The Devil's Highway

by Gregory Norminton

  He can sense her discomfort, but why pretend it was otherwise – that they didn’t scream for joy when their enemies burned? ‘Where’s your footage now?’ she asks.

  ‘Wiped it when I got home. I’d put it on YouTube but what was the point?’

  ‘Historians might find it interesting.’

  ‘Historians!’ Aitch laughs. Oh, that tickles him! ‘You think anyone’s interested in shaky night footage filmed by some tom in a sangar?’

  ‘It’s authentic, filmed by heroes.’

  ‘I’m not a hero.’

  ‘Lots of people would disagree.’

  ‘People are full of shit. It’s all “Our Brave Lads”, but when you get home you hardly exist. Everyone’s got their gadgets and they’re laughing at cat gifs and X Factor and it’s all so fucking trivial, like you want to kick people, you want to shout, because every fucker you see’s just so much meat on legs, they’re flesh and bone and brain packed in a bag of skin and I know … I’ve stained your tablecloth.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I can’t even hold a coffee.’

  ‘It’ll come out.’

  Aitch holds his cup as if it were a small bird that has flown into a window. ‘Sorry about the swearing.’

  ‘What swearing? You were very eloquent.’

  ‘Yeah?’ There’s a new word to describe him. Not so eloquent he can tell her the half of it.

  The Rev picks at the shreds of her croissant. ‘I want to tell you. I’ve been in touch with Veterans Aid. There’s someone who’d like to meet you.’

  It’s too soon. She’s given him no time. She’s pressuring him – just like Bekah, like Stu. He sees the dismay on her face but that’s not his fault. Interfering do-gooders. Fucking treehuggers.

  ‘She sounded very friendly. She sees men like you all the time.’

  So this is why she laid on the spread. To soften him up before the news. ‘I’m going for a run …’

  ‘You have to face it some time. Stay and finish your breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ He mumbles an apology and dashes back to his room, to his clobber.

  She leaves him to it. No calling his name up the stairs, no tender knock on his door. In five minutes he’s ready, shemagh round his neck, the Bergen on his back with a couple of bricks in it to keep him honest. He slips out, taking his spare key, and races down Vicarage Lane, past the last houses, into the pines and the tunnel of trees.

  He runs and runs till there’s a stitch in his side like someone’s opened a zip in his ribs. He slows to a jog. There’s acid foam in his mouth. He gobs it into the brambles.

  He isn’t kind to the Rev. Considering all that she’s done for him. Never puts him down. Likes a drink and all. That time he got back from Donnie’s to find her on her tod in the living room with a bottle of red and she invited him to join her. Of course her head is full of books. She talks like one of those boffins off the telly. But he likes the way she lets him in, doesn’t treat him like some dumb fucker.

  ‘The problem is,’ she said that night, ‘we’ve become a society of death worshippers.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘James Bond is our saviour. It’s all drones and smart-bombs, toys for boys. But the first gods were female. Earth Mother worship is our default spirituality. When you decide that trees and animals are only things for your convenience, you’re on the road to destruction. I dare say, when the book gods are forgotten, humans will return to our first beliefs, and who’s to say we won’t be better off for it?’

  ‘You’re a fucking Christian, ain’t ya?’

  ‘I am a fucking Christian.’

  ‘So isn’t that, like, blasphemy?’

  ‘I’m not a fundamentalist, Aitch. I don’t do blasphemy. Just doubt. Honest doubt.’

  ‘Our padre didn’t have doubts.’

  ‘Good for him. How would they have helped you?’

  That was the one time she’d gone heavy on the God stuff. Better than some of the believers he’s met. On leave in Dubai, drinking non-alcoholic beer in a shitty bar, that lumbering septic with a goatee guessed he was a soldier, called him over. Bloke said he was a bodyguard in Kabul working for an NGO. Ex-Marine. Tours of duty in Iraq. Aitch was too bored to interrupt him, too sober. The Yank told how he used to lead his squad in prayer. Asking God to ready their souls so they could face danger armed and righteous. The guy leaned in till Aitch could smell his breath. ‘Their Allah is a false god. You can’t say that in the military but it’s true. Their prophet’s a false prophet – that’s why they have to kill for him. I’ve seen good men die from IEDs. Blown to shreds below the waist. For what? Longer we’re in Afghan, the more these sand niggers gonna come back at us five, ten years from now. Maybe if they’d given us the means. Like in Iraq? We were fighting with our hands tied behind our backs. We got weapons to bomb them back to the Stone Age but that ain’t our ROE. You’re what, now, twenty, twenty-one? I won’t live to see it but you might. Because we’re soft, they’re gonna win. I tell you, the way they breed, there’ll be sharia law in Washington by the time you’re an old man …’

  Aitch knew it was bollocks, but he also knew where it was coming from. How do you fight people who love death? Who crave it? Aitch hated them for their recklessness, and they hated the gora feringhee, red-faced foreigners, in their country, on their turf. If the tables were turned, wouldn’t he do the same as them?

