Little Exiles

by Robert Dinsdale

  ‘He’s been a good one, this,’ says Tommy, getting to his knees. ‘Seems a shame to tie his legs up at all.’

  ‘Why do we need to tie his legs?’

  ‘He’ll kick out otherwise,’ says Tommy, looping the rope around the billy’s back legs. ‘I saw a boy get kicked like that. It wasn’t pretty. Though …’ He studies George’s girth. ‘I dare say you’ve got some extra protection, eh?’

  Puzzled, George tickles the billy’s scruff again. He seems to like this, so it’s a terrible shame when Tommy passes him a length of rope and instructs him to tie up the forelegs. Getting the knot right is difficult, but under Tommy’s instruction he manages it. Tommy tells him, well done. George smiles, because this isn’t a thing he’s often heard.

  ‘Well, now we get to it.’ Tommy reaches out for the rack of knives, selects one, and offers it, handle first, to George.

  George takes it limply in his hands. Then, suddenly, he looks into Tommy Crowe’s expectant eyes and understands.

  ‘But … why?’

  ‘Look, just bring his head back and try and make it clean. You can do it in one cut, if you’re careful. They don’t expect you to do it right first time, though. Boys always make a mess of it. Just try your best, and they won’t be able to do a thing.’

  ‘Who won’t?’

  ‘Why, Judah Reed, of course. The rest of them. You’ve got to start off on a good foot, see, or else they’ll number you for trouble. Then they’ll keep on watching you just to see if you slip up, and you don’t want that, George!’

  Tommy Crowe is laughing, yet his words are washing over George. George isn’t a troublemaker. He’s never been in trouble in his life. Even when he had a mother she didn’t get cross. The thought, now, of all those men in black knowing him for a bad lad is enough to bring tears to his eyes. He might be able to swallow them back, but then he looks at the goat. Its eyes roll towards him. He wants his scruff tickling again, his tummy patted. George can see that, plain as day. How can it be making trouble just to leave this dumb old thing alone?

  George scrabbles back, sits in the red dirt. His short trousers, still wet from the trough, get sticky with sand.

  ‘George, I’m going to tell you what I told your boy Jon.’ Tommy puts a finger on George’s chin and forces him to look up. Two big blubbery eyes meet his own. ‘If you don’t do it on your own, they’re going to make you do it.’

  ‘How?’ sobs George.

  Tommy Crowe says, ‘Don’t find out, George. Please don’t find that out.’

  ‘I don’t see why I have to.’ George folds his arms, but quickly they slide apart and he is, suddenly, hugging himself. ‘It’s just a poor old goat. I don’t even want to eat him. I’ll just have potatoes.’

  ‘They cook those potatoes in goat fat, George.’

  ‘I’ll clean it off. I don’t even like skins. I’ll just have the insides.’

  Tommy Crowe steps back. ‘You have to do it, George. If you don’t do it, it means I have to tell … But I’m not going to tell, see? Which means they’ll have me strung up.’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell on me …’

  ‘I just said I wouldn’t, didn’t I? But when they find out I didn’t tell, they’ll come for me and …’ Tommy kicks out, launching a stone straight at the billy. ‘… they’ll make me take my medicine. I’ve never taken my medicine before. Don’t you get it?’ He relents, shuffling up to the goat’s head and gently pulling it back so that the throat is all George can see. ‘Do you want me to go in Judah Reed’s office?’

  There are tears in George’s eyes.

  ‘Do you know what happens in Judah Reed’s office, George?’

  George straightens, finds the knife in his pudgy fist. ‘What if it won’t go in?’ he says, trembling at the goat’s exposed neck.

  ‘You just have to push it.’

  ‘He’s going to be upset.’

  Tommy Crowe strokes the billy’s scruff. ‘Not for long.’

  George gets on his hands and knees and crawls over to the silly old goat. He can hardly hold the knife any longer; it only wobbles in his fingers. When he tries to press it on the goat, neither brute nor boy can even feel it.

  ‘It’s easy, George. Look, I’m holding him still. It’s just like cutting your dinner.’

  ‘A tough old dinner.’

  Tommy allows himself a smile. ‘Like that leathery stew they serve up here. It’s like eating old boots.’

