The Devil's Highway

by Gregory Norminton

  This path was one of his favourites on the Yamaha, taking turns with Donnie to punish their guts on its roots and stones. On foot, the gradient is starting to cost him. How can he be short of breath already? He’s seriously out of shape. Not that the weather helps. Never known an April like it. Still, chilly after Helmand.

  Ten litres a day he got through at first, the water warm and tasting of bottle plastic. Sweating like a pig out in the ulu. His arse-crack like a river. Mid-summer it got so hot his brain went numb. He only wanted to sit and breathe, and even that was like sucking the air inside an oven. But there were duties to perform, orders to keep them knocking about while the heat squeezed the sweat out of him and even the flipflops were sitting it out in their hovels, waiting for nightfall.

  He makes it to the top of the hill. Twenty-three and he can still hack a bit of exercise. A few more paces and the trees give way to patchy scrub. He trained on land like this in Germany, but the sand and soil were no preparation for Afghanistan, its thin dust a powder over everything – in his skin, his hair, the parts of his rifle. Some days the dust was a beast, surging up in the downdraught from a chopper as if it wanted to smother it. Like the brownout when the Slick came for Chris and Gobby.

  Who washed the dust out of their wounds? Did some of it travel home in their plywood coffins?

  Fuck it – he lights a bine.

  What is he going to say to Bekah? What arrangement of words can he come up with that would change anything with his sister?

  He walks across the Poors Allotment, treading down the heather, dropping ash into it. He sees the burnt-out car, its rusted hull pierced by birch saplings. Strangely comforting that, knowing even the ugliest things will disappear. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. What could grow out of him to obscure the sights in his head? They come at him in the day but worse at night. Sometimes, too anxious to sleep, he walks up and down Church Road or into the dark of the forest. Last Saturday, after pub closing, he kept going along the A30 as far as the golf shop on Jenkin’s Hill. Stood in its empty car park thinking: top spot for a sniper, you can see a mile down the road.

  He is level now with the telecoms tower. It stands behind gates and razor wire, though it wouldn’t be hard to get in if the fancy took him. He drops his fagbutt on the gravel and crushes it under his boot-heel. Has a quick sniff of his armpits. Tests his breath. She won’t chuck him out if he pongs, not without a second reason. Still, a man has his pride.

  In the Old Dean estate, people are either at work, asleep, or plonked in front of breakfast TV. Plenty of curtains are drawn and there’s nobody about on the pale grass between houses. Outside Bekah’s block he looks for Stu’s van, but it’s not there.

  He rings the buzzer and waits a long time. Probably she’s trying to pick Annie up, or yelling at Barry to turn his music down.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Bekah, it’s me.’ The intercom breathes static. ‘Can I come up?’

  She lets him in and he goes slowly up the stairs. The echoey landing, the dead tomato plants outside 2C, then ARCHER, Stu’s surname where theirs used to be.

  Bekah has put the latch on. He steps into the hallway that smells of last night’s supper and the nappy bin. There are noises from the utility space, where he finds Bekah putting a load on while Annie sits playing with an empty bottle of Fairy Liquid. His sister presents him with a hard, perfumed jaw to kiss. His niece pays him no attention – she knows Aitch has nothing for her.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming over.’

  ‘It’s not exactly far. Where’s Barry?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Stu’s at work, is he?’

  ‘Where else would he be?’ Bekah closes the drum of the washing machine and selects the economy cycle. Annie has shaken a drop of soap from the bottle and is spreading it with her foot on the lino.

  ‘I’m parched – can I get a glass of something?’

  ‘We’re out of squash.’

  ‘Tap’s fine.’

  Aitch escapes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass. He does a quick recce in the drawers and finds a pack of fags under some fliers. He shakes it at her when she comes in. ‘Silk Cut? That’s like inhaling air.’

  ‘Oi, thief.’

  ‘When d’you start on these?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ says Bekah, ‘they’re just in case.’

  ‘In case you give up?’

  ‘Go on, you can have one.’

  ‘Hardly worth it.’ Yet he scrabbles for a cigarette and steps out on the balcony to smoke it. A hand appears behind him and shuts the French window.

