The man hears us as we get closer. He jerks his head our way.
The pain the shame and the fear in his eyes change places with shock and surprise. But just for a little second. The pain the shame and the fear return, the shock is gone, the surprise remains.
The four are still playing ‘Hide the Dingus’.
Matt makes signs to the poor man to show that we are friends. That we are here to help.
I think he understands. At least, he understands what, I’m not sure he understands why.
I am not sure I understand why.
Grandma Toughtits says why don’t matter. It’s what that counts.
And how.
How was the question now.
‘I can crawl up on my belly and cut his ropes with that knife thingie over there,’ I say, proud of thinking it and scared of doing it.
Matt looks at me sharpish. ‘That’s smart my boy,’ he goes, which pleases me in spite of the ‘boy’ bit; but then he goes and spoils it all by saying, ‘Just what I was thinking. But here, use this. I don’t trust that thingie over there.’
Matt always carries this pocket knife. He won’t part with it for nothing. He never lends it to no one either. Not even to me. Not normally. But nothing is normal this night.
I take the knife, put my shawl to one side next to Matt, lie flat on my belly and pray to the Spirits of Gods for courage.
I start to move, like the desert lizard.
‘Be like the snake, not the lizard,’ says Matt.
Smart-ass. Why don’t he do it himself? I go to myself.
My hand is hardly inside the clearing before I feel Matt’s bony fingers round my ankles. He pulls me back.
I often wonder where he gets such strength in that skin-and-bone frame of his.
‘What’s the matter?’ I whisper as loud as I dare. ‘You nearly skinned my knees and elbows off.’
‘Look at them, out there,’ he goes in my earhole, pointing to the bad men and the bad lady, ‘they’ll spot you. Sure as eggs they will.’
The lady and two men are still playing but the new man, and the tall man with the fat stomach and the small dingus, are squatting on the ground and smoking. They are pointing to the poor man in front of us and them, and saying something.
Their eyes and parts look fresh and perky as if looking and hoping for some action, but their shoulders droop and their arms and balls hang tired. But no more tired than all of me. I am sure. It seems to me I haven’t hardly slept. It seems to me I haven’t slept for months. It seems to me I’ll just fold up and fade.
‘What will we do?’ I say hopelessly.
The poor man spread apart on the ground is looking at us as if he don’t like the taste of the lady with the fat ass’s knickers at all.
The light of dawn is here now. We can see his bruises and wounds and burn marks.
‘Just cool it a while, will you!’ Matt practically yells. ‘You’re such a baby.’
That makes it worse. I pick up my shawl, stuff some of it in my face, cover my head with the rest and start having a good boo hoo on the quiet.
Matt puts his arms round my shoulders and says, ‘The ants will be here soon. We’ve got to do something. Look at them. They’re waiting to watch. See their eyes, how they search. Even the eyes of their dinguses are starting to look out of their heads. See how they shine in the new born light.’
I look up to see.
Their balls are bunching up like fists.
The sight sobers me up.
Three
The Big Bangs
‘I dunno what to do,’ I say, even more hopeless than before.
He says nothing, just sits there thinking.
I can tell he’s thinking for I can tell when he’s thinking.
When he remains quiet I say, ‘What’ll they do if they catch us?’
I’ve been thinking this all along but not daring to say it. It sounds even worse said than thought.
‘They won’t,’ says Matt, ‘and they won’t watch the big ants eating the spirit out of that poor bugger either. I promise.’
It is not often that Matt says ‘I promise’. But when he says it he keeps his promise.
Suddenly I feel strong again.
‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’
‘There’s nothing else to do except what you said in the first place. Crawl up and cut him loose. But – ’ he stops me as I try to put a word in, ‘ but – ’ he goes on, ‘I’ll do something to take their mind off you. So they won’t see what’s going on. By the time they do, you’ll have cut him out and we’ll all make a run for it.’
‘They’ll follow us and tear us to shreds.’
‘Naked like that! Not for long.’
‘He’s naked too,’ I say, pointing to the poor man.
‘We’ll give him our shawls.’
‘What if there are others?’
‘I’m sure there ain’t. We’d’ve seen them by now if there were.’
‘But what will you do?’
‘I’ll thump round that thick head of yours if you don’t stop your jabbering on like a fool monkey and let me get on with it.’
He takes the lighter out of his pocket. It is an ugly old one, big and heavy. More fit for the cooking pot than the pocket.
‘Gimme your shawl,’ he says.
I give it to him.
‘Bull’s balls. You’ve wet it with your baby crying.’ He throws it back to me. ‘Have you got another one?’
As it goes I do have two left in my bag. The two spare ones Hena brought for herself.
I wonder why he don’t use his own, for whatever he wants it. I wonder but I don’t say.
He almost snatches it from me.
His movements are becoming quick and sharp.
This happens when his body tries to keep up with his brain. Before my worried eyes he holds up the shawl with both hands and tears it in half. That’s what Hena is going to do to him when she finds out, I say to myself.
He unscrews the base of the lighter and sprinkles some of the fuel out of it on to both halves.
