Wild Life

by Liam Brown

  EIGHT

  After we left the allotment – or ‘the farm’ as Rusty now referred to it – I was led through to a small connecting field where forty or so large plastic water butts, stood in rows. These, Rusty explained, were used to capture rainwater. ‘You need to boil it up before you drink it though, else you’ll be makin’ a sharp dash for Squit Creek!’

  I followed his finger to a narrow strip of marshland along the far edge of the park, surrounded by a wreath of wispy reeds.

  ‘That’s what we call the facilities here. You just dig a hole and off you go. Don’t get much privacy I’m afraid, and it stinks to high-hell in the summer, but it’s the best we’ve got at the moment. We have talked about buildin’ somethin’ more permanent, but we’ve never got round to it. Still, it does the job.’

  Since his revelation, he’d hardly paused for breath, so excited was he to reveal the history and details of his life in the park. He explained how he’d started sleeping rough on the streets at some point in the mid-nineties, after his wife had finally grown tired of his ‘monkey business’ and kicked him out. For the first few years he’d stayed on the streets, but after taking one too many beatings from local thugs he started looking for somewhere safer to spend the nights. The local council was still maintaining Adenbury Community Gardens then, but it was nevertheless quiet enough that he could comfortably camp out without fear of being disturbed, and after a while he took to foraging for food in the woods to supplement what he couldn’t beg or steal on the streets. As the years passed, others gradually joined him and they’d begun to actively grow their own food, to the point where they were now totally self-sufficient. ‘That’s when I stopped being homeless,’ Rusty said with a chuckle. ‘Houseless, sure. But now I had somewhere I could call my own. Somewhere I belonged.’

  I nodded, still unsure of what to make of his story. On the one hand there was certainly enough food growing to support a sizeable community. There was no doubt that maintaining a plot of land that size would be a seriously big job. Despite Rusty’s evident resourcefulness, I doubted he’d be physically capable of managing it alone. Having said that, we’d spent most of the morning wandering around the park and I’d seen nothing to suggest these other people were anything but the rambling figments of a wildly unhinged imagination.

  As we left the water butts and ‘Squit Creek’ behind us, Rusty led me to yet another connected field. This one, however, contained little but a steep depression ringed on all sides by tall trees; a sort of natural amphitheatre carved into the land.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked as we began to slither our way down the topsoil of the slope, clinging onto tree trunks for support. ‘A bomb crater?’

  ‘Nah. Though you’re right, it looks like one. This place is an old marl pit. They used to dig the clay outta here and spread it on the land. Pre-industrial revolution, like. S’posed to be a good fertiliser. Probably explains why things grow so well out here. ’Course once they started buildin’ factories and sprayin’ around their chemicals they stopped diggin’ up the marl. Now it’s just a good place for the foxes to keep outta the wind. Well, it was until us lot showed up anyway.’

  Once we’d reached the bottom, I saw the pit did indeed make a good shelter. The steep sides created a sort of microclimate, both cooler and darker than the rest of the park. Gone were the rustle of trees and the birdsong – even the traffic – leaving nothing but the slight wheeze of my own chest as I fought to catch my breath. I stepped out into the clearing, and was once again struck by the pit’s resemblance to an arena, a tight cage of trees encircled us on every side. In the centre of this circle was a dark patch where the grass had been scorched, the blackened cadaver of a log still smouldering slightly, as if only recently abandoned.

  Puzzled, I turned to Rusty. A strange smile played on his lips, his yellow teeth just visible among the tangle of off-white hair. ‘They’re here,’ he said, staring past me off into the trees.

  I looked, but saw nothing. ‘Who’s here?’

  ‘Now listen, he can be a bit funny,’ Rusty said. ‘He don’t mean nothin’ by it. He just likes to let you know who’s the boss. And make no mistake. He is the boss.’

  Bruno started barking at this point, an agitated snarl dampened by the dead air of the pit. At the same time, he backed closer to Rusty, the matted fur of his hackles arching along his backbone.

  ‘Who’s here?’ I asked again, struggling to keep the panic from my voice. ‘Who are you talking about Rusty? Rusty?’

