The Glister Part 3

"Thank you, dear," she said. She waited for me to get out, smiling sweetly all the while, then she put the car in gear and drove away. I didn't see her after that.

Of course, it didn't occur to me till afterward that I shouldn't have got in the car, or that she might have anything to do with the lost boys. That was what the town were calling the boys who went missing. The lost boys. Like in Peter Pan. Peter Pan. Now, I don't know if anybody else around here has read that book-I mean, Now, I don't know if anybody else around here has read that book-I mean, read the book, read the book, not watched the film-but I don't think it's all it's cracked up to be. All that stuff about Wendy being their mother is a bit sickly, if you ask me. And you've got all these people going around killing one another, but you never get any details and you can't help thinking it isn't real. It's like in "Little Red Riding Hood," when the Woodsman cuts the Wolf's belly open and Grandma comes out right as rain and ready to finish the next line of her knitting. I mean, what's all that about? People shouldn't be telling kids stories like that, where something bad happens and then it's all OK in the end 'cause Mummy kissed it better. They should be telling it like it really is in the big wide world, which is: when you're f.u.c.ked, you're f.u.c.ked. Kind not watched the film-but I don't think it's all it's cracked up to be. All that stuff about Wendy being their mother is a bit sickly, if you ask me. And you've got all these people going around killing one another, but you never get any details and you can't help thinking it isn't real. It's like in "Little Red Riding Hood," when the Woodsman cuts the Wolf's belly open and Grandma comes out right as rain and ready to finish the next line of her knitting. I mean, what's all that about? People shouldn't be telling kids stories like that, where something bad happens and then it's all OK in the end 'cause Mummy kissed it better. They should be telling it like it really is in the big wide world, which is: when you're f.u.c.ked, you're f.u.c.ked. Kind of Anna Karenina of Anna Karenina for kiddies. for kiddies.

Anyhow, I don't think Elspeth will go through with it, but she does. Right there, behind the library, next to the bins. It's really good, too, not like the old woman. After that, I want to do something else, but she just laughs and says I have to wait till next time. Which is how we come to be going out. Not very romantic, but then we're not really that interested in romance. I think, on the whole, romance is something that should be saved for later, when you're old enough to deal with it. In the meantime, there's f.u.c.king. Kids are better at that than romance and all that difficult s.h.i.t.

We've been going out for a few months now, and it's an eye-opener to say the least. I'd f.u.c.ked a couple of girls before, but nothing like this. Elspeth and me, we play games, all kinds of stuff, things I never heard of. Elspeth is the one who thinks them up mostly, because that's not really my thing. Leave it to me, and it would be all b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs and mad s.h.a.gging, because I'm fairly straightforward in matters of the heart. Still, I like the games, most of the time. It can seem a bit contrived, but when it's good, it's great, and when it's really good, it's scary.

It started with just little things, but then Elspeth read an article in a p.o.r.no magazine about what some French kids were doing and she thought we could try it. It was called yea du foulard, du foulard, which means the scarf game, more or less. The first time, she hid the scarf in her pocket and only brought it out when we were safely past Dad and in the room; it was a long, poppy-red and dark-blue silky-looking scarf that she'd found among her mum's stuff. What I was supposed to do was tighten it round her neck until she pa.s.sed out from not being able to breathe. It was supposed to be an amazing sensation, she said. I thought it sounded a bit dangerous, but it was exciting too, and we did it twice. I did it to her first, then she did it to me. It really was an amazing feeling when you were blacking out, not what I expected, because it wasn't just a sensation of pa.s.sing out and things going dark, there was this amazing light, a pure white light that happened in my head just before I lost consciousness. The actual blacking-out part didn't last very long, and it was a bit uncomfortable when the scarf was being tightened, but Elspeth wanted me to do it to her again and the second time we did s.e.x afterward. That was beautiful. We left the scarf round her neck when we were doing s.e.x. which means the scarf game, more or less. The first time, she hid the scarf in her pocket and only brought it out when we were safely past Dad and in the room; it was a long, poppy-red and dark-blue silky-looking scarf that she'd found among her mum's stuff. What I was supposed to do was tighten it round her neck until she pa.s.sed out from not being able to breathe. It was supposed to be an amazing sensation, she said. I thought it sounded a bit dangerous, but it was exciting too, and we did it twice. I did it to her first, then she did it to me. It really was an amazing feeling when you were blacking out, not what I expected, because it wasn't just a sensation of pa.s.sing out and things going dark, there was this amazing light, a pure white light that happened in my head just before I lost consciousness. The actual blacking-out part didn't last very long, and it was a bit uncomfortable when the scarf was being tightened, but Elspeth wanted me to do it to her again and the second time we did s.e.x afterward. That was beautiful. We left the scarf round her neck when we were doing s.e.x.

