Raven Summer (14 page)

“Sounds like a title, eh?” says Nattrass. “Now we need some action.”

He lowers the camera. We don’t move.

“I heard tell there was a black boy walking in Northumberland,” he says. “Heard tell he was walking with a scrawny punk lass. So I goes, Aha! That’ll be nobody else but
Liam’s pals. They’ll be wanting to send the lad back to his hovel and he’ll be up and off and running away. Is that about the way of it? No answer, eh? Ah, well. It must be so. So I says, Lawabiding folk like me had better keep their eyes peeled, hadn’t we? We don’t want villains running away from the law and hiding out here on our lovely moors and refusing to get back to where they come from, do we? After all …” He laughs at the thought of it. “Mebbe they’re terrorists. Mebbe they’re war criminals. And mebbe most likely they’re just liars and parasites and scum.” And he kicks Oliver, lightly, with the toe of his boot. “Come on. Best if you come back with us, sunshine.” He licks his lips. “Or do we think he’s going to struggle, lads? It’ll look great if he does, of course. The savage, turning savage.” He stands over Oliver. “Come on,” he says. “What you gonna do?”

I jump from my rock and go for him. I shove him down. I punch him in the face again, again. I tell him he knows nothing, he’s a fascist pig. We struggle in the dirt. Then I’m kicked in the face and everything reels till I open my eyes again and Ned’s kneeling over me with the hammer raised.

“You done that too many times, brother,” says Nattrass. He spits snot and blood. “So mebbe I should do you now, eh? It’d be self-defense. We’ve got the evidence.”

“Just bloody dare,” says Crystal.

She raises her fists. Oliver stays sitting on his rock. Then he says,

“I was telling my story. You interrupted us.”

“Oh, I ruined story time, lads! How’s the diddums going to get to sleep?”

“You should go home, Nattrass,” says Oliver.

Nattrass laughs.

“You should,” says Oliver. “You don’t want to be messing about with somebody like me.”

Oliver stands up. Nattrass backs away when he sees the knife in Oliver’s fist.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he says. His voice is shaking.

“But you’re the one that brought the trouble,” says Oliver. “Nobody asked you to come here, did they?”

Eddie and Ned turn away. They run back into the dark. Nattrass drops the camera. He takes out a knife of his own.

“Don’t, Nattrass!” I say. “Just run!”

But suddenly Oliver has him. He holds him tight. He holds the knife at Nattrass’s throat.

“I was telling my story,” he whispers. “Now you have to listen, too. If you move, I’ll slit your throat.” He turns his eyes to me. “Keep back, Liam, or I’ll slit his throat.” He smiles. “Or maybe you would like me to?”

“No!” says Nattrass.

“We’ll see,” says Oliver. “Anyway, keep still, and I’ll continue. You’ve missed some of the tale, Nattrass, but that should be no problem. Just imagine this. I was eight years old. There I was in an ordinary village with my ordinary friends in an ordinary little village school. The soldiers came. They slaughtered my family. They shot my teacher, and they took us all. That’s where we’re up to.” He laughs. “They took us all. Perhaps you don’t know what I mean. They took us all, and they turned us into soldiers.”

“Soldiers?” says Crystal. “But you were eight years old.”

He laughs.

“Crystal, the world is filled with eight-year-old soldiers.
And seven-year-olds, nine-year-olds, ten-year-olds—if they last long enough. Boys and girls.” He presses the knife to Nattrass’s skin. “Did you know that, Nattrass?”

“No,” whispers Nattrass.

“But you
should.
And now you
do!
Do not forget it.”

He touches the tiny trickle of blood that runs down the skin of Nattrass’s throat.

“Oh, dear,” he whispers. “I told you to keep still. It will be dangerous for you to move. Why children? Well, it is perfectly understandable. We are small. We are enthusiastic. We can be made to be obedient and brave. We want to
love.
Isn’t that true, Nattrass? We want to love and to be loved. Don’t we?”

“Yes,” says Nattrass.

“Yes. And so if they take away our mothers and fathers and put monsters in their place and the monsters care for us and tell us what to do, then we will follow the monsters, we will love the monsters. And we will think that war is play. Because we just love to be wild. Don’t we? Yes, we do. And we are unimportant and insignificant, and there are many many many of us, so it doesn’t matter when we die.”