  When he’s down to the filter, he flicks the butt to the pavement and knocks for readmission. Bekah has made a brew and he sits beside her in the living room, Annie squatting on her heels making marks on the Etch A Sketch.

  ‘You just come to say hello?’ asks Bekah.

  ‘As opposed to?’

  ‘As opposed to having news. Job interviews, getting on benefits.’

  ‘I’m not a scrounger.’

  ‘Neither am I, but I take what’s owed to me and the kids.’ Bekah pushes a plate of chocolate Hobnobs his way. ‘So there’s nothing?’

  ‘Can’t I just come for company?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  ‘When Stu’s at work.’

  ‘He’s not gonna stop you calling.’

  ‘He stopped me living here.’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘I wasn’t taking up much space, was I?’

  ‘Harry, it was like having a fucking black hole in the living room. You sat around all day looking depressed.’

  ‘I needed something to do.’

  ‘Yeah and you got it.’

  The stacking job at the Co-op. Long days under neon. Christ, it was bone. But it got him out of the flat, out of Bekah’s hair. Till he decked a punter who startled him with a question about broccoli.

  ‘I’ll get myself sorted.’

  ‘How?’ Bekah stares at him. ‘What’s different, what’s changed since you were stoned on that sofa playing Xbox and watching …?’

  She can’t say it: filth. ‘You don’t think I can hack it.’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘No you don’t. You think I’m fucked for life, some wreck with a Rupert in his head telling him he’s shit.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ His little niece begins to whine. Bekah picks her up and Annie pats her mother’s face, almost slapping it. Bekah carries her into the bedroom and he can hear the quack and jingle of some kids’ cartoon. She comes back at him. ‘What are you talking about, a voice in your head?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘That’s not good, Harry.’

  ‘Don’t call me Harry.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  She stares at him. He looks for somewhere safe to bury his eyes. ‘Don’t you think you should see someone?’

  ‘Christ, if I’d known it was gonna be like this I’d have stayed in bed.’

  ‘Why’d you come and see me then?’

  He looks at her feet that are swelling over the edge of her grey pumps. Her ankles look grey, elderly. ‘I thought I could stay for lunch. Take Annie to the playpark. I don’t mean on my own – obviously you’d be there.’

  In the bedroom his niece laughs and shouts ‘dog, dog’.

  ‘I’m only doing spaghetti hoops,’ says Bekah.

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘Then I have to put her down for her nap.’

  ‘I won’t stop you.’

  ‘I’ll just go and check on her.’

  Even now he can’t talk to his sister. Like on tour, when he got his twenty-minute phone call. Standing there hearing the kids in the background and Bekah asking how he was, what it was like, and him thinking, I saw three men get vaporised in a drone strike, we held a memorial service in the cookhouse for a teenager from Crawley, I’m scared I’ll bottle it next time there’s a contact. None of this would have made sense b
ack home, so he told her it was hot and Gobby sent his love and how were the kiddies, how was work?

  The front door opens and he’s off the sofa before Stu has put his toolkit down. It’s as if he can smell Aitch, coming straight into the living room with his long snarky face. ‘Wasn’t expecting to find you here,’ Stu says.

  ‘All right, mate.’

  ‘Where’s Bekah?’

  ‘With Annie.’

  Stu is lean, a greyhound of a man, but he fills the room. ‘How’s things with the trendy vicar?’

  ‘All right.’

  He looks at Aitch down his long nose. ‘She’s relaxed with your mess, is she?’

  ‘She’s not up my arse like some RSM, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘She let you up her arse yet?’

  ‘Fuck off, Stu.’

  ‘Single woman, strapping young bloke under her roof. Sounds like something you’d watch on telly. Mind you, a lady vicar – she’s probably a lezzer.’

  ‘If all blokes were like you, who could blame her?’

  Stu wets his lips, grins. ‘Good to see you, mate. Staying long?’

  ‘Just came to see Bekah.’

  ‘Yeah, well you seen her now, ain’t ya.’

  His sister returns with Annie on her hip. ‘Dada,’ Annie cries and casts off from her mother into Stu’s arms. He makes a big show of kissing her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you back,’ Bekah tells Stu, and the lack of warmth in her voice cheers Aitch up.

