The Fire-Eaters

  “Why, aye,” said Col.

  Daniel shook his head. “What about the missiles in Russia pointing straight at us?”

  Ed giggled.

  “Mebbes they'll miss,” he said. He arced his hand like a missile flying over us. “Splash! Straight into the Irish Sea.”

  “Aye,” said Col. “Them Russians, man …”

  Daniel shook his head again. “Do you lot know nothing?” he said.

  No one answered. We peered through Daniel's map into the sky.

  “America's told Russia to get the missiles out of Cuba,” said Daniel.

  “And Russia's said hadaway and shite,” said Diggy.

  “And now,” said Daniel, “there's Russian ships taking more missiles there, and America's told Russia to turn the ships back…”

  “And Russia's said hadaway and shite,” said Diggy.

  “And now,” said Daniel, “America's sent ships to stop the Russian ships and…”

  Col stood up and made a pair of six-guns with his fingers, and drawled, “This ocean ain't big enough for the two of us.”

  Daniel looked at us all in amazement. “Do you lot not understand how dangerous it is?”

  Diggy spat.

  “Aye, Daniel, we do. So stop ganning on like that and stop goggling at us like that.”

  “Me dad was right,” said Ed. “There's no point doing nowt.”

  “Once it starts …,” said Col.

  “Plenty missiles to destroy the whole world a dozen times over,” said Diggy.

  “All over the world they're getting ready,” said Ed.

  “Somebody'll press the button,” said Col.

  We looked into the sky.

  Diggy spat again.

  “Why the hell we going to school when this is going on?” he said.

  Daniel wiped his map away. He pinned a CND badge on his lapel. The bus lurched toward the glass-andredbrick building. We stared out at it.

  “Bloody place,” said Col.

  We knew they'd catch us in the end. We enticed them to us. We dropped photographs behind us as we walked through corridors. We left them in the corners of classrooms where we'd worked. We pinned them on notice boards and slotted them into the corners of picture frames and door frames. A couple of kids saw us, and the rumors smoldered through the school.

  In the evening, the TV showed photographs of the weapons in Cuba, of the ships carrying more weapons, of American ships, of missiles and bombs and explosions. There were reports of riots. We saw CND protesters struggling with police in London, being arrested. Dad thumped the arm of his chair.

  “Riot?” said Dad. “That's just people doing what they should do, making their voice heard, yelling out against what they know is wrong.”

  “Is it always right to protest,” I said, “even if you think it's hopeless?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Especially then, when the odds seem stacked against you, when it seems you're yelling in the dark.” We watched a young man thrown into the back of a Black Maria. “Even when it leads to trouble, like with that lad there. Leave that lad alone!”

  The news ended. Dad turned to me.

  “Everything that's been won for folks like us has been won by fighters, Bobby Burns. Fighters that wouldn't kowtow and cringe but looked the oppressors in the eye and said that things had to change.”

  He coughed. He sipped water. Did he seem frailer, smaller? Was the illness, whatever it was, taking him in its grip?

  “Remember that,” he said. “And remember there's times we need to keep on fighting still.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “Good lad.”

  We reached toward each other at the same time. Our hands met in the space between our chairs.

  “Good lad,” he said again.

  “I love you, Dad,” I said inside myself. “I love you. I love you.”

  Next day, I was all recklessness. My dad was ill. The world might be coming to an end. I wanted to stand up and fight before the darkness fell. All the way to school, I felt the anger rising in me, I felt the strange joy of it all, the strange despair.

  As we got off the bus, I took Daniel's arm.

  “Mebbe this'll be our last day,” I said.

  “Maybe it will,” he said.

  We looked at each other.

  “So what?” we said together.

  “So let's do it properly,” he said. “So let's do it boldly and bravely.”

  We gripped each other's hand, then we went into school and got on with it. Kids watched us, nudged each other, whispered about us. Bobby Burns, they said. Who'd believe it? Bobby Burns and Daniel Gower, that new kid from the South. It was me that brought it to an end. After lunch I put a photo onto Lubbock's desk. Everyone in the classroom saw me.

  “It's true,” said Dorothy Peacock. She stared. “It's really you.”

  I nodded.

  “Aye. Me.”

  “And me,” said Daniel.

