Dark Portal 1/Dark Portal 1.adf/TEXT/The Hut

Text File | 1992-09-02 | 22.2 KB | 407 lines

@"THE HUT" By Neale Grant 1994


  There's a certain way the flies buzz in the early part of August
that just seems to suck all possibility of action from the air.  When
their unconcerned drone is the only sound disturbing the baking
silence, you just know nothing will happen that day. And you can't
fight it.  Doing anything energetic feels uncomfortable, as if only
the circling insects have a right to be moving.
  I sat on the dust of what passed for a sidewalk with my arms folded
around my legs and my feet resting on the slightly finer dust of the
road.  The road shot straight through Meadow Vale from Darwin's Creek
eight miles away to Hansonville eleven miles on the other side, and
then beyond to places that were just names to me.  Every so often a
truck or a car would rumble obliviously by, materialising out of the
heat haze in the east to disturb our lives briefly before vanishing
into the west.  But mostly there was just the hum of the flies.
  It was Saturday afternoon and everyone who could had left Meadow
Vale (pop. 519) for somewhere you could actually do something.  For
most people this meant getting the rickety old bus into Darwin's
Creek, or taking their car if they had one.  It beat me what they all
did when they got there, but for some people it was a kind of ritual.
Those who didn't join in were left with even less to do.
  I thought of going fishing but I didn't really enjoy it on my own.
Chris, my best friend, was in Darwin's Creek with his folks; that left
Daniel Taylor, and he usually called on me if he had nothing to do.
Still, there was no harm in trying.  I clambered to my feet and
scuffed my way to Daniel's house.
  We had a kind of unofficial gang, Chris, Daniel and me.  Unofficial
because we didn't call ourselves a gang, we didn't have a silly name
for ourselves and we didn't have secret codes or passwords or rituals,
or even a meeting place.  But we hung out with ourselves and nobody
else, shared a lot of secrets and were fanatically loyal to each other
in the way that only kids can be.
  As I picked my way through the back streets to Daniel's house I
gradually became aware of the tinny noise of a small transistor radio
blaring out at full volume.  Daniel was probably in, then. The sound
grew from a distant chattering in the hot summer air to a distorted,
treble-heavy cacophony.
  I rang the doorbell twice but there was no answer, so I went round
back and shouted up at Daniel's window, which was levered half-way
open.
  "Daniel!" I yelled.  "Answer me you lazy bastard or I'll start
calling you Danny!"
  The music suddenly became quieter and a head popped out of the
window, followed by a rounded pair of shoulders.
  "No need to shout, Patsy," he said.  "I can hear you."
  "Okay, I'm sorry I called you Danny.  But if you so much as whisper
that name again your crazy head won't know what scalped it."
  "Didn't mean to upset you," he said cheerily.  "Patrick Torwood it
is.  Now will you get the ladder from the shed before I go mad and try
to jump from here."
  I did as he said and soon he had squirmed out of his window and come
down the ladder.  He stood beside me on the slowly parching grass of
his parent's back garden and grinned.
  "Grounded again Daniel?" I asked.
  "Sure," he said, and grinned some more.  "I thought you were never
going to turn up.  I thought I was trapped in my room until my folks
came back or I slit my wrists in desperation, whichever was least
painful."
  "So what are we going to do?"
  "If I'd slit my wrists," he continued, ignoring me completely and
still grinning, "I would have squeezed out as much blood as I could
and written all over the walls with it.  I would have written 'Patrick
forced me to it' in my own blood and then sprayed blood everywhere
around the room until I fainted and died.  Bright red blood all over
the place."
  I tried not to listen to him.  He knew I hated the sight or even
the thought of blood.  But his words held a strange fascination.
  "Shut up you psychotic motherfucker," I snapped.
  "Ooh, language," he said, but he shut up.
  "What are we going to do?  We've only got about four hours until
your folks came back."
  "Uh-uh," he said, and started grinning again.  "They aren't coming
back till nine."
  "You were going to be shut in your room all that time?  What if you
needed the toilet?"
  "Then I'd have had some shit to smear in with the blood," he leered.
  "You're gross," I said, feigning disgust.
  "I wouldn't really have done that: they made me go before they
left."
  I was beginning to get just a little bored of his clowning.  It was
okay most of the time but just now I wanted to go somewhere and do
something.
  "So we've got seven hours to do whatever we want.  What are we going
to do?"
  "All right, you boring bastard, I'll think of something."  He made a
big show of scratching his head for a few seconds.  "I know!"
  He grinned in silence and didn't elaborate.  "What?" I prompted
eventually.
  "I've got it!"
  "Well you can't have got it from me," I said, in accordance with the
tradition.  When I said earlier that we had no gang rituals, I wasn't
being entirely truthful.  We have some set piece insults, and we also
try to think up as many ways of putting each other down as possible.
  "That's because you never do it," he replied, also traditionally.
  "I do, just not with boys, and especially not with you."
  "Nah, you don't even know what 'it' is."
  Oops.  I'd forgotten that the second person loses that one. It
didn't bother me much, but it would have been better if it hadn't been
a sexual insult.  They seem to matter more before puberty than after
it, for some reason.
  "Tell me," I said through gritted teeth.
  "We can build a gang hut!"
  "How?" I asked scathingly.  "We've talked about this before.  Where
would we get the wood from?"
  "You're not thinking.  Come with me."  And he walked away, so I
followed him.  He led me to the building site at the edge of town,
where there was going to be a big new house.
  "You think we should just take some of this stuff?" I asked
nervously as we looked at the deserted site.
  "Sure.  Why not?  The workmen won't be coming here on a Saturday."
  "But it's not right," I protested.
  "My dad says the man who's building the house is really rich.  It
won't make any difference to him."
  "Well, I suppose so."  As you probably noticed, I didn't put up much
of a fight.  My morals were easily redefined at that age.
  "Good," Daniel said.  "Now grab that wheelbarrow and we'll load some
planks into it."


