by Julia Green
Simon nods.
‘Just wanted to say you did a fantastic piece of work this morning. I mean it. Truly outstanding. You’ve got real talent.’
Simon looks at his feet. His ears are burning. ‘Thanks,’ he grunts.
‘You’ve chosen art next year? GCSE?’
Simon nods.
‘Good. You could really go somewhere with that sort of talent. Where d’you get that from, eh? Dad or Mum an artist?’
Simon shakes his head. ‘Mum’s a learning support thingy.’
‘And Dad?’
Si clears his throat. The silence stretches out.
‘No.’
‘There’s something dark, something quite –’ Mr Davies fumbles for the right word – ‘disturbing in your work, isn’t there? Quite a theme of yours, yes? The dead rabbit, and that skull you drew the other week, and the bird skeleton?’
Simon doesn’t answer.
‘What’s that all about, then?’
Simon shrugs. ‘Nothing. It’s just things I find, mostly.’
Mr Davies shrugs back. ‘You don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine. Why use words when you’ve got images, anyway?’ He smiles. ‘Go on, then. Get your bus. But I’m usually here, end of the day, if you want to talk about anything.’
Simon hurries out and up the drive to the bus stop. No one there: he’s missed the bus, and all for nothing. The road is dusty. Each time a car passes, it stirs the small heaps of dry leaves which have fallen from the two horse-chestnut trees at the top of the school drive. Conkers are already beginning to form: small green balls suspended from the twigs where the flowers were, back in May. The tarmac smells hot; everything has slowed down. The school looks strange with no kids, no noise.
What did he mean, ‘quite a theme of yours’?
No sign of a bus. Perhaps there isn’t another one. It’s not that far to walk. Better than waiting here. He shifts his backpack on to his shoulder and follows the route the bus would have taken, up to the main road, and then the lengthy trek along it. There’s no pavement for the first stretch; two delivery lorries thunder past, blasting their horns but not slowing down. Then there’s a lull in traffic, and as he starts the downward stretch, the landscape opens out on one side; he can see over fields criss-crossed with drystone walls and stumpy wind-blown hedges, all the way to the sea. Two buzzards wheel in a great arc over the moorland, calling their thin lonely mew mew.
There must be a quicker way back, rather than along this bleak strip of main road which follows the contours of the land, the more shallow gradient. Need a map, Simon thinks. There must be farm tracks, shorter, steeper ways over the land. Every so often he passes a gate, the faint mark of a track over grass, not signposted as a footpath, and maybe only the place where foxes or badgers have their runs. Or sheep. The moorland is dotted with them. Nothing much will grow here but grass and sedges, heather and gorse.
The land is pockmarked with outcrops of granite, the bones of the land jutting through its thin skin of turf. There are the remains of old mines and quarry workings. Lines of mineshafts run underground, rotten and collapsed; it’s a long time since any were used. Simon likes to imagine it when it was all heaving with life: men with stone-dusted faces climbing up out of the earth, horses pulling carts of stone; the chimneys smoking the air. The crank and crash of pulleys hauling trucks along a mineshaft.
Now there’s no sign of human life except the occasional farm building. Far towards the horizon there’s a square grey house with washing blowing in its windswept garden; and westwards, a church tower nestling in a dip in the land, ringed by trees. From here they look like dark giants with their arms all stretched out one way. The wind has blown them into this shape.
Mr Davies’s house and studio are over there on the edge of the moor.
A farm lorry roars past Simon, blasting its horn and spraying him with muck from the side of the road. He squeezes himself back against the hedge, swearing, his words caught in the rush of air the lorry sucks in. He watches the lorry slam on its brakes as it hits the bend in the road and skids slightly on the hot tarmac.
Just beyond the bend he can make out a small dirt track off to the left, between high hedge-topped walls. Anything has to be better than walking along this main road. It’s impossible to get completely lost; there’s always the line of the coast to follow, even if it does go the long way round, in and out and up and down every dip of the cliff. And there must be a quicker way straight across the fields.