  Then Lubbock came in to register us. Deep silence. All the eyes of the others were upon us. Lubbock lifted the photograph between his finger and thumb as if it was a foul thing. He cast his eyes over us. He didn't need to say a word. I was trembling, my heart was thudding, my face was ablaze, but there was something inside me that was all delight. Daniel stood up. I stood up at his side.

  “Me,” said Daniel.

  “Both of us,” I said.

  Lubbock sneered.

  “So you're the scum,” he said. He curled his finger. “Come with me.”

  Grace's office. A crucifix and his doctorate from Leeds University hung side by side on the wall. There was a bunch of red flowers on a shelf. A statue of Our Lady stood in a little grotto carved into the wall. On his desk were a pile of Todd photographs, and his strap. His voice was quiet, almost tender.

  “Robert Burns and Daniel Gower,” he said. He smiled at Lubbock, who stood at our back. “An unlikely pairing, is it not, Mr. Lubbock?”

  “Unlikely,” he whispered. “But scum like these …” “Yes,” said Grace, “the lost and the fallen will find each other, no matter what their background.”

  I looked at Our Lady, at the snake that writhed in agony beneath her feet. I looked at Todd in his photograph, at the string of saliva caught between his bared teeth.

  Grace flicked through a file.

  “Your father,” he said to me, “is in the yard.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Lubbock jabbed me with his knuckle.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “And what will he make of all this?”

  “I don't know, sir,” I said.

  “Don't know?”

  “They don't care,” said Lubbock. “That kind. The kind from Keely Bay…”

  “The working classes,” said Grace. “The lower orders. Perhaps it is a fantasy that they are ready for true education. What do you think, Burns?”

  “Don't know, sir.”

  “Don't know? Then what would you say if your only outlook was to follow him into his yard?”

  I looked down, then looked straight into his eye again.

  “I wouldn't mind, sir,” I said.

  “Then perhaps it will be arranged. There are other places that will take you once we have finished with you here. Other places where the only outlook is the yard and places like the yard.”

  He flexed his strap between his hands.

  “And you, Mr. Gower,” he said, turning to Daniel. “I suspect that you are the true serpent in this garden. For you, of course, whatever happens, there is no prospect of the yard. There are places that will fall over themselves to take you. Your father—”

  “He helped me,” said Daniel suddenly. “He printed the photographs.”

  “Yes, of course he did.” Grace spread his hands and smiled at me. “There is a nest of vipers living by you on your beach, Robert Burns. They have poisoned you with their venom. They have led you astray.”

  “Led you into sin,” whispered Lubbock. “Led you right up to the devil's door.”

>   “Did you imagine that this boy could be your friend?” said Grace. “Did you imagine that once you were caught, and once you were dealt with, that this boy would be true to you? No, Robert Burns. This boy's affections and his loyalties will blow with the wind. You are his plaything. You will be in your yard, in your overalls, staring out through its iron gates, and your friend here, Mr. Gower, will be outside with his camera. He will make such a pretty picture of you behind your bars. He will show such disappointment in your eyes. He will suggest such a yearning in your heart. He will catch such pain in your expression, and in your posture. Yours will make such an appealing picture for the higher orders, Robert Burns.”

  Daniel clicked his tongue.

  “He's talking rubbish. Don't let him scare you, Bobby.”

  Lubbock jabbed him in the ribs. Grace suddenly reached across the desk and ripped the CND badge from Daniel's lapel.

  “You can't do that,” said Daniel. He pointed at the photographs. “And you can't do that. It's wrong to hit children.”

  Grace flushed.

  “Is this what your father says?”

  “It's what my father knows.”

  “Fortunately, in this place, we hold to other beliefs.”

  Grace lifted the strap and stood up and came round the desk toward us.

  “Don't touch me,” said Daniel.

  Grace reached out to him.

  “You dare to command me? Stand still, boy!” he hissed.

  Daniel turned away to leave but Lubbock held him.

  “This is a cowardly worm!” said Lubbock. “Tough enough to do the dirty secret deeds but too scared to take any punishments.”

  Daniel twisted free. He spat on the floor.

  “And you are fascist pigs. Come on,” he said. “Just leave, Bobby.”

  “Stand still!” said Grace.

  I couldn't move. I knew that I should just run with Daniel, but I couldn't move. Lubbock tried to restrain Daniel again, but Grace shook his head.

