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The Loney

Page 24

by Andrew Michael Hurley


  Still shivering, I took off my parka and then my sweater and twisted it into a thick knot to get some of the water out.

  ‘Why did you go off like that?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?’

  Hanny looked at me.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ I said, looking back across the sands which had now disappeared completely. ‘We’re supposed to be going home this morning. How the hell are we going to get back? Everyone will be wondering where we are. Mummer will be cross, and it’ll be me that gets it in the neck. It’s always my fault when you do something stupid. You do know that, don’t you, Hanny?’

  Hanny patted his pockets. He took out his plastic dinosaur.

  ‘You’re always sorry, Hanny,’ I said. ‘Why can’t you just think before you do things?’

  Hanny looked at me. Then he bowed his head and fumbled in his pockets for the gorilla mask. I went over and took it off him before he could put it on.

  ‘You’re not frightened, Hanny,’ I said. ‘You weren’t afraid to go sneaking off without me, were you? You weren’t frightened of coming all the way here by yourself.’

  He didn’t know any better, of course, but I was angry with him all the same. More than I should have been. I threw the mask into the sea. Hanny looked at me and then went to the edge of the water and tried to scrape it back towards him with the rifle. He made a few attempts but the mask filled with water and disappeared. He rounded on me and looked as if he was going to hit me. Then he stopped and looked in the direction of Thessaly and kissed the palm of his hand.

  ‘No, Hanny,’ I said. ‘We can’t go and see her. Not anymore. We’ve got to stay away from that place.’

  He kissed his hand again and pointed.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Hanny. Don’t you understand? If they find us here they’ll hurt us. We just need to keep out of sight until the tide turns. No one’s going to come this way for now, not while they can’t get across. If we stay here they’ll never know that we’ve even been. Give me the rifle. Let me keep watch.’

  Hanny turned away from me and held it close to his chest.

  ‘Give it to me, Hanny.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t trust you with it. You’ll hurt yourself. Give it to me.’

  He turned his back to me completely. I took hold of one of his arms and twisted it. He struggled and easily got free and pushed me to the ground. He hesitated for a moment and then swung the butt of the rifle towards me and caught me sharply on the wrist when I put up my hand to protect myself.

  Seeing me in pain, he looked momentarily concerned, but turned away and started walking across the heather.

  I called him back. He ignored me. I put my sopping coat on and went after him, stumbling through the matted grass and the peat-haggs. I grabbed him by the sleeve, but he shrugged me off and carried on, more determined than I’d ever seen him before.

  A dense fog was coming in off the sea now and I thought that he would be too frightened to go much further. But, despite the grey thickening and the silence that fell upon the place, Hanny went on, taking long strides, jumping across the bogs and pools of water, eventually coming to the remains of an old farmhouse or a barn, it was hard to tell what it had been. Only a few ruined walls remained, roughly forming a rectangle that was littered with other rocks and roof slates. Perhaps people had once lived here. Scavenged from the sea. Worshipped at the chapel and tried to pin God to the island like one of the butterflies in our room at Moorings.

  Beneath the sound of Hanny’s boots going through the debris I could hear something else. Voices, calls. I tried to make Hanny stop so that I could hear it properly and in the end had to kick away one of his feet so that he fell. He sprawled and the rifle clattered away. He went off on all fours to retrieve it and sat down on a rock to wipe off the mud.

  I put my finger to my lips and Hanny stopped what he was doing and looked at me, breathing hard with anger.

  ‘Listen,’ I said.

  The sound of a dog barking came out of the mist, but it was hard to tell where it was coming from or how far away it was. I had no doubt it was Collier’s. It was the same harsh barking that I’d heard in the field outside Moorings where the ewe had led its lamb to feed on the new grass.

  ‘Hanny, we need to go back,’ I said. ‘We can’t let them find us here. And I’m cold. Aren’t you cold?’

  I had started to shiver. My clothes seemed to be wrapped around my bones.