Sweat trickles down his neck. He’s still wearing his school jumper. He feels too exposed at school to take it off. Nobody here, though. He shoves it in his bag. The sun beats down on his arms and neck; it’s still high in the sky and there’s hardly any shade. His shoes are grey with dust. The track runs at a right angle to the main road, straight towards the sea, going nowhere. No sign of houses or even farm buildings. He keeps going for a few hundred metres; there’s a break in the stone wall, a stone stile, ancient and lichen-covered. A path, then. Yes; just a few metres further down there’s another stile, the other side of the track. He’s hit some old field path, and the right-hand branch is going roughly in the right direction. He’ll risk it.
The first bit is easy enough: diagonally across the rough grass field there’s another stone stile, into another small field. This one has sheep grazing in it; they look up at him with their narrow slitty eyes. He narrows his own, pretends to fire an imaginary crossbow, makes the hissing sound. The sheep wheel off, one after another, in alarm. Simon laughs out loud. They’re so stupid, sheep.
The next stile isn’t so obvious. He goes up and down the prickly hedge, searching for a way through. It takes a while. He finally pushes through a small gap, stinging himself on nettles as he clambers over a rusty line of barbed wire. This can’t be the way. He glances at his watch: it’s quarter to five already. He’s normally home by now. He’s too hot and thirsty; nothing left in his water bottle. He needs a spring, or even an animal trough. There’s a way of getting to the clean water before it’s contaminated by bugs and bacteria.
Aboriginal children are taught to memorize the water holes in their tribal territory. Cherokee Indians listen to the sound of water because they think it has a voice, telling them things.
This field is bone dry. His throat feels scratched by dust from the road. No wild strawberries here. The blackberries won’t be ripe for weeks. He tries sucking a small hawthorn berry but it’s dry and rough inside; no moisture. Simon sits down at the edge of the field. It’s so still, so unbelievably silent. No birdsong, even, no traffic. Not even an aeroplane droning overhead, or the coastguard helicopter. He could be miles from anywhere. In the silence, he hears the faint rustling of leaves along the dry ditch: some small animal, a mouse or a shrew. He wishes he had the catapult. There’s bound to be rabbits.
He needs to find the path; this wasn’t the right way through. He retraces his steps back through the hedge and the nettle patch.
Crack!
A single shot splits the silence. The echo ricochets along a stretch of stone wall at one edge of the field. Simon stops, shocked, heart thumping. He’d thought he was completely alone. Someone has been here all the time, watching him. Someone with a gun. Trying to frighten him? He turns slowly round. Still no one. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly where the shot came from, the way it bounced and echoed off the granite. He stands, waits, listens.
A slight sound rustles behind him; he whips round. A shadow. The figure of a man.
It’s as if he’s appeared out of thin air. He has crept up without Simon hearing a thing, not until the very last minute. Simon’s heart thuds. He wishes he had his knife in his hand.
The man’s not that old, although his face is tanned and creased from being out in sun and wind and all weathers. He’s got a shotgun under his arm, muzzle down. Old army boots. A torn shirt, grubby hands. His eyes are pale, watery, unfocused.
‘What are you doing here?’ His voice sounds rusty, as if he’s not used to talking, and the han
d holding the shotgun is shaking. The man keeps glancing round nervously.
Simon’s mouth has gone dry. He can sense immediately that there’s something strange about this man, something not right. He glances at the gun again. ‘I’m looking for the path – the stile. I thought there was a path across the fields.’ His voice comes out squeaky, all wrong.
The man’s eyes focus briefly on Simon. ‘You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe. You keep away.’
Fear prickles along Simon’s neck. ‘Sorry,’ he stutters. ‘I just lost the path…’
The man looks troubled by something Simon can’t see. He’s staring across the field, muttering. Simon looks in the same direction, but there’s nothing there. The man’s breathing heavily, his hand on the gun.
Close up, the man smells odd too. Not exactly disgusting, but a smell of earth, or metal, or something like that. Simon shifts away slightly. Over there, he thinks. That looks like a way through the hedge. Just get away, fast. Make a run for it. Or maybe better to walk away quietly, steadily, so as not to be threatening or challenging, or whatever. Something he saw on television flashes into his mind – an SAS bloke coming across this remote tribe who were all armed with poisonous arrows; he had to keep very still and move slowly, show he wasn’t a threat. They were that close to killing him…
It’s the worst feeling, turning your back when someone’s got a gun. But there isn’t any other option. The small field seems to have grown huge.