  At this, George snorts, drawing strings of thick phlegm back into his nose.

  ‘Go on!’

  The knife is steadier now. George looks down, takes a deep breath. Perhaps, if he closes his eyes, it doesn’t have to be so bad.

  His body bucks, his stomach tightens and thrusts out. He drops the knife, but he is too late to turn. Jets of this morning’s breakfast thunder out of his nostrils and lips, showering the goat in orange and green.

  With the sick still smeared up and down his face, George jumps up and runs.

  Jon Heather cannot see the blood on his hands any longer, for he is wearing new gloves of cracked concrete and sand. The day has passed, his face is streaked with sweat and trails of hardening grey, and he can feel the skin of his soles shredded and sore. The site has almost been cleared now, the bigger boys hacking the worst away with scythes and setting fire to the rest, while, on the outskirts of the site, the younger boys have taken their picks to the earth and dug down until they hit rock. This, it seems, is not nearly deep enough, for they will have to dig deeper tomorrow.

  On the edge of the excavations, the man in black has been brought more fresh juice. He has a camping chair, against which his half hockey stick is propped. There was a moment, in the midday heat, when he looked to have fallen asleep — but all it took to bring him back into wakefulness was one of the smaller boys to crawl away for rest in the shade. That boy, now, could not crawl away for rest, even if he wanted. Judah Reed had to be called. He carried the boy away in his arms, telling him he would have to do better if he was to be a big strong man, not some pathetic little English girl.

  Jon is loading a new wheelbarrow with stones, ferrying them off to slag heaps in the scrub, when he sees a blurry ball hurtle across the Mission and up towards the dormitory shacks. He turns back to his wheelbarrow, mindful of working too slowly, but he cannot ignore it for long. The blurry ball — that was George.

  He looks up. Another boy is following close behind, straining against another barrow of stones, so he cannot stop for long. Over his shoulder, the man in black is deep in conversation with a cottage mother. He lifts the barrow high, hurrying the last few yards into the scrub.

  The slag heaps have climbed high today, mountains breaking out of the bedrock. Jon upends his barrow, scraping the last rubble out with hands rubbed raw, and then turns, awkwardly, to let the next boy in. By the time he comes back out of the scrub, the man in black has drifted away, and boys across the site are standing idly back, propped on picks and pitchforks, waiting for the evening bell to ring.

  By the time it does, some of the boys have already taken the chance and disappeared. Jon, remembering Tommy Crowe’s words, forces himself to remain — but, as soon as he can, he ditches his wheelbarrow and makes haste for the dormitory shack. Inside, it is dank and dark. The only movement is that of a scrub rat, scuttling about the floorboards at the back of the room.

  In his cot, George lies with his knees hunched up. He looks up only when Jon calls his name.

  ‘Did you know?’ he demands.

  Jon approaches, unsure of his own feet. ‘Know what?’

  ‘What they do down at the dairy.’

  There is no point in lying; George is waiting for it.

  ‘Of course I knew, Georgie. They had me do the same.’

  ‘But I’m only eight.’

  ‘I don’t think it matters …’

  ‘It’s because we told them I’m ten.’

  This explanation seems to soothe George, but Jon cannot follow the logic. He nods, sits on the end of George�
��s cot.

  ‘It isn’t fair, George, but it’s done now. Don’t think about it. It doesn’t help.’

  ‘I didn’t do it at all!’ George protests. ‘It’s only a poor old goat. How’s it going to feel if I stick it with a knife?’

  Some other boys begin to file back into the dorm. One casts Jon and George a questioning look, but soon moves on. It will not be long, Jon knows, before the bells go for dinner. By then, it will be too late.

  ‘You didn’t do it?’

  George shakes his head.

  ‘George, they’re going to make you do it.’

  ‘They can’t make me,’ George utters. ‘It’s my fingers. It’s my hands. They can’t make them work, Jon Heather. I can’t even make them work, not with that old knife.’

  There is something in these words that cuts Jon, just like his knife cut the goat. It’s my fingers, he thinks. It’s my hands. George doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he’s right.

