by Robert Ford
‘So what happened then, with Kirkham?’ said Rachel.
‘Ha ha! I should say he’s probably having a bit of a lie down around now - blew himself out, I think.’
‘So did he fire you?’ asked Sam.
‘Nope. Not yet, anyway. Just went on and on and on and on until he was completely hoarse. Thought he was gonna give himself a heart attack. And all I could think about was that big stupid sign. And I couldn’t stop smiling. Which in turn made him shout more and more and so on.’
‘Listen, Hal,’ said Sam, standing up. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve taken the blame. It wasn’t fair for you to take the wrap like that.’
Hal shrugged. ‘Worth it, absolutely worth it,’ he said, smiling, full of mischief. Hal offered his hand. ‘Thanks, Dickie.’
Sam was thrilled, not that he would let it show.
‘Sure,’ he said matter-of-factly, shaking hands. ‘Glad you were amused.’
Hal turned and walked over to the side of the gallery. Below, Morris was stepping through the crowd of skaters to assist with the clean up, looking very much as if he had never, ever, been on a rink before in his life.
Hal began to wheeze a little, amused. He shouted down. ‘Oi, Morris!’
On hearing his name the big man flapped, managing to recover his balance just as it looked as if he might fall flat on his behind. ‘What?’
‘You’re a natural. Poetry in motion.’
Even though he was at least fifty feet away, the meaning of Morris’s non-verbal response was unmistakeable.
Hal chortled, delighted that Morris had taken the bait so readily.
‘Come on now, don’t be like that, Moz. Mozzz!’
Sam sat back down in his chair and smiled.
Hal was back.
SHOOT THE FOX
The Rec was back to its best. Fuelled largely by a sense of excitement following the scandalous events of that morning, the gossip-hungry handlers had come out in force. Indeed, the showdown between Hal and Kirkham had been just what the place needed to shake things up again, to inspire a little anarchy, a little life.
Amongst the crowd were the usual suspects. Rachel sat at a table with a couple of other young female handlers, guzzling wine as if it were water, while over at the record player Ted had passed out with his head across the plate, the arm lodged somewhere near the folds of his ear. To compensate for the lack of musical entertainment Spike had stepped into the fray; having retrieved his guitar, he then proceeded to labour through a string of half-remembered songs, lurching from this to that with absolutely no regard for his audience, but such was the general buoyancy of the room that no one really cared.
And then there was Dr Fell, gurning, a crazed look in his eye as he pedalled upon an exercise bike in the corner of the room, stethoscope bobbing across his bare chest as he went. Even Alan, the social litmus paper of the house, sat happily enough on his stool behind the counter, sipping away at a cherry brandy without even a sniff of weaponry, antique or otherwise.
‘So how did it end? This morning with Kirkham?’ slurred Sam.
Hal lit a cigarette and eased back in his chair, the two of them sitting in their usual seats, towards the back of the room near the door. ‘He just blew himself out,’ Hal said with an elaborate wave of his free hand. ‘I was standing there thinking - how much longer can this guy go on? And then all of a sudden, he stopped, and stared at the floor, and said something about having to lie down.’
‘And so you left?’
‘And so I left.’
‘I think the man has issues.’
‘Kirkham?’
‘Yes.’
‘For once, Dickie, I think you’re right.’
That night Sam and Hal were a constant amongst the ever-changing crowds of the bar; slumped low in their chairs, smoking and drinking and laughing. That night they were bounteous, vital, bombastic. They talked and talked about everything and nothing, from the impossibility of the amphibious nostril to the grace of God and everything in between and either side, a feat of stamina that was made all the more impressive by the fact that for once they had not partaken of the illicit charms of the doctor’s store. Neither of them spoke about the last few weeks, about the terrible fug into which Hal had descended. There seemed to be no need; it was done, in the past, behind them now. Sam was just glad to have his friend back, glad to be able to talk with him again like this. And occasionally, once or twice over the course of the evening perhaps, he managed to sight something rare, to glimpse behind the thick veil of personality, to see something of the real Hal. It wasn’t what he said, or the depths to which their conversation ran - this was at best idle chatter. More it was how he was, the way he sat and embraced the simple bond of their friendship. Fleeting though it was, Sam was gifted that view of a person whereby they are stripped clean of life’s detritus, the pain and the loss, the worry, the disappointment and the terrible rush of mortality - this was to see a person without the prejudice of their own inestimable skin, to glance the soul. And Sam could only feel lucky to have seen this, and to call himself Hal’s friend.
