Home Boys

by Beckett, Bernard

  ‘Didn’t look like that. What about the fire?’

  ‘I never said there was no fire,’ Dougal replied fiercely. ‘That was you. You made it up.’

  ‘I didn’t make it up, I saw it.’ Colin wanted to know now. He had to keep pushing it, even though he could feel Dougal beside him, tightening with anger.

  ‘You know what I think? I think you’re like me. I think you got sent over. I think your father’s as dead as your mother is. Or he didn’t want you.’

  ‘Take that back.’

  It was stupid to have said it, lying with his back to Dougal. Before Colin could apologise or move away, Dougal’s hands were at his throat, squeezing the air out. Colin reached up and tried to prise the bony fingers free but they wouldn’t let go. He could feel their ends crushing in towards the back of his throat. He tried to make a sound, a ‘stop’ or a ‘sorry’, but there wasn’t air for it. He thought of just waiting, but there was something about the way Dougal pushed against him, and the shaking of his wrists that told Colin this had slipped past being a game.

  It was the knife Colin thought of, the last coherent claim on his mind before giving in to panic or passing out. If both Dougal’s hands were around his neck, the knife had to be near. Colin, using all the energy he had left, rolled and bucked, and turned himself around, and Dougal, who had plenty of air to breathe, and plenty of anger to stoke his engine, didn’t think what Colin might be doing. So Dougal held on tighter still, while Colin, on his knees now, supported himself with one hand and felt around for the knife with the other.

  There may have been some other way out of it, the sort that would come to Colin later. But Colin had only seconds, and each one passed more desperately, so when he found the blade, and then the handle, it wasn’t about thinking. It was about reacting. It was about loosening a grip and opening an airway. So it was just luck that all he could reach, with Dougal riding his back that way, was Dougal’s leg. He struck once, and it must have gone in hard, because when he pulled back, the blade wouldn’t come. Dougal let out a howl, and rolled off onto the dirt. Colin, interested only in taking his next breath, and then his next, stumbled two paces away, three, then collapsed to sitting. He rubbed his neck and looked across to Dougal. The night was light enough to see that he too was sitting, no more than a good pounce away, with the bloodied knife now in his hand. They stared at each other across the half-dark of moonlight and stars, and neither of them said a thing.

  Colin looked at the place where the knife had been, high on the thigh. A dark stain of blood spread across the trousers. He watched it in the strange light, fascinated by the size and shape, and whether it was still spreading. Dougal watched it too, his head hanging down, not moving, apart from his chest still heaving with the effort of almost killing.

  ‘You stabbed me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What if I bleed to death?’

  ‘You were going to strangle me.’

  ‘I was just playing, that’s all.’

  ‘You won’t bleed to death. I think it’s stopped already.’

  ‘It hurts. Aren’t you going to help me?’

  ‘Put the knife down first.’

  ‘You’re daft aren’t you? I’m not going to stab you now. There’s been enough stabbing.’

  Colin stood, but didn’t move forward. Dougal looked up and the pain was obvious on his face.

  ‘If I was going to stab you, I’d wait ’til you was asleep wouldn’t I?’

  ‘That doesn’t make me feel so much better you know.’

  ‘All right then,’ Dougal threw the knife to the ground. ‘We’ll make a pact. Take the knife. Go on. Pick it up.’

  Colin did as he was told.

  ‘Now cut your finger.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re making a pact aren’t we? Blood brothers.’

  ‘I’m not cutting my finger.’

  ‘I’ve got a hole in my leg.’

  ‘But you didn’t put it there,’ Colin argued.

  ‘You think I don’t know that? Jesus. Come on. Why are you always so soft?’

  ‘I’m not soft.’

  ‘Do it then.’

  ‘Can I do my thumb instead?’

  ‘Do your cock if you want to. So long as it bleeds.’

  Colin held the blade to his thumb and hesitated at the thought of it.

  ‘I’ll do it for you in a moment.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ He pulled the blade quickly across the thumb and felt its sharp edge melt through his skin. ‘There, it’s bleeding.’

