Neville the Less
Page 42
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In the kitchen of Home Country, by the glow of dim nightlight, Nevilles the More and Less sipped warm Milo in silence. At a point, the More’s head began a barely perceptible nod which gradually increased until his whole upper body was rocking back and forth. Eventually the Less reached out a hand. He felt the muscles of his father’s arm tense, but the rocking stopped.
“Is mum okay?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. Just worn out. An early night. Do her good. We’re a handful for her, you and me.” He tried a small laugh which didn’t work out well at all. “Well, me at any rate. I’m a handful.” He reached out to ruffle the Less’s hair, something he’d not done in living memory. “Not you, mate. You’re fine. You’re doing great. Just me. I’m the handful.”
“Why are the lights out? Do you think something’s going to happen tonight? Something bad?”
“Oh . . . I dunno. Maybe. Or not. I can’t . . . ! I’m just . . . ! It’s hard to get your head around things sometimes, isn’t it? Could use a good sleep myself I guess. Maybe that’s all it is. If I could sleep without . . . without seeing . . . !”
Without seeing the exploding boy, Neville thought. But he wouldn’t say it.
The tiny glow from the nightlight flickered and the Nevilles turned their heads. A moth fluttered jauntily around it, settled and, an instant later, was crushed in the jaws of a gecko.
“Don’t be frightened, Nev’.” The More’s voice trembled and cracked and the Less’s jaw dropped because, until that moment, he didn’t think he had been.
“Nothing to worry about really. I’m home now and I . . . I can look after us! It’s just, they’re very sly, you know? Very sneaky. Very clever.”
Neville had hoped that the Quiet Man’s return to speech would mean his mind had escaped from the jungle. But as Ragged Man had predicted, more talk had only resulted in more things that no one wanted to hear.
“Because how can they not come for me?” he was saying, drawling, woozily. “Or for you? Or your mother! It’s what I’d do! What anyone’d do! I just wish they’d get it done, you know? Because until they do - until I can deal with them - it’s going to very hard for us to . . . feel safe!”
“Is that why we need the bombs?” asked the Less. “To help us deal with them?”
They both glanced at the cut-down cardboard carton which sat on the counter by the door, laden with things wrapped in foil, drink cans sprouting fuses and plastic bottles with mysterious liquids and suspended packages. The More smiled in a grisly sort of fashion.
“They’re not really bombs, mate. They’re . . . smoke and noise is all. Just tricks. But them out there, they don’t know that, see? It’s their ignorance we’re counting on. What we know and they don’t. That’s what’ll get them in the end. Understand?”
“Will we always need them then?”
“It depends, Nev’. Depends on how long ‘always’ turns out to be.”
The sound of a gentle cough came to them; Mum murmuring in her sleep.
“I’m sorry I took your medal,” the Less said. “I’m getting it back for you. It got lost a little bit, but I’m getting it back.”
The More nodded.
“Mate, if you get it back, and you want it, you keep it, okay?” And after a minute he added, “What we really need back is Ava. She’d guard us well, eh? Got any idea where she could be?”