I've always liked Elspeth for s.e.x. I didn't think I'd enjoy it as much as I did when we first started, but it's really beautiful with her, really exciting and pleasurable. She likes to do s.e.x whenever we can, mostly in my room, but also outside, in the woods, or out at the plant. A lot of the time, she wears this big dress and she just sits down on me and spreads the dress over us, so n.o.body would see what was going on if they stumbled upon us. Once, when we were out walking in the woods, she just lifted up her dress and she didn't have anything on under it. She held the dress up round her waist and pressed her back to me. She looked round and gave me a really nice smile, then, like b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt, "You can stick it in my a.r.s.e if you like," she said. I thought that was a bit risky, out there on the footpath and everything, but we did try it for a while, before we had to give up. Later on, though, we worked out how to do it nicely, and we do that sometimes.

Of course, if Dad knew about any of this, he'd be pretty upset. He'd probably think we're too young, or that there was a risk of Elspeth getting banged up. He'd be wrong, though. We've done it plenty of times in loads of different ways and nothing bad has happened. Elspeth thinks it might be because a lot of men round here have dead sperm, because of what is in the ground around the plant. She says I might be one of them, which means I'll never have children, which is fine with me, considering how silly things are around here. She also makes it pretty clear she's not interested in love, or anything like that. Which also is fine by me, when she's saying it at least. Me, I sometimes think the real trick is to keep things like love and such abstract. Abstract can be complicated but, when it's all said and done, it's not difficult.

I don't know if what Elspeth says about the little white cells is right, but there might be something in it. The authorities go to great lengths to make it clear there's nothing wrong with us still living next to the plant, but they still do all kinds of tests on people-like when they go to see the doctor, for example. Some people, like Dad, are really sick for reasons n.o.body can explain, and he's had all kinds of tests. A week or so after Elspeth and I discovered jeu du foulard, jeu du foulard, I got a letter from the health center with three wooden sticks, like very thin ice-lolly sticks, a laminated-looking envelope with STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL, FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS CLOSELY printed I got a letter from the health center with three wooden sticks, like very thin ice-lolly sticks, a laminated-looking envelope with STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL, FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS CLOSELY printed on it, a card with colored writing, and a printed instruction book that told you how to take samples of your bowel movement. The steps were very clearly written out, so anybody could understand what had to be done, and the packet was addressed to me, not Dad, so somebody somewhere obviously thought I was at risk. I got a bit alarmed about that for a while, because it probably meant they knew something they weren't telling people. I didn't tell Dad, though, because I didn't want to upset him. I didn't do the test either. I was a bit curious, but when I read the instruction SUGGESTIONS TO SUGGESTIONS TO CATCH YOUR SAMPLE ARE: FOLDED PIECES OF TOILET PAPER, YOUR HAND IN A SMALL PLASTIC BAG, OR ANY CLEAN DISPOSABLE CONTAINER, CATCH YOUR SAMPLE ARE: FOLDED PIECES OF TOILET PAPER, YOUR HAND IN A SMALL PLASTIC BAG, OR ANY CLEAN DISPOSABLE CONTAINER, I couldn t go on. I couldn t go on.

Now, though, I do wonder if maybe there's something in me. Lurking. Some chemical trace, some cancer. Because after I got that test kit through the post, I started to have all kinds of minor symptoms: sudden nosebleeds, numbness in my fingers, swollen knuckles, bleeding gums, gut pain. It was as if my body was just waiting for a suggestion of sickness and as soon as that suggestion came, the sickness was already there, waiting to happen.

I didn't tell Elspeth about all this, of course. She seems to think that we've all been affected one way or another, and we can't do anything about it. We don't all have the same diseases, but there's abnormal groupings, she says-statistically rare cl.u.s.ters of problems to do with the nervous system, or respiratory diseases, or cancer of the colon. Some of us are still healthy, but it's only a matter of time. She doesn't seem that put out, though. She talks about it very matter-of-fact, like she was talking about catching a cold. That's how she is about everything, I suppose. Nothing seems to bother her. But then, she's different from other people. She's healthy and she doesn't give a f.u.c.k about anything. She just wants to cram as much life as she can into the time she's got, and after that, it's no big deal one way or another. She's not sentimental, about that or anything. Which I miss sometimes, to be honest. She's so tough and matter-of-fact, I sometimes wonder if she has any feelings at all, besides being more or less permanently h.o.r.n.y. Not that I have any complaints about that. It's just, I wish she would be softer, now and then.