  ‘All right, now put your thumb against my leg, where the bleeding is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So the blood mingles. So we’re blood brothers. So we agree never to hurt each other again.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Now say it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say, you are my blood brother.’

  ‘You are my blood brother.’

  ‘Right, that’s it then. We don’t have to worry about the knife any more. Help me with this. I think it’s still bleeding.’

  The wound wasn’t as bad as Colin had feared. The blood had already thickened at the surface and the cut itself was no more than an inch long. Colin soaked his shirt in water from the nearby stream and washed the surrounding area as best he could.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Course it hurts.’

  ‘Did it go in far?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I think we should just leave it then, see how it is in the morning.’

  ‘Not much else we can do.’

  Colin hacked a clump of wool off the sheepskin and used it as a bandage, tied around the thigh with a thin cord of leather cut off his belt. He knew it wouldn’t do much, but it was better than doing nothing. Not that he felt too bad; his throat still ached every time he swallowed and when he lay down to sleep his thumb began to throb.

  * * *

  It might have been the pain that kept Colin from giving in totally to sleep, or it might just have been the dream was ready to come.

  Colin didn’t recognise the house, but he understood where he was. The valley from a different angle was still the valley. On the horizon the hills had moved slightly, as if settling into their long slumber. They were closer to the lake and the breeze carried the smell of mud and swamp and bulrushes. And although the Sowbys’ was the only valley house Colin had seen, this house was not a valley house. It was too large, three times as big as the Sowbys’ easily, built with the intention of being seen. The paint was too new, and the trees on the lawn too broad, too susceptible to the changing seasons, too like home. The grass was mown, and the driveway splitting it in two was smooth gravel. No hens pecking at the dirt, no tired truck waiting for work. No dogs to bark, no fences to sag, no cows to stare you down.

  But still it was the valley, there was no doubting that, and when Colin saw Dougal, barefoot and covered with the grime of work, smudging his way across the scene before disappearing around the side of the house, it came as no surprise. In his half-awake half-asleep world, Colin asked himself the obvious question. Even without the abuse, there was a certain sense in running away from the Sowbys’ place, but why would anyone ever want to escape from this? And just like being awake, the dreaming only showed the event. It didn’t give the reasons.

  Time passed quickly and Colin, as if perched up a tree, felt a coldness rise up from the grass as the light slipped out of the day. The darkness didn’t last. Its end was heralded by the urgent pounding of bare feet across the lawn, stopping directly beneath the tree where Colin sat, as if Dougal had turned to view his handiwork. Then came the first of the flames. An orange yellow tongue licking the inside of a window. There was a scream, a woman’s voice, and an urgent answer from another part of the house, a man this time. Another flame, and then another, and then, as if the first had been scouts checking the scene before giving the all-clear, a whole army of fire leapt from its hiding. The sky was alight with the fier
ce attack. Colin could feel its heat and smell the smoke of lives laid to waste.

  Every one of the dreams Colin had, good or bad, ended with an image which would jolt him back to the world. The falling asleep was always gentle, the waking abrupt. This was no different. Colin felt his gaze drawn to the front door, its frame only occasionally visible through the fire. It opened suddenly, and a brighter, more intense light burst through the gap, before it was hideously filled by a dark figure, stumbling forward, clutching at the burning walls for support. Colin wanted to look away but the dream wouldn’t let him. He was lower now, back down on the ground. His eyes were Dougal’s eyes and the face they stared into, consumed by flame, melting before them, was the face of the grey man.

  ‘I’ll hunt you down,’ he cried, in a voice that was the sound of a body when the life has already left it. ‘I’ll hunt you down.’

  And the man may have run forward then, or he may have collapsed and lent his body’s fuel to the flames. Colin was awake before he could know, sitting and shaking and dripping sweat. And Dougal was awake too, sitting up with his arms around him, and urgently telling him ‘sshh, sshh,’ even though Colin didn’t know he’d made a sound.

