by Paul A. Rice
The magazine had a colourful picture of a military man on the front cover. Picking it up, the boy leafed through the pages, mainly looking at the pictures. It had been a while since he had had seen any literature, other than the stream of bills that he had converted into sketches, that is. His reading was good, but he loved pictures more than words, and so he browsed for a while, flicking through the pages and making the odd polite comment in answer to Mrs Jones’ buzzing questions.
He must have been in there with her for the best part of two hours before he realised the time. Rising to his feet with a sigh, he passed the old lady the money and asked for some supplies. Five-minutes later he was back on the street with a bag of tinned goods and a loaf of fresh bread – the offending magazine now firmly tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. He waved at the shop window where he saw Mrs Jones looking at him with a worried smile upon her face. Not even bothering to see if his father was ready to go, the young man turned and started the long walk back to the farm. If his luck was in then maybe he would see someone who would be good enough to give him a ride. If not, well, then it wouldn’t be the first time he had made the dreary trudge back home.
His luck was most certainly in on that particular day, and not just in the ride he hitched after only five minutes of walking, either. His luck was about to change for sure, about to change forever.
He had barely extended his large thumb, when, out of nowhere, an old truck appeared on the horizon. Seeing that it was going back into town, and knowing that it wouldn’t be stopping for him, he lowered his hand and continued walking along the hot road. With a slight screeching of tyres, the truck ground to a halt next to him. Its engine sounded mighty fine to the boy, he’d fixed a few in his time and this one purred as sweet as a pussy cat.
‘Yes siree!’ he thought as he looked up at the driver’s side of the truck.
He was greeted by a tough looking man who sat at the steering wheel.
‘Hello mate, do you need a lift or something?’ the man asked.
The boy didn’t recognise the accent, and had no idea as to whatever a ‘mate’ was, either. But if it would get him a lift, then he would happily be one. ‘Yessir, I am, I’m going to the old place about five miles back the way you all have just come, sir,’ he said, trying really hard not to let his father’s voice come out. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind? It’s rightly outta your way, so it is.’
The big guy grinned at him. ‘Nah, that’s no bother,’ he said. ‘Jump on up, you’ll have to use the back, I’m afraid – there are already three of us up front.’
That surprised the boy, he had been sure the man was on his own, but there they were, another big man with jet black hair, and also a woman. She sat in the middle of the men and gave him a friendly wave. The boy guessed that he must have missed them in the reflection from the sun that glinted off the windshield.
With another large grin, he happily vaulted into the rear of the truck. As they drove towards his father’s farm, the boy looked into the front of the cab through the small rear window in the bulkhead. He saw the woman rest her head against the driver’s shoulder. She seemed to be very sleepy and the man kept glancing at her – he looked worried. The other man, the dark-haired one, had some strange television thing. It rested upon his knees and made funny pictures. As he looked, the boy saw blue arrows and green writing zooming across its shiny screen.
With a shrug, he turned away and let the breeze blow through his hair, the smell of the fields came to him and he smiled. ‘I sure am lucky to catch a lift of’n such fine folk,’ he thought. The countryside rushed by and then, without him showing them where to turn, they left the road and drove onto the track leading to the farm, rumbling across the cattle-grid as they did so. The faded wooden sign that said ‘Tolder’s Place’ must have given the game away, he guessed. The man in the passenger seat turned and gave him a reassuring smile and thumbs-up sign. The boy returned the compliment and laughed. ‘The world ain’t such a bad place after all!’ he murmured.
After they had bounced their way down the track for a while, with the powerful engine throbbing sweetly beneath them, they came to the old gate posts marking the farm’s inner boundary. Through the overhanging trees, he saw the front of the wooden porch belonging to the house. Leaning forward, the boy banged on the roof in a signal for them to stop. The truck slowed and then came to a halt. Grabbing his shopping, he jumped down over the side. The two men stepped out and came around the back to see him. He was bigger than both of them by at least an inch or two and they eyed him carefully. The driver had some sort of fire in his eyes and the kid decided he wasn’t someone that he would like to mess with.