  As for the civilians – poor, stony-faced bastards – they had nothing. There’d been a drought for years. Some of them looked like they belonged in the Middle Ages, medievals with drones coming at them from the sky. He saw the carnage they endured, the fucking shambles. Scorched rubble of a mud hut. Lumps and shreds of Talib in a blackened tree. And a boy of four or five, in a red woollen jumper and tracksuit trousers, lying in the blast zone with the top of his head missing. Dust covered the little body and its wound, so that the face, and the scorched cavity of bone, seemed made of cardboard. Now all children he meets have paper skulls. He knows how easily they can be broken.

  Run, Aitch, run. With the burden on his back. Through another stitch and a quick, cleansing puke in the heather. He hits the long straight track he was looking for. Follows it till he reaches the clearing where the ancient fort stood. The sun bearing down on him. Nobody about on the wide scrubby shield of the hill. Only a kid in the distance sitting on the ground, staring into the trees.

  9

  The Heave

  Dayup an sleeps broke by a flock of minas all croakin clickin whistlin an Nathin try to sling one out the trees. Lookin bout he see smoke rise westway an kites turnin.

  Nathin kiss the pray patches on his shirt an turn to Old Fort for a piss.

  Dowd wake next an Malks eyes on him from the heap of limbs. Aban scratch an turn an Becca moan. Hungers eatin at her guts, buttin her with its pointy head sayin, Me me me. Efia put a hand on Beccas eyes. Keep the day out. Keep out the sun that boil the brain in its cauldron of bone. Burrow out of wakins pain. Stay in sleep a minute longer.

  Nathins scream shake everyone. Like a spidie when you poke it the group jerk up, Malk with his stick, Aban his an Efia Rona Becca run an Nathins shoutin, Bones bones! By the bank he stand, cock out, face white, eyes bulgin. Pointin at the earth.

  Malks first an others after. Nathin look at us then stare at the ground. His piss a dark clot of sand but hes pointin beside it. At the bones juttin out like dead roots.

  They trip me up. I kick em, say Nathin. I kick em an theres more fuck oh fuck.

  Easy, say Aban.

  Efia kneel an touch the bones. Some crit, she say. Maybe donkey. You say crits? Nathins sweatin heavy. Crit bones only?

  For show, say Malk. Dead so long even foxy leave em.

  No, say Dowd. Thats a femur.

  What?

  A mans thigh bone.

  Oh its a bloke, shout Nathin, its a bloke!

  Mans bone my arse, say Malk. Could be any ole corse.

  Look, say Dowd an he start scoopin an scrapin
into the bone dirt. Theres more than one skeleton.

  Lets go, say Malk.

  But Dowds still diggin on his knees now like a dog or coon, the sand flyin an bones barely hid risin like yewka shoots out the bank. Stop it, say Malk, its ole its done.

  Look, say Becca an from the place where hill an ground meet a skulls upper come rollin over. Rona Becca Aban Efia crowd bout so Dowds diggin in shadow. Stop, say Malk an Nathins holdin his head, tearin at his hair, the sweat on him thick an, Its a sign, he say, its death comin after us. First the kites now this its a sign.

  Shut yer gob, say Malk. Its just an ole bone dump.

  But we sleep on em, say Nathin. We sleep on corses I piss on em they gonna rage gainst me gonna come after me –

  Enuf now, say Efia, an Dowd look over his shoulder when she touch him an all on a sudden its like his string go, he kneel still an pantin. Bones big as sticks, small as twigs, lyin about. Aban take a second skull an gouge the sand out its eyeholes. There are many people buried, say Dowd, in this old fort.

  So leave em, say Malk breakin up Dowds shade. Leave hid whats hid.

  What if Nathins right, say Becca, an we curse for diggin em up?

  Bad place, say Nathin, bad place.

  Not bad, say Malk. One place is lots of places if you wait long enuf. Aint no good place nor bad place. We just flies on em.