  It took us two trips with a full wheelbarrow to get all the stuff
Daniel wanted.  Fortunately we didn't have to cross town to get where
we were going or we'd have been caught for sure.
  We went to the place we'd always planned to put a gang hut if we'd
been able to.  It was up an enormous oak tree with a sort of platform
of close-together branches about ten feet off the ground.  It was
roughly half way between Cooper's Falls, a locally famous beauty spot,
and a small clearing in the woods we sometimes played in.  We had a
rope swing in the tree anyway so we already thought of it as ours.
  Daniel had gone back to his garden shed to get his dad's toolbox
when I took the wheelbarrow back to the building site, so we were
ready to start.
  "You think we can manage?" I asked uncertainly.  "It looks a long
way up."
  "Course we can," Daniel insisted.  "What, are you chicken?"
  "No," I said defensively, "but I'm useless at woodwork even when I'm
on the ground.  I'll never manage up there."
  "Never mind, you great big pussy.  You can stay down here and pass
me the stuff up."
  "Sure, I'll do that."
  "Good," he said.  "Then I'll get going."
  Daniel grabbed the rope swing and hauled himself up hand over hand.
For a fat kid he wasn't bad at that sort of thing.  Once he was safely
up in the tree he told me to tie the rope around the handle of the
toolbox so he could haul it up.
  Then we had to figure out a way of getting the planks up there as
well.  I obviously couldn't just hand them up to him, because he was
far too high.  Daniel tried making a loop in the end of the rope swing
and pulling one up, but it slipped out and just about landed on my
head.
  But we weren't going to be stopped by something as simple as that.
Eventually I hit upon the idea of making two loops in the rope so the
planks could balance.  The rope wasn't very long so it meant I had to
stretch as high as I could to slip each bit of wood through, but with
practice I got quite good.
  Soon the woods were echoing to the rhythmic knocks of Daniel's
hammering.