‘I’m going to that little hut to throw fire in it. There are green leaves on the top but it’s all dry underneath. They will run to see what’s going on at the hut. You cut the man’s ropes and come out here. I’ll be back here by then and we’ll run for it.’
‘What’s the other half for?’
‘We’ll light it and chuck it in the bushes behind us. That’ll stop them if they run after us. Leastwise for a while.’
‘Are you sure it’ll work?’ I ask, not sure that it will.
‘We’ll see,’ says Matt. ‘Now find me two sticks. One thin and dry, the other strong and green.’
We both look as quiet as we can.
It is not difficult to find two sticks among all these trees and cut bushes. Matt tells me to be ready to dash into the clearing and free the poor man as soon as they notice the fire.
I position myself.
*
Matt goes behind a thick tree trunk next to the smaller hut. He puts one half of the shawl at the end of the green stick and sets fire to it with the help of the lighter and the other stick.
With magic speed he flings it on the dry twigs that form the back of the hut.
I see a look of utter terror come into the poor man’s eyes.
Are the ants marching in already? I ask myself in panic, but have no time to answer. Little birds of smoke start flying out to the skies from the roof of the hut.
I watch the men and the lady, ready to make my move.
If Matt hopes they will rush to save the hut he is wrong. If Matt thinks they won’t run fast and far, naked as they are, he is even more wrong.
The two squatting sniff the air as they smell the smoke, turn their heads and see signs of fire.
They freeze, they jump up, they go down again – crouching this time rather than squatting – jump up once more and start running in the opposite direction. Running like their own private bush between the legs is on fire.
They trip over the three still at it.
The one on top of the lady has his dingus pulled out so roughly it starts jerk-shooting forceful squirts of what looks more like cream of milk than dirty water. He starts to curse then stops as he sees the smoke. Stops with his mouth wide open, his eyes wide open and his dingus working overtime all by itself – though by now it is more coughing and spitting than anything else.
The lady is still lying with her fat ass on top of the other man, smirking to herself.
The three men scramble back up to their feet and run so fast all I see is heaving bum cheeks and dangling balls and tree-trunk legs. I blink and the tree-trunk legs are lost among the tree trunks.
The lady soon cottons on to the reason for all the upset and takes after them, letting out creepy fut farts as she goes. The man underneath her jumps up and follows.
I get so taken up with the goings on I haven’t moved a step from my place.
The eyes of the poor man on the ground are getting more and more weird in the way they look. I can’t understand what they are saying but I can bet my little brother they are saying something.
By now Matt is back where I am.
‘What d’you think you’re doing? Gimme that knife.’ He’s so mad at me he says no more, snatches the knife from my hands and rushes to cut the man loose. I get my legs back and rush with him.
While Matt uses his pocket knife I pick up the funny twisted one from the ground.
As soon as one of the man’s arms is free he pulls out the lady’s knickers from his mouth and shouts, ‘Run. Run for God’s sake, run.’
Between us we free him in two flaps of a bat’s wings.
Matt picks up his boots and we run.
The man has to hobble something awful, like a rabbit with its legs ripped by a trap, but he’s still so fast we wonder at him.
We thought we’d have to half carry him, being in the state he is. It ends up he’s half carrying us.
We’re not many breaths away when we hear the first bang.
Instantly the man throws us on the ground and himself along with us. As he hits the earth with his belly he lets out wild yells for he’s forgotten he’s all damaged on his front.
Quickly he turns over, all the while holding us down with one arm each. Only he is holding me down with his left arm now and Matt with his right arm, while a wink ago he was holding me down with his right arm and Matt with his left arm. This is so on account he’s turned over and his left arm is where his right arm was and his right arm is where his left arm was. But that don’t matter really. Except I don’t like the smell of piss and blood and tinned food. Also, I’m not sure if I feel funnier lying down with the naked man when his frontals are facing the sky or when his bum is raised to the winds.
I truly shouldn’t be thinking like that but I have a sinful mind.
Of course I don’t know it then for I don’t know what sin is then. I learn that later from this missionary bloke from Pasadena, California, USA, wherever that may be.
By now there are enough bangs to make many new worlds. Maybe that’s what’s going on, I say to myself. The Spirits are cracking up the old world to make lots of little new ones which will grow up to be better ones. Grandma Toughtits always says this world is ready for the big night of fire. And the big night of fire it sure is – or day if you’re particular about such things.
Things – bits of broken this and broken that, I know not what and suchlike – are flying past and above us in a mad rush to get nowhere.
Flames are rising all round the clearing and the dry cut bush circle is lit up like Hell’s front yard.
Suddenly the whole hut is thrown upwards.
The noise kills my ears and I hear no more.
The light kills my eyes and I see no more.
Four
Gonta, At Last
When next I hear, I hear sounds of laughter and bells and drums and creaking wood and clanging metal and gentle snoring.
When next I see I see sunlight and see-saws and slides and colourful tents and bright clothes and Matt sleeping.
When next I feel I feel this heavy weight round my arm so I cannot move it.
Am I dead? I wonder.
If so I must be in the world of the Spirit of Light and her happy friends for what I see is good and what I hear is pleasant. Also my best friend is with me.
