by Haywood, RR
He snorts a low blast of air on realising she’s even put some glossy magazines under the plate. Something to read. Bless. Mind you, if he caught someone reading when they were on guard duty he’d go mad at them.
Pressure again. A gentle push to remind him she is still there. He looks down and notices the flicker of her eyes that glance to the top of the desk.
‘Ah,’ he whispers, ‘it’s not me you want is it?’
What’s best for a dog? Probably digestive. Got to be digestive. Do they have less sugar? He picks one up, takes a bite and hands the other half down. She sniffs it first, examining the scent before making a decision and when she takes it, she does so gently with her mouth barely opening to slide the biscuit from his fingertips. Then it’s gone. Wolfed down with one bite and a loud swallow. She blinks up, eyes flicking over to show she’s ready for the next one.
‘Come on,’ he picks the plate up and heads outside into the open air. A pause. A long look left. Ahead. Right. Assessing. Staring. Watching. Scanning. He looks at Meredith for any reaction to anything outside but she shows none.
He rests his bulk on the back edge of the Saxon. Placing the plate next to him and holding the big mug of tea. His rifle scrapes gently on the floor of the vehicle. His legs stretch out. Motion ahead and he watches the horse trotting slowly towards him. Meredith moves out a few paces to intercept with a wag of her tail. The horse stops, drooping its enormous head to sniff the dog who licks Jess’s mouth. Jess smells sugar on the dog and sugar in the air. She looks up, seeing the man putting something in his mouth.
‘Right,’ Clarence sighs again at being joined by a hungry horse and a hungry dog. You share your rations though. That’s what soldiers do. So they eat biscuits. Crunching and munching with a huge horse pushing her nose into a huge man at the back of a huge army vehicle while a huge dog watches closely. If aliens landed now they’d think the world was populated by giant creatures that eat together and communicate with grunts, pushes and low whines and tails that swish and wag. They’d see a big man with a bald head smiling in pleasure and chuckling at the temerity of a horse trying to take the custard cream from his hand, even when it’s being lifted to his mouth. She sniffs his tea. Her eyes watching him for reaction. He shows none but gently pulls the mug away when her lips open and she tries to eat the cup.
Tea drunk. Biscuits munched so he makes use of his now empty hands and reaches both out to scratch and rub ears and heads. Horse breath blasts his face. Meredith twitches, her head snapping over. Clarence rises from his position swinging the rifle round in one smooth and very well practised motion. Bolt back, safety off, finger resting and the weapon is up and aimed as the horse turns round to face out. The three pace forward in a line. Side by side. Listening. Staring. Not a flicker of fear shows. Jess tosses her head and whines gently. Something is out there but Meredith isn’t growling or showing teeth. The great horse steps back, suddenly unsure of something. Meredith goes forward, creeping with her head fixed on one point. Clarence holds, ready to shout the warning to stand to, to make ready. His mind already forming the plan that Paula and Marcy should get the people up and ready to move Blowers can take the flanks with his team. Howie, Roy and Dave up front with him. That’s how they do it.
‘What is it?’ He murmurs to Meredith as though expecting a verbal response. A flicker of movement and his aim twitches. A swish of something. A blur of shadows. His lungs fill, ready to bellow as the fox comes to the edge of the shadows, bathed in silvery light cast by the high moon.
The fox holds. Sniffing the air. Smelling food. Meredith watches the fox. Interested and poised but not threatened. Jess doesn’t like foxes. She doesn’t like anything that lurks about in the shadows. She can smell it and hooves the ground, ready to charge it down and send it fleeing until a steadying hand rests on her shoulder. ‘Easy,’ Clarence whispers.
Another blur and the fox is gone. Slinking away with a flash of white showing in his tail but they stand watching for minutes more. Listening intently as the man looks to the dog for her reaction and only when she lies down does he ease back towards the vehicle.