  I didn't have much to do, of course.  Every five minutes or so
Daniel would ask me to stick another plank through the loops, but in
between I was just wasting time, sitting on the grass beneath the tree
or leaning against its trunk.
  After a while I suggested that maybe I should go get some food from
my house.
  "Yeah, good idea," Daniel said.  "I've almost finished the floor so
you'll be able to come up here and eat it with me.  We'll have the
inaugural meal of our gang hut.  Pass me another plank first, though."
  I was going to ask him what "inaugural" meant but I couldn't be
bothered.  I gave him his plank then ran home.    Why is it that
children under the age of twelve love to run everywhere?


  I let myself in with the key that was always left under the plant
pot by the door.  The house was deserted, of course, but I checked
anyway. I was so used to homes having people in them that I could
never quite bring myself to trust empty ones.
  "Hallo?  Anyone in?" I called, then felt a bit silly.  As you
probably would if you were talking to a house you knew was empty.
  There was no reply, so I went into the kitchen, quickly put together
four peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, grabbed two glasses and a
bottle of lemonade, and left, locking the door behind me.
  It was just as well the town was so quiet, because I felt slightly
foolish carrying food around with me like that.  No one was going to
stop me and ask "Do your parents know where you're going with that,
son?" but I still wasn't happy.  I had been happier wheeling a
barrowload of stolen timber with Daniel than I was at that moment.
  Perhaps it was a sort of premonition.  I was just about to turn down
the street that led out of town to the woods when I spotted three of
the local bullies hanging around the sweet shop at the far end.  One
of them was Edward "Fists" Cross, who was in my class at school but
looked at least two years older, and the other two were from the class
above.  I didn't have anything to do with them if I could help it, but
it's hard to avoid people in such a small town.
  As far as I could tell they hadn't seen me and I'd hardly begun to
turn the corner, so I just stayed on the street I was on and kept
walking.  I didn't know it as "Discretion is the better part of
valour" at that time, but staying out of trouble was a lesson I had
learned quickly.
  There was no point in overdoing it though, so I took the next street
to the right instead.  I took some pride from the thought that I had
defeated them in a small way: they had only put me slightly out of my
path instead of giving me the sound beating which could easily result
from their boredom.
  But my pleasure was short lived.  Just as I was approaching the end
of the street I heard someone whisper, "...scare the living shit out
of him."
  I kept calm, thought quickly.  If I kept on going they would jump
out at me from around the corner, have their little joke and maybe
leave it at that.  Or maybe not, especially if I didn't act frightened
enough.  On the other hand I could turn back, go a completely
different way and perhaps escape them altogether - and risk enraging
them at being outmanoeuvred.
  I turned back quietly, keeping the soft scuffing of my feet in the
dust as noiseless as possible.
  Perhaps they noticed that my footsteps were no longer audible, or
perhaps they just decided that I should have walked into their trap by
then.  One of them must have risked sticking his head round the corner
and seen me walking the other way.  They decided to keep up the game
of nerves though, and slowly, stealthily came after me.
  If they'd just charged I probably wouldn't have outrun them, but
they were counting on me not having noticed them.  They underestimated
me.  I was listening as hard as I could in the heavy afternoon air,
and I managed to guess their progress quite well.  They were well
behind when I turned the corner of the street.  And ran as if my life
depended on it.
  By the time they got to the corner I had a block's head start.  They
sneaked round just in time to see me disappearing down the next street
along.
  "After him!" Fists yelled.  "We're going to get you Torwood!"
  And the chase began.
  My head start was good, but they were much faster than me; I didn't
like my chances too much, especially as I was still trying to carry
four sandwiches, two glasses and a bottle.  I sprinted towards the
woods with two angry bullies right behind me.
  The third, Andrew Weinberger, had had the bright idea of running
back the way he had come and trying to intercept me at the corner.  I
shot out from between the last two houses just ahead of my pursuers,
and just before Andrew Weinberger got there.  Unfortunately for him,
he didn't realise his friends were going to get to the end of the
street at the same moment he did.
  He cannoned right into them.
  The three of them saw what was going to happen just after that
critical moment when it's too late to change anything.  They managed
to slow down a bit so the crash wasn't as interesting as it could have
been, but then I wasn't staying around to watch anyway.  I had
humiliated them twice now, and they weren't likely to give up on me.
  With as much speed as I could muster and all the knowledge of the
woods I had gained over the years, I tried to make the most of my
renewed lead.  The undergrowth hampered me more than it would slow
down my unencumbered pursuit, but I hoped to shake them off by not
using the paths.
