by Jason Beech
The first barrage of apples hit the walls, too low to take anybody’s eyes out. The second: a mixture of too low and too high. Anthony finally hit a kid who popped his head out at the wrong time. The apple exploded satisfyingly as it hit his temple, knocking him backwards. F-bombs overpowered the sound of apples which splattered or whizzed by. Anthony in turn got hit on the shoulder. He enjoyed the sting. Lusted for another hit.
The rules, Trevor had explained, meant that once you stepped out of the fortress to replenish your apple ammunition, or for any other reason, a hit meant you must stay in that spot until a fellow soldier tagged you for rescue. Anthony admired anyone who followed the rule, but he wouldn’t want to get hit out there. Trevor helped man the opposite fortress, an enemy for now. He ran out of apples and emerged with a war cry. A ginger kid Anthony had never seen in his life hit Trevor. Trevor went down and called for rescue. Another apple hit him – in the chest, another in the leg, another on the side of his head, one more right on the nose.
“Anthony, fucking stop,” he yelled.
Anthony didn’t hear. What a roll. Every apple had hit its target, each a delicious bit of revenge. Why did Samantha punch him, all playful? She called him an arsehole. Well, look at this arsehole now. I created a few more holes for him.
As Anthony scrabbled by his feet for more ammo, a body crashed into him. Trevor had rugby tackled him and meant to blacken his ribs.
“What you doin’?” Anthony shouted.
“What am I doin’? Are you serious?”
Trevor towered over him, Anthony’s view of his so-called pal veiled by his breath.
“I was just playing, Trevor. I never played this before. I just wanted to win.”
Anthony tried what he had with his dad.
“New rule ...” Trevor laughed. Pulled apple from his hair. “You don’t pound a man down in the field.”
“What? Ever?”
“I mean when they’ve already been hit.”
Anthony grinned, an appeal for admittance back into Trevor’s good books. Trevor pulled him up, held his hand and forearm steady, and accepted him.
“Good shots, Ant.”
“Ta. Not bad to say I’ve never played.”
He checked Glenn’s reaction. He had stood ready to join Trevor in his beating. He failed to hide his disappointment at Anthony’s comeback. Darren and Andy threw apples at bird nests and tree trunks.
They bounded through the streets. Anthony slung the plastic bag full of good apples over his shoulder. His mum could make a pie from them. He kept quiet, worried about Glenn. He did not want to break the gang’s chemistry, despite his dislike of him. It terrified him that they might kick him out. Darren and Andy hung on the gang’s coattails, but Glenn seemed important to Trevor’s social life. Anthony saw them together all the time, and it annoyed him that they had not yet knocked on his door to see if he wanted to play out. He always had to find them.
He did not want to go back to his old life, the one Brent lived now. The lonely boy walked ahead of them, maybe a hundred feet away. Anthony nudged Trevor, then Glenn. “Look.”
Brent took a right turn into the woods. Trevor smirked and the gang knew the plan. They followed. Deep into the woods, Brent finally noticed their presence, like a rabbit had seen a fox. Their pace picked up, as did his. They knew the boy wanted to run, but fear prevented him in case his fears came true. Brent turned and faced them, his puppy eyes in obeisance to his tormentors. Anthony peered into his past. Made his stomach turn. Wondered how he had ever been like that. His body heat popped small beads of sweat in fear he could return to it.
“Hi.” Brent’s voice pitched high.
The boys formed a semi-circle. Answered him with silence. Anthony broke it with an apple throw to the boy’s head which sent him sprawling in the wet brown leaves. Anthony threw another - then one more before swinging a kick at him.
“Whoa.” Trevor pulled at Anthony’s coat sleeve.
Anthony saw and heard nothing but his own rage. He remembered the last time he saw Brent, stood at the arcade machine when he had done a runner with the bag of chips. Brent had identified him to the chip shop woman. The memory deserved another kick. The whimper turned to a grunt as the boy swung a broken branch which caught Anthony’s exposed wrist. He staggered back until a tree let him go no further. The boy, emboldened, stood and hit him again. Broke the end of the branch on Anthony’s knee. Anthony fell, his teeth bared and gritted. Exhaled/inhaled in slow control to ease the pain. He looked to his boys, his gang. Darren and Andy stood ready to defend their mate, but Glenn and Trevor barred them.