  So Colin shushed, and watched and listened, but the only thing not right was Dougal’s shaking beside him, and the way his own heart was still pounding.

  ‘Sorry to wake you,’ Colin whispered. ‘It was just a dream. I dream things.’

  ‘It wasn’t no dream,’ Dougal whispered back. Colin turned to see the whites of Dougal’s eyes, expanded with fear and moonlight. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Who’s here?’ Colin asked, although he knew the answer as well as Dougal.

  ‘He’s followed me.’

  ‘From the fire?’

  ‘You seen him too haven’t you?’ Dougal shifted beside him, so he could keep watch in every direction, and winced with the pain from his leg.

  ‘Only in a dream.’

  ‘What did he look like? Tell me what he looked like.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell. Not properly. There was a fire. He came out the front door. He said “I’ll hunt you down.” But just in my dream, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s grey now. Grey as the night. And he leaves a trail where he goes. A trail of ash.’

  ‘You’re imagining it,’ Colin told him.

  ‘So how come you’ve seen him then?’ Dougal challenged. ‘How can we both be imagining the same thing?’

  ‘Not imagined. Dreamed. It’s different.’

  ‘I seen him out here twice, and both times you’ve seen him too. He’s real. The Grey Man’s following us.’

  ‘But he can’t be, if he’s dead,’ Colin reasoned. ‘The fire would have killed him.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was alive.’

  ‘A ghost? I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Colin told him. That wasn’t true, but it wasn’t untrue either.

  ‘Doesn’t matter if you believe in him or not,’ Dougal told him. ‘He’s coming after us either way.’

  ‘Me? I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You’re with me.’

  ‘I wasn’t, when it happened.’

  ‘We’re blood brothers now,’ Dougal stated, like he was some expert in the matter. ‘That means he’s after the both of us.’

  And Colin said nothing, because there was no arguing with that. And because of the dreams he couldn’t explain, and the sudden chill that had crept up his spine. Because of the darkness that, no matter how hard he peered into it, revealed only the most obvious of its shapes, and reminded Colin of all the things he would never be able to explain.

  ‘We’ll sit back to back,’ Dougal told him, ‘so we can look out in both directions.’

  ‘And what do we do, if we see him?’ Colin asked, but Dougal didn’t answer. Colin swivelled and leaned his back against Dougal’s. He could feel their spines touch at the point where their backs curved, and then move slightly aside as they settled one against the other.

  ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘I can hardly feel it. Keep watching.’

  ‘Why did you burn the house down?’

  ‘He deserved it.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘You want the sheepskin? I’m getting cold.’

  ‘Have it. I heard a woman’s voice too. How many people were in there?’

  ‘It was only him that burned. I made sure of that.’

  ‘It’s murder you know. The police will be after you.’

  ‘They don’t know it was me. They might think it was an accident.’

  ‘Not if we both ran away on the same night.’

  ‘I’m not scared of the police. I’m scared of him.’

  ‘Will there be people, when we get to the sea?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘There’s a lot of things I don’t know.’

  ‘I already knew that.’

  Colin stayed awake longer than Dougal. He heard Dougal begin to snore and then felt his weight slip away as he curled up on the ground. Colin stood then, stamping the ground because he liked the solid feel of it beneath his feet. Solid, real, safe. He turned slowly, checking the full circle of bush. He was frightened; a proper fear that would outlast the night. But he was tired too, and there was no battle tiredness couldn’t win eventually.

  SEVEN

  The Village

  THEY woke early and ate the last of the meat. In the light of morning the Grey Man seemed less frightening, little more than an apparition trapped in the world of dreams, unable to reach through to this place of decaying leaves and biting southerlies. Colin didn’t mention him, and neither did Dougal, although he made them bury the last of the bones before they moved on.

  They headed back inland, through the thickest bush Colin had seen so far. Although it was plain Dougal’s leg was hurting, he didn’t mention it, and if anything went faster than the day before. They climbed directly up to a new ridge, and then to Colin’s surprise, turned left.