  Hanny looked at me and although a flash of concern passed over his face, he turned and clambered over the broken down wall he was sitting against without waiting for me. I didn’t have the strength to hold him back anymore. All I could do was follow him as best I could as his form slipped in and out of the fog.

  I eventually caught up with him at the edge of a brook that came gushing milky-white down a gully of rocks and slid away through the limp bracken towards the sea.

  Something was wrong.

  I touched Hanny on the arm. He was staring straight ahead.

  ‘What is it?’ I said and, following his eyes, saw that there was a hare sitting on the other side looking back.

  It turned its head to one side, sniffed the air, looked back at us, twitched one of its tall spoon ears, and then bolted just a little too late as a dog emerged from the fog, careered into it and tumbled it over in the mud. The hare kicked with its back legs, once, twice, trying to rake off the jaws that were clamped to its neck, but was limp a second later as the dog thrashed it from side to side and chewed out its throat.

  This time I got a firm grip on Hanny’s arm and tried to pull him away. If we went there and then I thought we could get away. But he stood rooted to the spot, still looking past me, over my shoulder, not at the hare or the dog but at the two men that had come out of the mist and were standing there watching us.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It was Parkinson and Collier. They were dressed in blue overalls and hard boots caked in mud. Scarves wound around their necks and mouths. Their flat caps dripped with the damp.

  Collier had a chain over his shoulder. He lowered his scarf and called the dog to him and when it refused he went over and kicked it off the hare onto its side. He raised his hand to the dog and with a well practised obedience it whined and cowered and Collier got a hold of its collar so that he could pass the chain through it. Parkinson continued to stare at us, cold breath misting around his face.

  The brook cluttered over the rocks and bracken.

  Still holding Hanny’s arm I started to walk away, but Parkinson moved with an unexpected quickness. He sloshed through the water in a few steps and grabbed the hood of my parka, bringing me to heel like Collier had done with his dog. He turned me to face him and gently rearranged my coat so that it no longer strangled me.

  ‘There’s no need for thee to rush off,’ he said.

  He took his hands off me and flicked the wetness from them.

  ‘Hast tha been for a dip?’ he said.

  He smiled when I didn’t respond, amused that I was drenched and shivering. Then he noticed the rifle Hanny was holding and took it off him. Hanny let the rifle slide out of his hands and looked down at his feet.

  Parkinson fitted the stock against his shoulder and squinted through the sight.

  ‘Where did you get this from?’ he said.

  ‘We found it,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a bit special is this, for a lad like thee,’ he said, glancing at Hanny.

  Collier caught the frown I gave Parkinson.

  ‘He means a retard,’ said Collier.

  Parkinson took the rifle down and pulled back the bolt to open it up. Hanny had loaded it. I could see the top bullet of the clip pressed down inside the receiver.

  Now that Parkinson had let go of me, I tried to lead Hanny back the way we’d come, thinking that they might settle for having the rifle off us. But Parkinson quickly held my shoulder again.

  ‘Don’t go just yet,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone will be wa
iting for us,’ I said.

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘We’re going today.’

  ‘Going? Where’s tha going?’

  ‘Back home to London.’

  ‘London?’ he said. ‘Tha wouldn’t make it back across to the mainland, never mind London.’

  ‘We can swim,’ I said, and Collier laughed.

  ‘Nay,’ said Parkinson with mock concern. ‘I don’t want thee drowned.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘We’re going home today. Do what you like at Moorings. Take what you want from the place. I don’t care. No one will care.’

  It was bravado founded entirely on fear and went as quickly as it had arisen the moment Parkinson laughed and turned to Collier.

  ‘I’m not sure I like that accusation. We’re not thieves,’ he said. ‘Are we?’

  ‘Nay,’ said Collier.

  The sound of a baby crying came from the direction of the house. The dog looked up. Parkinson and Collier glanced at one another. The crying stopped.