The man said, ‘Well, buddy, I guess this is it, I hope you weren’t too windy back there?’ He held out his hand and the boy felt the steel in his grasp.
He tried to enunciate more correctly. ‘Thankin’ you kindly, sir,’ he said. ‘I would have you all in for some chow only…I don’t have enuff for all of us.’ He raised his meagre bag of rations in an expression of apology.
The taller man on his left, the passenger, spoke. ‘Hey, no worries, partner, we only just had something to eat, anyway. Maybe we’ll see you around, I hear that you have a pretty good fishing-hole, perhaps we might trade you some grub for a line in the water – we’re around for a bit, what do you think? I’m sorry, but I never caught your name…’ The man’s accent was even stranger than the driver’s. He was tall and also had a mighty firm grip.
The boy grinned, saying: ‘Yeah, that would be real cool, ifen you see the blue truck tho’… then don’t bother, my Papa he don’t like visitors all that much.’ He glanced down the track behind them. ‘Anyhow, I gotta git as I have some chores to do and a magazeen to read, yes sir!’ He grinned again, and then added: ‘My name is Dwayne, sir – Dwayne Tolder. But most o’ my friends just call me ‘Red’, on account of my hair!’ He leaned forward and ruffled said auburn locks.
Both of the men looked at him, it was only for a second but the boy saw it in their faces. They checked him out, for sure. Red peered into the cab of the truck to say his goodbyes to the woman. To his surprise, she seemed to have fallen asleep. ‘Is she okay, sir, the lady I mean, she don’t seem too good? I ain’t being nosy, but…’ he asked.
The driver rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Yeah, she’s alright,’ he said, ‘just a bit of the fever. She’ll be fine tomorrow – we’ve had a long day, that’s all.’
Red nodded, saying: ‘Oh, that’s good, I’m glad about that!’ He smiled, giving the men a good view of his large white teeth. Still grinning, he said, ‘Well, I had best be getting inside, thank you kindly fer the ride, it’s much appreciated, truly it is! If’n you wanna come and fish, then that’ll be even finer – mighty fine, there are some real big ‘uns in that lake. I mean reeeally big fish!’ He opened his arms in the typical fisherman’s gesture, the child within him jumping into full view.
The men smiled at him. ‘Right, well then…young Mister Red, that’s a deal, and we’ll bring some food along as well,’ the driver said, winking as he did so. Both men turned back to the truck, climbed in and slammed the doors. With a final wave, they drove off back towards the main road.
Red waved back, turned towards the house and tramped up the wooden stairs, whistling happily as he went. Once inside the house, the growling in his stomach made him realise just how hungry he was. He made something to eat and then sat upon the threadbare couch with a coat across his legs and began reading the magazine – spooning baked beans and cheese into his mouth as he turned the pages. The information he devoured was much more fulfilling than the paltry meal he had prepared for himself. Upon further investigation, he found a detailed article about the wonderful life that might be led whilst serving someone called ‘Uncle Sam’. It really took his fancy and he marked the page with his stubby pencil. He guessed Sam was the boss of the Army as he wore a fine uniform and sported a great big coat with Stars and Stripes all over it. The boy whispered as he reached ou
t to run an envious fingertip across the picture.
‘That’s a mighty fine coat, mighty fine!’
There was a big picture of Sam pointing at the reader, he had a terribly serious expression on his face and was saying: ‘Your country needs YOU!’ The other piece in the magazine, the one headed by the words: ‘The Grey Men’, really interested the boy. It was about some government department called the CIA and told all about what they did. The article also gave some quite considerable details on how a body was able get into that line of work.
‘Those boys are the saviours of the world, that’s for sure!’ he thought, his lightly stubbled face beaming with interest as he scoured the paragraphs relating to the story. Red thought it looked beyond cool. ‘What a life they must have, all those secrets, fancy suits and radio sets with them special ear pieces. Look at all of those big cars, they have lots of big guns and even have some hel-i-cop-ters, too – sheesh, what a life!’ He read it again and again, letting the words and pictures of the article pull him into their world.