Still, you have to take the gifts the world gives you. There's nothing worse, in people like us, than ingrat.i.tude.

[image]

For quite a while after Liam disappeared, Elspeth was the only friend I had. What with having to help look after Dad for so long, I got into the habit of keeping myself to myself, more or less. Besides, when you lose someone like Liam, you're a bit cautious about new acquaintances. You don't want to hitch up with some weakling and suffer all over again. A couple of times, though, I'd see some kids out by the plant, or on the landfill, and I'd be curious about them. The only one I knew was Jimmy van Doren, Elspeth's old boyfriend, and I only knew him in pa.s.sing. As far as I knew, his little crew were the only kids who ever went out to the plant in a gang. The rest of the gang didn't look like much, but I was curious about Jimmy because he'd had s.e.x with Elspeth. It's always difficult to imagine the girl you're f.u.c.king as being with somebody else, even if it is water under the bridge. It always seems like bad taste, like she couldn't wait for the best, and had to waste her time with second-raters till you came along.

The way I met Jimmy was this. We'd had a school a.s.sembly, and the Head, Mr. Swinton, had had a sudden rush of blood to the brain and gone apes.h.i.t about the book of Job, reading to us straight out of the Bible, the King James version no less, which is always a mistake with kids, because if ever there was a book just begging to get the p.i.s.s taken out of it, it's the Bible. Especially the King James version. Old Swinton, he's going on about Job's dead kids, and his boils, and how G.o.d's just handed him over to the Devil to do what he likes with him, even though Job has always been a bit of a Holy Joe. It makes you wonder what kind of a p.r.i.c.k G.o.d is, on His off days.

Anyhow, I get out of this c.r.a.p and I'm walking along feeling a bit mystified, thinking maybe Mr. Swinton is having a midlife, when I spot Jimmy van Doren walking next to me, matching me step for step, his head down, a perfect reflection of me in my reflective state. I stop dead then and get ready for whatever's coming-maybe he wants a go at me because of Elspeth, though he's waited long enough-but he just keeps on walking for two or three paces before he turns and smiles at me. As he does, another boy materializes beside him, shorter, not as broad, but similar enough to Jimmy at first glance that they could be brothers. They aren't, as it happens, and when you look close, you can see that the similarities are pretty superficial. I ignore the little guy and look at Jimmy. He just smiles, though.

"Boy, that Job," he says eventually, still smiling. As he speaks, I am aware of other kids too, standing off to either side of me. One I sort of know, the other I might have seen about the place. The one I know is a gangly, pikey-looking girl who everybody calls Eddie. A lot of the kids round here know her, she's got the reputation of being a bit parboiled in the little gray cells. The other guy is fat, kinda ugly, not too bright-looking. Jimmy notes me scouting his little crew, though I've kept it all very minimal, but he just goes right on talking, friendly as ever. "Yeah," he says, "G.o.d really f.u.c.ked that that guy over." guy over."

"And then some," the little guy next to him throws in. He's not smiling. He looks like he'd rather perform delicate surgery on my tender parts than stand here ga.s.sing.

"Worse than living round here," Jimmy says.

"At least we haven't got Almighty f.u.c.king G.o.d to contend with," the little guy says.

The other kids aren't talking, they're just spectators. You can tell, they have absolute faith in Jimmy. He speaks for them. They would probably do anything he told them to do, no matter how stupid. All this for a kid with a joke name. He's called Jimmy van Doren because his dad changed it by deed poll from O'Donnell. Patrick O'Donnell, part Irish, part pikey, but he's got his own little landscape-garden business, so he changes his name to Earl van Doren, for more cla.s.s. He's got letterheads printed with this and he's sending them out all over the peninsula, hoping that somebody will see the "Earl" part and think he's some kind of minor aristocrat. Apparently, minor aristocrats do well in landscape-garden design, which is sad in all kinds of ways that I don't even want to think about. Though, doubtless, this is what gives Jimmy his edge. He'll sc.r.a.p with anybody, he'll take it further than anybody, he's a born leader and you don't mess with him. We're kind of in Boy Named Sue territory here.

