by David Almond
At home, Dad was roaring with laughter as we went in.
“Come and see!” he said. “Quick! Come and see!”
He had the TV on. There was a man in a sports jacket smoking a pipe. A Labrador lay peacefully at his side. There was a deep hole in the ground. It had a concrete floor and it was lined with concrete blocks.
“It is important that the walls are at least ten inches thick,” he said. “The roof, of course, should also be of concrete. And this roof should ideally be at least four feet underground.”
He pointed downward with his pipe.
“This, then,” he said, “is the basic construction of your family fallout shelter. The shelves are for storing food and water supplies. The cabinet here is for your chemical lavatory. A radio will be essential for keeping up to date with what's going on outside. Beyond the basics, though, let your invention run riot. TV sets, hi-fi systems … the possibilities are endless!”
He puffed on his pipe.
“We have estimated that it would take two men three weeks to build. Give or take a day or so, depending on fitness, strength, age, availability of materials, nature of the ground to be dug, weather conditions, et cetera, et cetera. Helpful leaflets with detailed plans are available. With good materials and proper construction, the shelter will be able to withstand an attack of several megatons.” He smiled and stroked his dog. “Beyond this, we're in need of a lady's touch.”
And a woman in a flowery dress walked on, smiling.
“Now then,” she said. “Move aside, John. What can we do to make this more like home? And how are we going to occupy those kiddies for all that time? Well, here's a few suggestions, girls.”
“Hell's teeth,” said Dad.
“The world's gone mad,” said Mam.
She clicked it off. We said nothing for a while.
“He wasn't there,” said Mam eventually.
“Who?” said Dad.
“McNulty.”
“That's a shame.”
“Hope he's OK, eh?”
“Aye.”
Dad looked at me.
“D'you think we count as two men?” he said. “A scrawny brat like you and an old wheezer like me?”
I shook my head.
“It'd take us more than three weeks, then, eh?”
“Aye,” I said.
“We'd better get started this afternoon, then?”
“Better had.” “Have you got a shovel?”
I shook my head.
“Or some concrete?” he said.
I shook my head.
“Pity,” he said. “Mebbes we'll leave it awhile, then.”
“Aye,” I said.
“Aye.”
Later, I went to see Ailsa. Yak was in the yard, heaving coal from the cart to the pickup truck.
“Allreet, Bobby lad?” he called.
“Aye,” I said.
“She's in the kitchen.” He winked. “Nae lovey-dovey stuff, mind. She's got our tea to make. OK?”
I just looked at him.
“How's that new school ganning?” he said.
“Fine.”
“You'll soon be too posh to gan on the cart, I s'pose?”
“No, I won't.”
“That's allreet, then. But you'll be learning tons, eh?”
“Aye.”
“Top of the class, are ye?”
“No, I'm not.”
“Course ye are, kidder. I kna ye. Head stuffed full of brains. So answer us this. What d'you call a bloke with nae lugs?”
“I don't know. What do you call a bloke with no lugs?”
“Do they teach you nowt in that place? You call him owt you like ‘cos he cannot hear you.”
I found Ailsa in the kitchen with an apron on. She was rolling pastry.
“Rabbit pie,” she said. “Losh shot it. You could stay if you like.” It smelt delicious. “Go on. Your mam wouldn't mind.”
“Mebbe,” I said. “Do you not get sick of it?”
“Of what?”
“Looking after them.”
“No,” she said. “I love them. And since me mam died…”
“How's the fawn?”
“Grand. Getting stronger.”
She took a bowl out of the oven. A dark bubbling stew. She laid the pastry over the top of it. She trimmed the edges. She quickly made the shape of a rabbit from spare pastry and put it at the center. Then she put the whole thing back in the oven and rubbed the flour from her hands. I thought of what Mam said: It isn't right. The girl's too young for such a life. What can her dad be thinking of?
“Isn't it weird?” she said. “I cook the rabbit but I look after the fawn. Do you understand it?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither, and they'll not teach you that at school. They come again, you know.”
“Who did?”
“The buggers from the council. They were in a big black car. ‘We've come to get your daughter to go to school,' they said. ‘Have you now?' says Dad. ‘You and whose army?' says Yak. ‘We don't want any trouble now,' they says, ‘and we know you folk is independentminded, but it's the law, Mr. Spink.' One of them turns to us, a big fat feller with specs and goggly eyes. ‘Do you not want to pursue your education, little lady?' he says. ‘No,' I say. ‘You'll be left behind, you know,' he says. ‘This is a time of opportunities and great improvement for common folk like you. All the other bairns is grabbing their opportunities.' ‘I diven't care,' I says. ‘I'm happy.' ‘See?' says Yak. ‘But it's the law, Mr. Spink,' says Goggle Eyes. ‘Then you can take your law,' says Losh, ‘and stick it up your hairy arse. Now hadaway. We've got work to do.’
“And did they go?” I said.
“Oh, aye, but they'll be back. They said the police might have to get involved. ‘Then so might this shovel of mine,' says Losh. They scarpered back to the car and off they went.”
She peeled a potato, cutting away a perfect curling slice of skin.