Time passes. Meredith sleeps with her ears pricked, having jumped into the back of the Saxon and up onto the bench seats to lie with her front paws over the back edge. Jess stays close at first then wanders off to graze and doze. Stars overhead. Constellations that Clarence recognises but couldn’t name. Who would know the names? Reginald definitely would. Probably Charlie too. Paula possibly. Nick can be surprising in the things he knows. Cookey would point out the ones that look like body parts. The thought makes Clarence smile and chuckle softly to himself. That lad is more valued than he will ever know. It takes something very special to keep the spirits of people so high. He thinks back to the days in the commune in London with Big Chris and Malcolm. The frantic pressure. The things they did. It was only five or six days from when it all started to when Howie arrived, but those few days felt like weeks and the time since then feels like months and he wanders what happened to that famous woman that disappeared from the commune just before Howie arrived. He sighs heavy and deep with a mind that gently thinks back and eyes that stare ahead.
Dave hears him coming in. The heavy tread and the way he breathes through his nose. He judges the distance covered and tracks the motion from the door to the kitchen and then back towards his own position. At which point he sits up wide awake and alert. An act which makes Clarence stop, roll his eyes and alter direction towards his own mattress.
‘Report?’ Dave says.
Clarence breathes out, holding his tongue from the blunt tone of Dave. He knows Dave can’t help being the way he is but it still grates. ‘All quiet. Fox out there made Meredith get a bit twitchy.’
Dave doesn’t reply but dresses almost silently and so fast that by the time Clarence has his first boot off, Dave is ready to go and dropping to a crouch next to Mo Mo.
‘What are you doing? The Boss said to let them sleep.’
Dave ignores him and rests a hand on Mo’s shoulder, applying gentle pressure to wake the lad, ‘Get up.’
‘Eh?’ Mo comes awake, staring up at Dave, ‘What’s up?’
‘You’re on watch with me. Get up.’
Mo nods quickly. ‘Okay,’ he whispers as Dave moves off, stops then comes back. ‘Do you want a drink?’ Dave asks. A question which makes Mo just stare in surprise.
‘Er…’
‘A drink?’
‘Yeah,’ Mo says, his voice cracking from sleep.
‘Yes not yeah.’
‘Yes, Dave,’ Mo says, blinking rapidly.
‘I will get you a drink,’ Dave announces quietly.
Mo just stares and blinks, ‘okay,’ he says on finding his voice. Again Dave goes to move off then stops and comes back. ‘You will need your knife and your pistol. Holstered. Bring your rifle and your bag.’
‘Where we going?’ Mo asks.
‘We are on watch. I will get that drink now.’
Dave moves away. Heading into the kitchen as Mo sits up and looks round to see Clarence staring over.
‘What’s going on?’ Mo asks.
Clarence just shakes his head and sighs, ‘I think you’re getting trained.’
‘Trained?’
‘Dave trained,’ Clarence says, heaving his next boot off.
‘Dave trained?’
‘Yep.’
‘What’s Dave trained?’
‘Trained by Dave,’ Clarence says. He stands up to unbuckle his belt, ‘Just do as he says and don’t be afraid to tell him if it hurts.’
‘Hurts?’ Mo asks, still blinking the sleep away.
‘You’d better get ready,’ Clarence says, pulling his legs from his trousers and glancing down to Howie and Marcy spooning.
Mo Mo gets up and starts dressing. His mind trying to catch up with being woken from such a deep sleep. Dave Trained? Hurts? He buckles his belt and checks the pistol is secure in the holster. Boots pulled on. Laces tied. What’s Dave trained? Why would it hurt?<
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He knows Dave has taken a special interest in his training. The instruction on the use of knives and making Mo fight with only one knife at a time. How to stab, thrust, slice and move. Isn’t that being trained by Dave? If that’s being trained by Dave then what the fuck is Dave trained?
He gets his knife into the sheath on his belt, picks his rifle and bag up and waits for five seconds until Dave exits the kitchen carrying a tray with two mugs and two bowls. Dave walks past him, nodding once with an expectation to be followed.
‘Dave,’ Howie murmurs.
‘Yes, Mr Howie?’
‘Take it easy with him.’
‘Yes, Mr Howie.’
Dave heads off, leaving Mo standing staring and blinking.