  Bones dont like disturbin, say Becca. Curse follow us faster an you can walk. Turn bove us like birds.

  Peck out our eyes, say Nathin.

  Fucks sake shut it. Aban turn to Malk say, Get that ouster on his feet. Diggin bout like a poxy dog.

  Arrowheads, say Dowd like he hear nuthin Aban just say. Pinchin between finger an thumb two rusty iron points. He wink at em an hold em to the light.

  Aban put down the dug up skull. Lets go, he say. Roads waitin an we best be off before suns too hot.

  Malk scowl to see the group all gree. Why Abans word carry now not his? Nathins tremblin still an Malk say to him, You scaredy crow. Fuckin girlyman Nathin.

  Malk –

  Shut yer gob an get the dewcloths.

  Campment clear quick away. Packs up an Aban hold the guidin stick while Rona Efia Becca take rations an quipment an Nathin Malk load saltmeat, the tarp, the dewcloths wrung out into jercans. No eatin yet nor none till suns up an hotter. Then rest an maize or piggly pears. Hard grub for the hard trek.

  South we go thru juniper scrub an the carders windin up they heat music. Rona follow Aban head down case grub show up. Efia wait for Becca where she trampin slow behind.

  Wasser matter, say Efia, why you draggin? Becca shush her with a finger an scratch at the scabby rash on her arm. Becca, say Efia, why you actin like you gone looper?

  Not actin, say Becca her voice low an eyes shifty. Bad luck innit. Fendin gainst the dead. They spirits find you.

  Not us, say Efia. We dint mean bad.

  Maybe not but look. Butterflies. They followin us.

  They aint.

  Cos they spirits of the dead. You know its true. Like dragonflies sew up yer lips with twine an roaches nest in yer throat if you sleep with yer gob open.

  Well, say Efia, so we go fast an shufty. Leave em bones behind.

  Nathins to blame, say Becca. He dig em up.

  Nathin hear this an, Im not, he say runnin back thru grass an ashes. Aint my bad nor dont you say so Becca.

  Bad lucks on us all then, say Malk comin after. Stand up to it together. Groups stronger than lonesum.

  We find the road soon. Or it find us. Davys Way.

  Aban go first an Dowd after, tho not as one. Nathin his face hot an wet say to Efia, Its that new bloke. Dowd. He come on us an first nights in a bone dump.

  Efia look ahead at the tall stridin boy. Cant find it in her to gree with Nathin tho shes also fraid of curses. Malks pist at you, she say to change the talks walk.

  Maybe Im pist at Malk.

  Youd never dare, say Becca an Nathin look at her like he want to push her in the road an give her a kickin. Yeah, he say, its all that fuckin ousters fault.

  Two miles we cover. Speakin little once the suns up. Sand shimmerin ahead. Efia pull at the bark peelin off a yewkas trunk. How trees sunburn too. Like Efias skin when long ago with Lan she scape from hitchin.

  Come the hottest of the day we halt. Drink from our jercans the last of Winnel water an nightspit from the dewcloths. Eat a bite. Moan as bellies wake to say, More but there is none. Malk tell Dowd to feed his self. These our rashuns, he say, dig for yer own ouster boy. Yet Efia slip Dowd some lizard meat.

  Grub gone we rest under yewkas next to Davys Way. Rona singin soft, Becca Nathin thinkin on ghosts an Malk on Dowd whos kneelin with his hands in the dust. Efia go to sleep but a scritchy sound wake her. Its Aban. Hes got his red flint in one hand an Feos knife in the other. Lookin hard at his stone. Scorin it with his knifes point. Efia dont ask him what hes doin. She lie back an listen to the carders song. Minutes pass slow. Eyes close. Heads nod.

  Malk, say Dowd. Aban look!

  Efia groan, Wasser matter? Dowd take her arm an point up the road where a figures sittin. Back to a tree stump. A bloke maybe tho hard to say. Bony for show. A rag bloke in a stainy curta, his skin like a dog or crow just dig him up. Aban shudder an press gainst Malk whisperin, Davy? Is it Davy? But Malks not sayin. He step up, step back, grip his sharpstick an yell, Hoy! The rag bloke dont move. Wassup, say Malk, you in trouble? Still the figure dont move, dont say nuthin, just sit there facin us.

  Best go see, say Efia.

  What an if, say Nathin, hes a juntaman? Could be a trap. He bring us over an nets drop on us an bastards got him a fresh batch of slaves.

  Could be hes got stuff for trade, say Efia. Hut someplace or he know the land an its ways.

