by Liam Brown
I was going to die.
Even in my wretched state, my skin lacerated, my muscles pounding, my lungs bursting, I could see how ridiculous it all was. Murdered by swans. Those were the words the coroner would scratch onto his report. That was if there even was a report. After all, I couldn’t see Marshall wanting to draw any unwanted attention from the authorities. No, far more likely I would find myself composting at the bottom of an unmarked pit, fading from the narrative, unnoticed, unmissed. I felt hope seep from me with the last of my air, the frozen filth filling my eyes as the swans churned their frenzied dance above me.
And then something unexpected happened.
A human hand reached down through the sludge and grabbed me by the chest. And through the warped prism of the surface I saw a lizard-eyed man, his sallow face framed by angel’s wings. He was pulling me up, up, up towards the light.
It was Sneed.
As I spluttered my way back into the world of the living, I saw I wasn’t the only thing he was holding. Clutched in his other hand was the body of the wounded swan, its crumpled frame as limp as a discarded carrier bag, its neck tilted at an impossible angle. Its partner was nowhere to be seen. Without a word, he handed me the carcass, before he turned and paddled away toward the bank.
Still coughing up water, I glanced back to see the men celebrating on the far shore, waving their arms and cheering wildly. A few of them had even jumped into the water and were splashing their way over to meet me. As they drew closer, the chant went up again: ‘Fuck-the-Queen, fuck-the-Queen, fuck-the-Queen…’ and then suddenly we were all celebrating together, their arms joining mine as we hoisted the dead bird in the air.
And it was only then that I noticed Marshall, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his body hunched. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he turned and walked away.
FIFTEEN
The story of my exploits on the lake grew wilder with each telling, so that by the time we began our preparations for the feast the next morning a bystander might have been forgiven for thinking I’d battled a man-eating tiger with my bare hands, rather than the truth, which was that I’d very nearly been finished off by a temperamental swan. Oddly, nobody mentioned the role Sneed had played in my rescue, though there was no doubt they’d all witnessed his surprise appearance. I guess his intervention – and the fact he still hadn’t surfaced since he’d waded from the lake and disappeared into the woods – was a little inconvenient for the narrative. In the end, it was far simpler to edit him out altogether.
For my part, I did nothing to correct them. Truth be told, I still felt confused about the incident. While on the one hand I was grateful that Sneed had stepped in and, in all probability, saved my life, on the other, I couldn’t suppress my irritation that he had swept in uninvited to steal my thunder. It just didn’t seem right somehow. There was also the issue of how he’d managed to appear right on cue. Impossible as I knew it was, I felt like he had stage-managed the whole thing. At the very least, the thought that he’d been spying on me from some unseen vantage in the bushes was unsettling, if not downright creepy. With all that in mind, I was content to keep my silence and enjoy the backslaps and well wishes that were bestowed on me by all except Marshall, who instead focused his energy on bellowing insults at us as we scrabbled to meet the evening deadline.
It had been decided that the festivities were to take part in the shelter of the marl pit, and there was no shortage of tasks. Much of the day was spent lugging tables, chairs and supplies across the camp and down the steep sides of the pit. It was gruelling work. The sun beat down hotter than ever, and my palms quickly grew tacky with sweat. Numerous times I found myself tangled in the thorny stems of brambles, great bushes of which choked the gaps between trees, forcing us to take the longest possible way down to the clearing. On one occasion I actually took a fall, losing my footing among the loose soil and tree roots. I tumbled backwards down the slope, sending birds shrieking from the bushes until eventually I came to a halt in a springy web of nettles, leaving me stung but otherwise unhurt.
Despite these hardships, the break from routine sparked a child-like excitement among us. As we staggered across the fields we cracked jokes and sang songs, our anticipation of the evening’s entertainment so infectious that even Marshall’s constant criticisms couldn’t put a dent in it. At around midday Rusty arrived, enlisting Ox, Butcher and Zebee to help in the makeshift kitchen he had set up. The rest of us were to spend the afternoon gathering wood for the bonfire, which was to provide the centrepiece for the festivities.
