Home Boys

by Beckett, Bernard

  ‘He could do it one day when she’s in at church then. It would be fine, up on the hill.’

  ‘And the children. It’s not their fault either.’

  ‘She could take them too, in the truck.’

  ‘What about Gino?’ Colin asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It would be sad, but I don’t think God will spare him. What do you think?’

  ‘No, probably not. What about Veronica?’

  Dougal paused, as if struggling under the weight of being God.

  ‘That’s a hard one isn’t it? I think maybe she could go on the truck, with the children.’

  Colin smiled with relief at the decision.

  ‘Yeah, I think so too.’

  ‘Not Ron though,’ Dougal told him. ‘Ron could drown twice over. That would be fair.’

  ‘Do you think he’s ever done it, you know, killed someone?’

  ‘Course he has. He could have killed you this morning. It wasn’t him that got your leg free.’

  It was true enough, and the memory of it breathed cold down Colin’s neck. Somewhere farther in the bush a morepork sent its sad call across the valleys. Dougal sat up without explanation and Colin, not wanting the disturbed sleep that would come if he let go now, did the same, pulling his side of the blankets up around his shoulders.

  ‘Look, out there. You can see the end of the beam from the lighthouse.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s gone now. It’ll come round again though. Down that way.’

  ‘Can’t see it.’

  ‘There it is.’

  ‘Oh, right. Hey Dougal, do you believe in God?’

  ‘Course I do. So do you.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t.’

  ‘So what were you so afraid of, in that church then? I saw you.’

  ‘Just Father McBride.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘What did they do anyway?’

  ‘They held me down and said some prayers. They were trying to get rid of a devil in me.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Course it didn’t. Cos I didn’t have no devil did I?’

  ‘So why did you look so frightened?’ Dougal countered. ‘Why wouldn’t you talk about it?’

  ‘They hurt me, that’s all,’ Colin replied. ‘What about ghosts then? Do you belive in ghosts?’

  ‘Yes. And you do too.’

  ‘How come you always know what I think?’

  ‘Cos you’re simple enough to read,’ Dougal told him.

  ‘There’s things you don’t know.’

  ‘Only the things I don’t want to know.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I know you wake up sweating and screaming when you get one of your dreams. And waking doesn’t take the fear away. That’s ghosts.’

  ‘No it isn’t. It’s dreams. They’re not the same.’

  ‘What are they then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There’s ghosts in this bush. I seen them.’

  ‘You have not.’

  ‘I have,’ Dougal replied. ‘And I don’t care. I’m not scared of them.’

  ‘Neither am I. I’m not scared cos they’re not real.’

  ‘I bet you are,’ Dougal said. ‘I can prove it too. I’ll make a bet with you and the loser carries all our equipment tomorrow. Is it a deal?’

  ‘That depends what the bet is.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. You’re just scared.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Bet you then.’

  ‘All right. Bet you.’

  ‘We sleep separately tonight then, out of sight of each other. I’ll go further back into the bush. And if you come looking for me before the light’s up, I win. If you don’t, I lose.’

  ‘What about the blankets?’

  ‘We’ll take one each.’

  ‘That’ll be cold. It’s stupid.’

  ‘You bet it.’

  ‘All right. I don’t mind. I’m not scared.’

  So Dougal took a blanket and crashed off through the bush and Colin listened carefully, to hear which way he had gone. Colin took his own blanket and rolled it around himself tightly, to keep out the cold. He lay on his back and watched patches of stars open and close behind the steady rush of clouds. It was the first time since the Sowbys that he had slept alone, only this time he liked it more. He liked the sky above him, and the smell of the dirt and the trees, and the overhead rustling of the wind split a thousand ways by the moving bush. Maybe there were ghosts in the bush, the way Dougal said, but if that was right they were nowhere close. Neither were the dreams. They would come back, but not tonight. He closed his eyes and invented good things in their place; sunshine on water, Veronica’s laugh and the wind in her hair. Later, he woke to the sound of Dougal returning and settling down beside him.

  ‘Changed my mind,’ Dougal whispered. ‘You were right, it’s too cold tonight.’

  Colin smiled to himself and pretended to be asleep.

  * * *

  They walked another two days, following Dougal’s instincts, along valleys and over ridges. The only time they cleared the bushline the cloud was too low to see how far they had come or even in which direction they were headed, but Colin didn’t mind. There was a new feeling now, a new kind of calm. There was sadness with it, holes in his stomach that he could be distracted from but not forget. One for Veronica, and the knowledge that he would never see her again. It settled next to the sadness that was his dad, and now it felt even deeper. When Colin thought of this it made him feel guilty, so he tried to ignore it and think of other things. Of the bush, which had so terrified him the first night, the night of the fire, but now had become his friend. Of his other friend, Dougal, who had left the village for him, who would stick with him, no matter what. Dougal, with his sudden certain decisions, his way of talking which was so like his way of navigating through the bush; rushing and breathless one moment, quiet and determined the next. Of the secrets that Dougal carried, and kept such tight hold of.