Over the course of the night they received a number of visitors, basking in the warm glow of minor celebrity, the Robin Hood effect of the Shitgunner prank. Morris came to speak with them and share a drink, and they laughed about his lack of prowess on the ice. And although he did not say as much, the intimation was there that the big man could see the funny side of the day’s events. Then Rachel appeared, tottering, drunk and teary. And after her, Spike, serenading them with a song that may or may not have been by the Beatles, such was his performance that it was impossible to be sure. Not wishing to pass up such an opportunity, Hal threatened to set the minstrel and his guitar on fire, a proposal that was issued with enough menace to send Spike howling from the room.
It was nearly four in the morning and Sam had slipped so low in his chair as to be almost lying down. The savage intensity of their drinking over the course of the evening had left him feeling tired and strangely bruised. The lids of his eyes became leaden, and try as he might to stay awake they would from time to time clamp down, ushering Sam into snatches of twitching sleep. The Rec by this time was almost empty - that is, apart from the dregs, the real scoundrels of the facility. And such was the confused ebb and flow of the room that each time Sam nodded off he would wake up moments later to a new and different scenario, surreal snapshots as the tail-end of the evening unwound.
At first, Hal seemed to be shouting at the dartboard, raging about something or other, but then moments later he was seated across the room, talking with Dr Fell in low tones. Spike came by, leaning in quite close to Sam, mumbling, incoherent. A large group of handlers returned to the bar, laughing and squawking, only to have disappeared when he next awoke. Music came from somewhere, Moonlight Serenade. Sam opened his eyes to see Daniels moving across the dance floor under the glare of a bright spotlight, his shadow splashed long over the grimy floor. Sam gurgled, the sound of his mind capitulating. He closed his eyes, opened them, and Daniels had gone, replaced by Alan, the bearded bartender, sweeping up.
In between bouts of unconsciousness Sam resolved that it was time to go to bed; he had to go to bed. But it was almost impossible for him to move, the chair beneath him suddenly the most comfortable of its kind in the world. In fact it was more than a chair. It was his chair. A safe haven. A shelter from the storm.
‘I’ll just rest here. For a minute. I’ll just rest,’ Sam said to himself, closing his eyes once more.
However, very soon something cold and hard pressed against his nose, pressed hard enough to wake him.
Sam opened his eyes to see the barrel of a gun hovering inches from his face.
‘How dare you fall asleep,’ said Hal from the other end of the rifle. He had positioned himself with one foot up on the arm of Sam’s chair, the gun tucked into his shoulder so that he could squint along its sight.
‘What?’ said Sam.
‘I said...’
‘I heard what you said
. What on earth is that?’
‘What?’
‘The gun.’
‘It’s a musket. Not a gun.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Alan.’
‘What for?’
‘I thought we might need it.’
‘What?’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘Yes. No. Is that loaded?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well can you stop pointing it at me then?’
Hal thought about this for a second before lifting his boot from the arm of Sam’s chair and taking the seat opposite. The musket, he laid across his lap. ‘Goes by the name of Jeremy, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘The gun. Musket.’
‘Is called Jeremy?’
‘Yes.’
Hal leaned forward, a conspirator. ‘Now do you or do you not have a car, Dickie?’
‘Yes. But why do you need a car?’
‘I need to see a man about a dog.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a man called Gould. From Brighton.’
‘You want to go to Brighton?’