Later that night, he slipped the magazine under his mattress and crawled into bed with his clothes on. Even though spring was upon the land, the nights were still cold. Keeping his head under the covers to let his breath warm the air for a while, the boy let his mind race. If he couldn’t be with the animals, draw and sketch things, then the kid knew what else he wanted to do. As he drifted off to sleep, he felt certain. He knew it for sure.
***
It had been two days now and he still hadn’t heard from his father. Life was a blissful mixture of chores, done first thing, and then wandering the farm looking at his subjects. He spent long hours sketching an owl, which had taken to sleeping in the barn at nights. It wasn’t usual and the boy wondered if maybe it was ill, or something. The bird sat perfectly still and allowed him to get right up to it. He was so close, laying there with his pens and paper scattered around the hay-loft, that he even saw the fleas jumping between the owl’s feathers from time to time. If one was to closely examine the immaculate sketch, a tiny dot would be seen just below the beautiful creature’s half-closed eye. With the help of an eyeglass, the detail in the drawing of the tiny flea would have astounded any potential critic.
Red also went down to the pond and caught himself a few fish, for as much as he disliked killing anything, the boy knew that he had to eat. In homage to the catch, he made sure that he licked every tiny bone completely clean, he would not waste a single morsel of flesh from such fine creatures. After washing the dishes he would make sure the house was tidy, just in case his father came back, and then sit and scour the magazine again.
It was becoming decidedly dog-eared by now and he knew the piece on the CIA off by heart. His large hands flicked thorough the pages with alacrity, and as they did so, he caught sight of those hands. He stopped and looked down in horror at the thick covering of ginger hairs which had begun to sprout from the backs of his hands. They were just like those on his father’s, and he knew those hands only too well.
‘I’m just like him!’ The fear plunged into the pit of his stomach.
‘I don’t wanna be just like him, not ever!’ The wooden legs of the chair yelped in protest as he pushed it backwards in angry frustration. He rose from the table and ran into the garden where he sat, childlike, in the old tyre that hung from his favourite tree. His large frame just about squeezed into the middle of the perished Firestone as he kicked at the ground below.
His thoughts raced. ‘I’m gonna leave this place, I’m gonna join the Army and then I’ll get myself in the Goddamn, Cee-Eye-Aay. That’s what I’m gonna do. Fuk him, you see ifen I don’t!’ He kicked the ground in anger and then swung morosely to-and-fro with the ancient bough creaking alarmingly above. The frustration flared within him and the boy let the full rush of his emotions burn brightly for a while. He knew that he had to get out, he had to get away.
Things had to change.
Unbeknownst to the boy, things most certainly would change.
Later that night, as he lay huddled beneath the blankets, Red dreamed of a stone, a tiny stone that filled his head with madness and green light. His anguished cries floated forlornly through the silent house as he tried in vain to run from its awful light. The forces that control such things had started to weave their magic; the lonely young man unwittingly began to head towards their awful embrace. The Darkness, the portion he had inherited from his father, saw the opportunity and began its life-changing, cancerous spread within him.
Without knowing it, the young man had arrived at one of those crossroads that everyone reaches at some stage of their lives. The dark side took his hand and began to lead him on a journey towards an uncertain and trouble-filled future. However, it was not a journey he would be permitted to take. Not if those who knew better had their way. Not if his current run of good luck prevailed, he wouldn’t. Fortunately, for Red and for everybody else, luck was to remain on his side. Luck, fate, and George…
11
A Rock and a Hard Place
Jane dreamt of her father. It had been years since he had died, that terrible moment when she’d lost the first love of her life – she had often seen him in her dreams since then. Sometimes she asked for his help during her everyday life, and sometimes, when times had been tough, Jane would say goodnight to him and ask that he help her. ‘I’ll just do whatever it is that comes into my mind first thing tomorrow morning, okay, Dad?’ she would ask, as sleep overcame her. He must have been watching over her, because whatever it was that she decided upon the following day, always turned out to have been the right choice – no matter how crazy the idea seemed to have been.
