The Devil's Highway

by Gregory Norminton

  ‘Rooted, yes, but you are stuck.’

  Bobbie stalks along the sandy path, murdering young pines. For the good of the land. For her own satisfaction. She sets her teeth against the resistance of a sapling. Her hands are tacky with resin and sharp crystals of pain twist in her lower back. The meagre soil begins to warp and fracture, the taproot snaps and she stumbles backwards, the miniature pine trembling in her fist.

  Her mother should have understood. She should have cut him some slack. He was grieving, wasn’t he? However difficult they all found Grandpa, he was still his father. Bobbie feels cold to imagine the same loss in her life. Her dear dad. She thinks of him searching the web at night, in Grandpa’s study, the hours he spends liaising with – or is it pestering? – the forestry ranger and the MoD who patrol the heath and woods. One thing’s for certain, he can’t be getting any work done. It’s almost a good thing her mother’s not around to see it.

  Bobbie calculates: four days since she last Skyped from Darfur. Her face flickering in a digital mist. Even when the picture froze, that calm-and-understanding voice droned on.

  ‘You look after your dad, Roberta. He’s an impossible man but we love him, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh yeah, you love him so much.’

  ‘It’s possible to love someone and not be able to live with them.’

  ‘How’s bloody Africa?’

  ‘Darling. I am coming back. And when I do, when my posting is over, I won’t go into the field for a long time, because you deserve to have me at home.’

  ‘Which home? Ours in Oxford, or some shitty flat in London?’

  ‘Home is where we are. We make it by being together.’

  Bobbie wheezes with the effort of pulling up a sapling. She uproots its green star and straightens to contemplate what she has done. Forty or fifty grubbed up – thousands remain. She tosses the tree to break down slowly in the heather.

  If he had a mission at his sister’s, he flunked it. Here he is back on his tod, tramping across the heath, for lunch a slice of white bread that sticks like gum to the back of his teeth so he has to scrape it off with his fingernail. What’s he going to do with this day he’s lumbered with? Lope back to the vicarage and veg out in front of property shows. Have a boredom wank in the lavender-scented bathroom. His mind creeps to the sachet of resin under his bed. He will skin up and lie back and let the skunk slap him on the head till he’s pinned down under it. Better than brooding on that cunt Stu. He wanted Aitch out from the moment he moved in. Aitch wasn’t exactly good for much. Up half the night, stubbing his toes in the dark and cursing. Playing shoot-em-ups on Barry’s Xbox. Relying on spliffs to get some kip and stinking out the flat so Bekah was in his face when he stumbled to the kitchen at lunchtime. He remembers the whispered lobbying – did Stu even care that he could hear them? – behind closed doors. ‘He’s gotta go, Bekah. We have responsibilities …’ And Aitch was stupid enough to hand him the ammo. Leaving cigarette burns in the sofa that time he fell asleep in front of Red Hot TV. It was still on, volume down, when his niece came into the room to play. Stu’s rage, Bekah’s look of betrayal – they burnt him up. So he went off to sleep on Donnie’s couch in his pokey flat in Camberley, till Donnie chucked him out for waking him up with his screaming.

  He watches his step, down the very gullies that he carved into the sand with his biking mates. He wouldn’t mind a ride, like in the old days, that engine throbbing beneath him. Half a click away, a couple of lads are chucking stones at one another for laughs. Aitch recognises his nephew Barry and that dickhead mate of his. He hails them but they don’t hear, or pretend not to.

  Jog on, Aitch – the lad’s ashamed of his homeless uncle. When he signed up, he told Barry he’d be in the army for twenty-two years. That’s longer than a Roman legionary! But he only served four. And now he’s back where he started, or further back, living off the charity of a vicar who found him dossing in the porch of her church.

  The Rev’s all right. She’s not stuffy like he’d imagined vicars. But then he’s never had a reason to dislike them. The padre was sound, he’d seen the good in Aitch, in all of them. Reckoned if there was sin in war, it belonged to the politicians. But then he wasn’t there, the day after Gobby and Chris – in the orchard.

  Aitch is back in the woods. The canopy of new leaves closes over him. There’s a smell of dry earth and something rotten.