Nearly there.
The hedge has overgrown the stile completely, he can see as he gets close up. It’s another stone one, with a broad slab across the top. Simon fumbles in his bag for his knife, to cut through the tough stalks of brambles and nettles. He can sense the man still watching him; it makes him clumsy. The knife feels good in his hand, though; the blade is sharp. He climbs through the hole he’s cut, a tunnel through the hedge, and clambers over the granite stile. There’s the faintest indentation over the grass the other side to indicate where a path might be. He starts to run across the field.
A gate at the far end takes him on to a deeply rutted farm track which runs downhill towards a cluster of low grey buildings. It’s the farm with the washing he saw from the road. He walks towards it, heart still thumping. A dog starts to bark. The track leads straight into a farmyard where chickens scratch and run freely; there’s a car parked, a grey Citroën with rusting hubcaps. A woman comes and stands in the doorway of the farmhouse to see what’s making the dog bark.
‘You looking for someone?’ She doesn’t smile.
‘No,’ Simon stammers. ‘I’m trying to find the path home. To town.’
‘Coast path’s straight ahead, down the track. Or there’s the Coffin path, across the fields. I wouldn’t go that way, not by myself.’ She folds her arms over her apron, like somebody in an old horror film. Black and white.
Simon doesn’t hang about. He takes the track to the coast path. So what if it’s longer?
At last he can see the houses at the edge of the town, the beginning of the paved path, and proper seats, and litter bins, and the rough track he can take to short-cut back up to the top of the town where their house is. He’s desperate for a drink.
Almost home. He glances at the girl’s house; she’s not there tonight. The door’s shut. But his is wide open, and Nina is standing there. She doesn’t smile or wave or anything as he comes up the hill.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Pre-emptive strike.
‘Where the hell have you been? You’re hours late. I phoned Johnny and then Dan, and even Pike, and they finally remembered something about the art teacher and then I phoned school and he wasn’t there and I ended up having to phone him at his home address and he said you’d left school well before four. You don’t think, do you? And look at the state of you! That white top! You’ll have to wash that before tomorrow, you haven’t got another one and you can’t go in looking like that –’
‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t use that tone with me! I was on the verge of getting the police out for you!’
‘Just slightly over the top. I missed the bus, so I walked. Big deal. And I tried to do a short cut but it ended up longer. Made a mistake. Sorry. And now I’m desperate for a drink – OK?’
He pushes past her into the kitchen, drops the bag en route, shoves his head under the running tap to gulp in cold water. It trickles down his chin; he closes his eyes. He can’t tell her about that strange man now. She’s already too worked up.
Nina stumbles over the dumped bag in the dark corridor; the knife slips out on to the floor. She picks it up.
‘What’s this doing in your school bag? You know you’re forbidden to carry knives at school. What’s got into you, Simon? This is ridiculous!’
She slumps in a kitchen chair. She looks as if she’s about to cry. Or get really angry. He sits down opposite her, in the place that is still laid for supper. Nina and Ellie have already eaten. He closes his eyes while she goes on and on and on.
The phone rings. Nina answers it, Simon half listens from upstairs. She’s talking about him. She laughs, a new, different note in her voice. He stops listening. Lies back on the bed, head resting on his hands.
It’s still light, though the sun’s almost set. Perfect for going out with the catapult. An air rifle would be even better. The field will be covered in rabbits, young ones who don’t know much about danger yet. Don’t run when they first see him crouched in the shadow of the hedge. He thinks again of the weird bloke, that single shot echoing out across the fields. Who is he?
Nina stands in the doorway of his room. ‘We must get those curtains fixed up,’ she says.
He doesn’t say anything.
‘Finished your homework?’
He nods, although he hasn’t done any.
‘That was your art teacher. Kind of him, don’t you think? Phoning to check you were safely back. Beyond the call of duty, I reckon. He said some nice things about you. Your work. Well done, Si.’ She smiles.