  Then it happened. Out of the trees sprang another dog, a sinewy bolt of white. The dog charged and landed on Bruno, pinning him to the floor. Too startled even to yelp, Bruno looked up at Rusty, imploring his master for help.

  Before either of us could move to separate the beasts, there was another sound. I looked up to see a man emerging from the trees, as bearded and filthy as Rusty. Tied around his head was a grubby red bandana, while in his hand he clutched what appeared to be a primitive spear, a shoulder-length branch with one end whittled to a sharp point. Moments later another man appeared by his side, then another and another, each of them similarly armed with wooden weapons: cudgels, slingshots – even a rudimentary long bow.

  There was a rustling and three more men stepped into the clearing behind me, followed by another on the furthest side. This man stepped forward and approached us with long, deliberate strides. As he drew nearer I saw he was noticeably taller than the others, and wearing faded military fatigues: a camouflaged jacket and khaki trousers, a pair of black boots laced halfway up his shins. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Like the other men, he was heavily bearded, though his glossy black facial hair was pulled into an elaborate plait that ended midway down his chest. The hair on his head was similarly dark, though most of it was stuffed under a green beret. He also had a weapon, though his was not made of wood. Rather, he held an air rifle with telescopic sight, the gleaming black barrel of which was levelled at my chest. When he was about fifteen feet from us, he stopped and bawled at the dogs. ‘ENOUGH!’

  At the sound of his voice, the white dog instantly released Bruno and skipped to the man’s side, leaving Bruno trembling at Rusty’s feet. Satisfied, the man patted the dog roughly before turning to face us. He considered me with an expression that was impossible to read behind the shield of glasses and hair. Then all at once he smiled, his black beard cracking open to reveal a gaping red hole. The other men began to laugh, a gruff chorus echoing around the trees. Even Rusty let out a couple of obligatory snorts, though in truth he seemed just as uncomfortable as me.

  ‘What’ve you brought me here then, Rust?’ he said once the men had finally fallen silent. ‘Fresh meat?’

  NINE

  His name was Marshall, and Rusty was right. He was the boss. At around six foot four he towered over most of the others. Yet it wasn’t just his height – or even the gun – that marked him out as the leader of the group. The man had a presence about him, a natural authority in the way he held himself, so that all it took was for him to mutter ‘This feller looks like he could use a warm drink’ for one of the others to scurry over to the charred logs and begin teasing a campfire into existence.

  ‘This is the one I was tellin’ you about, sir,’ said Rusty. Something about his demeanour reminded me of poor Bruno, who was still curled on the dirt, licking his wounds. ‘Adam’s his name,’ he continued. ‘Adam, this is Marshall. Marshall is what you might call our…’

  ‘That’s quite enough, Rust,’ said Marshall, dismissing him with a curt nod of his head, before he turned to face me.

  It was difficult to guess his age, though if I had to, I’d have put him somewhere between me and Rusty. Late forties perhaps. There wasn’t much to go on though. Mostly I could just see myself, reflected in the silver lenses of his sunglasses. I looked small and dirty and scared.

  Marshall smiled at me, a flash of red once again scarring the black forest of his beard. ‘Adam, is it?’ he said, glancing down at my bandaged w
rist. ‘I won’t ask you what it is that brings you here. I’m sure the details of your personal circumstances don’t differ greatly from those that delivered these other sorry souls to my charge. I have no interest in hearing yet another sob story.’

  At this there was another murmur of laughter from the men, though I was momentarily too distracted by Marshall’s dog to pay them much attention. The animal was emitting a low, guttural growl as it stared up at me, an unmistakable glint of malice in its ice blue eyes. I took an involuntary step backwards.

  ‘Nothing to be nervous about, Adam. That’s just Tyrus’ way of showing he likes you. Isn’t it, boy?’

  There was more laughter at this as Marshall stooped briefly to give the dog a couple of affectionate thumps. As he did so, I noticed a gold signet ring glittering on his little finger, looking strangely incongruous on the otherwise filthy shovel of his hand. Tyrus stopped growling but held my eye, staring until eventually I looked away.