Thanks to the fine summer, there was no shortage of dry firewood, and within a matter of hours we had stacked a towering pyramid of branches in the middle of the clearing. It stood at least twice as high as any of us, and five times as wide. As we stepped back to admire our handiwork, Fingers piped up.
‘You know it’s only missing one thing, right?’
We all turned to him, confused.
‘It needs a Guy, doesn’t it?’
‘Bollocks,’ said Al Pacino. ‘That’s only for Bonfire Night.’
‘Says who?’ Fingers snapped back. ‘We’re having a bonfire, ain’t we? Seems a shame not to burn something on it.’
We considered this for a minute. The more I stared at the fire, the easier it was to imagine a man perched on top of it, his straw hair alight, his eyes aglow. In fact, now that he’d mentioned it, the stack of wood almost looked unfinished without one.
‘But we haven’t got a Guy,’ said Hopper eventually.
‘Exactly,’ said Al. ‘Unless you’re offering to make one, that is?’
Fingers grinned. ‘I am, as it happens.’
*
For the next hour or so we raced around the camp, gathering materials to make our straw man. As it was his idea, Fingers offered to donate a spare jacket to the cause, though he was less enthusiastic about giving up his only pair of trousers.
‘Quit moaning. Have you seen the weather?’ Al said as he rifled through Finger’s scant possessions. ‘I’ll make sure I leave you a pair of shorts.’
‘I don’t see you volunteering to give up your clothes.’
‘My friend, I’m doing you a favour burning those grotty old rags,’ Al said, holding up one of Finger’s threadbare vests. ‘I’m serious – just because we live in a park, doesn’t mean we have to dress like tramps.’
For my part, I offered a pillowcase and a pair of gloves, while Hopper provided socks, boots and an old handkerchief. With the help of a roll of duct tape we lifted from Rusty’s tent repair kit, we set about assembling our Guy, stuffing his body and limbs with dry grass and leaves until he began to take shape. Once finished, Fingers took the pillowcase and stuffed that too, slicing a wedge out of the bottom and pulling some of the vegetation free to create a beard. He added a few more leaves for a hairline and then tied a handkerchief into a bandana to complete the effect.
‘So, what do you think?’ he asked, holding him up for us to inspect.
‘Hmmm,’ I nodded.
‘Yep,’ said Hopper.
Al Pacino shook his head. ‘He’s not quite right. I don’t know what it is, but he’s missing something… Ah!’ He stopped mid-sentence and sprinted off in the direction of his tent, reappearing a few minutes later with an old pair of sunglasses. One of the arms was missing, but Fingers used the tape to secure it to the pillowcase all the same, stepping aside when he was done.
‘Well?’
It was perfect.
‘So shall we go and stick him on now?’ asked Hopper.
‘No,’ said Fingers, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. ‘Let’s wait until later and then bring him out as our surprise guest of honour. That way he’ll be sure to get a real warm welcome.’
*
At last the preparations were ready and, as the sun began to dip below the tree line, Rusty arrived with Bruno, who darted straight for me, his tail a matted blur of excitement. Behind them Rusty’s kitchen assistants carried several huge serving board
s, each piled high with an assortment of extravagantly presented salads. Carrots, celery and cucumber symmetrically sliced and fanned across plates. Charcoal-blackened skewers of wild mushrooms. Courgettes and baby tomatoes. Bowls of boiled potatoes dressed with shredded leaves of basil and mint. There were steaming pots of soup and curry, bowls of roasted root vegetables and loaves of freshly baked potato bread. At the back of the procession, Rusty cradled a large ceramic serving dish covered over with a mismatched silver lid, which I presumed contained the swan.