  ‘You know me, efficient worker. I see we got the pleasure of a guest for lunch.’

  ‘Na,’ Aitch says, ‘it’s fine.’

  ‘You’re welcome, mate.’

  ‘I got things to do.’

  Bekah protests, or feels the need to pretend to. Even so he can tell she wants him gone.

  ‘You give my best to Barry, yeah? See you, Annie. Stu. Bex …’

  3

  The Heave

  First come our boy Malk.

  He hold the guidin stick, it bein his turn.

  He hold Abans knife. The knife they take off Feo in the bad time.

  Feo they slaver beat Malk so black Aban so blue one night they bled him like a porker.

  Runnin ever since with the blade that done it.

  Malk reckon a knife done red work cut a way for us. Stedders smell blood keep out its way an the way its people. Cant say for hoofers but they go sly an void the roads cos they gods say so.

  Aban talk bout the roads. The Thirsty with its robbers. The Empty where stedders have they tolls. So many dangers on our way to West Cunny. West Cunny where the rains still fall. Where Malk Aban Efia Nathin Becca Rona Lan headin. The pastures there. Tight bellies plus an end to roamin.

  Fastest ways the road, say Malk.

  Walk on till wind spew up sand an grit. Becca Lan pull they hoods tight. Nathin spit. Efia look at the spit, how Momma swallow it like she swallow everythin.

  On the road, say Aban, trollers see for miles.

  Yeah an we see em too.

  Trumpet finches bust up from the dunes. Aban put a hand on Malks arm, feel the muscles there. His bro, his mate from wayback.

  Safer ways off road.

  Aint nuthin but scrub an sand. What if we lose us?

  Follow the sun. Least we stay hid.

  I got the guidin stick.

  Whats it tellin?

  Malk look like he dont know.

  Efia touch Malks neck. Trollers mean slavers, she say. You got pricey heads.

  Malk feel Aban Efia Nathin Becca Rona Lan press eyes on him. He turn the guidin stick in his hand, feel the right grain of it, true grain that know the way an give rightness to its holder. Off roads slow, he say.

  Nuthin slow like never arrivin.

  The group all gree when Malk lift the guidin stick. Then Becca say she thirsty. Whole groups thirsty, say Rona, an suns gearin up for a hotten. One hour since dayup an the sands bakin, the airs meltin an carders workin up they skikishik. Lan give Becca the dregs from her jercan.

  In a kayshas shade we share beetle grubs cook in last nights ashes. Nathin give up three strips of jerk he bin keepin in his belt. The stink of jerk bring flies. We sit flappin our swats. Long wait fall on us then. No thinks, just breathin. Rest our eyes on the plain, all swimmy like water tho there aint none. Watch birds hangin up high, specks turnin to wild dog, camel, blackbuck.

  We cant stay here, say Malk. Grubs low an water too. How fars the nearest well?

  The Winnel, say Nathin. Bout an hour. Half at night.

  Stedder place, say Becca. Why risk it?

  Cos we jercans empty, say Rona.

  Winshams close, say Nathin. Shop there after.

  Can do, say Aban. Need fresh legs if stedders catch us.

  Well it is, say Malk liftin the guidin stick. Hole up an wet throats till nightfall. Then we shop at Winsham.

  In parch time a waterin place show from its palms an willows. We creep in slow, lookin out for stedders. Fresh earth smells. Hoopoes in the branches. Soil between our toes cool an sucky after sand an dust. Only mud tho so long the dry an stream gone underground. In wintertime a waterin place flood again or should do. Old wintertimes leastways before the rains fail.

  The Winnel have three wells. Two in use by stedders but one near us just gapin sayin, Coo-yoo, wet yer beaks here.

  We run to the well our jercans ready. Nathin Aban bend they backs to lift the bucket. Soon as done the group fan out lookin for things to eat. Lan find a ditch of slime boilin with frogs. We catch the frogs, stuff em in our packs, skewer em on sharpsticks. Good eatin if we risk a fire. Not tonight tho. Best eat raw. Keep out of stedders sight. Fat up our nerves for shoppin.