  ‘He’s a good mutt, this one,’ Marshall continued. ‘Father was a husky, mother was a she-wolf. In other words, he’s one mean motherfucker. As far as I’m concerned, you can take your pedigree pooches’ – and with this he aimed a sneer at Bruno – ‘and make Chinese chowder out of them. Bunch of preening, inbred, disease-ridden, bourgeois bitches. No, give me a half-breed any month of the year. Better genes you see. Mix the blood and dilute the deficiencies, that’s what I say. Get the best of every world that way. Sure, you might not see them on any podium with a goddamned rosette pinned to their breast, but you stick them in a one-on-one with any so-called thoroughbred and we’ll see who comes out with both ears still attached. The mongrels will inherit the earth, Adam. Make no mistake about that. And speaking of mongrels, it’s about time I introduced you to this motley bunch of strays and reprobates – what do you say?’

  There was an anarchic whoop of approval as the men surrounding me shook their makeshift weapons in the air until Marshall raised his hands, instantly restoring order to the clearing.

  ‘Right then, let’s do a quick roll call, shall we? Now let me see. Fingers! Get your ignorant backside down here.’

  One of the men scurried forward to greet me, still clutching his spear in his hand. As he reached Marshall, he lowered the tip of his weapon and bowed his head, revealing a threadbare pate, scabrous with dandruff and dirt.

  ‘Now, this here is Eric,’ said Marshall, as he slipped an affectionate arm around the man’s neck, ‘but we all call him Fingers, on account of… well, why don’t you show him yourself, Fingers?’

  Without a word, the man lifted up his free hand, revealing a pair of shiny pink stumps, where his little finger and ring finger should have been. ‘Please to meet you,’ he said, the words leaking out through a row of brown teeth. I was struck by the ripe stench of halitosis.

  ‘Seven years ago,’ Marshall continued, ‘Fingers here was some big cheese in the city. Le Grand Fromage as the French might say. I forget his exact job title…’

  ‘Actuarial investment analyst,’ Fingers said.

  ‘Precisely. An actuarial investment analyst. Whatever the hell they are when they’re at home. And you were earning what a year?’

  Fingers shrugged. ‘Fifteen hundred a day.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred pounds a day! And did you have a girl back then, Eric?’

  Fingers smirked. ‘Several.’

  ‘Of course you did, you hound! A rich, young actuarial investment analyst like yourself? I bet you were beating them off with a stick. But was that enough to make young Eric happy?’

  Fingers shook his head, his mouth crumpled into a guilty grin, like a toddler caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

  ‘No, it most certainly was not!’ Marshall boomed. ‘Despite having all of the wealth and privilege and pussy any one man could reasonably expect to garner in a single lifetime, Eric here was miserable. He was jaded. He was tumescent with boredom. And so, like most moneyed people in his situation, he went and found himself a hobby. Which in Eric’s case was…?’

  ‘Methamphetamine,’ Fingers said, so readily that I wondered how many times this exchange had played out before.

  ‘Ah-ha! And so of course the remainder of this tragic tabloid tale you can fill in for yourself. Smoking became snorting became injecting, and within a matter of months poor Fingers’ world had contracted to the size of his next baggie of crystal. His life became an endless Friday night, a nightmarish tableau of anxiety, delusions, insomnia and violence. The luxury apartment, the monthly salary, all of those sexy wee birdies, all of it disappeared, replaced instead by a cold concrete bed in a piss-stained shop doorway. And then of course there was a misunderstanding about payment with your local distribution agent, resulting in a, ahem, double-digit fine.’

  Fingers gave his stumps a wiggle and grinned.

  ‘But then something happened to change all that, didn’t it, Eric?’ Marshall said quietly.

  Fingers nodded, his eyes shining with emotion.

  ‘Why don’t you tell the nice man here what happened.’

  ‘I was saved,’ Fingers whispered.

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘I was saved!’ Fingers yelled.

  The crowd howled their approval.