  He can always tell Rachel that Bekah was out. Doctor’s appointment. Not that she’d interrogate him. There was only the once, that initial ‘chat’ about intoxicants in the vicarage. He told her not to worry about booze, his dad was a pisshead who fucked his liver, but the weed helps him to sleep.

  ‘I’m not addicted,’ he said.

  ‘It’s habitual.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we all got our little habits.’

  ‘Oh, for me it’s Maltesers and boxsets. All the same, I am answerable to higher authorities, so no getting stoned on the premises, OK?’

  He could have told her a thing or two about addiction. Coming out of the army is like coming off drugs, no one can really help you through it. The buzz of fighting – like nothing a civilian’s ever experienced. And you come back home and no one has the faintest clue, and you’re going cold turkey down the pub or in the bookie’s or just lying on your back in bed and this feeling, which is mostly nothing, will last the rest of your fucking life. Some days he can’t even remember why they were out there. Not for the Afghans. Not for Queen and Country. He fought for his mates, so he wouldn’t be the one who let them down. Only here he’s got no mates. Brewster’s still in uniform. Dan fucked off to Australia to shear sheep. Rolfie slotted himself with his father’s hunting rifle. It’s just Aitch on his own and the knowledge he sleeps with under his pillow. He’s an evil cunt and nothing the Rev says can change that. His heart will grow colder, it will darken till it’s nothing but a black stone in his chest. And some days, the worst days, that doesn’t even sound too bad.

  She is waiting for them at the barrier to the Poors, her arms folded over her chest to show them she isn’t impressed by anything they say or do. Darren and Barry. From the council estate. She met them three days ago when Darren was testing the suspension on his remote-controlled toy Jeep. Bobbie wouldn’t use the word ‘toy’ in front of him but that’s what it was, and they for all their swagger are children like her. Someone to hang out with, her secret friends, even if they do call her Robert and make fun of her accent and her reluctance to smoke.

  They greet her sullenly – Barry with his crewcut and ugly black scabs, never explained, on both elbows, Darren whose voice has already broken, who stares at her when he thinks she doesn’t notice.

  ‘About time,’ says Darren.

  ‘What? I was here before you.’ She sees Barry’s top lip part from his teeth in what may be a grin or a response to the sun.

  ‘Guess what we’ve found,’ says Darren.

  ‘What?’

  ‘D’you wanna see?’ asks Barry.

  ‘It’s not your willies, is it? Have you found those at last?’

  Barry reddens but Darren snickers: ‘You’re on fire, Robert.’

  ‘Rober–ta.’

  ‘What kind of name is that, anyway?’

  Darren gives his friend a shove. ‘What kind of a name is Barry, Barry?’ He peers at her from under his dark, tousled fringe. The way he swaps sides excites her. Confuses her too. ‘Why don’t you come and see,’ he says.

  The boys duck under the metal pole of the barrier and Bobbie follows. An orange-tip butterfly tumbles up from the warm gravel. Darren and Barry are running, looking across their shoulders to check that she’s coming. Deliberately she keeps to a walk. Let them skip ahead like billy goats.

  The boys hurry into the pines on the edge of Barossa Common, and for an instant she wonders if she should follow them. Her father would blow a fuse if he knew. But what is there to know? Why shouldn’t she have friends and do as she pleases?

  The air under the pines is close and smells o
f resin. The boys are looking at something. Heaped against the flank of a tree stands a mound of soil and pine needles. The surface of the heap stirs minutely – a simmering ferment. The boys are silent, and leaning closer Bobbie hears a noise from the hill like soft rain. These are wood ants, she wants to say. There are workers and soldiers, a complex society, almost one being. The soldier ants squirt formic acid – lower a stick in there and it will come out smelling like vinegar.

  ‘You got it?’ Darren asks.

  ‘Nicked it off my stepdad,’ says Barry.

  One of the soldier ants is clambering up Bobbie’s shoe. She doesn’t lean down to remove it because Barry is holding a small yellow bottle. The bottle has a long plastic nozzle. He hands it to Darren. Darren shakes the bottle and picks off the miniature cap. He takes a sniff at the contents. ‘Phwoar!’ He wafts the open nozzle in front of Barry’s face – ‘Thirsty?’ – then waves it at Bobbie. ‘How ’bout you?’

  ‘No,’ says Bobbie.