  Malk say, Right an all gree to see the bloke up close. Malk Aban Nathin go first an Rona take the sling, Dowd a yewka stick he pick up. When we get to the bloke we see hes an old git, all munchy gob an drippy eyes, his skin sunk an arms like they got no flesh in em. The bloke dont seem to mind us standin there, he stare straight up Davys Way to West Cunny like hes guessin our direction. When Aban speak he dont flinch nor look up tho Abans voice is soft an Efia feel it in her gut like a twist of hunger.

  Wasser matter, say Aban, you hurt?

  The old bloke say nuthin, dont twitch, so Aban say, Where you from eh? Sted nearby is it? Brag Nell or Bad Shot? Watcher doin out here on a hotten ole feller like you an no water nor nuthin to keep you?

  The old bloke dont move, only the skin twitch in his neck like his pulse live up there. Efia reach in her pack for grub but Malks hand stop her. Malk aim his sharpstick so it point close to the old blokes eyes. You lone or what, say Malk. Cos if you got mates dont mean us good –

  Malk!

  The old bloke reach behind him. Its like a piece of earth just come to life an all step back but Malk who jab his stick. From the tree stump behind him the old bloke pull out a blade. Sharp thing of iron. Good for cutting, like butchers use. Big enuf to gut a man. Whoa, say Malk you hold it there.

  The old bloke do like hes told. Holdin the blade out, his arm like its a heavy weight, an then without lookin up or openin his gob he tilt the handle towards us. Like hes makin a gift of it.

  What, say Malk. You tradin that?

  The old bloke lift his head like to meet Malks eyes. Nearly meet em. Each balls gone milky. Cloudy eyes see nuthin maybe. The blokes other hand stir in the dust, it lift slow like its twice the blades weight an two fingers rise to his throat an scrape the skin there.

  Fuck, say Aban.

  Again the old bloke drag his fingers cross his throat. Hes looper, say Malk downin his sharpstick.

  He want you, say Nathin, to bleed him.

  Shut up.

  He want you to cut him Malk.

  Shut yer gob Nathin!

  The old blokes arm with the blade in its still up tho tremblin now with effort. What, say Becca steppin closer, what you wanna die for?

  The dusty face thats done nuthin so far s
plit. It crack, like mud in the sun, into a grin. A leer.

  Hes old, say Nathin. No more use to no one just a belly to fill. Crawl out on the heave an feed the crows aint that right feller?

  With effort the old bloke lift up the arm with the blade in it till its in Malks reach an Malk lash out, knock the tremblin hand, bash the blade out its grip an it fall on the ground between em.

  Sicko bastard, say Malk lookin from face to face cross the group. Efia. Rona. Lookit this ole peedo. Aint got balls to end his poxy life.

  Leave him, say Becca.

  Aint got balls. Stinkin looper, say Malk an he spit on the old bloke. Then like this aint enuf he reach down an fling sand in his face.

  We stand lookin at the spit an sand on the old blokes face. All but Nathin. He stare at the old blokes eyes, how they gone down like his arms, an its like no words find him like hes asleep. Malks speakin still cos hes shamed of the fear in him an Nathin look at the drop blade, at the old bloke, the group standin bout him like its a dream we sharin, an Nathin find hes bendin down. His knee by the blade, his fingers walk till they stumble on stone. His fingers close over a flint. Nathin look at Malk sayin black words at the old bloke. Malks eyes hid by land shinin behind him. All cross the heave the suns poundin an Nathins blood poundin with it, like its too hot to hold in his body an poundin in his skull, Malks voice an voices of all of us callin him a scaredy crow, a girlyman.

  Nathins flint catch the old bloke on the cheek. The man jerk an his cheeks white a sec, then out the blood creep. Nathins standin like hes still throwin the flint, he see the blood come out of the blokes face. Malk stare up Nathins arm an Nathin see the look an down he bend again, the sun throbbin in his skull, an scoop stones up an grit. He throw the lot an the old bloke inch back then sit still, the blood tricklin down his face. Nathin scream at the old bloke, then Malks screamin then Aban. The boys holler an the girls start up an all on a sudden theres more stones flyin. Efia see Rona Becca bend an throw an Malks findin sharp flints, Abans launchin stone after stone, his body twistin like Malairs got him. The old bloke put up his scrawny arms as stones knock him an bite an Efias throwin now an Malk hurl a great rock an the old blokes gob open like a snakes when you stick it an theres a hole in his scalp sprayin red mist.