We Used to Be Kings

by Stewart Foster

  ‘But—’

  The ladder started to wobble, Jack stepped off the top rung and sat on the top of the fence. I told him to be careful, said that he should come back down. He pointed at the generator.

  ‘I can see our footballs,’ he said.

  I told him to leave them, that the man from the electricity board would throw them back when he came.

  But I don’t think he heard.

  Because I could see our planes too.

  I told you not to get them.

  You didn’t.

  I did.

  You said you wanted your Spitfire.

  I said I could wait.

  And your Commodore.

  !

  And—

  That was different.

  ?

  It was the only one I had.

  —

  Jack looked back at me, smiled and jumped down on the other side—

  And we all lived happily ever after!

  ?

  THE END!

  What are you doing?

  I want to stop now.

  We can’t, we have to tell everyone what happened.

  But they all know that I die.

  But they don’t know how.

  And that’s important?

  Yes.

  For them?

  For us.

  ?

  It might be cathartic.

  ?

  It might make us feel better.

  It might help us complete the circle?

  Yes.

  Can’t we just take pills?

  They don’t work.

  But we could pretend . . .

  —

  I could just go to sleep.

  —

  And wake up again . . . Couldn’t I?

  No. We can’t do that any more.

  Do you want me to go away?

  —

  Do you want me to go away?

  . . . No.

  Then stop reading.

  . . . I can’t . . . Mum said I had to write everything, Dr Smith said we had to read it all, that it would help us understand . . .

  Do I have to listen?

  No.

  We put our fingers in our ears.

  Jack looked back at me, smiled and jumped down on the other side.

  I can still hear you.

  Sing then.

  The grand old Duke of York, he had 10,000 men.

  I told him to come back. He said he could see my Commodore. I told him to be careful but I could hear him on the other side, crunching his feet through the gravel.

  ‘Got it,’ he shouted.

  ‘My Commodore?’

  ‘. . . And my boomerang.’

  My Commodore flew over the fence and landed behind me on the grass. The boomerang went towards the house, circled back and rattled the radar detector.

  And when they were up they were up. And when they were down . . .

  Jack went quiet. I asked him what was wrong. He mumbled something. I put my ear against the fence. Jack mumbled again.

  ‘What is it, Jack? What’s wrong?’

  The hum of electricity droned through my head.

  ‘Houston, I have a problem,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t you find your plane?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t get back out.’

  ‘Stay still,’ I said. ‘Don’t touch anything. I’m coming over.’

  The flex tugged tight in my hand.

  ‘Jack, I said stay still.’

  I held onto the ladder and put my foot on the bottom rung.

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Houston, there’s another problem.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘You can’t get out . . . I’m coming to get you.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ he said. ‘I can’t find the plugger.’

  ‘The plugger?’

  ‘Where I put the plug . . .’

  ‘No, Jack, don’t touch the plugger.’

  I climbed to the top of the ladder and looked over. A big grey lump of metal hummed like a monster in the dark. Jack knelt down in the gravel by a red light in the corner.

  And when they were only halfway up . . .

  ‘Jack, no!’

  Jack reached out with the plug. The generator crackled. Sparks jumped out of it and into Jack’s body. He glowed white in the middle and turned purple at the edges.

  ‘Let go, Jack,’ I shouted. ‘Let go.’

  His body shook. I tried to climb over the fence but my feet and hands were stuck like they were welded to the ladder.

  The world lit up blue. Jack’s eyes turned red. Sparks of electricity ran from his hands along the wire to the washing machine and back to the house. I heard a scream, a high-pitched scream that screeched through the middle of my head, and then a bang.

  I fell through the air and landed on the ground. Everything was dark like someone had turned the lights out on the world. My head hurt, my feet and hands were numb. I opened my eyes, saw the stars and felt cold. And I lay there, just staring up with my chest going up and down and my breath smoking like a gun. I tried to stand but my legs were dead and my head was heavy. The ground was turning. I was turning. And the radar scrambler, the fridge and the washing machine were all spinning twice as fast like satellites around me. I knelt up, smelt burning.

  Am I dead yet?

  —

  ‘Jack!’

  He didn’t reply. All I could hear was a crackle of electricity coming from the other side of the fence. I crawled down the garden and found the ladder all bent and twisted out of shape in the middle of the stingers.

  ‘Jack!’ I shouted again.

  A loud crack sounded behind me.

  I turned around, looked back up the garden. All the lights had gone out in our house. An orange flame flickered in the kitchen and smoke billowed out from under the back door. I bent under the wire and staggered through the launch site. The flame grew bigger. I jumped up the steps and looked inside. The cooker was burning, the ceiling was melting, little white bits of plastic dripped onto the table and the floor.

  ‘Mum!’ I shouted.

  No answer.