“They'll be back,” she said. “And probably I'll end up going. But it's fun to keep them hopping, like me daddy says. Boring buggers.”
I helped her to peel the potatoes. She put them on to boil. We set the table. “Aye,” I said, when she asked again if I would stay for tea. “Me mam'll know I'm here.”
We drank some of her lemonade.
“Ailsa,” I said. “What was it like when your mother died?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, it was just great!” She laughed. “It was such fun! What do you think it was like? It was horrible. It was the worst thing. It was …”
She looked at me.
“What's wrong?” she said.
“Nowt.”
Then her dad and her brothers came in, filthy and huge and with their eyes sparkling in filthy faces.
“We're feeding Hollow Legs, are we?” said Yak. “You should've shot a cow, Losh.”
They washed their hands in a basin by the door, lit cigarettes and swigged big glasses of beer.
Ailsa's dad put his arms around me and Ailsa.
“These lovely bairns,” he said. “They're a credit to each and every one of us.”
Later Ailsa and I went out and we stood in the sea beneath the stars.
“Every one's a million million miles away,” I said. “And they look tiny, but every one of them's a massive sun.”
A shooting star streaked through the sky and for an instant was the brightest thing above.
“And that's mebbe no bigger than a fingernail,” I said.
I kicked the water with my bare feet. The lighthouse light swept across us.
“Why's it all so bloody hard?” I said.
She laughed.
“‘Cos you think too much,” she said.
I knew she was right. I tried to empty my mind of everything but the sea, the night and Ailsa.
“What did you do to heal the fawn?” I said.
“I told you.”
“Was it really that easy?”
“Lemon squeezy.”
“Will you do it for me dad?”
“Your dad?” “I think he's really ill. Will you tell God to make him better?”
“Course I will. But you do it and all. Two folk asking's got a better chance than one. What's wrong with him?”
“I dunno. It's probably nowt.”
“It'll be a piece of cake, then.”
She laughed at me again.
“You're a strange'n, Bobby Burns. Let's do it now.”
“Eh?”
“Let's do the asking now. Howay.”
She led me to the water's edge. We knelt on the wet sand. She put her hands together.
“Howay,” she said, so I put my hands together too.
“Close your eyes,” she said, so I closed my eyes.
“Make Bobby's dad better,” she said. “Say it, Bobby.”
“Make Dad better,” I said.
I peeped into the endless sky.
“Say it again,” she said. “Will it to happen. Speak to God.”
“Make Dad better,” I whispered.
“Now wish and wish and wish and wish,” she said.
I felt the water seeping through the sand. I felt the cold breeze from the sea. I saw the brightness of the lighthouse light sweep across my closed eyelids. I tried to wish and wish and pray and pray. I tried to imagine God looking down at us from somewhere past the stars. What would he look like? And why would he look down on this place, this coaly beach by a coaly sea, when there was all the universe to look at? Why would he hear us, a pair of kids? Why should he listen to us?
“What if there is no God?” I said.
“Mebbe that doesn't matter. And mebbe it doesn't matter to God if you think he's there or not. And wondering about them things certainly isn't going to help your dad, is it?”
“No.”
“So put the wondering out of your mind and say it and wish it and do it properly as you can.”
I closed my eyes and wished and prayed.
“That's better,” she said. “It'll take a lot of doing. That little fawn was just a little fawn. It's probably harder to get it to work for a grown man.”
We prayed again. I opened my eyes and saw her eyes shining brightly as she laughed at me.
“So let's hope it's nowt after all, eh, Bobby Burns?”
“Yes,” I said, and already I felt happier.
“Your dad's strong as a cart horse,” she said.
Then she peered past me.
“Who the hell's this?” she said.
A dark hunched figure, the shape of a man. A shadow, a moving silhouette. It moved toward us from the south, through the night, skimming the water's edge. It moved quickly, legs striding forward. A sack bounced at its back. It kept its head down. No eyes glittered. We knelt there and didn't move and hardly breathed. Ailsa pressed against my side. It was a man, in heavy boots, with a dark cap pulled tight on his head, with a dark jacket buttoned tight. We heard the water splashing beneath his feet. As he approached, we heard the rasping of his breath. I smelt fire, smoke, paraffin. And then the lighthouse light came round again.
“McNulty!” I gasped.
He didn't pause. He didn't see us. He splashed straight past us. I held my hand up.
“McNulty!”
He didn't turn. He continued northward toward the lighthouse headland, the rock pools, the dunes, the pines.
“McNulty?” said Ailsa.
“He's a fire-eater. An escapologist.”
“I smelt him,” she said.
I nodded.
“He's harmless,” I said. “I saw him at the quay. He does things for money. My dad knew him, long ago in the war.”
We stood up and watched him moving north. Soon he blended with the night. When the lighthouse light came round again there was no sign of him.
“What brings him here?” said Ailsa.
“He told me he might come.”
“He told you? So why didn't he remember you?”
I shook my head. He had seemed so close, those days he stared into my eyes and held me and begged me for my help.
“His mind's gone,” I said. “He doesn't remember things. He says he's like a little child.”