‘Yes. Gould owes me money. It’s time to collect. Hence the musket.’
‘But you want to go to Brighton? Now?’
‘Its not far. By car, at least. And once we’re there we can have some fun. Did you know that the girls in Brighton are amongst the most beautiful in the world?’
Sam took his head in his hands; there was no reasoning with him, not when he was in a mood like this. Clearly, it was to be a very long night.
Outside the air was cold and clear and still, a hunter’s moon shining down as Hal and Spike emerged from the rear of the house and made their way across the tarmac of the service area towards the gym. The garage facilities were in fact the old stables, large wooden sheds that, like everything else on this side of the house, looked more than a little rundown.
‘Keys, Dickie, keys,’ snapped Hal while Sam flicked through the dozen or so options on his chain.
‘Hal, I really think we should have changed. I mean if we’re going off site...’
It was true that outside the confines of Edge Hill, they might appear unusually attired, both being dressed in the all-white ensemble of their uniforms.
Hal raised the musket and waved it about, causing Sam to make a small bob by way of self-preservation.
‘Anyone who doesn’t like it can talk to Jeremy.’
‘Right. Talk to Jeremy,’ Sam mumbled to himself as he at last found the right key and opened the garage door, behind which sat his car.
‘What... is that?’
‘What?’
‘I asked you if you had a car.’
‘What do you think this is?’
‘I really don’t think you want me to answer that.’
Sam eased the car out of the stable and through the service area, onto the dark grey gravel of the main drive, although he was drunk to the extent that his legs had been rendered alien, and as such the car bumped and jolted along, braying under the uncouth commands of Sam’s limbs. Leaning forward in his seat, Sam gripped the wheel - it seemed the slight physical demands of driving lay at the very limits of his dwindling capabilities.
‘They have to have heard us,’ said Sam as they continued their halting progress along the drive towards the main entrance.
‘They can do one,’ said Hal with relish as he fought to undo his small, screw-capped hip flask.
While they were within their rights to go, the manner of their leaving - the lateness of the hour, their inebriation, not to mention the fact that they were armed with an 18th-century musket - had lent the episode a subversive edge to say the least. He had no idea where they were going or indeed where they would end up, but he felt exhilarated, buoyed by the sense of derring-do that Hal seemed to have in spades, giddy by association.
Sam stopped the car just past the gates, the headlamps forming a citrus streak across the narrow road and onto the snow ahead. ‘Left or right?’
Sam looked over at Hal. He was oblivious, sniffing the lip of his hip flask, a look of cautious optimism etched across his cragged features.
‘Hal?’
Nothing.
‘Hal? Which way?’
Hal screwed the lid back on and pocketed the flask.
‘What?’ he said at last, turning to face Sam.
‘Which way to Brighton?’
‘Which way to Brighton?’ repeated Hal, sounding rather perplexed. ‘What do you mean, which way to Brighton?’
‘I thought you wanted to go to Brighton. To get your money. From Gould?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘OK... So...’
‘You don’t have a tracker?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It broke.’
Hal shifted a little in his chair, cleared his throat. And then his lip began to curl into something of a snarl, an expression that seemed pained, as if he had bitten a wasp.
‘Dickie, the fact of the matter is that you seem to be woefully under-prepared for adventuring. This car is so impractical, such a colossal abomination on every level that if it were a dog, I should be forced to put it down. Immediately. No - that would be too kind by half. I would leave it in a sack by the motorway in the hope that it was either picked up by gypsies or else remanded to the local pound to suffer the ignominy of not being chosen by a snotty eight-year-old girl on account of being so damned unfortunate to look at. And to not have a tracker in this day and age, well, that is both highly commendable, and unutterably stupid.’
‘Where are we going?’ said Sam, doing his best to ignore the nonsense.
‘Brighton.’
‘Do you know the way?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Which way do we go?’
‘Right.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Sam peered across at Hal, hoping to determine whether or not this was in fact true.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes! Come on, Dickie. We’re wasting time. We must find Gould.’