Now, he's looking at the little guy in awe and wonder, like he's amazed, not just by the wit and wisdom of his remarks, but by the fact that he can actually speak at all. He looks just long enough to let him know he's been duly noted, then he swings back. "Hey," he says, mock-surprised, as if he's just noticed me standing there, "isn't your dad the guy who's got some disease n.o.body knows what it is?"

He fixes me with his eyes and stands there, grinning. I grin back. They're just playing, I know that. They don't bother me at all. It may be a crew of four, but it's only Jimmy really, and I think I could probably take him. So I just hunker in and wait to see what transpires. It goes through my mind that maybe I need the exercise. "Yeah," I say. "He's the one."

"Yeah." He looks around at the others, like he's about to tell them some big important secret. "He goes to see the Head Doctor and the Head Doctor says: Cheer up. It's not every day somebody gets a disease named after him."

The other kids laugh, all except the little guy. He snorts and gives Jimmy a disgusted look. "I suppose you think you made that up," he says.

"Sure I did, Tone," Jimmy says. The little guy's name is Tone, apparently. What an inappropriate f.u.c.king name for this short-a.r.s.ed little twerp.

"No you f.u.c.king didn't," Tone says. "I read that in my brother's joke book."

"Your brother's got a book?"

"Yeah," Tone says. "Sometimes, when he's good, I read it to him."

They're going on like this, Jimmy and Tone, bouncing words back and forth at each other like Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s, Jimmy good-humored and forgiving, Tone trying to see how much he can get away with, and I'm just standing there, watching, listening, like the others. Then, suddenly, right in the middle of it all, they stop with the banter and the whole gang looks at me.

"Well, Leonard," Leonard," Jimmy says, "what do you think of that Job story, then?" Jimmy says, "what do you think of that Job story, then?"

"It's just a story," I say.

"f.u.c.k, no," Tone says, indignant. "That's the Bible, Bible, Leonard. That's G.o.d's honest f.u.c.king truth, that is." Leonard. That's G.o.d's honest f.u.c.king truth, that is."

I put on a serious look. "Well," I say, "if it is, G.o.d's got a lot to answer for."

"Yeah?"

I nod. "Yeah," I say. "All those plagues. All that smiting." smiting."

Jimmy pretends to look impressed, kind of stopped in his tracks by the sheer weight of my knowledge. "You have to give it to him," he says at last, turning to the others for confirmation, "this boy knows his Bible."

Tone nods. "He sure does," he says. "Tell us, Leonard. Have you read the Good Book, like, all the way through?"

I nod back, but I don't say anything. I look at Jimmy.

Tone looks at the others, then he turns back to me. "Jesus, Leonard," he says. "Get a life, would ya?"

They all laugh, but they know it's all coming out pretty lame and I just give him a long look, like he was something I'd found floating in a toilet bowl. "Exactly my plan," I say, giving him the stare, only light, pleasant, couldn't-give-a- f.u.c.k style. "Just as soon as I wipe the mud off my boots." The gang laughs again. Tone glowers.

Jimmy comes over to me, puts his hand on my shoulder. "You're all right, Leonard," he says, all Hollywood buddy movie. "You wanna be in our gang?"

I smile. "Not particularly," I say.

Jimmy smiles madly, a zany Mel-Gibson-on-triple-vodkas smile. "OK, then," he says. "Be seeing ya."

With that, he turns and walks off in the direction of the West Side, the others loping dutifully after him-only the two hangers-on, Eddie and the fat kid, keep turning back and waving, as if it was all some parting-is-such-sweet-sorrow deal. Tone looks back too, but he's not waving. I think we might have some silly stuff to work through later, if I'm not careful. I don't really need that trivial kind of ha.s.sle at the moment; if there's any nonsense to be gone through, I'd rather just do it with Jimmy and get it over with. Still, it hasn't come to that. Not yet. And it's a wise man who knows when it's better to keep the peace. Always better to keep the peace, if you can manage it, I think. And when you can't, get in quick and hit hard. Dog-eat-dog and all that.