  All the same, he remembers Judah Reed’s office: Ernest keening; the latecomer’s eyes in the dormitory at night … If he was brave enough, Jon might be able to imagine the ways in which men in black make boys grow up. Instead, he shakes the thought away, focuses on George. ‘Georgie boy, you have to, before they find out. I did it. You can do it too.’

  George rolls over. ‘Would you do it again?’

  ‘If I had to …’

  ‘I mean for me, Jon Heather.’ George chews his lips. ‘I mean right now. Do it so I don’t have to, Jon. It’s what Peter would do …’

  Jon can still feel the way the gristle resisted as he tried to draw the knife up. He hears the pop again, as the goat’s head came loose and flopped into his lap.

  ‘You’ll have to do it sooner or later, George.’

  Sensing an opening, George sits up and kneads his watery eyes. ‘But not this time?’

  ‘If they catch me, I’m for the …’

  ‘They won’t catch.’

  ‘You don’t know they won’t.’

  ‘I promise, Jon. I promise they won’t. You’ve got to trust me …’

  There is nothing more to say.

  ‘Well, you have to come and help,’ Jon insists.

  Sensing some sort of triumph, George uncurls and flops off the bed. ‘I can hold his legs, to stop him kicking.’

  They make haste across the Mission. Little ones are coming back in from village muster, older boys sweeping up in the woodworking sheds. Along the way, George stops to show Jon the place where the Mission girls make butter, but there is no time for dallying; Jon grabs him by the wrist and drags him along.

  At the dairy, Tommy Crowe is waiting. ‘Jack the lad,’ he says. ‘You’re back.’

  In unison, Jon and George say, ‘Yes!’ Then Jon circles around the prostrate goat, George hanging back by the edge of the water trough.

  ‘I see they got you building today. Learning about bricks …’ Tommy shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t mind learning about bricks, if we got to build ourselves a nice new house.’ He stops. ‘What are you doing here, Jack?’

  ‘I came to do it for him.’

  Tommy Crowe exhales. ‘You can’t do it for him. He’s got to do it himself. It’s not just him. It’s all of us. It’s … a lesson. He can’t take the easy way out. He’s got to …’

  Jon looks back at George. ‘Not this time,’ he says.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  Jon finds the rack of knives on the dirt and picks up the one he judges best. On his knees now, he rubs the goat’s brow, gently lifting back its head. He presses one of his thighs against its back, so that he might steady his cut.

  ‘Jon, you’ll go to Judah Reed’s office if they find out. I’ll go to Judah Reed’s office.’

  Jon looks up, eyes empty, not breathing a word.

  ‘I can’t help with this,’ Tommy mutters. ‘It’ll only be worse, the more I help …’

  Jon watches him hurry into the growing dark and throws a look at George. ‘You said you’d hold the legs.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I can …’

  For the first time, Jon snaps, ‘I can’t do it if you don’t!’

  George totters forward, getting onto his knees to hold the goat’s rump fast.

  ‘Harder,’ Jon says.

  ‘But he knows what we’re up to …’

  Jon feels the goat tense, and senses his chance. This time, the blade goes in much more smoothly. The goat bucks, but he works fast, straining to keep the knife in as he saws up. He has not quite opened the full throat when he knows it is dead. The blood is pooling around his knees, but it is not this that has killed the goat; it has died of fear, moments before it died of anything else.

  ‘Is that it?’

  That’s it, Jon thinks. It was easier this time. Next time, it will be easier still. He is not sure how far he can follow that train of thought, but he knows it is what the men in black mean for him. Just like building houses and mixing concrete and breaking ground; killing goats will make him grow up.

  ‘Come on Georgie, we’ve got to get it in that tree.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To take off his skin.’

  He remembers only in snatches what Tommy Crowe taught him, so that this time the pelt comes off in three big pieces instead of one, and this time — though he manages not to puncture the shit sack again — he has to slop the guts out in stages, and doesn’t know how to separate the good offal from the bad. Up on the stone slab, he hacks away haunches, loading up neck and shoulders into the wheelbarrow, but the remains look uglier than they did the last time, and the head still dangles from the tip of the spine. Now, the goat is a grotesque millipede, glaring accusingly at them from a spine of glistening red and white.

  ‘Is it finished?’ asks George, looking dumbly at the meat piled up in the wheelbarrow.

