by Pat Young
I’m not dead. I’m deaf.
He seems to be yelling at me, but he looks pleased about something. I shrug to show him I can’t hear what he’s saying, use my hands to cover my ears. It’s too late to protect them but it feels right. My head’s got the school bell ringing inside it.
He tugs at my arm. Points behind me. I turn but there’s nothing to see.
His mouth makes an ‘okay’ as he nods and holds up one thumb.
I’m not okay. My ears hurt but he keeps talking as if I can hear him. I shake my head and try hard to listen. His mouth keeps moving. Eventually I catch a few words or maybe I read his lips, I’m not sure.
‘Got something… big… sound of it. Might… deer… think…?’ The words are faint, but I think I can hear them.
‘Come… it fell… down… the dip.’
He gallops off and disappears down into a hollow. I don’t move.
‘… Christ.’
I heard that.
‘Fuck.’
His voice is still faint, as if I need to turn up my volume, but I know something’s wrong. He keeps saying the same swear words over and over again. Can’t hear well enough to be sure but it sounds like he’s scared.
Bet he’s wounded something, a stag, maybe. I’ve heard what an injured stag can do. One nearly killed a woman in the highlands one time.
I’m staying back. It’s not my problem.
I hear noises, so muffled it’s hard for me to tell what kind. It sounds like panting or snuffling. Poor thing must be in agony. I should run and get Dad, but that will take ages and I’ll get into deep, deep trouble. The guy will too. He should never have fired that gun. He’s got no permit. Dad will get into trouble too.
I bite at the skin on the side of my thumb. My hand’s shaking so much my nail taps against my teeth. Maybe I should go down and shoot the deer properly, to put it out of its misery. Cowboys kill their horses because that’s the right thing to do when a creature is suffering.
Or I could run up the road and get the farmer. He could come and finish the deer off. Take it away in his truck. Only thing is, Dad knows everyone round here so he’ll find out, sooner or later. Anyway, how can I explain that I need help? This is a total disaster and I’m to blame. I stole a gun and handed it over to a stranger. Then gave him ammunition. Dad’s going to kill me.
I need to get that gun back.
I stop and listen, from a safe distance. All I hear is a curlew’s sad song away up the hillside. No more swear words. No more sounds of the deer dying.
I take a few baby steps closer to the edge of the banking. It’s steep with a wee burn at the bottom. He’s just standing there. Staring at something on the ground. The gun’s lying behind him as if he dropped it. If I’m quick I could get it and run.
I step over the edge and the soil falls away under my feet. I start to slide downhill in a mini-avalanche of earth and stones. Don’t want to fall into the burn and I don’t want him to see me taking the gun.
All of a sudden, he drops to his knees. His shoulders are moving up and down. The strange awful noises are coming from him. He’s crying, but not like me, or Mum. Like Dad when Pops died.
Why is he so upset? Is it the sight of a dead animal? I don’t want to see it either, but I take a deep breath and step forward and lean over his shoulder. I see a trainer, a sock, jeans, a T-shirt covered in blood. This doesn’t make sense. Why is this person lying by the burn? Why is he covered in blood?
The stranger jumps to his feet and grabs me by the arms.
‘I didn’t see him. I didn’t see him.’ He shakes me with each word, as if he’s desperate to make me understand. My head wobbles but he doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I just saw his hair, just that fuckin’ red hair. You understand?’
I don’t.
‘I heard heavy breathing, kind of panting? You understand what I’m saying?’
Don’t know what he’s talking about but I know I’ve got to nod.
‘He was coming up out of the dip, yeah? I thought it was a deer or something.’
I keep nodding.
He stops shaking me.
‘Shit, I don’t know what I thought.’ His voice fades out. He lets me go and I stumble. He catches me and kind of puts me on my feet. Then he drops to his knees, snivelling like a toddler.
‘Listen to me. I didn’t know it was a guy. I swear, I didn’t know.’
He looks up into my eyes. His hands are clasped as if he’s praying. ‘Please, please believe me,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him.’