  ‘Just a sip. Might not kill you.’

  Darren reaches into his right-hand trouser pocket. He extracts his fist, shakes it and it rattles.

  The soldier ant has reached the bare skin of Bobbie’s ankle.

  ‘You wanna do it?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘We’ll let you,’ says Barry, ‘if you’re not scared.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Go on then.’ Darren is squinting at her as if there’s grit in his eye. He shakes the box and the matches chatter.

  ‘She’s a pussy,’ says Barry.

  ‘Shut up, dickhead,’ says Darren.

  Bobbie looks down. The soldier ant has clamped its jaws about her skin – a pinprick of fire.

  Darren points the yellow bottle at the anthill, like someone trying to work a remote control with low batteries. He squeezes the bottle and a fine jet spurts out. Bobbie sees the ants going about their business under this bitter rain. The bottle gasps and wheezes. Darren gives it a testing shake and throws it at Barry. ‘Your stepdad won’t mind,’ he says.

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  The pain from the ant makes Bobbie’s mouth water. She crumbles and smacks at it. Kill, kill!

  Darren has lit a match and is sheltering it with his hand as he lowers it over the anthill. A blue rill races away from the match, and whump, a dome of flame covers the heap. Darren and Barry whoop and squirm like little boys who need the loo.

  ‘It went up like a fuckin’ bomfire!’

  The anthill burns as fast and as hot as gorse. Bobbie realises that Darren is looking at her. She sees his slanting grin and the unconscious gyration of his hips. ‘That fire will spread,’ she says. ‘The ground’s too dry.’

  Barry kicks at the nest and vapour sallies from its choking tunnels.

  ‘We’ll have the fire brigade after us. Darren, I’m serious!’

  He looks at her. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘we’ll have to put it out.’ She sees him reach for his flies and unzip them. He extracts a pale tuber and grips it with his fingers.

  She turns her head as Darren pisses into the ant heap. ‘You gonna help me?’ he says when Barry sniggers, and now both boys have their backs turned, their shoulders hunched.

  Bobbie wants to run. She hates them. There’s a smell of ammonia and the nest is still smouldering. Darren and Barry beat it with sticks and try to smother it with pine needles kicked up from the ground. ‘Could do with more piss,’ shouts Barry, and both of them laugh.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she says, and she walks away. Barry calls after her derisively, and though she half hopes Darren might chase her into the open, she is also relieved when she gets to the Poors Allotment without company. She moves fast, her legs taut and burning under the sun, down the hill, past the blockhouse with its obscene graffiti. The slope and her momentum see her running, racing even, down the bridle path towards the trees. She hears the cooing of woodpigeons. Who did it, not me. Who did it, not me. A plump sound that belongs to summer – falling asleep on the old recliner under the oaks in her grandfather’s garden.

  6

  The Heave

  Too hot the day we go foragin on the heave in the shade of a woody hill. Becca Rona dig for sand crickets, Nathin hold the guidin stick bash a lizard an roast it on a pile of flints. Efia look thru the stores, pack after pack. She pass round the plasters then the jercans. Enuf water for a nuther day maybe two if we go slow after nightfall.

  Samewhile Malk Aban scout the country. Open sand an thorn an furze. Dips here an there with low pines cracklin in the heat. North theres Brag Nell, a fat sted tho we know best avoid it. Malk grip his sharpstick lookin left an right but Aban walk easy, chappin two stones together for the tickly orange spark an the rotty egg smell. Thru dry trees they come on a stone track. An old path of flint an dead branches. Trees creakin over it, lots blown down but still the ways clear. A stretch of it leadin west like the story say.

  Davys Way, say Malk.

  Must be, say Aban.