‘You’ll be fine, Mo,’ Howie murmurs and shuffles closer into Marcy.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ Mo says, feeling the trepidation rising. He heads after Dave, through the doors and into reception to see Dave standing next to the tray.
‘Drink. Eat,’ Dave says.
A mug of water, clear, scentless and without taste. Drawn from taps that are fed by a tank near the treatment centre. A bowl of fruit salad from a tin completes the meal. Mo recoils slightly, not sure of what he was expecting but definitely not expecting fruit salad. He sips the water and waits. Growing up on an estate meant you got good at waiting and not speaking. Especially when the police took you in for something or stopped you on the street. Be passive. That’s what Maddox always said. Don’t argue. Be passive. Passive meant not being aggressive. He eats the salad using the spoon handed to him by Dave. Dave eats his own fruit salad. They drink water in near silence. Rifles at their feet on top of their bags. Both with pistols and knives on their belts.
‘You have finished,’ Dave says, looking at Mo’s empty bowl and empty cup.
‘Yeah.’
‘Yes not yeah.’
‘Yes, I’ve finished,’ Mo says. Someone telling him how to speak would normally piss him off but this is Dave. You don’t get pissed off at Dave.
‘We will go outside,’ Dave says. He picks his bag and rifle up and waits for Mo to do the same.
‘What we doing?’ Mo asks, deciding that being passive means you are allowed to ask questions.
‘Training,’ Dave says, as blunt as ever.
‘Training?’
‘I said that.’
‘I…yeah okay,’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry, yes.’
‘We say yes, not yeah.’
‘Okay, Dave.’
‘We will warm up,’ Dave says, placing his bag and rifle on the ground near the back of the Saxon. He steps away, entwining his hands together as though in prayer and starts rolling his wrists.
Mo follows suit. Stunned and silent. He puts his bag down, rests his rifle on the top and, feeling very stupid, he copies Dave, rotating his wrists.
‘Ankles,’ Dave says. Lifting one leg he starts twirling his foot round in circles. Mo copies.
‘Knees,’ Dave extends his leg out straight then bends it back, hinging it from the knee joint. Mo copies.
‘Other side.’
Mo copies.
‘Hips,’ Dave puts his hands on his hips and without a flicker of humour he starts thrusting round in circles as though dancing drunk.
Mo copies. Biting the laugh down and suddenly finding the ground very interesting to look at.
Each body part is stretched, warmed and made ready until Dave stops and stares blankly at Mo, ‘we are warmed up now.’
‘S’good innit,’ Mo says as Dave shows no discernible reaction but somehow manages to convey a sense of disapproval. A smart about turn and he marches to his bag, drops down and pulls out a large flat wooden spatula.
‘This is your knife.’
Mo stares at the spatula then down at the knife on his belt, ‘I got a knife.’
‘This is your knife,’ Dave says again, holding it out for Mo to take.
Mo takes his new knife and holds the wooden spatula in his hand.
‘We protect Mr Howie,’ Dave says so suddenly and so unexpectedly it makes Mo blink once and hard as he shifts his gaze from the spatula to the man in front of him. ‘At all times. We protect Mr Howie. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah,’ Mo says.
‘Yes not yeah.’
‘Yes, Dave.’
‘This means we protect him from all threats. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Dave.’
‘A threat is anything that poses harm to Mr Howie. We negate that threat. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Dave,’ Mo says, still holding the wooden spatula but now mesmerised by the things being said to him.
‘If Marcy poses threat we will kill Marcy. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ Mo whispers.
‘If Charlie or Paula pose a threat to Mr Howie we will kill them.’
‘Yes.’
‘We will kill anything and anyone that poses threat to Mr Howie. We will watch him at all times. We will know his position on the field of battle. We are his ears and eyes. We see the things that harm him and we kill those things. Do you understand?’
Mo nods, hanging off every word spoken and the flat tone of Dave seems to make it all the more intense.
‘We are different to the others. We fight with them but our role is to protect Mr Howie. I am Dave. I am fast. I can kill. After me, you are the fastest, Mohammed.’
The hairs on the back of Mo’s neck prickle and a chill runs down his spine.