“What you doin’?” he shouted at them.
“You started it, mate,” Trevor said. “You better take it.”
Brent glanced over his shoulder and Anthony saw the strength he gained in Trevor’s words. He watched, mouth open, as Brent raised the branch above his head. He shielded his head the best he could as the branch smashed down hard on his forearm. It felt like a million bone splints daggered every millimetre of flesh. He keeled over to his side as he heard Brent crackle numberless twigs lying broken, like him, on the ground.
5. Refresh
The boys visited Anthony as he convalesced in bed. Trevor assured his parents he would look after him and not let him climb any more trees.
“I like that boy,” Anthony heard her say to his dad when he hobbled to the toilet.
“Anthony,” Trevor said once they were all free of adults.
“Trevor.” Anthony nodded. Acknowledged Glenn, Darren and Andy at the same time. He didn’t know what to say or feel. He had grown to love their company, but wished Glenn would leave the city or, even better, the country.
“We’re here to sign your pot.”
He wanted to ask “Not to see me?” but pride got him. Trevor had a long sniff of the marker pen. As he wrote, Anthony asked, “Why didn’t you stick up for me?”
He caught Trevor’s glance at Glenn. “Mate… we followed him to put the wind up – nothin’ else. You went too far. Bloody hell, what were you thinkin’?”
Anthony mumbled . I don’t know. You could have stopped him hitting me with the branch.”
Glenn chipped in. “Who do you think we are? We’re not bullies, Ant. You were out-of-order. You deserved what you got.”
Anthony’s glare lasted a moment, but shame cooled him. Glenn signed his pot and said, “You go too far sometimes, that’s all… But we can remain friends right?”
He gulped and hoped his eyes had not reddened or moistened. All he could muster was a nod. Realised they had all come to his house for the first time. Progress.
*
The smell reached up his nose and bull-ringed him in. His dad helped him forwards, standing behind to back his son’s character. Gladys dissipated the smell of chip-fat, as did Samantha - awaiting a large family order. He hesitated. Every cell in his mouth turned desert dry. He swallowed a gulp and worked enough spittle to make words flow.
Gladys placed all her weight on one leg, rested a hand on a hip, and embodied the dictionary definition of disdain. Anthony shuffled his feet. Samantha had not said “hi.” He feared Trevor had told her about Brent.
He took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry, Mrs McKinnon.”
Gladys’ look bore resemblance to the severe statues he saw around town of ancient men who had slain so many people they couldn’t count them anymore, except to round them up to the nearest thousand.
He tried again. “Mrs McKinnon, I was wrong to steal the chips.”
He nearly made an excuse - he had been so hungry he had forgotten to think about money. But that would not have explained his ability to run away. It would also have made him look pathetic to Samantha. The girl looked between the three of them, fascinated and worried at the same time.
“I don’t know what I was thinking… I… just know that I was wrong, and I want to…” He pulled out a handful of silver and bronze coins, most of it silver this time, and carefully counted for the price of his theft. “Th
at’s for the chips last time… and… if you let me... this is for another bag of chips… for me and me dad.” He wanted to pay for Samantha’s too, but he had not expected her and so did not have enough.
The woman melted. “You daft bugger,” she scolded with a laugh. “Of course you can have them.”
She slid the coins into her other hand without counting, and wrapped up two bags of chips. He slid them into the crook of his arm and made sure his “thank you” made the best possible impression. He nodded to Samantha as he left.
His dad remained for a moment to make his own apologies. He grabbed Anthony’s head in a bear hug when he came out, knuckle-scrubbed his scalp, let him go, and said, “Proud of you, son.”
He thought his smile could not expand further without breaking skin. Samantha widened it when she gave him the best fingertip wave as they walked by the window.