  Lan put a snail on her tongue an all the group laugh. Malk take out the knife an start to skin frogs. Efia watch the bodies fall at his feet like squirmy little blokes.

  Our jercans full, we hole up the day in a cork grove. Far enuf from hearin but close enuf to watch. Sussin out the doins on the Winsham palisades.

  When shadows spread, Aban crawl out thru scrub an grass to the gate of the sted. He look round, see women poundin grain, carryin water on they heads. Sentries dozin in a cedars shade. Others nabberin by the meetin tree. Creepin closer Aban find gaps in the fence, look at the market stalls. Suss out the grain store. Then snake an scrabble back to us.

  Wassup, say Malk.

  Hungers comin.

  How so?

  Winsham folk sellin goods an stocks. Fuelwood. Dung cakes. Nuthin blokes can sink they teef in.

  Less blokes eat shit, say Lan.

  What grains?

  Sorghum. Maize. Meat too an cows blood.

  Killin what they cant keep, say Rona.

  The group turn quiet. Look into the trees so pictures in our heads stay hid. None of us as dont know the pain of hunger.

  Abans first to bright up. Makes sense shop now then dunnit? Go in fast an quick.

  Take what? You say theres nuthin sellin.

  We aint buyin. Look they got grain stores on stilts. Keep rats an coons out give us nifty cover. Drill our way in.

  Like in Whey Bitch, say Becca.

  No, say Malk. This shop we get back. All on us.

  What if some don’t, say Becca.

  We go nifty. Not like last once.

  Sez you, say Becca an Rona hug her for quiet. Malk take his eyes off Becca slow an warnin.

  Boys go, say Nathin.

  Balls, say Rona. You shop grain stores we scout the sted. See whats goin.

  An the sentries?

  Run if we can fight if we cant. Malk take up his sharpstick. On my signal, he say. Click an slick.

  Slicks our movin. Clicks our speakin without words. All on us kneel in mud an black our faces.

  When the sun cook like an egg on the ground, its time. Hoods down. Turbs in place. Pray patches on our clothin. Sit in our heads readyin for danger.

  The sky hatch a fat moon. Nightspit on the grass an spidie threads like smoke on the ground. Cool breeze good
as sleep after the blazin day.

  Fires in the sted die out. Stedders go sleep in they huts. Only sentries pacin over the gate.

  Now, say Malk an we move. Like Aban before we shift cross the plain to our bizness.

  Malk bein strongest hoist us over. Lan Efia Rona Becca hide next a pigsty but Aban almost land on a billy, it run bleatin, bell janglin an Nathin go to split its throat but Malk stop him. Goats get spook for nuthin, he say, leave it be. Nathin nod tho his eyeballs dancin. Grains this way, say Aban an he click, Upyer.

  Aban wriggle under the grain store. Down in the dark best not think on rats or spidies. Lan Efia Nathin follow with packs open an Aban use the drill. Happen the floors made of wood so he blow dust from his hands an spin till a breakthru. Nuthin here so start again. An again. Fourth time some grain come tricklin so he gouge hard with his sharpstick an out it come like steam. Aban shove fast now makin holes an everyones sweatin, the sand an sawdust in our eyes, our packs gapin yorr an gobbin up the spillin grain.

  Outsight samewhile, Malk Rona Becca creepin bout the sted seein what they find tho nuthin much, all lock up for the night. Clothes dryin worth a trade. Some blokes hoe by a wall, a pair of sandals, a clutch of piggly pears. Malk Rona Becca drop when a watch pass nabberin too loud to know shoppers near.

  More clicks from Aban. Lan Efia Nathin scrape clear of the grain store, packs bulgin. Malk Rona Becca scurry to join us but Lans pointin, Look, an all look at lights winkin an wavin in the huts. Lanterns movin in the darkness.

  Quick!

  First Becca Rona jump over an fall crump on other side. Aban next then Nathin but the crys up, the watch hollerin an lantern lights nippin at our faces. Lan hop, she skip like shes standin on hot sand an quick, shout Malk, quick, but Lan run from the chasin lights. Malk reach out but grab only the wind of her. Toss over his loot, his sharpstick, help Efia an take a run after, splinterin his fingers, warpin his nails to get over.