[image]

I don't tell Elspeth about my run-in with her ex-I'm a.s.suming this is what the run-in is all about-so things just go on as per. We f.u.c.k, we talk, we make it clear we're not in love. I don't go out of my way to avoid Jimmy's gang, but I don't go looking for them either, so the next time I see them is about a week later out at the plant. Which isn't a surprise because, as I say, I'd seen them out there before, a couple of times. Still, it's always a disappointment, that kind of thing. It's much better if people stay where you left them, and don't turn up where they're not supposed to be. I'd rather it would stay as it was out at the plant: no gangs, just the odd solitary individual slipping away through the bushes and rubble when they realize they've got company, or pa.s.sing by in silence, furtive and awkward, like sad animals. A few days after that first encounter, though, I find the whole crew on a patch of ground near the old waste-disposal unit, in one of the few places I thought was mine and mine alone. Like it's my secret, private garden, only there's pipes and rubble and pineapple weed instead of roses. They're all there, crouched around a fire, poking at something in the flames with sticks. I would prefer to work my way around them and move on, but Jimmy looks up and sees me, so I haven't got that option. I'm not about to slink off when I know he's clocked me, so I go over, all casual and not that friendly.

Jimmy gives me a big welcoming smile, then he turns to Tone. "Hey, Tone," he says, "here's your mate Leonard."

Tone draws himself up to his full height and looks around, like one of those meerkats on the David Attenborough program. When he sees me, he puts on this ugly, vicious-sidekick smile. Biding his time. Waiting till the pack leader gives his say-so. The more he goes on like this, the more ridiculous he's going to look. He's about as scary as custard.

"Hiya, Leonard," Jimmy says. "You following me, or something?"

"Nah," I say. "I'm visiting a sick relative."

Jimmy grins dangerously. "I thought you had one of those already," he says.

I smile. "Can't have too many sick relatives," I say. "It's the healthy ones you've got to worry about."

Jimmy laughs at this, which is good of him. I'm feeling pretty lame, to be honest. I've been up all night, reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Seven Pillars of Wisdom. f.u.c.king great book, once you get into it. I've come out to the plant for some peace and quiet, not to trade badinage with Jimmy and his scout troop. Jimmy looks around. "I don't think we've all been properly introduced," he says. "I'm Jimmy. This is Tone. That bloke over there who looks like a girl is Eddie. The one who looks like something out f.u.c.king great book, once you get into it. I've come out to the plant for some peace and quiet, not to trade badinage with Jimmy and his scout troop. Jimmy looks around. "I don't think we've all been properly introduced," he says. "I'm Jimmy. This is Tone. That bloke over there who looks like a girl is Eddie. The one who looks like something out of Jason and the Argonauts of Jason and the Argonauts is more than usually earnest." is more than usually earnest."

The fat boy squawks at this. "My name's not Ernest," he says. He's got these odd eyebrows, one black and hairy, like he's got a caterpillar st.i.tched to his head, the other almost invisible. It makes his face look all lopsided.

Jimmy laughs. "I didn't say it was," he says. "Can't you just lighten up?" lighten up?" He turns to me. "We've only just had lunch," he says. "There might be some left, if you're hungry." He turns to me. "We've only just had lunch," he says. "There might be some left, if you're hungry."

I look at the fire. There's something there, in amid the flames, something that used to be furry, all blackened now, with dirty-brown skin and bone showing through the singed fur. A cat, maybe; it's hard to tell.

"No, thanks," I say. "I'm not a big fan of nouvelle cuisine, if I'm honest."

Jimmy looks nonplussed. "OK," he says. "Suit yourself." He glances at Tone. "We're going hunting," he says. "Tone here was wondering if you'd like to come."

I nod. "Love to," I say. This could be a mistake, but I don't have any choice. Back out, and I've got wuss written all over me. Not to mention another insult and injury to stoke little Tone's fires.

[image]

I'd heard stories about hunting before. Mostly bragging, the usual kids' bulls.h.i.t, but I knew even before we got to where we were going that it was real with these guys. I wouldn't have expected anything otherwise with Jimmy, I suppose. I'll give him that much, he takes himself seriously. We head out toward the east side, Jimmy leading the way.

It's Eddie who takes it upon herself to fill me in. As we lope along, heading toward the landfill, she gets in step with me. "It's just rats, mostly," she says. "Not always, though. Sometimes you get a seagull, but they're usually too quick. Sometimes you get something special." She pulls out a big hatpin, the kind that old ladies used to have and you only ever see in junk shops nowadays. "This one is yours," she says. "It's my lucky pin." It is, too. I can see it in her face. She's doing me a special honor. "I've got some big f.u.c.kers with that one," she says.

I slow a little and look at her. I'm quite touched. "I don't want to deprive you of your lucky pin," I say.

She grins. "That's why I'm letting you have it," she says. " 'Cause it's lucky. Your first time and all." Her face suddenly goes serious, as if she's just figured something out that she hadn't realized before. "Just this once, though," she says. "I want it back after." She stops walking altogether and looks a bit worried.

