by Liam Brown
With that, Marshall straightened up, raising his voice so that the rest of the men could hear him. ‘Now back on your feet, soldier! I want to see you back in that ring, or it won’t just be your nose bleeding. COME ON!’
*
Following Marshall’s ‘pep talk’, there was another hour of ju-jitsu, where I added a split lip and a black eye to my growing list of injuries. Following that, we were tasked with fashioning bows, picking out long, springy branches of elm and birch and stringing them with twine, coiling it around the end until it pulled taut. For arrows we whittled lengths of ash to a point, attaching chicken feathers to the ends to serve as flights. Again, I was invariably terrible, my arrows trembling gracelessly through the air, falling far short of their target every time. Finally, we reconvened at the camp for a heated game of five-a-side football. Here I fared a little better, though I soon hobbled off when Al Pacino caught me with a knee-crunching slide tackle. The blue team eventually conceded victory in my absence, a humiliation Marshall took so personally that he decided to treat the five of us to an extended afternoon run, allowing Tyrus to run off the lead as a way of providing us with a little extra ‘encouragement’. By the time I limped back to my tent and collapsed that evening, I was mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn’t wait to return to the farm the next day.
*
So why did I stay? It’s a reasonable question, one that I’ve asked myself countless times in the year that has passed, especially when I think about the nightmare that eventually engulfed us all. I suppose I have to admit that I enjoyed it. Or at least, I enjoyed part of it. Sure there were hardships, but in a way they only added to the strange pull of it all. Each scrape and bruise felt like a battle scar, something I’d earned. I learnt to relish the pain, not only as a reward, but also as punishment for all of the shitty things I’d done in my life up until that point. I guess I saw it as a penance of a sort, a way of paying my dues, though perhaps I am being overly sympathetic as to my real motives. There was of course also the fact that I truly believed I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And if this was to be my lot in life, I was determined to make the most of it.
Aside from physical challenge and the convenience of a dry bed and a warm meal each night, there was also the pull of the men themselves. The longer I stayed the more I discovered a sense of camaraderie that I hadn’t experienced since my school days. I found that despite our different backgrounds, we nevertheless managed to find some common ground as we huddled together among the budding vegetable patches.
Then of course there was Marshall. It’s embarrassing to admit it now, but there was something about him that turned me into a five-year-old child again. I felt an irrational urge to please him, to impress him somehow, despite my ineptitude at the simplest manual task. I was the fawning puppy to his alpha dog, ever eager for his praise, fearful of his bark. My only defence is that we all acted that way, competing with each other for his time and approval. It was only later that I saw just how much he revelled in the attention.
The only one I remained wary about was Sneed. Though I saw very little of him, whenever our paths did cross, he would fix me with bulging insect eyes, neither frowning nor smiling. Rather, he simply observed me. He reminded me of a scientist in a vivisection lab, examining his subject with a cold detachment before slicing through its skull and poking around in its brain. Rusty was right, no good would come from getting mixed up with a man like that.
*
As the weeks rolled by, the days became warmer and the trees grew plump with foliage. It wasn’t just the environment that changed. I discovered that my body too began to adapt to my new daily routine. My muscles hurt less at the end of each day, the jiggle of my belly replaced by an unfamiliar tautness beneath my vest. As my strength and stamina increase, the work became easier to manage. I got better at gardening, no longer relying on Fingers or Butcher to help me distinguish crops from weeds. I even managed to knock in a goal or two during our Sunday football matches.
With the mornings growing lighter by the day, I found myself waking long before Marshall came to rouse me. Back in my old life, the first thing I would do when I opened my eyes was to reach for my phone. I’d check the weather, the news, the stock markets. I’d deal with text messages from my secretary, or compose an email to a client, all before raising my head from the pillow. Those days were long gone. Now when I woke I’d lie very still and stare at the roof of my tent, listening to the sounds of the new day as it broke overhead. As the birds screeched and chattered all around, it occurred to me that I had no idea what was going on in the world beyond the park. The Russians could be dropping bombs on London and I wouldn’t know. The Chinese stock market could be crashing to its knees. It didn’t matter.