Although we’d arranged the tables to face the bonfire, there was so much food we were forced to make up another table to accommodate it all. We were still laying out the plates – the ceramic dish naturally taking pride of place in the centre – when a loud shriek from somewhere above us caused everyone to stop what they were doing and turn towards the trees.
aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo
The sound came again. This time the men answered in kind. Rusty was first, cupping a hand to his lips as he let out a high, extended howl. The rest of the men joined in then, creating a discordant cacophony that rang out around the clearing until the world itself seemed to vibrate and I found myself compelled to join them, raising my mouth skyward and adding a thin wail to the chorus.
aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo
Just as the sound began to die down there was a shaking of branches, and Marshall stepped into the clearing, his beard freshly plaited, a clean bandana tied around his head, his hands raised like a champion boxer as he swaggered into the clearing with Tyrus at his side. We fell silent as he strode around the clearing, his eyes narrowing as he examined everything for signs of cut corners or sloppy workmanship. Finally, he returned to the table, stooping over to inspect the spread, before plucking a carrot stick and crunching it deliberately between his teeth.
We held our breath, waiting for his judgement.
‘Well then,’ he said, chewing the carrot around his mouth before swallowing. ‘Are we going to get this fucking party started, or what?’
*
Now, I’ve been to my fair share of parties. Including the ones I’ve attended in a professional capacity, it probably ranks in the hundreds, if not thousands. And the thing about parties is they all tend to track along the same graph. They begin slowly, people exchanging small talk and pleasantries, before the booze starts to take hold. The music gets louder, the voices growing rowdier as they compete with the throb and creak of relentless basslines. The lightweights, those decaffeinated tea drinkers and designated drivers, tend to fall off around this point. They make their excuses and hurry home to their beds and their well-adjusted children and their fog-free mornings. But for the rest of us, things are only just getting started. Beer becomes wine becomes tequila. Then somebody breaks out the blow and things really come to life. We start talking to each other’s mouths, necks, chests; words and meaning ceasing to matter as the subtext for the gathering – which of course, is always sex, sex, sex – is brought to the fore. We dance slowly, chew our cheeks, grind into each other, find a room…
It was fair to say, however, that this party was unlike any other I’d attended before. The lack of either booze or women saw to that. Yet despite this, there was a certain giddiness to proceedings, a sort of innocent excitement I recognised from Flynn’s birthdays, when something as simple as a plate of sausage rolls or a game of pass the parcel was enough to send him and his friends into a fit of hysteria. For one thing, we made a hell of a racket for nine, sober, middle-aged men, especially once the singing began. Ox started us off, belting out the introduction to Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, before we all joined in on the chorus, some of us hopping around as we played air-guitar solos, while others beat out a rhythm on the table with their knives and forks. More songs followed: Meat Loaf, Black Sabbath, Boston, plus a whole host of ones I didn’t know. With each song we became more and more boisterous, a few of us clambering onto chairs and dancing, others wrestling and getting each other in headlocks, a spirit of abandon sweeping our little group until eventually Marshall brought a temporary halt to the revelry.
‘I think it’s time we take a breather and get some grub. What do you say?’
A cheer went up as we took our places at the table, followed by a gasp as Rusty finally removed the silver lid from the dish containing the swan. Plucked and roasted, it had shrunk considerably in size, and resembled on first glance a slightly deflated, brown leather football, nestled between the incinerated bodies of the three tiny sparrows. Nevertheless, Rusty had done a good job at presenting it. A sprig of white feathers decorated the dish, along with an elaborate patchwork of greens. There was a moment of reverent silence as Rusty carved, before everyone eagerly began to fill their plates.
Marshall stayed on his feet however, a glass of freshly made apple juice in his hand. ‘Before we fill our faces, I want you all to take a couple of minutes and give thanks for that which we’re about to receive,’ he said. ‘I’m not just talking about thanking Rusty for preparing this glorious feast. Or even Adam, for the blood, sweat and tears he put into catching it. Even if he did have a little “help” along the way…’
An awkward chuckle went up as the men turned first to the swan, then to me, and then finally to the one vacant seat at the table.
‘No, I want you all to give thanks to the park itself,’ Marshall continued. ‘Now, I know that all of us have lived through times of famine and thirst one way or another. Lying on the streets with our bellies rumbling and our wallets empty, wondering where the next meal will come from. Or more likely where our next drink – or line – is coming from…’
A few of the men shared an embarrassed smile.