We looked northward. We held our arms against the lighthouse light. It passed. Another star fell toward the sea.
“I'll tell you what it was like when she died,” she said. “It was like the whole world was the devil's place. Like there'd never be any goodness, ever again. Like there'd never be any light.”
She kissed my cheek.
“I love you, Bobby Burns,” she said.
I felt my face burning.
“Say it, Bobby,” she said. “Say you love me too.”
“I love you, Ailsa Spink.”
And then we ran: from each other, from the shining stars, from the turning sea, from the yawning spaces of the night, from the presence or the absence of God, from the devil McNulty, from the aching in our hearts that threatened to overwhelm us.
“Good night, Bobby,” she yelled.
“Good night, Ailsa. Good night!”
Istarted to tell Mam about it when I got in.
“I saw—” I said.
She put her finger to her lips.
“Quieter, Bobby,” she said. She pointed upstairs. “He's having a sleep, and he needs his sleep. It's hospital tomorrow.”
“I saw McNulty on the beach,” I whispered.
“Did you now?”
“He was heading north.”
“Was he now?”
She tilted her head and listened. We heard Dad groaning, snoring.
“McNulty?” she whispered.
“It was dark, I couldn't see him properly, but it was him.”
She absentmindedly stroked my shoulder.
“Mebbe you just imagined it, Bobby,” she murmured.
“Mebbe. What's wrong with him, Mam?”
“Nothing, son. We'll find out. He'll be right as rain.”
We listened. Just deep silence, and the never-ending rumble of the sea.
The biology room again. We sat around a table, all of us, gathered around Miss Bute. She had a tall glass jar between her hands. Ghostly beasts dangled there, heads and limbs and tails distorted by the curves of the glass, by the liquid that contained them.
“This time you must behave,” she said.
We nodded.
“Yes, miss,” we said. “Dead right, miss.”
We breathed at the memory of Todd. We glanced at the closed doors.
“It's not only because of that,” she said.
She began to unscrew the lid of the jar.
“It's also because these were once living things. And like all living things, they were sacred.”
She took off the lid and the weird scent of formaldehyde rose to us. Some of us put our hands across our noses and mouths. Some of us caught our breath in apprehension. She put down the lid, lifted a pair of tongs.
“Once they were as alive as you are,” she said. “Remember that.”
She dipped the tongs into the jar. She peered down and gently moved the beasts. Then caught a head between the tongs and lifted a creature from the liquid. She held it over the jar for a few seconds, letting the liquid drain from it. Then laid it on a clean white cloth. It was a frog. She lifted it again and held it in her palm, showed us the powerful long back legs, the short forelegs. She showed us the webbed feet, the smooth slick skin.
“See how perfectly it was made,” she said, “how perfectly it was suited for its life between air and water.”
She stroked its cheek. It gazed at her through dead, clouded, empty eyes.
“Pretty thing,” she murmured.
She laid it down again, on its back. She gently tugged its legs until it was splayed on the cloth.
“Does it look strange?” she asked us. “Eerie? Alien? Very different to us?”
“Yes, miss,” someone murmured.
“Never seen one up so close,” said another.
“The Thing from Planet Zog,” said anothe
r.
“And yet it's also familiar,” said Miss Bute. “It shares our world and we know it and recognize it. It is our neighbor. A frog. Perfect in its frogginess.”
She sighed as she lifted a scalpel. She looked to Jesus, hanging there in agony above the door.
“This is for the best of purposes,” she said.
She turned her eyes back to us.
“The word for this is dissection,” she said. “The cutting apart of the dead. It is never to be undertaken lightly.”
We gasped as she started to cut. She cut the frog vertically from throat to groin. Then made another cut, horizontal. With great tenderness, using her fingers and the scalpel tip, she teased back the flesh from her crossshaped incision, she tugged open the tiny rib cage, she eased apart a pair of tiny lungs, and finally exposed the tiny heart.
“See,” she whispered. “Skin, muscle, bone, lungs, heart. So alien and eerie and so just like us.”
She stroked its cheek again.
“Forgive me, little frog,” she said.
She put the scalpel down. “At least she is beyond pain,” she said.
Next she reached to a shelf behind her and brought down a battery with two thin wires wrapped around it. She put it down beside the frog, unwrapped the wires.
“What is missing?” said Miss Bute.
“Sorry, miss?”
“From the frog. What has it lost?”
“Its life, miss.”
“Yes, its life. And if it had its life again?”
“Sorry, miss?”
“If it had its life again, what then?”
“It would feel pain again, miss.”
“It'd hop off the table, miss.”
“Its heart would beat again, miss.”
“Ah,” she said. “Its heart would beat again.”
She took one of the thin wires and pressed it into the flesh on one side of its heart. She took the other wire and pressed it at the other side. She gently moved the two wires, seeking their proper place, and then we gasped again. Someone squealed. For the heart flickered. It flickered again. We crowded close. Miss Bute touched and touched again with the wire and the heart moved in rhythm. It beat, as it had when the frog was alive. She touched other parts of the frog and the legs twitched, the head twitched.