I wondered if it had ever mattered.
TWELVE
It was the warmest day of the year so far. At this point I’d lost track of how long I had been in the park, though it was definitely a case of months rather than weeks. I woke to find myself clammy with sweat, the early morning sun turning the inside of my tent into a sauna. I dressed quickly and then fought through the folds of tarpaulin into the cool air outside. I was still standing there twenty minutes later when Marshall arrived. He looked vaguely disappointed to have missed out on the chance to wake me, but didn’t say anything as I followed him and Tyrus to the centre of the camp. Despite the heat, he insisted on an unusually long yoga practice that morning. We held the impossible positions until one by one our legs buckled beneath us and the clearing was filled with our combined groans. Satisfied we had suffered enough, he gave us permission to roll up our mats and retrieve our shoes. It was time to run.
By this point, my fitness had improved enough that I was no longer confined to the back of the pack, though I was by no means the fastest. Surprisingly, that honour belonged to Sneed. Despite his ungainly appearance, he would run alone upfront, propelling himself forward with an unexpected agility. That morning however, Sneed was nowhere to be seen. I’d noticed he had a tendency to disappear for days on end, not that anyone seemed particularly saddened by his absence. Without him to set the pace, we ran slower than usual, bunching together to moan about the weather, cracking bad jokes whenever Marshall was out of earshot.
As we reached the lake, we all paused to catch our breath.
‘Alright then, fellers, I’ve got one for ya,’ said Rusty. ‘What’s orange and sounds like a carrot?’
We all gave a loud groan.
‘Bloody hell, Rust, where did you dig that one up from?’ said Fingers. ‘A Victorian Christmas cracker?’
‘Right, forget the jokes. I’ve got a true story for you,’ said Butcher, licking his lips and dropping his voice. ‘There were these two Polish slags, right? Proper dirty bitches…’
Before he could finish, Marshall appeared round the corner. ‘We seem to have come to a standstill, boys. Did you have something you wanted to share with the group, Butch?’
Butcher gave a non-committal snort. I glanced over at Tyrus, who was doing a good impersonation of an enraged bull, scraping the earth with one enormous paw as he huffed indignantly in the heat.
‘Well, I don’t blame you boys for not feeling particularly energetic this morning. Day like today? I’d rather be sprawled out with a cold beer and a plate full of barbeque chicken wings than busting my ass out here. Are you with me?’
This time Fingers took the bait. ‘Well, seeing as you’re offering…’
A couple of the guys sniggered at this.
‘But then again, that’s how most of you sorry bastards ended up here in the first place, isn’t it? Sitting around on your bone-idle backsides, swelling your guts and your livers. Or maybe you’ve forgotten all that?’
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
‘Okay then,’ he continued. ‘Seeing as we’re all here because we’re committed to being better people, what say we pick it up a little? In fact, I think we should make it interesting. Why don’t we say the first one back to camp gets double portion
s tonight?’
There was a murmur among the men.
‘And the last one. Well… Let’s just say you can save your excuses for Tyrus. That goes for you too, Hopper. I don’t want to hear any excuses. Now, on your marks, get set…’
And with that he started to run.
*
At first we stuck together, puffing out our cheeks as we scrambled after Marshall. I figured nobody would exert themselves for an extra bowl of curried vegetables. I’d underestimated our capacity for competitiveness though, and within a matter of minutes the pack became stretched. At the back, naturally, was Hopper who with only one working leg at his disposal was at a major disadvantage, whatever Marshall said. Not far in front of him was Rusty and Zebee, the combination of their age, weight and the hot conditions proving too much for them. Next up, the heavier men in the group, namely Ox and Butcher, staggered together, their faces flushed with exertion, their huge arms pumping hopelessly back and forth. Finally, there was Al Pacino, Fingers and me, splashing through stagnant puddles and tearing our way through the dense patches of bramble that had enveloped much of the park during the last few weeks. No matter how fast we ran though, we never seemed to be able to close the distance between us and Marshall, who maintained a lead of around three hundred feet, leaping forward with an almost superhuman agility while Tyrus galloped alongside him.