  ‘This is taking us back the wrong way,’ he protested. ‘We should be going that way, where we saw the sea yesterday.’

  ‘Already told you, sea’s everywhere.’

  ‘So why are we going this way?’

  ‘Cos it’s the right way.’

  The right way was thirsty going, and exposed to the wind once they were above the bushline. Despite the cold the day was clear and Colin could see that Dougal had set a course for the highest peak in the range.

  ‘You’re just trying to make me suffer aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why don’t we go round it?’

  ‘Cos that’s not the way.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know it cos I’m smarter than you. I know it cos you don’t know nothing.’ Dougal’s favourite argument.

  ‘What say I stop following then?’

  ‘Can’t. Blood brothers.’ His new favourite.

  Colin had a favourite argument of his own, silence, and he stuck to it, dropping back now and then and forcing Dougal to wait, to make his point.

  ‘That’s it. That’s where we’re going.’

  Colin followed the line of Dougal’s arm. On the other side of the ridge the land fell away steeply. They were only a mile or two from the coast, close enough to make out a collection of buildings, houses maybe, but square and basic, clustered on a small piece of flat land at a point where a split in the hills widened to a tiny valley.

  ‘Looks steep.’

  ‘Be all right.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Dunno. Fishermen probably. Look, there’s a boat.’

  ‘They might call the police if they see us,’ Colin said, surprised that Dougal, who had more to fear, hadn’t thought it himself.

  ‘They won’t. There’s no phone.’

  ‘There’s a truck though. They could say something, when they go in to town.’

  ‘They won’t.’ Dougal’s gaze didn�
�t shift from the village, and an open mouthed smile took hold of his face, like he was looking down on the promised land. Colin looked back on the buildings just as a shadow of a cloud swept across them. One by one they darkened in warning.

  ‘I don’t think you know anything at all. I don’t think we should go down there. I don’t think it’s safe.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling, that’s all,’ Colin said.

  ‘A feeling eh? Well I had a dream. Come on, we can get down this way.’

  The way down was as steep as it had looked from above. They were forced to back their way down drops of sheer rock, faces to the cliff, hands soon bleeding and fingers aching from grasping at holds too small to spread their weight. Five times they were forced back, to choose another route, and once Colin was sure they were stranded, stuck on a ledge with no way back or forward. But Dougal hardly seemed to notice. His usual edgy energy had been replaced by an even more annoying calm. Colin had no choice but to follow his lead. Colin let his mind go numb and the emptiness was soon filled with the sounds from below; the growing roar of the ocean, the shrieks of seagulls searching out a meal, the knocking of a boat’s engine as it worked its way towards the horizon.

  After two hours of false trails they reached the head of a steep gorge, where a small clear stream ran down through a shute of sharp stones and boulders. They followed it and after only ten minutes rounded a bend to their first close-up look at the fishing settlement, the view of it framed by cliffs on either side. There were ten buildings altogether, huddled close beneath a massive outcrop of rock, its sharp triangular profile like a dark sail set against a storm. The buildings were indeed houses, but not a type Colin had seen before. Each was little more than a low rectangle of weatherboard, with a flat corrugated roof and small close-framed windows. Their squat shapes, crouched low against wind and sea spray, seemed at once both fragile and resolute. There were no yards, or boundaries marked, with the greatest distance between any two no more than ten yards. Long clumps of coarse grass, more brown than green, grew high around them, broken up by the smooth twists of driftwood and bare patches of large rounded stones. Two tractors, bright with rust, were parked up at the top of the beach. Beyond, the only thing visible was the sea, grey-blue and cold. The rest of the world, the curve of the coastline, the snow-capped peaks of the South Island they had seen from the tops, had disappeared. The air was salty wet with ocean, and carried the smell of kelp and dead fish. Colin looked behind to where they had come from and knew there was no going back. They were here now, even if it was nowhere at all. They had arrived.