13
As if he’s looking down from a helicopter, Gus sees himself. Kneeling there, begging a kid to forgive him. How must this look?
He stands and draws himself up to his full height, blocking the boy’s view. He takes him by the shoulders and shakes him, just once, to get his attention.
‘Look at me, kid.’
He leans down so their eyes are level.
Different emotions flicker across the boy’s face. He looks bewildered and terrified. His eyes are huge as if he can’t believe what he’s seen. He glances towards the body like it might have disappeared or something. Gus shakes him again.
‘Don’t look at that. Look at me, buddy.’
The boy meets his eyes, for only a second, then looks away again. He leans to the side to see past Gus. It’s as if he can’t stop looking at the body. As if he hopes it might have gone the next time he looks.
Gus gives him another shake and turns him away so he can’t see the guy. ‘Are you listening to me?’
No reaction. It’s like the kid’s in a trance.
‘Hey! Are you listening?’
The kid nods. At last.
‘What’s your name?’
No answer.
‘Can you tell me your name?’
The boy shakes his head. Can’t tell? Won’t tell? No point in forcing it.
‘What happened here, it was an accident. A terrible accident. But an accident. Do you understand?’
The boy nods.
‘Good. How was I to know he would appear like that. I thought it was a deer. You get what I’m saying?’
The boy nods again. This time he keeps nodding, although Gus isn’t asking him anything. Then he starts to cry, in this quiet, sobbing kind of way. His head still nodding. Gus feels sorry for the kid, for that’s what he is. A child.
‘How old are you, buddy?’
No answer, but the nodding stops.
‘Ten? Eleven? Twelve?’
He nods. Twelve years old. Small for his age. But still a kid. Poor little bugger. He puts his arm round the child’s shoulder, intending to comfort him, but the kid squirms away. With an accusing look on his face. As if Gus might hurt him next.
Who can blame him? Seeing it from the kid’s point of view. He’s out in the woods, minding his own business. Although what business he had being out here with a gun, Gus can’t imagine. Anyway, the kid runs into this total stranger and the next thing he knows, there’s a dead body.
Dead. That word. Gus’s stomach turns at the thought.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Wait there. I need to check something.’
Maybe the guy’s not dead. It’s impossible to tell. He’s lying face down as if he slithered back into the little gully. Gus puts his fingers on the guy’s neck and feels for a pulse. Nothing. He moves his fingers to another spot, holds his breath while he waits. His fingers come away bloodied.
‘Oh no, please, no.’
Fighting the weight of a huge rucksack, Gus rolls him, just far enough to see his face. Except he can’t. His face is still there, not blown off by the gun, thank God, but bathed in blood. Gus looks for a wound. There it is, a hole in his forehead. Shocked, he lets the body go and it rolls over again, face down.
‘Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘What are the chances? I’ve never fired a gun in my life. Then I hit a guy smack in the middle of the head? Like I’m some damn sniper or something. Fuck, man!’
The kid turns but says nothing. Just stands
with his hands over his ears, staring at the dead guy lying there with his backpack still strapped on. He looks as if he’s tripped and face-planted. Like he’ll get up any minute now, laughing.
Except he won’t – this isn’t a cartoon and he’s a corpse. Gus can’t take it in. He gets that weird feeling again that he’s hovering above the ground. Looking down at himself. Watching a scene from a horror movie.
A sour taste fills his throat, making him retch. He leans over but nothing comes up. His hands are shaking and there’s a sweat on his face that feels icy cold.
‘Shit.’ He’s just killed a guy. He appeals to the kid, ‘Shit! What the fuck am I gonna do?’ and suddenly sees how this must look and how it will look to other people.
He needs to think fast. If he reports this, with no witnesses except a child, he’s done for. He’s a foreigner who just shot a Scotsman. He’ll get no mercy. They’ll lock him up and lose the key. In a flash, Gus sees his whole life disappear. No rugby career. No triumphant return to South Africa to prove them all wrong. No college, no girls, no beer, no life. No life. Jeez, what if they’ve got the death penalty here? He’ll get the electric chair. No, that’s America. Here, they hang people. Oh fuck, he could die, all because this asshole comes charging out of the gully at him. It’s so unfair. Anyone would have fired. It was automatic, a kind of survival instinct. What the fuck was he supposed to do, with a gun in his hand?