As the race intensified, I stopped looking behind me to check on the others and focused entirely on trying to catch Marshall. Fingers had long ago pulled up with a limp, leaving just Al Pacino and me in contention. We ploughed onwards, neither of us talking, our footfall synchronised to form a splattered trill that after a while morphed into a looped mantra in my mind:
Yes-you-can-yes-you-can…
When we reached the top of the playing field, I saw Marshall turn abruptly and dive into the woods – he was on the home stretch. I powered on. Next to me I felt Al strain to keep up. Seconds later he disappeared, doubling over and gasping for breath. I slowed for a split second to see if he needed help, but he raised one hand and waved me on.
It was just me and Marshall now.
As I entered the woods, I felt a sharp stitch needling into my side. A steady trickle of sweat ran from my hair down my forehead and into my eyes, almost blinding me. My teeth ached and my ears rang. I couldn’t go on.
Just then, there was a flash of white up ahead. I squinted in time to see Tyrus crashing through the trees. Next to him, holding onto a branch to steady himself, was Marshall. It seemed impossible, but the gap between us had closed to little more than a hundred feet. What’s more, it looked like he’d stopped. I willed myself on, cupping my ribs with my hand in an attempt to block out the pain. The foliage in the woods was almost impenetrable. Barbed branches tore at my skin, but still I blundered forward, closer and closer to the finish.
At the sound of my approach, Marshall looked round and began moving again. He was less than fifty feet ahead of me now, and I could see from his movements how badly he was struggling. Along his back was a series of lacerations where he looked like he’d been caught by a trailing branch. It wasn’t just the cuts though. His whole body looked exhausted, each stride forward as though he were wading through tar.
‘Hey!’ I called. ‘Are you okay? Do you need a hand?’
He turned again, and this time I saw a look of resignation on his face as he stumbled to a stop. He leant forward, breathing heavily while Tyrus sat patiently at his feet. For a second I thought he was going to be sick, but instead he turned and spoke, his words spilling out in a series of angry gasps.
‘What… the fuck… are you doing?’
I didn’t move. I didn’t understand the question.
‘This… is… a… race.’
I still didn’t move. ‘Do you need a hand?’ I asked again.
This time I was sure he would hit me, the veins in his neck swelling purple. A plume of nesting birds erupted from the nearby trees, briefly turning the sky above us grey.
‘I SAID IT’S A RACE!’
His meaning finally clear, I leapt into action, brushing past both him and Tyrus as I belted towards the finish line – yes-you-can-yes-you-can – onwards, onwards, towards victory.
*
I don’t know how long it was before everyone finally made it back to the camp. The moment I arrived, I immediately crumpled to the floor. I was still lying there when Fingers and Butcher finally showed up, looking hot and tired. Neither of them could speak, though Fingers did give me a congratulatory thumbs up before collapsing next to me. The rest of the group trickled in one by one, everyone dripping with sweat. Last of all, came Marshall, just behind Hopper and Rusty. He looked like he had fully recovered, a broad grin on his face as he opened his arms to address us.
‘Leave no man behind, that’s my motto!’ he said, thumping Hopper and Rusty on their backs, before striding up to me.
I sat up just in time to catch his hand as he reached out and hoisted me to my feet. Behind him I caught Rusty glaring at me, but Marshall’s smile didn’t flicker.
‘Right then, ladies… I declare Adam our winner!’
There was a half-hearted round of applause as Marshall thrust my arm into the air.
‘Now, as promised, Adam here will get double portions tonight…’
‘Really, it’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’m happy with the usual amount.’
‘Nonsense!’ Marshall cried, gripping my hand tighter. ‘You won the race. You get the reward. That’s how it works round here, isn’t that right, Rust?’
Rusty gave a terse nod. ‘I guess so, boss.’