  ‘It goes down to the salting sheds. Or it goes in tomorrow’s stew.’

  Jon takes off his bloody smock to use as a wash rag and sinks his hands deep in the trough. He has been quick enough this time, that the stain cannot work its way deep into his flesh — but, all the same, his hands will never be clean again.

  ‘Get your hands in here, George. Judah Reed saw my hands all bloody and told me I’d done good. Maybe he’ll see yours too …’

  The thought of Judah Reed telling him well done instead of taking him in his office propels George over, and quickly he is splashing the bloody water up and down his arms.

  When he is done, he stands up, looking proud. Jon has drifted to the fences overlooking the untilled field. On the other side, a breeze moves in the branches of the shadow wood, setting them swaying.

  ‘Thank you, Jon Heather.’

  Jon isn’t listening, so George has to say it again.

  ‘I’ll do better next time,’ he whispers.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, George. Only …’ Jon’s eyes are drawn back to the dancing branches of the shadow wood. ‘You ever think about what’s out there?’ he asks.

  ‘Outside the Mission? You mean the sea — and England?’

  ‘No, George,’ Jon whispers. ‘I don’t mean that at all. I mean — there are trees, and there’s desert, and then — well, there’s McAllister. He doesn’t live here. He’s got to come from somewhere. And there’s got to be schools and towns, just like the one we saw. And, George …’

  ‘Jon, don’t …’ George begins. ‘I know what you’re meaning, so please don’t …’

  ‘There’s got to be Peter, doesn’t there? Somewhere out there. He has to be somewhere, doesn’t he, George?’

  Jon wriggles back into his sodden Crusade smock and nods at the wheelbarrow. ‘It’s best you wheel it in, Georgie. So they don’t suspect.’

  George nods, taking up the handles. ‘You don’t think we’ll get found out, do you?’

  Jon shakes his head. ‘Not this time.’

  The barrow is heavy, but George pushes it alone, huffing and puffing deeper into the Mission. There is a chance, Jon knows, that Tommy Crowe m
ight already have told — but something tells him that he hasn’t. Telling a tale would mean Judah Reed finally learns Tommy’s name, and there isn’t a thing in the Mission more terrifying than that.

  In the doorway of the dairy shed, Jon waits until George has disappeared. There is a half moon tonight; it is beginning to shine in the preternatural gloom. He dawdles into the dairy, takes up a broom and begins to sweep at the earth, collecting up globules of sand and blood, shreds of viscera. All of this, he has learned, can go back into the goat’s feed. Goat eating goat and boy eating boy; that’s the Children’s Crusade.

  He has made only three sweeps when he hears parakeets shrieking from their roosts. Seconds later, another bird makes a long, looping sound. He props the broom against the wall and ventures into the dusk. Before he knows what he is doing, he has clambered to sit on top of the fence. He stares at the shadow wood and dreams.

  Before long, as if sleepwalking, he has toppled from the fence and taken three strides across the untilled earth. It isn’t just McAllister and it isn’t just towns and shorelines and oceans. All of that, he knows, is out there somewhere, across endless scrub. It’s the road. Ernest saw it, curving away into the night. A road, Jon Heather knows, must lead somewhere. It must come from somewhere too. All a wily boy would have to do is follow that road, and he might end up …

  He stops, realizes he is already at the edge of the shadow wood, one foot poised atop the sandstone bank where the little ones staked out their rabbit.

  … anywhere, he thinks. A boy might end up anywhere but here.

  By the time he has finished that thought, he is already deep into the woodland. Night falls quickly over the Mission and, when he looks back, he can hardly see the outline of the dairy through gaps in the trees. If he means to go further at all, it is only because here, with the fragrance of the scrub strong all around, he does not breathe in the stink of concrete dust and ash, cannot see the billy goat blood in which he has been bathing. Here, he might be anything or anybody — Jon Heather might still be a clean, loving little boy.

  He reaches the edge of the shadow wood and creeps out, through a curtain of coarse grass, to blink over the endless expanse. Charts of unknown stars are plastered above and by their light he can see … nothing. No trees. No hilltops. No men in black, lurking out there to trap runaway boys.