Tripping Up
Brett fumbled his phone in his rush to open his rusty car door. It took valuable seconds to realise he had locked it, a habit formed from the neighbourhood where he grew up. Once he found the correct button he lunged out into the quiet side-road, only distant traffic and the crackle of flames reaching his ears. He pulled the blanket from his car boot and paced himself, careful not to turn his ankle on the old cobbles.
“It’s the twenty-first century,” he complained to himself. “Get some tarmac down.” The flame from the car flickered in his eyes.
He'd made a few mistakes lately. Pissed his boss off to an extent he'd never seen. He rubbed his bruised ribs and the line Tom had nicked in his nose. He heeded the warnings now. He blamed Annie.
*
Ah, but how could he blame Annie? He couldn't cast aspersions on her for his falling in love. The barmaid at The Crown pub had a smooth Yorkshire accent. Its honeyed lilt sweetened his uptight southern soul. She made all those London accents he'd grown up with grate his ears.
“Sheffield?” he'd asked.
“York.” She poured his lager.
“Oh...”
“Correct county, love, so no need to frown.”
Her wink smoothed his brow. His hard heart thawed and pumped.
He had spent weeks chasing Annie. He'd chased beautiful Annie for weeks now. She rebuffed him at every turn. Fell for nothing. He handed her his number. “Test it on your phone. Go on.”
“Later. I'll do it later.”
He wrinkled his nose and mumbled. Coughed his throat clear. “I'm single.”
“I'm single, too. Might be the bout of herpes.” She performed a little skip to her next customer, a smirk a smack to his chops.
An old man, always sat on the same stool by the bar drinking a Chivas Regal, tapped a beer mat on the bar. “Take the hint, son.”
Brett had no idea what he meant. Thought he should just shut the fuck up.
*
He awoke this morning in realisation. He had never asked her out. She wanted a direct question - a Yorkshire bird after all. He would do this job and tonight she would put her arm through his.
Now, the heat from the flames loosened his skin, tightened as it had been from the below-zero morning. The man inside the blazing BMW - a very nice Gran Coupe - flapped moth-like, except definitely not attracted to the flame. Brett used the blanket to pull the handle and get the man outside. Action meant Brett didn't feel much protest from his ribs.
This time he had done a fabulous job. His boss would pat him on the back, stick a roll in his hand, and give him access to more high-end work. The man tumbled to the ground. He flailed and screamed, the fire from the trunk of his body in search of hair. Brett smothered him with the blanket. Batted the flame down to a wisp of smoke. He stroked the man’s follicles to comfort him into silence.
“This is just the warning,” Brett said, his tone conversational. “If you can do anything after this, make sure it doesn’t conflict with our interests.”
The man, known as Golden Gob for his gold tooth, had tried to muscle in on their turf, cutting into their income. His fancy cars showed a lack of subtlety. He not only brought attention to himself, but to everyone who worked the wrong side of the law.
He stared for a moment at the man’s teeth, shown by the wide arc of his pained mouth. None of them gold. He examined the man closer, then his car. He had the correct car – but not the right man.
“Annie, what have you done?” He backed away and stumbled over the cobblestones.
The Spartan
1.
Agis stood above his prey, pleased the bloodied man had challenged him. His opponent had run away at first like the animal Messenians are, but when cornered had turned to face him. Agis saw the hatred which might destroy Sparta if he didn’t finish him. The edge of the cliff forced the man’s decision. He could jump and do Agis’ work, or give himself a chance. He nodded at the man’s correct decision. The man lunged –, surprised him with a well-aimed grasp of his neck. His fingers dug into his windpipe. Agis remained calm. Knew his gods looked after him. Though the man held his other arm, Agis had the strength born of a hundred whippings to plunge his dagger into the man’s neck and up through his skull. The man fell and signalled his death with a gurgle of blood in his throat. Agis wiped the splash on his face with his own tunic. Felt his city in the fabric’s scratch. The Messenian had the gall to claim the name Agamemnon, and had talked of his country’s history. Dangerous. His lack of servility invited rape and plunder on his Sparta. Agis wiped his blade on the man’s tunic and looked to the hills for food.
2.
Myrto rubbed the sting from his father’s blow. “Dad,” he whined.