  ‘Here,’ said Parkinson, serious now. ‘It’s nowt personal. But we can’t let thee go. We’re going to have to take out some insurance. You understand what I mean, don’t you? By insurance?’

  I looked at him and he put his hand on my shoulder again.

  ‘It’s the way it has to be. There’s nowt you or I can do about it. You just fucked up, that’s all. Wrong place, wrong time. Come to the house and we’ll get everything sorted out.’

  ***

  Leonard was loading his car when we got to Thessaly. Clement was there too, fetching and carrying boxes. When he saw us he stopped and looked at us with—what was it?—pity, guilt?

  ‘Carry on Clement,’ said Leonard.

  Clement nodded slowly and moved towards the Daimler and slotted the box he was carrying into the back.

  Leonard came closer and lit a cigar. Collier’s dog started barking loudly and straining on the chain. Leonard looked at Collier and Collier, capitulating, took out a frayed leather muzzle from his pocket and fitted it around the dog’s face.

  ‘You must love it here,’ said Leonard, turning to us. ‘You just can’t stay away, can you?’

  He took a drag on his cigar and looked at Parkinson.

  ‘Are you sure this is necessary?’ he said. ‘In an hour’s time there’ll be no trace that anyone’s ever been here. If I were you, I’d send them back across when the tide goes out and leave it at that. They’ve already given their word to keep their mouths shut. What the hell are they going to say anyway? They don’t know anything.’

  Parkinson answered him with a stare and Leonard sighed.

  ‘Bring them inside then,’ he said.

  I don’t remember either of us trying to run or fight or do anything for that matter. I only remember the smell of the wet ferns, the sound of water churning out of a gutter, the feeling of numbness knowing that no one was coming to help us and that we were surrounded by those people Father Wilfred had always warned us about but who we never thought we’d face, not really. Those people who existed in the realm of newspaper reports; dispatches from a completely different world where people had no capacity for guilt and trampled on the weak without a second thought.

  We went into Thessaly by the back door that led into the empty kitchen we’d seen briefly the first time. On the floor was a metal dish of dog food that smelled as if it had been there for months. Collier’s dog nosed at some of the chunks of meat, trying to angle its mouth so that it could eat them through its muzzle.

  From somewhere else in the house, the baby cried again. A desperate bawl that petered out into a whimper that seemed resigned to the fact that no one was going to come to give it comfort.

  Parkinson opened the door that led out into the hallway.

  ‘Go on,’ he said with a nod of the head.

  I hesitated and felt Hanny’s hand in mine. He was shaking.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘We’ll go home soon.’

  Collier let his dog out on the chain a little further. Under the grill of the muzzle it growled from its throat and bent its head to try and nip at our ankles.

  ‘Go on,’ Parkinson said again.

  ‘It’ll be alright, Hanny,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Once we were in the hallway Leonard, Parkinson and Collier stopped and looked at the door that led down to the cellar. The door was closed. From the other side came the sound of the baby screaming again. Hanny made kissing movements with his hand.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ said Parkinson.

  ‘He wants to see Else,’ I said.

  ‘She’s not here anymore,’ said Leonard.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘How should I know? She’s nothing to do with me now. She’s not my daughter. Laura took her home yesterday. You don’t need to worry about them. They both got paid. Everyone’s got what they wanted.’

  ‘Apart from you two,’ said Parkinson.

  ‘We don’t want anything,’ I said. ‘Just let us go back home.’

  Leonard looked at Parkinson and then at us.

  ‘If it were up to me,’ he said. ‘I’d trust you not to say anything. But I’m afraid Mr Parkinson here thinks otherwise. And as he’s the one with the rifle I’d be inclined to trust his judgement.’

  ‘You know,’ Parkinson said to me. ‘I think that the problem is that tha doesn’t believe that we can help him.’

  He nodded to Collier.

  ‘Tell them what your dog did to your ’and.’

  Collier held up his hand—he was no longer wearing the black mitten—and drew a line slowly across the back of it with his finger.