‘You are not trained but I will train you. You will get to my standard. You will work to do this. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Mo whispers, gripping the spatula, ‘Why me?’ he asks and instantly regrets the words as they come out.
‘Because after me you are the fastest. You are young. Your body is agile and supple to be trained in this way. You will work harder than all the others. You will do as I say. Is this clear to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has anything I have said confused you?’
‘Er…’
‘I have autism. I have…I have conditions that prevent me from understanding the feelings of other people. I cannot read facial gestures. You will speak to make yourself understood.’
‘Okay.’
‘Attack me.’
‘Fuckin’ what?’
‘Attack me.’
‘With the spatula?’
‘With your knife.’
‘My real knife?’
‘The knife in your hand.’
‘The spatula?’
‘I said this is your knife when I handed the object to you.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yes not yeah, Mohammed.’
‘Mo.’
‘Your name is Mohammed.’
‘But…’
‘Attack me.’
‘Dave, but…what the fuck?’ He dances back from the hard push to his chest and stares shocked, not at being pushed but at the power generated by such a small movement of Dave’s hand whipping out.
‘Have I confused you?’
‘No. How’d you do that?’
‘Attack me.’
‘Show me how you did that.’
‘I train. You learn. Attack me or I will hit you.’
‘Hit me…Ow!’
‘You said hit me.’
‘I was repeating what you said, you get me? Fuck…’
‘I have autism. I told you this.’
‘Yeah yeah, I got…’
‘Yes not yeah.’
‘Yes!’
‘Attack me.’
Mo blinks the sting away. The blow wasn’t hard but it was fast, so fast he only just saw it coming and managed to inch his head away enough to lose some of the power. Which was a movement seen by Dave who did not hit at full speed or anywhere near full power, but even so, Mohammed moved fast.
Mo grunts, his eyes harden and his hand flips the spatula over so the end rests up against his forearm. He lowers his mass, gaining a greater sense of balance
without realising or knowing what he is doing or why he is doing it. He attacks at a speed that would have most kids on the estate flat on their arse but Dave isn’t a kid from the estate and he simply glides to the side as Mo goes past him.
Dave can tell Mo isn’t really trying. It’s difficult to attack someone properly in training but he needs Mo switched on. So he flicks the back of his head. Not hard but irritating.
Mo stops as he goes past Dave and his eyes widen at the flick given to the back of his head. So still facing the wrong way he back swipes with a twist to follow through, only to find his wrist held by an impossible strong hand that guides him past and on.
Dave sees the back swing coming and even though the pace is faster, it’s not fast enough. He has seen Mo fight for real. He has fought with Mo and seen what he can do. He needs that Mo to be here now. So he slaps the back of Mo’s head. Not hard but irritating.
The slap switches him on. His heart warming up and his muscles starting to thrum. He knows he is being goaded and provoked but fuck this, fuck this if he will get slapped in the back of the head. His weapon hand still gripped hard so he lashes out with a blow delivered by his free hand, gaining space and time while he twists down and away to free the weapon.
‘Change hand,’ Dave says, ducking from the punch sent his way, ‘I have the weapon hand. Take the weapon with your other hand. Do not attack me with what I expect. Attack with what is not expected,’ he adds, pressing hard on Mo’s foot to emphasise his point.
Mo changes hand, simply swapping the spatula knife from his right to his left and stabs low, intending to drive the point into Dave’s thigh.
‘Good,’ Dave says, stepping away from the stab, ‘What now?’
He slices round, pushing against Dave’s grip on his right wrist then quickly pulls back slicing and swishing the spatula.
‘Better,’ Dave says, watching every move Mo makes, ‘Stop. Hold position. You have the knife pointing in the down position. Gravity is always on your side. Achilles heel is here,’ Dave lifts a leg, pointing at the back of his ankle, ‘Slice this and I cannot use this leg.’
‘Okay,’ Mo grunts.
‘As you come up, aim for the artery here,’ Dave taps his inner thigh, ‘then slice across my stomach with pressure applied to open the skin.’ He guides Mo’s weapon into his thigh then up and across his own stomach, ‘Up my chest, slice as you move, into the neck and across then move away.’