  Another hole, if Colin was honest, was the hole Gino had left. Colin could make little sense of it. Gino had been his friend. He had laughed with him, he had helped him, but he’d made no promises. He hadn’t produced a knife and called on him to mix their blood. It was only circumstance, the strange coincidence of hopes and dreams, that had bound them, and now those bonds were broken, and this time there would be no more dreams to bring them together. This time, Colin was certain, he would never see Gino again. And the gap left was the gap of tomorrow. In the time before Veronica, it was Gino’s footsteps he’d been following, and now, although Dougal was beside him, Colin was walking alone.

  On the third day the rain came; heavy rain which moved the landscape beneath them, intricate networks of streams taking the leaves and topsoil back to the valley. Rain which used its weight to force a way beneath their coats, and stung the cold skin of their exposed faces every time they looked up to check their direction. They camped early, while there was still light to set up the fly properly, taut and close to the ground, with stone-hewn run-off channels on either side. There was no chance of starting a fire so Colin opened a tin of Baked Beans and Pork, and ate the small square of bacon off the top before offering any to his friend. They sat up on their elbows, as high as the fly would allow, and scooped out the cold glutinous contents with their fingers. Better than three days of the same sheep though, better than cold porridge in a dark shed, or being dragged beneath the water, caught up in the tangled jealousy of an angry father.

  ‘It’s good isn’t it?’ Dougal said, as if he could read his friend’s thoughts. He had to say it loudly, to be heard against the heavy thudding of water just above their heads.

  ‘The beans?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Yeah. It is.’

  ‘Do you think you loved her?’ Dougal asked, as he tilted the empty can over the plam of his hand and let the last drops of sauce collect there.

&nbs
p; ‘Who?’

  ‘Veronica of course.’

  ‘Course I didn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do. You can tell.’

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’

  ‘I’m only fourteen.’

  ‘What date is it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Is it August yet?’

  ‘I think so. Why?’

  ‘Maybe it’s my birthday.’

  ‘Happy birthday. You should have said. I would have let you have the bacon.’

  ‘Only said it might be. Let’s make it tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow’s me birthday, and so you have to do whatever I say.’

  ‘That’ll be like every day then.’

  ‘When’s your birthday?’

  ‘January.’

  ‘Well it definitely isn’t January. So it’s more likely to be my birthday than yours.’

  There was no arguing with that. There was no arguing with Dougal.

  ‘So how do you know you don’t love her, if you’ve never been in love?’ Dougal continued. ‘How do you know what love’s like?’

  ‘You ask a lot of stupid questions.’

  ‘It’s not stupid. How do you know?’

  ‘You just do.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t. Maybe it doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘That’d be stupid though. That way you’d never know anything.’

  ‘That’d be good,’ Dougal said. ‘I don’t like people who think they know everything.’

  ‘People like you you mean,’ Colin replied.

  ‘Tomorrow you won’t be able to say things like that. Tomorrow’s me birthday. Come on, let’s go to sleep.’

  To sleep. To dream. Veronica was there, so he didn’t fight it. She was facing him; talking, and then stopping to listen, with her head slightly to one side, the way she did. But not talking to Colin. Not listening to his stories, not laughing at his jokes. There was someone else, somebody between them, who Colin couldn’t see. Then he realised who the stranger was. It was him. In this dream he was someone else. He heard himself talking, saying all the things he had wanted to say. Telling her she was beautiful, speaking of the smoothness of her skin, and the imagining of how it would feel, to run his finger across it. But the voice wasn’t his, and when she brightened, and her eyes widened and her smile grew wider, he wanted to shout no. He wanted to say go back. He wanted to say it’s not me. It’s not me. I don’t mean these things at all.

  She stepped forward, and he felt her hand on his arm. He wanted to pull away, but not as badly as he wanted to feel her touch. She smiled again. Her fingers traced a line from his wrist to the point where his arm bent, and it was as if she was brushing the nerves before her, building to the point where they escaped laughing up his spine. She leaned towards him, her lips barely parted, the smile left to play only in her eyes. He felt the warmth of her breath and still he wanted to scream. No, go away. Don’t kiss me. Not me. Why would you want to kiss me? Why would you want to? How can you, when I don’t even care? It isn’t fair. And then he saw it in her eyes, a flicker of knowing, of seeing him there, hiding in another man’s eyes. And she didn’t stop, or even look surprised. She knew, and her lips, her touch, were mocking him.

  Colin ripped his arm free and turned to run. They were on the beach, and he could hear her footsteps crunching on the stones, not gaining, not slipping behind. Even, persistent, promising not to tire. She didn’t say anything, didn’t explain or shout for him to stop. He came to the lighthouse, and without thinking, ran to up the steep narrow path. It was dark, and the beam from the giant torch circled above his head. Now they were off the stones he could no longer hear her, but he knew she was there, as close as ever. At the top there would be nowhere to go, just a small flat area of concrete, with the path at one side, sheer drops at the others. Still he drove on. When he reached the top he ran at the white concrete base of the lighthouse, clinging to it as if its solidity might save him from the dream. He felt the cold of its painted stone against his cheek but it did not wake him. She stood behind him. He could hear her breathing heavily after the steep climb. Colin turned slowly. She was standing before him, and as his eyes caught hers she laughed.