  I tried the handle but it was too hot to turn. I jumped down the steps and looked back down the garden. I thought of Jack lying there and how I didn’t want to leave him alone in the dark. I wanted to run back to him. I wanted to find him laughing at me and playing with his planes. My heart was thudding, my legs wanted to run but I couldn’t make up my mind which way to go. The glass cracked on the kitchen window. Smoke poured out. I thought of Mum choking inside. I ran around the side of the house, hammered my fist on the front door and shouted again. The air crunched with the sound of wood splitting and burning. I peered through the letter box and hoped I would see her running through the hall towards me, but all I saw was smoke and flames. I ran around the front of the house and looked in through the sitting-room window. Mum was lying on the settee, the TV was burning in the corner. I banged my fist on the glass. I think I saw her open her eyes, I think I saw her roll over, but it may have been a trick of the smoke in my mind.

  Sirens echoed in my head and a thousand searchlights flashed across the front of my house as fire engines and ambulances drove into our road. I heard someone shout my name. Auntie Jean was standing on the path. I pointed in through the window. A fireman ran past her, across our garden towards me, bent down, picked me up and ran. He said something but his voice was muffled by his mask. He put me down on the path. Auntie Jean shuffled towards me, one hand holding her dressing gown together, the other over her heart.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said, ‘have you seen Jack or your mum?’

  I nodded, then shook my head. Auntie Jean looked at me like she didn’t understand. I tried to speak, I tried to breathe, but my heart hurt and my tears were stuck in my throat. My mum was burning in the sitting room. My brother was dead in the garden. Auntie Jean put her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, my love, I’m sure they’ll be OK.’


  I walked away from her, backwards up the hill, watched the smoke pour out of the windows, disappear up into the sky and cover the moon. I thought about Dad and wished he’d come home.

  A fireman came out of our house with Mum across his shoulder. Two ambulance men met him on the path. They put her down, covered her face with a mask and wrapped her in blankets. My head flashed with lights and sirens and pictures of Jack. I heard voices calling but still I kept walking until I found myself running and the shouts turned to whispers.

  At the top I sat down and cried as I watched our house burn.

  —

  —

  —

  —

  Jack.

  —

  Are you OK?

  —

  Jack!

  —

  Chapter Seventeen

  WE SIT ON the sand dune and look down at the beach. Windbreaks flap, parents sleep on the sand and children run around in circles with buckets and spades.

  We wish we could do that.

  Don’t we?

  Don’t we, Jack?

  We wish we could be like sharks again.

  We pick up our bag, slide down the dune and walk along the beach. The sand turns to pebbles and the pebbles turn to rocks until we reach pools of water, grey, like mercury reflecting the clouds.

  Like mercury.

  Like mercury, Jack. What’s mercury, Tom? It’s a metal that’s a liquid. Is it? Oh.

  How much longer?

  How much longer are you going to sulk? It’s not my fault . . . I didn’t make our book up, I only wrote it down.

  This is what happens every time we get to the last chapter of our book. One of us wants to keep reading, but one of us goes missing like Captain Scott. No . . . Captain Oates. Who, Tom? Captain Oates, Jack . . . I’m stepping outside . . . A giant step? Ha. No. I’m stepping outside and I may not be coming back. Is that what it said in your encyclopaedia? Yes . . . Well, it was something like that.

  Still not talking?

  We reach over for our bag and take out our book. We have to do what Dr Smith said, we have to write the last chapter, we have to complete the circle.

  The wind turns the pages, flips the loose pieces of paper, blows the newspaper cuttings out onto the wet sand.

  You should have stuck them in. I told you to stick them in.

  A light flashes in the corner of our eye, then another and another. We look over our shoulder and squint, like when our torch catches us in the night.

  Police?

  I don’t know.

  We look back up the beach, beyond the dunes. Cars turn in car parks and reflect the sun. Our heart beats again.

  We pick up the wet pieces of paper and peel them apart.

  The Evening Gazette 6TH JUNE 1971

  RUSSIANS BLAST INTO SPACE

  The Evening Gazette 12TH JUNE 1971

  RUSSIANS IN TROUBLE

  The Evening Gazette 30TH JUNE 1971

  RUSSIANS SUFFOCATE

  The Evening Gazette 1ST JULY 1971

  MOTHER AND BOY DIE IN HOME-MADE

  ROCKET TRAGEDY

  Our hands start to tremble as we read them over and over again, but the words turn to a blur as our eyes start to water and our throat starts to ache. We wish we could go back and change the headlines. We wish we could go back and change the whole of summer. But we can’t change it. We can’t change it just because people die . . . Can we?

  Can we?

  We wipe our tears on our arm, put the headlines under a rock and hope they will dry in the sun.

  —

  —

  Do you want to draw?

  You can draw your monster.

  Last chance . . .

  We shake our head and pick up our pen.

  Do you want to write? We could write the last chapter. You can choose the title . . . Any ideas?

  The Great Escape?

  Ha!

  A shadow creeps across the sand, blocks the sun from the page. We hear a hissing sound, like a snake breathing in and out. We keep our head down and hope that it will go away.

  The hiss gets louder.