A demure spin of its wheels notwithstanding, the car found enough purchase to pull off, away from the main gates and along the slim single-track lane to the right. Such was the isolation of Edge Hill that no one had used these back roads for some weeks, allowing the abundant snow to cloak the bitumen, forming a flat even layer across the surface, with high piles of snow on each side, all of which helped to give the impression that they had in fact stumbled into the middle of a bobsleigh run.
‘Austrians in lederhosen. Everywhere. Ringing cow bells. Drinking schnapps,’ said Sam with relish.
‘What?’ bellowed Hal from the passenger seat, his eyes wild, legs shaking. ‘What?’
Much to Sam’s surprise, his little car seemed to be negotiating the terrain with some ease, and he began to feel more and more confident and so pick up speed. And the faster he drove, the more Hal began to howl and whoop and slug from his flask. ‘Come on, Dickie! Drive!’
On they pressed, heading east at great speed and with huge determination. The sky ahead was beginning to lighten, the naked frames of the old oaks that bordered the road silhouetted against a violet sky. As they careered along Hal screamed intermittent directions - ‘Left!’ and ‘Right!’ and ‘Here! Here!’ and ‘Now!’ - almost always too late so that Sam was forced to swing the car skidding through the snow in order to make each turn. He trusted the Spaniard, really he did, but it was clear that Hal had no idea where he was going. These barked instructions were, beyond doubt, arbitrary and to no real end. Somehow their destination just didn’t seem to matter any more, Sam’s initial concerns folding in the face of such a caper. This was right and proper and noble, somehow. Screaming around in the dark at five a.m. seemed, in that moment, to be the very pinnacle of existence, to embody everything that was important in the world.
After some time they rounded a steep bend into a straight section of road that was border
ed on one side by wide open fields, the sun continuing its ascent on the far horizon. Sam put his foot down, the car squealing along past the hedgerows at high speed, along the straight, faster and faster until Hal suddenly screamed: ‘Fox!’
Without much other warning than that, Hal hoisted the butt of the gun to his shoulder and let off a round through the window, his aim out somewhere towards the fields. The car was immediately filled with smoke, their ears ringing from the snap, flash and croak of the musket, a colossal sound that was inordinately large given the slender design of the gun.
Understandably the shot had taken Sam quite by surprise; in that moment the car had got away from him and although he did his utmost to regain control, such was the precarious nature of the icy road that they entered a flat spin, hurtling into the ditch on the far side where they came to a juddering halt, the right-hand side of the car slamming hard into the earthen bank with a hollow, plastic thud.
‘I’m dead? Oh God, I’m dead,’ Sam muttered from his position, bent forward, head resting against the steering wheel.
‘Fox,’ said Hal in low tones, grunting as he clambered from the car.
Sam popped open an eye, just catching the tail end of Hal’s exit.
‘Hal? Hal, where are you going?’
The door on Sam’s side of the car was blocked so his exit was far from easy, negotiating the gearstick, foot-well and passenger door through a series of ungainly moves, culminating in a painful swan dive onto the snow beyond.
Looking up, Sam saw Hal stumbling over the bank into the fields, musket clasped in his right hand.
‘Hal? What’s going on?’ said Sam, spluttering up from the tarmac to his feet.
But he was long gone, away over the rough terrain of the pastures beyond. Sam raced after in pursuit, lurching unsteadily through the thick snow as best he could.
Ahead the broad country sky was resplendent, declining from a deep blue black to a delicate pink at the horizon point, a full spectrum of hues inhabiting the space between. This light was enough to cast the sole heavy oak that stood in the field, as well as the hedges, woodland and hills that lay beyond, in shades of rich charcoal grey through to black.
The beauty of the view was matched only by the ridiculousness of Hal’s energetic errands therein. He seemed to have got the impression that there was a fox loose in the field, an animal that he was now pursuing with absolute prejudice, running, shouting, falling, shooting, back and forth across the dawn landscape.