Nattrass keeps dead still. His terrified eyes are on me.

“It could have been any of us,” I say. “If we had been born in a different place, in a different time. It could have been me, or Crystal. …”

“But it was not you. It was me. They killed my family, they killed my teacher, they gave me guns, they fed me drugs. We hid out. We hunted for our food. We raided and robbed. Sometimes we were even happy. Can you believe that?” He laughs. “We were sometimes
happy
, Nattrass! Do you know what it means to be happy? We sang songs. We skipped and
marched. We walked arm in arm with our companions. It was such fun. One day they will tell tales about us. When enough time has passed, we may be heroes, like your Robin Hood and his merry men, Liam. There will be books in the schools filled with pictures of our mischievous faces, with happy accounts of our adventures. Won’t that be lovely, Nattrass?
Won’t
it?”

“Yes,” gasps Nattrass.
“Yes!”

“Who were you fighting for?” I say.

“It was a mystery! They told us we were fighting for our government, that we were bringing order and freedom to our country and it was our duty to fight hard and well. When we whispered together, we children, we said that that was wrong. We said that we were rebels, in fact, that we were fighting for the people against an evil government, and that our cause was right. We said that God and the people were on our side. The truth is that we never knew. There was only war. There was no truth.”

Nattrass struggles.

“What did I
tell
you, Nattrass? The knife will slip if you don’t listen to me.”

“Please, Oliver,” I say.

He ignores me.

“The truth is,” he whispers, “that I became a very good boy soldier. I took part in slaughter. I went into villages and rounded up children like me and showed them how to become like me. Can you imagine
that
, Nattrass?
Can
you?”

“Yes,” gasps Nattrass. “Please let me go.”

“No. Not yet. Now listen, brother. Now you must imagine a little more. You must imagine that you are me. Can you imagine that?
Can
you?”

“Yes. Anything. Get
off
me.”

“Good. And imagine this: there is a village, an ordinary village like your village. Ordinary people living ordinary lives. It is an ordinary day. I think you cannot imagine Africa, so you must imagine it here. You must imagine your village,
your
people,
your
lives. Can you imagine that?
Can
you?”

“Yes,” says Nattrass.

“Yes. But it is such a leap to the next thing you must imagine. But you
must
imagine. You have been walking all day through the fields of Northumberland with your troupe. You have been seeking this village. You have whisky and drugs inside you. You are carrying a knife, a gun. You are a soldier and you are nine years old. Can you imagine that?
Can
you?”

“No.”

“No? But you
must
, brother. You have been nine years old, so you have memory to help you. And I am here beside you. I could not get closer to you, Nattrass. I am holding you so tight that we are almost one. I am whispering these things straight into your ear. And there is so much that I could whisper, but I ask you to imagine just one thing. So try. Will you try?
Will
you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. So you are nine years old. You are me. And you have been ordered to take this village, Nattrass. Why? You do not know. The question ‘Why?’ does not matter. It is what soldiers do. Take villages, kill and burn. So you move into the village. There is much firing of guns, much screaming. Can you imagine?
Can
you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t
know.
”

“Suddenly …,” says Oliver.

He pauses. His hold on Nattrass seems to weaken, but Nattrass doesn’t move.

“Suddenly,” says Oliver, “there is a girl in front of you. She too must be nine years old. She is an ordinary girl, like your sister, perhaps, like any sister. Just like you were when you were nine years old, Nattrass. So you must be able to imagine that. There she is, before you, and she has a rock in her hand. And she is screaming, howling. She screams that her mother is gone, her father is gone. Imagine that, Nattrass. And now she is about to hit you with her rock. So what will you do?
What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I will tell you, brother. And don’t worry. You need not go on imagining. You are not me. I am Henry Meadows. I am the one who raises the knife. I am the one who screams and who plunges it deep into her heart.”

Silence. Oliver loosens his grip. He steps back. He holds the knife out to Nattrass.

“Take it, Nattrass,” he says. “Go on. Use it.”

“You did that?” says Nattrass.