  Some hunnerd yards they follow the track, stoopin under tree trunks, clamberin over where stoopins impossible, till they know it go on for real. Dead roads story spoke far back as Stains an Winser. How once on a time a clever bloke call Davy come this way cross the stony desert an find a little boy weepin on a rock. Boo woo, say the little boy an Davy say, Wassup little boy, dont waste all that water in this desert so dry. Boy look up at Davy, see his pointy tail an say, Im cryin cos my mum an dad sent me out to pick rambles an now I cant find my way home. So Davy think on this some then say, Wheres yer mum an dad, an the little boy say, Where the sun set come nightfall. Sun set westway, say Davy, but listen we is east where the sun rise an wests far away but dont cry cos Davy can help you. Help me, say the little boy, an what for? What for, nuthin you aint usin just yer soul little boy when yer old an croakit then Davy come an take it. Far far off, say Davy, so far an I bet you cant even think on it. Home, say Davy. Homes waitin for you, mum an dads callin for you. What you say eh? So the little boy think, he cant see his soul nor smell it, where is it an all? So rightyer, he say, an they shake on it an like an earthquake the ground shake an cross the wastes before em a road appear straight like a spear. Up it crack an there it go from where the sun rise to where the sun set. Now run home little boy, say Davy, an the little boy run, he skip an leap for joy, mum an dad they will be glad, an he run home not once lookin back to see Davy wavin, an home he run an its hugs an kisses an safer sound till years pass, long happy years an the boy grow big an old like no time passin an hes lyin on his deathbed with his kiddies all round him an knock knock he hear, knock knock tho no one else can hear it an Davys back lookin like the day long ago an Wassup, say Davy, an he snatch him up an wrap him in his pointy tail an long a black an fiery road he take him to a hotter place an a lonesum an hes down there still cryin woe under the sharp tooth an claw of Davy.

  Malk Aban look long the road. Dont like it, say Malk. Like someones watchin us.

  Out here, say Aban, whod that be?

  Dunno. Just dont feel right.

  Least we know the way it go. No steds nor juntamen on it.

  Lets go.

  Fastest they can they push thru scrub. The brush so loud the carders shush an hoppers skit an scatter at they feet. No way now but forwards, so coverin faces with keffiyas Malk Aban crash on till trees fall back an thorns part an a mound, a great hump of earth, stand before em. A hill of sand an black stumps an ash where fires bin playin.

  Malk kick up a sign paint on wood but he cant read the words nor can Aban. They wonder bout the hill. Signs of campment here an there. Stone circles from cookin fires. Pieces of flint knap for cuttin. A bucket with nuthin in it but holes.

  Look say Malk an Aban follow his point to arrowheads an woodshafts here an there. Signs of fightin, tho from when who can say.

  Cross country eh, say Malk, an gob the dust.

  Here, say Aban, an he clamber down the hills rampart. Two shelves of earth an a dell below. Shelter from view down crumbly ribs of earth.

  Deep
under the hill a coverin of grass like a den for kids to play in. A special hidey place no grownups know. Lie down an all sight of yous gone. Like fallin under a wave of seed.

  Lyin face to face in the grass Malk Aban touch. Good for you mate?

  West Cunnys no closer.

  We sleep here. Group maybe. Build us up for the push west.

  Long Davys Way?

  If all gree.

  Just for one night, say Malk. Famines comin an war. Heave cant keep us.

  Two nights, say Aban, an back they go to fetch the others.

  Suns lower, not stabbin so hard when Malk Aban get back. Abans got a flint in his fist he find on the way. It catch his eye cos of its red colour an turnin it over he like the way it fit in his palm. Its shape like a womans body. Hes rollin it in his fingers nabberin to Malk when Malk click him to shush.

  Look. With Becca Rona. Some bloke.

  Wheres Nathin, say Aban.

  Malk, eyes burnin, turn over his sharpstick but Aban say, Easy. Hes got no weapon an girls dont look fraid.

  Could be slavers scout or bounty man.

  Well an if so hes found us. Best show him whos boss.

  So movin out open they walk an Aban shout, Sup, an all heads turn, the new blokes also. Scrawny like an old chook. Rags about him. Arms like tar ropes, the muscles showin an no inch of fat. Eyes big an fraid. A famish scaredy crow.

  Becca Rona up an say, Hes a friend.

  To who, say Malk.

  To us, say Efia. Hes lost.

  Wheres Nathin?

  Huntin.

  With the guidin stick?

  We dint need guidin, say Efia, just waitin for you.

  Aban look to her case these words only an dangers ready to come hollerin thru the trees. But he find no bad in her face an put a hand on Malks shoulder tho Malk shrug it off an go to the new bloke an stand in his face sayin, Whos this then whos this?

  Salam, say new bloke.

  Malk say, Im the leader on this group an ousters aint welcome.