‘Or perhaps it wasn’t a physical hunger, but a spiritual one. An emptiness in our centre that couldn’t be filled with all the food or drugs in the world?’
More of the men nodded now, myself included.
‘Regardless, the important thing is that we give gratitude for what we have now. For these are the times of plenty, my friends. We have everything we need, and no one to take it away from us. And so, on this Midsummer’s Eve, I propose a toast to the park. For all that it has given and for all it still has to give. From now until the end. The park.’
We raised our glasses dutifully.
‘The park,’ we cried. ‘The park.’
*
In the event, the swan was an anticlimax. Once the meat was carved from the bone there were only a few measly mouthfuls each. What little we had was tough and greasy, a weird taste of mud permeating the entire dish. Still, nobody complained, with people seeming to enjoy the novelty of the meat if not the flavour itself. Besides, Rusty’s other offerings more than made up for the disappointment. He’d outdone himself, having apparently saved his finest, juiciest crops for that night, every bite revealing new and unexpected flavours and textures. Even the standard dishes seemed to be imbued with an extra attention to detail; the curry seasoned with finely chopped coriander, the potato fritters lighter and fluffier than ever before. Everyone agreed, it was the best food they had ever eaten.
It was almost dark by the time our bellies were finally full. We sat there for a few minutes once we’d finished, quiet save for the odd contented belch, before Ox once again staggered to his feet and began to sing. While the others joined in on the chorus of ‘We Are the Champions’, I volunteered to help Rusty clear the table. As I began to scrape the leftovers into a bucket to feed the chickens, however, he pulled me aside.
‘So, has the gaffer said anythin’ to ya yet?’
‘About what?’ I asked, leaning closer to be heard above the caterwaul of the men straining to hit Freddie’s high notes.
‘’Bout that business at the lake yesterday. That bloody freak stickin’ his oar in where no one asked for it.’
‘Who? Sneed? I think he was just trying to help, you know? You might not have noticed, but I was having a bit of trouble there,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Aye, well. No one asked him for help,’ Rusty sn
orted. ‘He wants to stay out of it. The boss might think he’s harmless, but I know better. You can’t change a man like that. And where is he now, huh? He’ll be creepin’ around up to no good – you mark my words. Nah, it’s not right. If I was the gaffer, I’d bloody well…’
Rusty trailed off as the singing stopped abruptly. I turned to see Marshall stood before the men, once again gesturing for silence.
‘I thought this was supposed to be a party?’ he roared. ‘Yet for some reason I find myself standing in the dark with goose pimples on my nutsack.’
Nobody moved.
‘Come on then!’ Marshall said, clapping his hands together and pointing at the bonfire. ‘Are you gentlemen going to get that fucker lit? Or do I have to do everything myself?’
There was a whoop of approval from the men as Fingers, Hopper, Al and I leapt into action, scrambling towards the giant mound in the centre of the clearing.
‘You guys better stand back,’ Fingers called over to them. ‘This baby’s going to go up like a petrol station once she catches!’
We’d stashed the Guy in a bush behind the fire, and we giggled among ourselves as we raced to retrieve it. In the dark he looked eerily realistic, his neck lolling to one side as if recently broken.
‘This is going to be a fucking blast!’ Hopper said with a grin.
Sticking to the plan we’d agreed earlier, Al waited out of sight while we began to light the fire, striking matches and touching them to balls of kindling we’d placed within the cage of branches. The wood was dry, and within seconds the flames took, licking higher and higher, until the entire structure was an amber blaze, the air filled with sweet-smelling smoke.
‘Now!’ Fingers called.
I stood back and watched as Al launched the Guy into the air. It was a good throw, and our man landed square on top of the pyre, his legs snagging on a branch. He immediately began to smoke.
We sniggered among ourselves as we walked back towards the others, waiting for someone to notice our surprise guest.