  We look up. A boy stands in front of us with blue flippers on his feet and a pair of goggles on top of his head. He smiles as he pulls a snorkel out of his mouth.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

  We look back down at our book, at our pen shaking in our hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The flippers flap on the sand as the boy edges closer.

  We’re writing . . . We’re reading our book.

  ‘Oh . . . What’s it about?’

  Our dad.

  He points towards the sea. ‘Is that him?’

  A man with a hairy back pulls a yellow dinghy between the waves.

  No, that’s not him.

  The boy sits down on the rock beside us.

  ‘Where is he then?’

  He went away.

  ‘Where to?’

  Are you going to tell him?

  The boy screws up his face.

  Are you?

  He went away. He went to a building on a hill.

  ‘And did he come back?’

  No.

  We flick through the pages of our book.

  ‘It’s lots of words . . . Did you write them all?’

  Yes.

  ‘And draw all the pictures?’

  No, my brother did that.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Jack.

  ‘Is he here?’

  Yes.

  ‘I can’t see him.’

  Say hello.

  ‘Is he shy?’

  No, he’s sulking.

  The boy laughs.

  ‘Which one is him?’

  Sorry?

  ‘Which one is him?’ He taps his finger on a picture of us sitting with Mum on the settee. ‘Is that him?’

  Yes.

  ‘And is that you?’

  Yes.

  ‘Were you twins?’

  —

  —

  ‘Were you—’

  No. People just said we looked the same.

  ‘Simon!’ We turn around. The boy stands up. A man marches across the sand towards us. ‘I told you, no.’ He grabs the boy by the arm.

  ‘But he’s writ a book.’

  ‘Has he?’

  The man stares at us. We look back at our book.

  —

  ‘Are you OK?’

  —

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Yes.

  He bends down, puts his face level with ours and we hope he can’t see what’s inside.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  We nod.

  Simon puts his snorkel in his mouth and starts to hiss again. The man holds his hand and they walk towards the sea. We lie back on the sand, rest our head on our bag. We think about Dad. We imagine him walking through the rock pools with his carrier bag. We remember the marks on his body and on the side of his head. We lift our hand and run our fingers over ours; we remember the buzz, we remember the pain and I remember how it takes one of us away.

  We open our book and read his last letter

  19th July 1971

  T PLUS 42 DAYS 22 HOURS 34 MINUTES 26 SECONDS AND COUNTING . . .

  Dear Jack. Dear Tom.

  I’m sorry I’ve not written. I am tired.

  Jack, I love your rockets, even when they go the wrong way.

  Tom, keep writing your book, lots of people will read it soon.

  I have to go.

  The Russians are coming.

  Tonight the sun will burn a hole through my head and in the morning, when I wake up, everyone will be gone.

  Love, Dad

  X X X

  We hear the whine of turbines turning. We look up and watch an aeroplane cross the sky.

  A DC-9?

  A DC-10.

  How can you tell? It’s got three lots of landing gear. Has it? Yes . . . and it’s got a bigger engine, that’s why it’s
louder, remember? Do you remember, Jack?

  We look at our letter again. We wish it wasn’t the last one. Sometimes we wondered whether Dad had kept writing, that there might be a pile of letters at the post office waiting for us to collect because they didn’t know where we had moved. But now we know that didn’t happen, we know this is the last letter, because one of us has worked it out, one of us knows what the letter means. We read it again. Tonight the sun will burn a hole through my head and in the morning, when I wake up, everyone will be gone . . .

  The wind blows the sand, and the sand blows in our eyes. We hold the letter tight and bury our head in our arms. We know what Dad was telling us. Don’t we?

  We know that the sun that burnt through his head is the same as the electricity they want to buzz through ours.

  We put our letter back in the book and pick up our pen. We close our eyes and listen to the aeroplane roar.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE SEA HAS got bigger, the beach has got smaller, all the windbreaks have been taken down and all the children have gone. There is just us, two seagulls and the sound of the waves. We reach into our bag, take out our Spitfire and our Messerschmitt. We turn their propellers and check their guns, then fly them towards the water.

  Bandits at six o’clock?

  Bandits at twelve?

  They climb into the red sky and fire their guns . . .

  They bank left at the water’s edge, turn again towards the dunes. They lose altitude, skim over castles and moats and land on the sand.

  We pick up our book and put it on the sand next to our planes.

  We take off our shirt and put it on top.

  A wave creeps up the beach and covers our feet. We walk through the shallows, the water splashes up our legs, over our waist, makes us shiver as it stings the sunburn on our back. We fall forward. The water shoots up our nose, bubbles around our ears.

  What are we doing?

  Jack!

  That’s me!

  !

  We stand up, spit out the salt water and wipe it from our eyes.

  Miss me?

  —

  Did you miss me? Beep.

  . . . No, not really.

  !

  Ha!

  So you did?

  Just a little bit.

  So what are we doing?

  —

  What are we doing? Beep.

  Going in the water.

  Because we’re dirty?

  —

  Because we’re dirty?