“Don’t dad me, Myrto, you little bastard. This fruit is precious. Do not eat it on the job without my permission, or that sting will be the least of your worries. Now continue picking or I’ll set the Spartans on you.”
Myrto feared the Spartans more than his dad. His normally fearless old man shrunk at the city’s name said aloud. “Don’t set the Spartans on me; I won’t eat any more.”
His dad turned to the hills, hand over his eyes for shade. They stood side by side and hoped the glint they saw up there nothing more than the shine of the hot afternoon sun bouncing off a stream.
“Lad, you must never talk publicly of your wish to throw the Spartans out of our country. It will come back to bite you in the arse.”
“I don’t, dad.”
Myrto’s head jerked to the left as his father took a grip on his right ear that must surely have ripped it off if he had pulled any further. “I hear you, son, fighting with the other boys, playing war, talking about slaughtering those pigs from the south. And my ears are not what they used to be.”
Myrto wriggled, but the attempt to free himself induced more pain than if he stood still. He let his father have his way, and became limp.
“Listen to me carefully. The Spartans fear us. We’re clever people. Our ancestors won many Olympic awards before our subjugation. We had riches and an independent spirit they hated.”
“But they won, why do they hate us now?”
“Because we still hanker for all the things they despise. And if we get our freedom, they know what awaits them.”
His dad’s grip loosened, and tightened again. Myrto subdued a whimper. Wanted to show his manliness. His dad nodded at the hills, his thoughts on the glint. “They come every year, hunting us. Show servility boy and you live. Keep your mouth shut and we can continue to pick fruit together.”
Myrto didn’t feel the pleasure in that prospect now, but he nodded as much as he could without making the pain worse.
His dad placed the back of his hand on Myrto’s cheek. “Your skin is still soft, and you have no sign of a beard yet. Live for that future. Die as a man, son. Not now as a boy.”
He let him go. Myrto shared glances between the hills and his dad, and wondered where the greater danger lay.
3.
Agis drank from the stream. Examined his reflection. A nobody. Nothing but the extended flesh of Sparta. He wanted more. Killing helots whette
d his appetite only so much. His mentor, Pharnaces, had fought the Athenians and wasted them, and even he paled compared to the three hundred at Thermopylae. Men would speak of them in a thousand years, if not eternity. They probably talked to the gods now, and even those mighty beings must envy their feats. He spun round, unnerved at his blasphemy. The air shifted. Agis hoped because of the heat, and not punishment from the gods. Only bugs attacked him, eating his legs as if he was the goat that stared at him from the precipice above. He clenched his teeth to the blade and made the climb towards his meal.
4.
Myrto had spent all day collecting so much fruit he thought thirst would kill him. He checked over his shoulder. His dad counted his batch with such intensity he surely couldn’t notice if he bit deep into this one. His mouth watered at the idea, told him his life depended on it. He took a chunk in his mouth. Guilt hit at the splash which escaped and ran down his chin. He wiped the evidence and finished the rest before his dad checked his status. It tasted so good a second tempted him further. He held it high to see if it could block the sun. An eclipse coincided with that of a devil up in the hills, its scream a fingernail down his spine. Two sounds merged and Myrto realised a lack of compatibility. The sound must have caused ears for miles around to wither, and forced legs to carry bodies indoors.
Myrto flinched from his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Son, let’s go. Now.”
“It’s just a goat.”
“I know of no mortal goat that has a man’s scream. Make your legs move down to the valley quickly or I’ll come back up tomorrow to fetch your corpse. Move it.”
Myrto ran from his dad rather than what occupied the hills. He restricted him from the hero he wanted to become. That goat did have a man’s voice, true, but he could defeat it like Odysseus did the Cyclops. He had the battle moves; none of his friends could touch him with their wooden swords. One swipe to the head heralded victory and he always got that swipe. The goat-man would find him a formidable opponent.
He stopped a moment to wipe the blood from the cut he gained on a jagged rock, one of thousands which littered the hills around their village. His father knocked out his wind as he grabbed him on the run and carried him with speed all the way down.