  ‘Next!’ Marshall roared, giving Fingers a final, affectionate squeeze before releasing him to rejoin the ranks. ‘Who’s next?’

  *

  On and on it went, as man after man came up to confess the sins of his former existence, before testifying to the salvation they’d found in the company of this terrifying yet oddly hypnotic man. There was Hopper, a military veteran whose real name was Schwarz and who walked with a limp on account of his poorly fitted prosthetic foot; Ox, an ex-convict with a blue teardrop smudged across his cheek and whose rhinocerian physique dwarfed even Marshall; Al Pacino, an alcoholic quantity surveyor who claimed to be of Italian decent but bore only the faintest physical resemblance to his namesake; Butcher, who confusingly was actually a plumber, and had a penchant for prostitutes and prescription opiates; and Zebee, a well-spoken black man in a threadbare tweed jacket, who insisted he was only there on sabbatical until ‘I’m ready to be with my family again’.

  ‘Of course you’ve already met Rusty and myself,’ Marshall said, without further embellishment. ‘Which just leaves… Ah, Sneed.’

  I turned and saw the man who’d started the fire approaching us, a steaming cup of tea gripped tightly in his bone-white knuckles. He was a meagre, jaundiced-looking man, with a bald head and no beard. I thought he might have been younger than the other men – who without exception all looked somewhere between their early and mid-forties – though the dark folds under his bulging eyes made me less certain. His appearance brought to mind an ailing Russian spy I’d once seen on the news during the last days of the Cold War, whose defection to the West had resulted in a vicious radioactive reprisal.

  Sneed held out the tea, observing me with a cold, reptilian gaze for a couple of seconds before slinking back towards the bushes.

  ‘Well, that was Sneed,’ said Marshall with a rueful grin. ‘He’s what you might call a work in progress.’

  There was a hack of laughter from the men, who by now had formed a loose semi-circle around Marshall.

  ‘But we’ll get there with him. We always do. Anyway, the point I’ve been trying to make, as I’m sure an educated man like yourself will have no difficulty grasping, is that each of these men came to me as little more than flotsam and jetsam; human excrement, tossed overboard and washed up on the dankest shores of society. Junkies, winos, perverts’ – he paused to wink at the man he’d introduced as Butcher – ‘derelict shells bereft of virtue or grace. Scum to give scum a bad name. No present, no future, no hope. And yet… And yet.’

  Marshall took a step forward. I could smell the fresh perspiration beating through the layers of camouflage as he towered over me, so strong that it stung my nostrils.

  ‘And yet they were good men,’ he continued, his voice quivering with emotion now. ‘Or at least, the
re was still a kernel of goodness at their centre, buried beneath the calcified layers of abuse and bad decisions. And I saw that goodness in each and every one of these motherfuckers. I understood that, underneath all of the diabolical shit life has hurled at them, these men are as soft and as pure as newborn babies. That all they needed was for someone to reach down into their chests and scrape away the stone from their hearts for them to be able to start over again, fresh. That’s what they find here. A new beginning, away from the greed and excesses of the outside world. Here they find food, shelter, kinship. That which is essential. All I ask in return is three simple things. Firstly, there is to be no intoxication of any kind. That means no booze, no pills, no sniff, no needles. Nothing. No coffee. No cigarettes. And no sex. There should be absolutely nothing to distract you from the ongoing project of your salvation. Number two: We do not leave the park. For any reason. Ever. Everything we need is here, growing under our boots or above our heads. Outside is for outsiders as far as I’m concerned, so if you leave – and you are of course free to do so at any time – then you’ll not be welcome back. Finally, and of all I ask, this is the most important. You must do what I say. You do not question me. You do not disobey me. Now, I know there’s plenty of poncey leadership skills some people like to employ, participative, delegative transformational and what have you, but they’re of no interest to me. I’m as autocratic as they come. I’m a goddamn tyrant and proud of it. As far as I’m concerned it’s my way or the highway. God knows, I’ve seen enough good men lose a limb or worse after defying a direct order out in the field. Am I wrong, Private Schwarz?’

  ‘No, sir!’ cried the man known as Hopper.