I stop walking too. There's a terrible sadness about this girl that reminds me of the sick people I've seen at the clinic when Dad goes in for his tests. "Absolutely," I say. I take the pin. I suddenly feel sorry for her. Maybe I even like her a bit. She's gangly and spiky and she's probably borderline nut job, but she's not bad-looking when you get up close. She shouldn't be hanging around out here with Jimmy and his boys, though. She should be at home, watching reruns of Dr. Kildare Dr. Kildare and swooning over Richard Chamberlain, or something. I can just imagine her swooning, and it's a strangely satisfying idea. I venture a smile. "Thanks," I say. and swooning over Richard Chamberlain, or something. I can just imagine her swooning, and it's a strangely satisfying idea. I venture a smile. "Thanks," I say.

Her face brightens, and now I see that she's really quite pretty. s.e.xy, too. I mean, I like Elspeth and all that, but if it came to it, I wouldn't mind a quick one with Eddie. I suppose my face betrays that thought, because she smiles real happy at me and blushes. Then she gets out another pin-a long, coppery-looking thing-and lopes off after the rest of the crew toward the landfill. The hunting ground.

The landfill isn't officially a landfill. It isn't officially officially anything at all. There was a farm out here once, a long time ago. Johnsfield Farm it was called. The farmhouse itself, and quite a few outbuildings, are still more or less standing, though n.o.body has lived there for decades. The fields are just weeds and rubble, with the odd bit of machinery here and there, rusting in a stand of tainted willow herb or nettles. The actual house is off to the south of where we are, a ruin among newer ruins, but n.o.body ever goes inside, or if they do, they keep themselves well hidden. I've gone in there a couple of times, but it's dank and ugly inside, even in the summertime, and I didn't linger. There's nothing to see. Nothing to find. People in the Innertown tell a story about a gang of blokes who dosed some girl up with rum then took her out to the old farmhouse and did stuff to her, but I think this is all just talk to scare the little ones. They say she was raped and tortured for hours before she died. That girl's ghost is supposed to wander about the place crying and begging for mercy, but it's all too storybook to take seriously. If somebody tells that story, all you have to do is ask what the girl's name was, or when all this occurred, or what happened to the blokes afterward, and they don't know a thing. anything at all. There was a farm out here once, a long time ago. Johnsfield Farm it was called. The farmhouse itself, and quite a few outbuildings, are still more or less standing, though n.o.body has lived there for decades. The fields are just weeds and rubble, with the odd bit of machinery here and there, rusting in a stand of tainted willow herb or nettles. The actual house is off to the south of where we are, a ruin among newer ruins, but n.o.body ever goes inside, or if they do, they keep themselves well hidden. I've gone in there a couple of times, but it's dank and ugly inside, even in the summertime, and I didn't linger. There's nothing to see. Nothing to find. People in the Innertown tell a story about a gang of blokes who dosed some girl up with rum then took her out to the old farmhouse and did stuff to her, but I think this is all just talk to scare the little ones. They say she was raped and tortured for hours before she died. That girl's ghost is supposed to wander about the place crying and begging for mercy, but it's all too storybook to take seriously. If somebody tells that story, all you have to do is ask what the girl's name was, or when all this occurred, or what happened to the blokes afterward, and they don't know a thing.

Still, that story might have something to do with Johnsfield ending up as an unofficial landfill, because it probably gives people permission to do whatever they like there and of course they've ruined it. It was probably a nice little farm once, but after the plant closed, and with that gang-bang story for backup, the people round about started driving out here years ago to dump stuff in the last field at the end of the dirt road that runs out to the Ness. They don't do it in the daytime, they only come at night, since officially it's illegal, what they're doing. Though I can't imagine that the authorities would ever prosecute them with the full force of the law for dumping more c.r.a.p on a place that's already up to its eyes in poison and garbage. Better here than somewhere else. I don't know if the fly-tippers are locals, or if they come from outside; whoever they are, they know that it doesn't matter what they do. Nothing matters really. Those people probably tell themselves the place is past caring about, but it's still surprising to see what they leave out there, mixed in among all the usual household rubbish: rusted birdcages thick with lime and millet, dead animals, bags of needles and plastic syringes, swabs, old power tools, body parts. It's fairly open country out at Johnsfield, no pits in the ground, no fences, just a long jagged hedge that stays black till well into the summer, when it puts out a few thin, painfully tender leaves and the occasional miraculous, sweet-scented flower. I once saw a picture of an old wishing tree, like they used to believe in around these parts, a gnarled and twisted old rowan covered in notes and cards and cheap decorations fixed to the branches with sc.r.a.ps of ribbon or baling twine. That's what the boundary hedge looks like, like one long row of wishing trees dressed with blown plastic and calico and hanks of what might have been dog or cat skin. It's almost jolly, like Christmas at the mall. If we had a mall.