Jane had asked for her father’s help several times along the way, and he’d never let her down. Ever since Ken had been around, the old man seemed to have taken a vacation, perhaps he was satisfied in the knowledge that Ken would take care of his beloved daughter. That’s what Jane figured, and even if it was a slightly romantic idea, she didn’t care. Jane was a romantic.
Tonight he was with her again, the battered old trilby hooked rakishly on the back of his head, hands stuffed into the pockets of his old raincoat. He smiled at her and she smiled back. Jane had no desire to speak and knew it would just be a waste of time – he was dead and this was merely a dream. Just seeing him there once again was good enough for her. He waved and then turned away. As he meandered off, she saw him jump into the air and do his little sideways kick, clicking his heels together as he rose into the air in an ungainly leap, with his right hand clenched on the hat to stop it from falling off.
‘Oh yes, that’s Dad, all right!’ she thought, just as a thin lance of pain speared into her left ear. ‘Oww, that hurts!’ she yelped, spinning around, not quite sure if she was awake or still dreaming. Jane staggered as she watched the world swim before her eyes. Seeing a huge red couch over to her left, she wobbled across the musty-smelling room and flopped down into the leather seat. ‘How the hell did I get here? I am dreaming – right?’ She wasn’t quite so sure of anything anymore.
Hearing a loud noise, she turned to see the door behind her opening. It made a horrible grating sound, the rattling metallic noise almost making her teeth tingle. Jane rose to her feet, watching in trepidation as the door began to open inwards. ‘Dad… is that you?’ she whispered, mouth turning to sand. ‘It couldn’t be him, it just couldn’t…’ The thought was overwhelming. A tiny bead of sweat, which ran for cover between her shoulder blades, gave a feeling that was almost too much to bear. With a final, rattling scrape, the glass paned door swung fully open.
Jane saw the shadow, it was moving – someone was there!
She felt her mind flutter. ‘No… it’s not possible!’
Without batting an eyelid, Mike calmly walked into the room and grinned at her. He was followed by Ken and a slightly-built, older man. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, the three of them made their way over to join her by the couch. Feeling her legs about to give way, Jane collapsed into it and sat there look
ing up at them, open-mouthed. Ken joined her on the seat, whilst the other two remained standing. All three men were smiling broadly, although, through the well-worn laughter lines on his face, Jane saw the light of deep concern lying in her husband’s green eyes.
‘Hey baby, are you okay now?’ he asked, reaching across to push the hair back from her forehead in his usual manner. She looked up at them in stunned silence, mouth still half-open and mind racing. Ken reached across to gently shut her mouth with his hand. ‘Yeah, well if it’s any consolation,’ he said, ‘I know exactly how you feel, sweetheart!’ He laughed, eyes now starting to twinkle.
The other two joined in and Jane heard the old man chuckle, it sounded like the finest malt whiskey being poured onto honeyed ice cubes. It tinkled, but in a rich, thick way. It was the laugh of a good man.
She shook her head in amazement, saying: ‘Bloody hell, lads…you might have warned me! Is this it then, the dream meetings you told us about, Mike?’ Her pulse had slowed now and she reached up to her ear, it felt as though she had recently landed from a long flight and it hadn’t quite equalised yet. She cracked her jaw to see if it would help her ear pop.
The old man stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Hello, Jane,’ he said. ‘It is such a pleasure to meet you at last – I’m George, by the way. Do not worry, my dear, the ear will return to normal in a few moments.’
Jane stood, took the proffered hand and then, acting upon impulse, gave George a hug. His thick coat smelt of spicy things, whiskey and cigars, too, by the smell of it. He stood at least a head shorter than she did and Jane noticed the slightly balding patch on the back of his grey head.