  ‘Every fuckin’ tendon,’ he said. ‘Hanging off in rags it were.’

  ‘Five years without work,’ said Parkinson. ‘Int that right, Mr Collier?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Collier. ‘There’s not much call for a one-’anded drayman.’

  ‘And now?’ Parkinson said.

  Collier flexed his hand in and out of a fist and then grabbed hold of Hanny’s arm, making him jump. He laughed, enjoyed Parkinson’s approving grin, and let go.

  ‘I had a cancer growing in the throat,’ said Parkinson, pressing a finger to his Adam’s apple and then making a star with his hand to show that it had disappeared.

  He put his arm around Leonard’s shoulder.

  ‘And my friend here looks a proper picture of health, dunt he? Not a sign of arthritis.’

  Leonard looked at me and smiled. I hadn’t noticed, but Parkinson was right, Leonard’s limp had gone.

  ‘Hanny’s fine,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to do anything to him.’

  Parkinson laughed and shook his head. ‘It’s funny int it?’ he said. ‘How you church people can have more faith in something that can’t be proved than something that’s standing right in front of you? I suppose it comes down to seeing what you want to see, dunt it? But sometimes tha dunt get a choice. Sometimes the truth comes along whether tha wants it to or not. Int that right, Mr Collier?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said.

  Parkinson nodded and Collier grabbed Hanny’s arm again. This time he didn’t let go. Hanny struggled. I tried to prise Collier’s hand away and was so intent on doing so that I only dimly registered Parkinson moving Leonard aside and taking the rifle down.

  The shot brought little coughs of dust down from the ceiling and replaced all other sound with a high pitched whining in my ears. A spent bullet casing skittered away down the hall and Hanny fell onto his side, clutching his thigh which had burst open all over the floorboards.

  Parkinson put the rifle back over his shoulder and nodded at Hanny writhing in silent agony on the floor.

  ‘Now tha’ll have to have faith,’ he said. ‘Like it or not. Unless tha wants to take him home a cripple as well as a fuckin’ retard.’

  Hearing the gun go off, Clement had come inside and was standing next to Leonard looking on with horror at what had happened. Leonard noticed him gawping and gave him a nudge.

  ‘Don’t just
stand there, Clement,’ he said. ‘Get him up.’

  Clement started to back away, but Parkinson pointed the rifle at his chest.

  ‘Hey, tha’s not delivered full payment quite yet, Clement.’

  ‘Let me go home,’ Clement pleaded. ‘I’ve done everything you’ve asked for.’

  ‘Aye, so far. But tha owes us a few more favours before we’re done.’

  ‘Mother will be worrying where I am. I can’t stay.’

  ‘I’m not sure tha’s got a great deal of choice int matter, Clement. Not if tha dunt want to end up in Haverigg again. You know we could do it. It were easy enough last time. Tha didn’t have the wit to get out of it then and I can’t see that tha’s found any more since. Moorings goes up in flames. Caretaker seen acting suspiciously by local men. What does tha get for arson these days, Clement?’

  Clement looked at him and then knelt down at Hanny’s side, rolling him gently onto his back so that he could get an arm under his shoulders. Hanny’s face screwed up in pain. He was crying like the Hanny I knew as a little boy, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. It might have been the time he fell out of the apple tree in the back garden and broke his wrist, or when he came off his bike and left most of his chin on Hoop Lane. I’d always hated it when he cried. When he cried it meant I hadn’t kept him safe. I had failed.

  ‘Here,’ said Clement and showed me where to put my arm around Hanny’s other shoulder.

  Hanny opened his eyes and looked at me, completely bewildered, then he sagged and passed out. Between us, Clement and I got him up, snapped him back into consciousness and got him to take his weight on his good leg, while the other bent under him and dragged a trail of blood and fleshstrings along the hallway.

  Leonard took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door to the cellar. He went down, shaking them in his hand. The baby’s crying intensified to the hysterical screaming of something that feared that sound above everything else.

 

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