‘Ah, come on now, Rusty. There’s no need to look so pleased about it. I’ll personally guarantee that Adam’s hard earned reward won’t mess up your carefully measured rations. You see, with him having double, I thought everyone else could have half. That’s only right and proper, isn’t it?’
There was a loud groan from the men. A couple of them glowered menacingly in my direction.
‘Don’t worry, fellers,’ Marshall continued, raising his hand to quell the noise. ‘I’m sure you’ll all find a way later on to show Adam your appreciation. Right now, however, there’s a bit of company business I’d like to discuss. As you may or, more likely, may not be aware, this weekend officially marks Midsummer. That’s the longest day of the year to you heathens,’ he said, turning pointedly to me. ‘Now, throughout human history, it’s been traditional for people to celebrate the solstice and make merry. The Romans did it. The druids still do it. It’s a good excuse for a knee’s up basically, and God knows the world could do with a few more of those. Which is why this weekend we will mark the occasion with a Midsummer feast. And what does that mean, men?’
‘Bonfire,’ called Fingers.
‘Singing,’ yelled Ox.
‘Meat,’ shouted Butcher.
‘Meat,’ cried someone else, before the chant went up.
‘Meat, meat, meat, meat…’
Marshall held his hand up for silence. ‘That’s right,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘We like to mark the occasion by helping ourselves to a little treat from Mother Nature’s bountiful pantry. Maybe a squirrel or two. A rabbit if we’re lucky. What you reckon, Rust? Could you do something with those?’
Rusty gave an eager nod. ‘Oh yes, boss. Nice bit of squirrel kebab’d go down a treat!’
‘Good. Well, that’s settled then,’ he said. ‘I’m sure with your help Rusty it’ll be the Midsummer Feast to end them all.’
There was a final cheer before gradually the men began to drift away, chattering excitedly to themselves.
‘Oh, there is one last thing,’ Marshall called.
Everybody froze.
‘I thought as a centrepiece, we could go and bag ourselves one of them fat white birds moping around on the lake. Must be enough eating on those things to feed us for a week, eh, boys? You think you could rustle us up a nice plate of swan goujons to go with that squirrel, Rust?’
The men had fallen silent now, their eyes gl
eaming, a ravenous expression on each of their faces. This was something new, I sensed. Something dangerous and exciting.
Rusty scratched his beard in consideration. ‘I would have thought so. I mean, it’s just like a big chicken, ain’t it?’
Marshall clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent! Swan surprise it is. Oh, and seeing as Adam here is such a persistent fellow. I reckon he should be rewarded with the honour of fetching us the swan.’
He turned to me, his grin even wider now, revealing two rows of rotting teeth.
‘Don’t you think?’
THIRTEEN
I’d been crouched among the trees for so long I couldn’t feel my legs. Overhead, sunlight streamed through the canopy, dappling the undergrowth with a bullet-spray of gold. Kneeling next to me was Marshall, a pair of binoculars clamped to his sunglasses, his air rifle by his side. Fingers and Ox were also close by, having volunteered to make up numbers for the ‘hunting party’, although for once Tyrus was absent from his master’s side, having been deemed too likely to try and eat our potential quarry.
Following Marshall’s announcement about the feast, the three of us had been led to the ‘armoury’. In reality this turned out to be little more than a small tent at the far end of the camp. Once there, we were kitted out with a motley assortment of wooden weapons, with Marshall keeping the gun for himself.
‘A dozen kills,’ he said once we’d finished arming ourselves. ‘That’s what I expect as a minimum. When I was in the forces we used to go out for an hour each morning and come back with enough breakfast for the whole platoon. And that was in the desert, dammit.’
‘Yeah, but I bet you all had guns?’ Fingers mumbled.
‘A good soldier doesn’t need a gun,’ Marshall snapped back. ‘I’ve snared rabbits with nothing but a coat hanger. Skinned and gutted ’em with a nail file too. Only reason I’m bringing this baby,’ he said, tapping the barrel of the rifle, ‘is for insurance.’