  I had forgotten that Trev Mason knew the woods as well as I did.  We
had been friends for a while when we were younger, and we had played a
lot together in this particular area.
  "C'mon Eddie," I heard him shout from not far enough behind, "I know
where the little bastard's going."
  I changed my plan.  I had been heading for a shallow cave set into
the side of a little gorge.  Through the gorge ran a stream formed
from the water of a sewage pipe - not liquid shit, you understand,
just dirty water from the local mill.  Anyway, if you jumped down into
the gorge and slipped underneath the overhang you would be completely
invisible to anyone chasing you.  They tended to just leap the gap
without checking anyway.
  It was a useful hiding place, but I couldn't go to it now.  I made a
sharp turn to the right and headed roughly in the direction of our new
gang hut.  I was hoping to be able to hide up there with Daniel until
the hunt was given up.
  They mustn't have seen the place where I'd flattened the undergrowth
to change direction, because I heard the sounds of pursuit
("...crucify the little shit...") getting quieter.  But I couldn't
count on my luck forever; it would hardly take great tracking skills
to realise I'd doubled back on them.      I arrived back at the tree
with my breath wheezing painfully in and out of my lungs, holding four
squashed sandwiches, two intact glasses and a bottle of lemonade
fizzed up so much it must have been about to explode.
  "Daniel, stop hammering," I said urgently between breaths.
  "Why, where've you been?"
  "There's no time to talk," I insisted.  "Fists, Andrew and Trev are
after me.  I've got to hide."
  "Andrew Weinberger?" said a voice.  A female voice at that.  "He was
always no good."
  "What the hell are you doing here?" I asked incredulously,
forgetting to mind my language in front of a lady.  I looked up to the
half-finished hut and saw Trish Callaghan, a quiet girl from the same
class as Andrew and Trev.
  "I heard strange knocking noises and came to find out who was making
them.  Then Daniel invited me up."
  I glared at Daniel.  "Chris hasn't even been in the hut yet and
you're inviting outsiders?   Girl outsiders.  Come to that, I haven't
even been up there."
  "Oh, stop your whining," Daniel snapped.  "Stash the stuff you're
carrying and the rest of the wood behind that bush over there and get
up here quick."
  There was a lot of sense in that, so I did it.
  "Won't they see us easily?" Trish asked as I grabbed the rope.  "I
mean, we're not that high."
  "With any luck they won't even look," Daniel explained.  "They'll
probably run right past."
  I had always wanted to be good at rope climbing, but I wasn't.  I
told myself, "Come on, Trish managed it and she's a girl," but
something else in my head said, "Yeah, the best gymnast and athlete in
Meadow Vale Junior School."  I tried not to be defeatist, because I
could hear people crashing through the woods not far away, but I could
feel the strength leaking out of my arms.
  With one last effort I heaved myself up to the platform and got one
hand on to the solid wood.  Daniel grabbed my other wrist.
  But it was too late.  Just then the three boys arrived on the scene
with cries of "There he is!" and "Pull the fucking monkey out his
tree!"
  Fists Cross tried to do just that.  He sprinted across to the tree
and jumped, grabbing at my legs.  His sudden weight pulled me from
Daniel's grasp and I fell to the ground like a dead koala.
  I landed hard on my back, and my head whacked down on one of the
oak's huge roots.  Pain slammed across my sight and howled in my ears.
 My skull felt like it had been smashed inwards.  For a couple of
seconds, I faded out of consciousness.
  I was in terrible pain.  Salt water streamed from my eyes like they
were taps.  But Fists wasn't content.  He hadn't landed well either,
and my legs had fallen on his stomach, winding him.  With the perverse
logic of the bully, he blamed me for it.  He got to his feet.
  "Get up, maggot," he ordered.
  I didn't.  I couldn't.  I wasn't even able to speak out in my own
defence.
  "UP!" he roared, and hauled me up by the throat.  "Don't you think
he's hurt enough?" shouted Trish indignantly from above.
  Perhaps because of the weird, delicate male-female balance at
puberty, this intervention had more of an effect than it would  have
done coming from Daniel.
  "Yeah," said Trev quietly.  "Look, Eddy, there's blood in his hair."
  Blood?  I almost blacked out again.
  "Don't be a big pussy," Fists snarled, with an evil grin sliding on
to his face.  "If he's bleeding, we can wash it off for him."
  He started to drag me in the direction of Cooper's Falls.  It was a
while before I realised where we were going.  I think it was about the
time when I noticed that the roaring in my ears wasn't just coming
from inside any more.
  "He's going to fall, just like Cooper did," laughed Fists.
  "No, Eddy!  You could kill him!" Trev protested.  "Beating him up a
bit is one thing, but you could go to jail."
  "Fuck off you yellow poofter!" Fists yelled.  He turned around and
waved his free fist at the older boy.  "Don't get in my way."
  Then he threw me, almost casually, into the water.
  I had come to just enough to enable me to hold my head above water.
Despite the sweltering heat of the day, the water was very cold; the
shock almost knocked me out again.  Even with all my senses and my
brain in working order, I wouldn't have fancied my chances going over
that waterfall.  As it was, I was sure I was going to drown.


