, Seb wants to throw up in the hedge. The majority vote went to something Seb had never heard of. It sounded like Eye Urn Brew.
‘B, R, U,’ said Josie. Spelling out the word did not make its meaning any clearer to Seb, but he remembers Josie’s description of the drink and how it looked when the barmaid sat a glass of it on the counter. ‘On ye go, son. Taste that!’ Seb had been reluctant at first but it became obvious that it would be an insult to refuse. ‘Scotland’s other national drink, that is, pal,’ said one hard-looking drinker, who did not sound like he wanted to be Seb’s pal. The bright, almost fluorescent colour made him expect an orange flavour, but his taste buds found nothing they could recognise. He smiled and emptied the glass, listening to a heated debate on whether the drink had to come in a glass bottle to be an effective hangover remedy. ‘Cans are a pure waste o time.’
‘An see they plastic bottles, well, they just kill the flavour.’
‘Kill the flavour?’ said Hyphen Man. ‘It’s no Gewürz-fucking-traminer! He’ll drink it through a shitty nappy if his hangover’s bad enough.’
Seb doubted that but, man, he’d kill for a glass of Irn Bru right now. He repeats the name over and over, taking pleasure in rolling the r in that particularly Scottish way. It makes him smile, wondering what Mr Lagrasse will make of his English accent after three months of this.
He’s a few metres past the sign before it registers with his brain. Brackenbrae. He says it out loud, enjoying the double r sound, walking on.
Wait a minute. A sign to Brackenbrae. He turns back. There it is. Brown letters burned onto a flat wooden sign, and an arrow, pointing across the hillside. A little wooden stile’s been built into a rickety fence that’s keeping a few indolent-looking sheep off the road.