So I’m not too worried if I am dead.
Even if I am not dead, I’m sure Matt is.
Matt who wakes up at the fall of a needle or the first smell of light cannot sleep through all this noise and all this brightness.
Leastwise that’s what I say to myself.
Loud, so as to find out if the dead can or cannot speak.
They can.
Anyway, I can.
Satisfied, I snap my eyes shut and lean back to relax. I am lying on something soft and cool and it feels good.
I like being dead.
‘So you are awake at last,’ I hear a heavy voice growl, ‘or still talking in your sleep?’
I snap my eyes open.
There is this big ugly face with this big ugly nose and these big ugly eyes set in a big ugly head sitting on a tiny ugly body staring down at me.
If I was standing up I’d be staring down at him.
Of course I’m big, but I am still a child – not that I like to own up to it. This man must be shorter than Matt. And Matt is short – not that Matt likes to own up to it.
Do dead men grow down instead of up? I wonder.
Now that part of being dead I don’t like.
I want to grow up tall and big and strong – whether dead or alive.
In fact I’d rather be alive without the laughter and the colours and the happy Spirits if I am to grow down dead.
The man holds me by the shoulders and shakes me.
Now you know I don’t like being shaken up. I don’t like being shaken up asleep or awake.
I don’t like being shaken up dead, either.
‘You’ve been sleeping for a day and a night. I think you’d better wake up or you’ll miss all the fun.’
He is short and he is ugly and he growls at me and he shakes me and there is love in his hands and care in his bloated eyes.
‘Are you God?’ I ask.
But I can tell by the surprised look in his bloated eyes that he ain’t so I add, ‘Or just a Spirit?’
‘I am Kofi,’ he says. ‘I’m with the circus. I’m the midget. I found you sleeping in my tent yesterday afternoon when I came back from the second show.’
‘My friend, my friend Matt,’ I say sounding stupid, ‘he is lying over there. Is he sleeping or dead? I am not sure.’
‘No one is dead,’ he says. So that is settled.
He looks at me for a look, then goes, ‘You must be hungry. Have something to eat first. I’ll explain later.’
The thought of food puts life back into my dead body which wasn’t dead in the first place. I try to sit up to feed the face but have problems on account I can’t move my right arm.
‘I’m not sure I can eat,’ I say near to tears. ‘My right arm has died, even if the rest of me hasn’t.’
He looks at my right arm with a look of worry, then smiles, ‘It’s just heavy. Your parents must have tied this bag to your arm so that you don’t lose it or forget it somewhere. Your friend,’ he says pointing to Matt, ‘has got one as well.’
I know my parents did no such thing but I say nothing.
I look at Matt. Tied to his wrist is this big brown cloth bag, like a small rucksack.
I look at my own arm. I’d been frightened to look before on account I did not want to see my arm lying dead without me. Tied to my wrist is a similar bag.
I untie the bag and look inside. I find two thick white shawls, one embroidered red and a yellow silken robe, a large box full of food and a brown paper bag which has in it more money than I’ve ever seen in my life!
I’m still lost in wonder, not knowing what to say or how to ask him som
e more questions, when he puts all this food in front of me. My favourite flat bread and honey syrup and chunks of dried meat that smell freshly-cooked on an open fire, and fruit.
I forget about everything else.
‘Thank you very much,’ I say to show I know my manners, ‘I am starving.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he suddenly shouts so it frightens me away from my food. ‘It’s people down east who…’ he stops as suddenly as he began. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t mind me. I forget you are only a child. You don’t know what is going on. I am sorry. Eat your food. Go on.’ He puts his arms round me like he is my mother, only I hardly fit in both his arms. My Mam can hug me with only one of hers.
As I start eating I look at Matt.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘there’s enough for him when he wakes up.’
I feed my face, gobble gobble gobble, while trying hard not to seem greedy. If only I could eat like Hena – sort of like a queen with tiny bits of food taken slowly to the half-open mouth, eyes far away hardly looking at the food – I would cut a fine figure. Enough to make Grandma Toughtits proud.
But I can’t.
I can never have Hena’s ways, witch that she is.
I don’t feel guilty eating for I know Hena and Golam have food so they can’t be hungry.
I am thinking of Hena and Golam without thinking of Hena and Golam when suddenly I think of Hena and Golam.
Where are they?
I start worrying for them full speed.
And they must be worrying for us.
The thought of their worry gets put on to my worry and I worry even more.
I nearly lose my hunger but in the meantime I’ve eaten seven meals in one go.
Matt’s ears have not noticed the noise in his unnatural sleep and his skin has got used to the new air but his nostrils can’t fight the smell of food.
He wakes up, takes in the scene like me, but unlike me he don’t wonder where we are. He knows it.
‘We’re in Gonta,’ he says.
He don’t stop to wonder if we’re dead, but I’m happy to see that at least he is surprised.
I can tell he’s surprised for I can tell when he is surprised.
‘Are we!’ I say before I can stop myself. I should have been able to tell: the roundabout, the drums, the circus – everything.
My Friend Matt and Hena The Whore Page 4