  I suddenly became all sort of... calm inside.  Now that I was going
to die, nothing really mattered any more.  Chris was going to be a bit
disappointed in me, I thought, and felt a bit sad.  But I also
realised that Fists couldn't ever bully me again.  In those few
seconds before I went over the falls, I accepted death.  There was
nothing I could do about it; death was something I had no power over.
It didn't feel profound when I came up with it, although I suppose it
was quite an insight for an eleven-year-old.  Somehow it seemed a
natural conclusion to come to.
  But cold water was rushing me along towards the waterfall, and
suddenly I was thrown over the edge.  Briefly I was weightless and
free, and I wondered if that was how death felt.
  I hit the water again with a jolt, and my calm resolve vanished.  I
wanted to fight, to stay alive.  There was no way I was going to give
Edward Cross the satisfaction of my death.
  With a last burst of life-saving adrenaline I flailed with my arms,
clawing desperately at the river.  It was my only chance to escape of
the turmoil of backrushing water before my strength failed.  I wasn't
a great swimmer, but I must have been lucky.
  All of a sudden I was free.


  The river still held me, but it was carrying me away from the
waterfall.  All I wanted to do was relax and go to sleep.
  I knew that would kill me, so I tried to make for the nearest bank.
A weak crawl was all I could manage; it was enough to get me to the
edge of the river, but not before I'd taken quite a bit of water into
my mouth.
  I lay in the mud, breathing and coughing in spasms, certain that I
was going to die even after coming through the hard bit.
  Again, I dropped out of the world.


  When I came to again I had been turned over on to my front with my
arms and legs out at funny angles.  I didn't know then that it was the
recovery position, or that Trish Callaghan had probably saved my life.
Watery vomit was lying in a tiny puddle beside my mouth.
  "He doesn't look okay to me," Daniel was protesting.
  "Trust me," Trish told him.  "He'll be fine in a few minutes, and
we'll be able to take him to the doctor to get his head seen
to."
  Oh God, my head.  Hot pain pulsed in waves through my skull.
  "Daniel?  Is that you?" I said weakly.  I didn't feel that bad, but
I thought I might as well get what satisfaction I could from the
situation.  "Trish?"
  "It's okay, Pat," Trish said soothingly.  "You'll be all right."
  I rolled over on to my back and looked up into her face.
  "You mean I'm not going to die?"  Okay, perhaps that was overdoing
it.
  "Of course not, silly," she said.  Then she did something totally
unexpected.
  She bent over and kissed me.  Trish Torwood (ne Callaghan), my wife.
  And your mother, son.