He strides back and forth, his head in his hands, fingers clutching at his hair. Pacing across the little stream, he barely notices the cold water rippling over his trainers, soaking his feet. The main thing is to stay calm and think. There must be a way out of this mess. There has to be. Every problem has a solution. All he has to do is find it.
The kid. The witness. The only witness. Gus checks to make sure he’s still there. He hasn’t moved an inch. It’s like he’s standing guard over the body.
Gus runs up the banking, his feet sliding and skittering on the loose soil. He looks around in all directions. Nothing but those yellow bushes and a barren hillside. No houses to be seen, no sounds to be heard. Just the bleating of sheep and, in the distance, a lone seagull.
There has to be a way out. His life can’t end like this. Before it’s even started. It’s not fair. He’s got plans. An idea starts to form then fizzes into life like a match struck in a dark room.
If he can cover this up, no one will be any the wiser. There are only three people involved in this cock-up. One’s dead and one’s a scared little kid.
If he can deal with the body, the boy should be easy.
‘Hey, kid, come away from there. There’s nothing you can do for him. You can see the blood for yourself. He’s been shot in the head, it’s obvious.’ He pauses for a moment; not sure the kid has heard him.
‘Did you hear me? I said he’s been shot. And you’re to blame.’
The boy’s head snaps round. He looks up at Gus, disbelief all over his face.
‘That’s right, you heard me. An innocent guy’s been shot in the head. Because of you.’
He stops to let the words sink in, then repeats them, in case the kid’s too stupid to understand. ‘You shouldn’t have been out here with that gun, should you?’
The boy slowly shakes his head, agreeing. Maybe he was thinking the same thing himself.
‘No gun. No dead guy. See? It’s all your fault.’
The boy’s face turns crimson. He shakes his head, furious as a terrier with its teeth in a rat. Gus makes his way down the bank, keeping his voice low and trying to goad the kid into a reaction. ‘Hell, you know you shouldn’t be carrying a gun. It’s illegal. You’re far too young.’
The boy launches himself at Gus. Soft fists batter his chest. Small feet thrash against his shins and bony knees bang into his thighs. One kick catches him in the crotch, but he twists to the side and suffers only a weak jab of pain. He grabs the skinny arms and puts a stop to the pummelling, but the legs still thump away. He can tell the boy is doing his very best to hurt him. He tightens his grip on the youngster’s arms and uses them to lift him up till their faces are nearly level. Anger and fear battle in the boy’s eyes. When fear appears to be winning, Gus knows he has the upper hand. All the fight oozes out of the child, and he goes floppy as a rag doll.
Gus lowers him to the ground and lets go of his arms. The boy stands there in front of him with his head down, weeping in silence.
Gus tries to make his voice a little kinder. ‘You worried about what your dad’s going to say?’
The boy looks straight into his eyes. The tears are streaming down his face.
‘Bet you’re scared you’ll get into a whole lot of trouble, aren’t you?’
The kid nods solemnly and Gus knows he’s hit the right spot. He tries to sound casual, although he can feel his heart racing. His pulse rate must be sky-high. ‘I think you’re right to be scared. I would be.’
He lets that sink in, all the time nodding his head as if he’s weighing up a problem.
‘Hang on a minute. What age did you say you are? Twelve? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that makes you a minor. You should be alright.’ He laughs. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about.’
The child looks up at him with hope in his eyes.
‘Relax. I can’t speak for Scotland but in South Africa you can get away with anything till you’re fourteen.’ He laughs again. ‘No one’s gonna prosecute a twelve-year-old for something like this. Phew! Bet that’s a relief, eh, buddy?’
The kid smiles, nodding. It’s clear he wants to believe what he’s hearing, and Gus feels like a real bastard. But this has to be done.