Anyway, this is where we are and this is our hunting ground. These are our games. I'm pretty much in favor of the old Be Here Now way of going about things, so having got myself drawn into this particular folly, I decide I'm going to enjoy it. Maybe get to know Eddie a bit. Of course, it's just pointless scouting at first. Jimmy and his crew-with me along for the ride, though I'm keeping just enough s.p.a.ce between us so they don't start imagining I'm one of them-all of us, together and individually, wander aimlessly across the piles of rubbish, sinking in, bouncing out, sometimes tumbling into a nasty pocket of mush and fumes, bearing our simple weapons, looking for any sign of life. We can use what other tools we like, though the hatpin is de rigueur. The hatpin is the weapon of the right hand, and has to be gripped just so, to avoid losing it in the melee, but the others all carry their own specially prepared weapons for the left hand: Eddie has a double-edged knife. Ernest, or whatever his name is, has a long, possibly Teflon-coated fork, like one of those implements people have at barbecues. Tone brandishes a vicious screwdriver carefully sharpened to a point, and I can imagine him working on this, with love and care and antic.i.p.ation, in his quieter hours. Best of all, Jimmy has a Chinese-made clasp knife with a six-inch blade, double-sided, in nicely tempered dark steel. He says it's a flensing knife, but it isn't.

I have nothing, of course, having come unprepared. But I don't care. I don't really want to be chasing little furry animals around with a hatpin and a fake flensing knife, not at my age. We're not going to catch anything edible. There are rats, seagulls, hedgehogs, maybe a few feral cats living among the rubbish, and, to be honest, I'd rather just leave them to get on with it. They've been breeding out there for years, those cats. If you come down this side at night, you can hear them wailing, females in heat, toms fighting, and you'll see them wandering about, all sc.r.a.ppy faces and vicious scars, missing ears, torn fur. Some of the kids come down here to play games not that different from what we are doing now, just wandering up and down looking for animals and birds to torture with blades and matches and burning oil. The only difference is, those kids set traps and nets to get their prey, while we are hunting. hunting. All the same, it feels like a childish game, especially the hatpin rule, and I'm a bit embarra.s.sed about it. All the same, it feels like a childish game, especially the hatpin rule, and I'm a bit embarra.s.sed about it.

Finally, Eddie spots a big rat and we all set off in pursuit. Ernest isn't much use to anybody, he just jumps about waving his weapons and shouting tally-ho, but Eddie really throws herself into it, scrambling across the garbage, her hatpin hand lunging at the little furry body-and then there's more of them, a whole family of rats, big ones and little ones, all fat and healthy-looking, plump bodies full of blood and organs, just begging to be skewered. Only they're too fast, and n.o.body gets anywhere near them. They just disappear into all the rubbish and we just keep toppling in after them, getting ourselves covered in wet and slush, snagging on old bed frames and defunct Silver Cross prams, dangerous little nicks appearing on our knuckles and wrists. Pretty soon, I'm ready to give up, but Eddie keeps on, and she's more than making up in enthusiasm for what she lacks in stalking skills. Finally, she lunges and sticks her hatpin right through something that squeals and struggles, then hangs, well and truly speared, twitching, but silent now, the life running out of it a little too quickly. She looks at what she's got, then she shows it to me.

"It's just a baby," she says. I look at it too, but I'm not sure what what it is. Up close, it looks pale and fake. "It's only little," Eddie says. She seems sad now, though I'm not sure whether this is from pity or disappointment. it is. Up close, it looks pale and fake. "It's only little," Eddie says. She seems sad now, though I'm not sure whether this is from pity or disappointment.

"Not much meat on it," I say.

"Yeuch!" She looks at me like I'm some kind of crazy person. "I wasn't going to eat eat it." Then she grins and holds it out to me. "You want it?" she says, and I can feel something starting now. It's like when a cat brings you a bird or a mouse it's caught. That's a sign of affection. it." Then she grins and holds it out to me. "You want it?" she says, and I can feel something starting now. It's like when a cat brings you a bird or a mouse it's caught. That's a sign of affection.