Is she about to hug him? He hopes not.
‘Matthew Davies. “Call me Matt,” he said. He’s got a lovely voice. What was he talking to you about after school, anyway?’
‘Art.’
‘Well, yes. But what exactly?’
‘I don’t know. Just stuff. He asked if you were an artist.’
‘Me? What did you say?’
‘No, of course.’
‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. What is the matter with her these days?
‘He’s invited me in for a chat too.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re very talented, he says. We should discuss your future. That’s really good, Si. That he’s taking special notice of you.’
‘Don’t go on about it. OK? Don’t make such a big deal of everything.’
He watches the window darken. Stars come out. The Plough, and the North Star, and the three stars of Orion’s Belt.
Just before he falls asleep he sees again the figure of the man, hears the shot ring out. He was trying to scare him off, wasn’t he? He wasn’t shooting rabbits or foxes. Simon thinks about Johnny’s dad’s gun, and the instruction manual they’d pored over, him and Pike and Johnny after school one afternoon. The warning, printed in black, bold letters: Danger of Death.
It’s everywhere. There’s nowhere safe. Better to be prepared. Ready. Better to be armed.
5
Simon wakes up late, in a foul mood. He’s had that dream again, the one where he’s underground, in some sort of tunnel, and the roof collapses and he’s trapped in the suffocating dark; but this time he’s not alone: someone else is trapped with him, and coming closer. He’s sweating all over, his heart racing.
He’s always had dreams, ever since he was really little, even before his father died. They got worse after that. He’d wake up screaming in the night. Except that he wasn’t properly awake, even though his eyes were wide open; he couldn’t hear or see anything. Not even his mother. ‘It was as if you were somewher
e else, somewhere I couldn’t reach you, to call you back,’ she said.
This morning it feels as if he’s doing everything in slow motion: getting washed and dressed, and packing his bag for school. He still hasn’t done any homework. It’s so near the end of term now he can’t be bothered. He slips his knife into the bottom of the bag. It makes him feel safer, just knowing it’s there. Today he’s going to take in the rabbit skin to show Dan and Johnny and Pike. It’s wrapped in some newspaper on his bedroom table. When he picks it up he realizes it’s starting to smell funny. He must’ve done something wrong. It shouldn’t smell at all.
‘Hurry up!’ Nina keeps shouting up the stairs. ‘You’re going to be late.’
‘Don’t forget, will you?’ she says as she leaves for work. ‘You’re collecting Ellie from Rita’s, so I can go straight from work to that meeting with your teacher. Yes?’
He grunts.
He hates going to Rita’s. Rita is Ellie’s childminder. She’s lived in the town ever since she was a child and she knows everyone. She’s kind and Ellie loves her. Nina calls her a godsend. Nina pretends not to like gossip, but Simon reckons she enjoys hearing Rita talking about everyone the way she does.
Simon hates the way she asks you questions. And the way she knows things without you even telling her.
The trapped, suffocating feeling from the dream stays with him all day. He can’t concentrate properly in lessons. No one seems to notice. At lunchtime they lie out on the grass and he shows people the rabbit skin. It looks pathetic, the thin strip of dried skin and fur, and the smell makes everyone retch. He chucks it in the bin. The little kids are playing a game called ‘Deathball’.
‘Everyone want to come back to ours after school?’ Pike asks.
They do. Just in time, Simon remembers about Ellie.
‘All right, Simon?’ Rita asks as she answers the door.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while. How’s school?’
‘OK.’
‘Not long till the holidays, eh?’
Ellie winds herself round Rita’s legs, thumb in her mouth. Rita unwinds her, gives her a quick hug. ‘She’s been telling me about your neighbour. Leah Sweet. She’s going to be the new babysitter, I understand.’ Rita laughs, as if there’s some sort of private joke. ‘Still, that’s nice for Leah. She could do with the money, I bet. And a bit of company. What with her mother and everything, you know? So, what’s Leah doing these days? She’s left school now, I suppose? They leave as soon as they’ve done their exams these days, don’t they? She going to college, then?’