  ‘You don’t understand do you? You don’t understand?’

  The shirt she had been wearing was gone. Her long hair blew about bare shoulders and her breasts pointed towards him, shaking with her laughter, mocking him for staring.

  ‘No,’ Colin replied. ‘Go away. It’s not me. Why are you following me?’

  She had his hands pinned against the lighthouse. He struggled against her weight and in pushing forward must have sat up because his head hit the fly, and water fell down on to the blanket as the structure shook. It was totally dark now, and the rain remained heavy and loud, but Colin knew immediately that he was not the only one awake.

  ‘Shut up will you?’ Dougal whispered.

  ‘Sorry, it was just a dream.’

  ‘They’re not just dreams,’ Dougal replied, his voice urgent and cold.

  ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Shut up I said,’ Dougal responded angrily.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s someone out there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Listen.’

  Colin listened but all he could hear was the rain pummelling their small shelter. Beneath him the ground was waterlogged and his backside ached with the cold.

  ‘I can’t hear anything. Neither can you. Not in this rain.’

  ‘It’s only just started again. I heard footsteps.’

  ‘Might just be a pig.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Who were you dreaming about?’ Dougal asked. ‘It was him again wasn’t it? He’s come back.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Come on,’ Dougal announced, pulling back the blanket. ‘He’s still out there.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We’re not staying here. We’re too easy to see.’

  ‘No. It’s raining.’

  ‘Get your coat then.’

  ‘It’s wet.’

  ‘It’s my birthday. You can’t argue. And no more talking.’

  Dougal led them out into the rain. Despite the darkness Colin knew where he was going. There was a fallen tree on the slope just above them. They had tried to set their fly up off its broad trunk but the ground beneath was too steep for sleeping. Now it provided the best shelter they could hope for. They crawled into the gap between tree and earth and lay on their stomachs, side by side, overlooking their campsite. By straining his eyes Colin could make out the light square of their abandoned shelter but little else.

  ‘How long are we going to wait here?’ he asked.

  ‘Until we see him.’

  ‘Forever then.’

  ‘Already told you. It’s my birthday.’

  ‘He could be on top of you and you wouldn’t see him. It’s too dark.’

  ‘It’s not my fault your London eyes are so bad.’

  ‘You can’t see either.’

  ‘Ssssh.’

  ‘What?’ Colin felt his friend’s body tighten beside him. Now they were no longer beneath the canvas there was less noise and he listened hard. Dougal was right, there was something there. The sound of a branch breaking beneath an unseen weight and then, crucially, silence. Whatever it was was listening too, to see if it had been heard. Colin moved slightly to release the pressure at his shoulder and immediately Dougal’s hand was over his mouth, in case he was thinking of saying something. He wasn’t.

  Then the same noise again, but quieter, more careful. Close enough for Colin to place it. Just below them, to the left of the fly. He strained his eyes but the darkness stared back, unreadable. Whatever it was reached the shelter, and its shape became apparent against the lighter background of the tarpaulin. No more than five yards from them, but still just a shadow, blurred at the edges, without form or feature. Human though, upright a
t first, then slowly bending, as it looked beneath the canvas cover. It straightened and did not move. Colin felt the almost unbearable pressure to do something; move, speak, run away. Trapped here, beneath the dark weight of a fallen tree and the soft decay of all that had fallen before, was the worst place to be.

  ‘It isn’t him,’ Dougal breathed in Colin’s ear, so quiet the warmth of the words overpowered their sound.

  ‘How do you know?’ Colin replied, relieved at the chance to say something. But his voice was too loud, or at just that moment the forest went quiet. Either way the visitor heard and immediately started, stepping forward and away from the fly, invisible again. Colin felt Dougal grab his hand. His grip was strong, but not strong enough to control the shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dougal whispered to his friend, his words struggling to hold their shape. ‘This isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have brought him here. It’s not you he’s after. Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll go down. It’s me he wants.’

  ‘No, stay here,’ Colin told him, squeezing his hand in turn, feeling the dryness of fear in his throat. Neither boy moved, and somewhere close in the darkness a third person breathed and waited.

  ‘Colin? Colin, is that you?’

  The voice was as quiet and uncertain as their own. So small and so close that it might have come from within Colin’s head. But Dougal heard it too.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Veronica?’ Colin crawled out from beneath the tree, using his voice like feelers in the darkness.

  ‘Colin, where are you?’

  ‘Here. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I followed you.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘Because …’ They stumbled into one another, voices first and then their bodies. Colin felt her arms around him, and his face against hers. She was shivering, with cold or fear.

  ‘You frightened us.’ Dougal’s voice was close beside them, and suddenly loud after all their whispering.

  ‘Who did you think I was?’ Veronica asked.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘You must be freezing,’ Colin said. She wasn’t wearing a coat and her woollen jersey was heavy with water. ‘Come on, get inside the shelter.’

  ‘There won’t be room,’ Dougal told them.