"So," I say. "What else do you catch out here? Other than baby rats?"

"How do you mean?"

"You said you sometimes got something special."

"Oh." She grimaces. "All kinds of stuff," she says.

She gives me an odd look and I wonder if she's offended about the baby-rats dig. I don't want her to think I'm putting her down, so I soften it up a bit. "Like what?" I say. The way I say it, though, it still comes over as a challenge, and I have to backtrack a little more. "Really," I say. "I'm interested."

She's been thinking all the time and she jumps in then, all bright and excited. "I got a mooncalf once," she said.

"A what?"

"A mooncalf," she says. She's not sure, now that she's telling it to me, but there's a part of her that wants to be and she gets all defiant. "It was huge. With these big saucery eyes, and a pointy snout." She looks back fondly at the image of whatever it was she once caught-and I believe right away that she's telling the truth. She's all tender and excited, so I'm absolutely certain that she caught something. something.

"What did you do with it?" I ask.

She thinks a moment, then shakes her head. It's like air going out of a balloon. "I killed it," she says.

"Really?"

"I didn't mean mean to. I just-" to. I just-"

"A mooncalf?"

"Yes." She gives me a sad look. "That's what it was," she says. "There's mooncalfs all over, out here along the sh.o.r.e." She gazes at me expectantly. When I don't say anything, she looks sad again. "I'm not making it up," she says.

I shake my head. "I know," I say. Everybody has a theory about the secret fauna of the headland. People tell stories about all kinds of real or imaginary encounters: they see herds of strange animals, they catch glimpses of devils, sprites, fairies, they come face-to-face with terribly disfigured or angelic-looking mutants from old science-fiction programs on late-night TV. And it's not just animals they see. You hear all kinds of stories about mysterious strangers: lone figures stealing through the woods, gangs of men roaming around at night, a criminal element who come in from the sh.o.r.e side to see what they can steal from the plant, troublemakers and pikeys, s.e.x perverts and terrorists. John the Librarian says the buildings down by the docks provide a perfect hiding place for insurgents to lay up and store their weapons. Or maybe they're counterinsurgents, he'll say with a twinkle in his eyes: revolutionaries, agents provocateurs agents provocateurs, terrorists, counterterrorists-who can tell and, anyway, what's the difference?

"They have them in books," Eddie says. "They used to be all over, but now they hide in places where n.o.body ever goes. Like squirrels."

I nod.

"They're in Shakespeare," she says.

I reach out and touch her arm. "I know," I say, softly. I want her to believe that I believe her, but I don't think she does.

We haven't seen Jimmy in a while. Ernest and Tone are just standing about on a firm island among all this c.r.a.p, standing up on the highest point, scouting their little horizon, and my mind goes back again to that meerkat film on TV. Finally, Jimmy turns up, and he's got this huge rat on the point of his Chinese knife. He grins at us all as he waves it in triumph. "He shoots, he scores," he says. Then he looks back and forth to Eddie and me curiously. "You catch anything," he says to me, and I can see he's not talking rats.

I don't say a word.

"I got one," Eddie says. "It's just a baby, though."

"Never mind," Jimmy says. "You got something, something, at least." He gives me an amused look. at least." He gives me an amused look.

After we finish killing stuff, we flop down on a gra.s.sy bank and Tone and Ernest start building another fire. Jimmy has gone back out into the sea of rubbish, searching for bigger game. I can see he wants a special kill, or maybe an especially disgusting find to mark the occasion of my first outing, but he's not coming up with anything. I sit down with Eddie. I've noticed two things about her: first, she's got this really s.e.xy mouth, real blow-job lips, but sweet with it, and her legs, in her tight black jeans, look almost impossibly long. I saw a John Singer Sargent portrait in a book once, where the girl had long slender legs like this, and I couldn't stop thinking about it for days. Still, I don't push anything. I don't think it would be wise to make Eddie blush twice in one day. Instead, I do the old conversation deal. Playing catch-up.

"So what happened to Ernest?" I say. He's just out of earshot, helping Tone with the fire.

"Who's Ernest?" Ernest?" she says. She's already forgotten the introductions. I nod at the fat kid. "Oh, Mickey," she says. "His name's not Ernest, it's Mickey." She gives me a puzzled look. she says. She's already forgotten the introductions. I nod at the fat kid. "Oh, Mickey," she says. "His name's not Ernest, it's Mickey." She gives me a puzzled look.