‘Your dad? Well, that’s a different matter.’ He watches the smile slide off the boy’s face and wonders if he’s being unnecessarily cruel. No, this is no time for compassion.
‘Your dad lets you wander about with a gun and some poor hiker gets shot? You can’t be held to blame for that, but your dad?’ He sucks air in through his teeth, making as much noise as he can for as long as he can, leaving it to the kid’s imagination. Till the look on his face tells Gus all he needs to know.
‘Pay attention to me, kid. You can still get out of this mess. I’ll help you. I’m not gonna say a word about this to your dad, or anyone else. Okay?’
The boy nods his head, looking ridiculously trusting. Gus feels like the biggest shit on the planet. If he had a choice he wouldn’t do this to anyone, far less a child.
‘This will be our secret, yours and mine. What do you say?’
More nodding.
‘Wish you’d tell me your name. Can you do that?’
The kid shakes his head. He seems determined to give nothing away. Probably been warned within an inch of his life not to talk to strangers. Under any circumstances. Gus smiles at the bizarreness of the situation and the child smiles back at him. Eager to please by the looks of him.
‘Fair enough. Is it okay if I give you a name?’
Nod.
‘Good. I’m gonna call you Noddy. Do you like magic, Noddy?’
Another nod.
‘Good. Well, Noddy, you and I are going to do some magic. We’re going to make this guy here do a vanishing act. We’ll make him disappear.’ Gus is almost beginning to enjoy this when he glances at the body and a sickening heave of his stomach brings him back to stark reality. But this is no time for hesitation. He has to push on.
‘No one will ever know you took the gun and caused this accident. In fact, no one except you and me will even know there was an accident. Look around. No witnesses. You can get away with this.’
The boy doesn’t look convinced.
‘Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s a great plan. Guaranteed to keep your dad out of prison. You up for it?’
The slightest of nods tells Gus he can go on.
‘Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll dig a hole and bury him. We’ll make a secret pact to never talk about it to anyone, ever. Then you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. Good plan?’
The kid shakes his hea
d.
‘Well, smartass, can you come up with a better one? Like I call the police right now?’ He takes his phone out of his pocket and pretends to dial. ‘Hi, is that the police?’
The kid dives at the phone, trying to grab it out of his hand, but Gus is too fast.
‘No?’ He makes a show of switching off his phone and returning it to his pocket. ‘Okay, good decision. Your dad would find it tricky telling the police how a kid like you got his hands on a lethal weapon. He’d have a hard time explaining how a twelve-year-old ended up wandering the woods with a gun. Using happy hikers for target practice.’ He points to the dead body and sees the kid shudder.
‘Right then. We’ve got to make sure we do a good job of burying him. Otherwise the first wild animal that comes along will dig him up and eat him.’ The boy flinches at the gruesome suggestion and Gus can see he’s made his point. The kid swipes his forearm across his face, all the way from his elbow to his fingertips. A trail of snot smears across his tear-stained cheek. He grinds the heel of his hand into one eye socket and then the other. When he goes for a deep breath it turns into a wracking hiccup. Gus tries not to feel sorry for him.
‘Let’s get started. I think he’s too heavy for us to move very far, so let’s see if we can leave him down in the gully.’ As Gus makes his way down the incline, the ground slides from under him. Digging a grave here will be a challenge, especially without a spade, but looking for any sort of tool is too risky.
He walks up the tiny valley, cut through the hillside by the stream as it makes its way down towards the sea. Where the little river has altered its course, the bank is undercut. Not far from the body he finds a spot where there might be enough room for what they need. He hunkers down and begins to scrape away at the soil. It comes away easily. Far more easily than he expected. Shouldn’t be too hard to dig if they both work at it. ‘Thank Christ for that, at least,’ he mutters to himself.
‘Right then, Noddy, come on over here and we’ll get started. Need to get this done as quick as we can, eh?’
As expected, the boy says nothing. He seems to hesitate for a few moments and then comes over, jumping the stream. He kneels down, his head hanging low. A dribble of spit dangles from his chin, like cheese from a pizza, but he starts to dig his fingers into the soil and scrape it back.