“Yes. I did. And it was just one of the many things I did. Take the knife. Go on. Imagine that knife in my heart. Imagine me dying at your feet. You’d be a hero, Nattrass. And I’d be gone.”

Oliver steps closer to Nattrass. He holds out the knife.

“Do it!” he says.

The fire crackles, hisses. Crystal sobs. Suddenly, Death Dealer is sitting snugly at home in my hand. Nattrass takes a deep breath. He takes the knife. He raises his hand. I go for him.

“No!” yells Crystal.

“No!” yells Oliver.

Too late.

I rush at Nattrass. I knock him to the earth. I plunge the knife towards his heart.

And then there are more lights in the trees, and footsteps, and the soldiers have come for us.

It’s hard to kill.
And the knife was blunted by the rock. I knelt by Nattrass and saw his blood trickling to the earth. I saw my knife in his flesh. But I’d missed. The blade had gone into the flesh below his armpit. Hardly deep enough to hurt, never mind to kill.

The soldiers had been watching us all day, using us as imaginary renegades. They were young. They came through the trees. They stood around with their rifles resting in their arms. They smoked cigarettes, they shook their heads at us, they tut-tutted, they tried not to grin. They called for their doctor, who brought ointment and bandages.

Their captain was called Gareth Jones. He was in camouflage. His face was streaked with black. He glared at us. He took our knives away.

“We’re not the law,” he said. “It’s not my job to find out who you are and where you’re from and what the hell you think you’re playing at. We could just leave you to it.” He watched the doctor clean Nattrass’s wound. “But what the hell
are
you playing at?”

He turned to me.

“You could have
killed
him,” he said. “Did you
want
to kill him?”

“I’m sorry,” I managed to gasp.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped at Nattrass.

The captain spat.

“Sorry?”
he said. “You’re
sorry?
Do you not think there’s enough death and destruction already in the world? Well?”

“Yes,” I said.

He spat again.

“So what you playing at? And stop crying, will you?”

He sent for a truck. We climbed inside. He sat in the back with us and we were carried out of the valley and back towards the village.

“This is my fault,” said Henry.

“And who might you be?” said Gareth Jones.

“I am Henry Meadows. I am from Liberia. I am a war criminal and a murderer.”

The captain shook his head. He cursed.

“These are my friends,” continued Oliver. “I have deceived them. It is me you must take away.”

“Where we going?” said the captain.

I gave him my address. He phoned the police. He told them where to come to.

“You all right, son?” he said to Nattrass.

“Aye,” said Nattrass.

“Good.”

He glared at Crystal.

“And you?” he said. “What’s your story?”

She shrugged.

“I ran away with Oliver. With Henry, I mean.”

“With one or the other, eh?”

He thumped on the back of the driver’s cab.

“Stop bouncing about, will you?” he yelled.

“Yes, Captain!” came a muffled reply.

The truck bounced on. The captain laid our knives out on his lap.

“You’d think we were in bloody Iraq!”

It was early morning. Dad was still up. He came to the door as the truck pulled up outside the house. He had a pen and notebook in his hand.

“There’s been some trouble, Dad,” I said.

The captain came up behind me.

“You’re the father?” he said.

“Yes,” said Dad. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t you think you should have known, sir?”

“Known what?”

The captain sighed. The others climbed out of the truck. The captain pointed to Nattrass’s wound.

“The police are on their way,” he said. “May we come in, sir?”

We streamed into the kitchen: Crystal, Henry Meadows, Gordon Nattrass, me, the captain. I heard Mum coming downstairs. She came to a halt in the kitchen doorway. She was in a dressing gown. Her hair was all tangled. Alison was in her arms.

“Oh, Mum,” I whispered. My voice quavered and broke. “Look what I’ve done.”

The baby giggled. She started jumping in Mum’s arms.

“O-A!” she yelled as she pointed at me. “O-A!O-A!”

Monster. Monster.

Nattrass phoned his dad.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, the Lynches’ house. Yes, I know what time it is. Yes, it’s trouble.” He sighed. I saw tears in his eyes. “Please, Dad. Please come for me.” He put the phone down. “Him!” he muttered.

We sat at the table. Mum made tea and toast. Crystal held the baby. She cooed and smiled. Dad rested his chin on his hand.