  “Let him go, Mr. Lubbock. It is the last time he will be seen in this place.”

  Daniel hesitated in the doorway. He looked me in the eye.

  “I'll see you on the beach tonight, Bobby,” he said. He clenched his fists. “What we did was right. You know that. Remember that.”

  Then he was gone.

  Grace smiled.

  “As I said. So the serpent slithers off. Now, then, Robert Burns.”

  I held out my hand; then there was a soft knocking at the door. Lubbock opened it. Todd stepped inside.

  “Here is your tormentor,” said Grace. He held out the strap to Todd. “Would you care to…?”

  But Todd shook his head.

  “No, thank you, sir,” he murmured. “This is your domain.”

  He looked at me, this little cruel stupid man. I don't think he even recognized me. He quickly looked away.

  “You must apologize,” said Grace.

  I said nothing.

  “You must say sorry to Mr. Todd, and you must mean it,” said Grace.

  I held out my hand. I said nothing. I thought of Dad. Make him better, I whispered to myself. Take all the pain away from him.

  “Apologize.”

  My lips stayed shut.

  The strap whipped down. I gasped with pain. Tears filled my eyes. I looked directly back at Grace as the strap whipped down again. I was a fighter. I could take any pain he gave me. His punishment would only make me stronger. He told me again to apologize. My lips stayed shut.

  I was told that the bishop would be informed about these incidents. He would help decide my future. The staff of the school would meet to discuss my case. I should stay at home until I was sent for. I should make a confession to my local priest. I should describe my wrongdoing to my parents. I should contemplate the harm I had caused to Mr. Todd, to the community of the school, to my own prospects, and to my soul. I was given a letter to take home. As he wrote it, in his brisk black script, Grace paused and looked up at me.

  “Do your parents read well enough?” he asked.

  I wanted to grab his strap and attack him in reply. I trembled with frustration and pain. Through the window, I saw Miss Bute watching from beyond the car park, her head tilted to one side, her chin in her hand. Grace pressed the letter onto blotting paper and folded it into an envelope. “You have a final opportunity to apologize,” he said. My lips stayed shut. I took the letter and backed away, out of the office, into the corridor. I hurried through the school. Kids goggled from their classrooms. I saw teachers trying to compose them for their work. I heard their yells. I imagined their words: Don't look. That boy is no example for you. See what happens to those who wander into sin. I ran from the front door and felt such freedom, such triumph. I rubbed my hands and the pain was soon gone. My mind was all astorm. I did some kind of crazy dance in the yard before I ran from the school grounds into the cold October afternoon. I ran homeward, taking the bus route, running on pavements, then on a roadside verge, then through the birch and pine and hawthorn woods that lined the road. The sky was filled with larks and gulls. I sang myself, like some weird bird, whistling and yowling and waving my arms. I smelt the sea and heard the sea and saw the summit of the distant lighthouse. The land glowed beneath the low sun: corn stubble and brown earth and fiery leaves and the sky was icy blue. I ran through dark shadows and into dazzling beams of light. I yelled my delight:

  “Freedom! Freedom! Destroy the missiles! Save the world! Save my dad!”

  I felt that I could run all day, that I could run for my whole life. I ran past the Rat and the post office and the scattered houses and down the lane to the beach and toward the sea and I slowed as I approached the house. I waded through the sand. I unlatched the gate. I took deep breaths. I trembled. What would they say, when so many of their hopes and dreams were lodged in me? I went inside. No one there. Just emptiness. A fire shrinking in the grate. A cold pot of tea. Then I found the scribbled note.

  We're at the hospital. Back soon. Mam. x.

  I ripped off my uniform. I pulled on old clothes. I gabbled something at Mary and Bernadette. I stabbed a needle into the flesh between my finger and thumb.

  “Please,” I whispered. “No! Bloody no!”

  Then I calmed myself. I stared out from my window. Down on the shoreline, Joseph was building a bonfire. He was bare-chested. Further south, half a mile away along the beach, the Spinks were in the water getting coal. I saw Ailsa's silhouette dancing on the cart, Losh and Yak and Mr. Spink wielding their massive shovels. The late sunlight glinted off them, the silvery sea gleamed all around them. To the north, from among the dunes, the smoke of McNulty's little fire snaked into the late-afternoon air. The sky above us all was empty but for birds and clouds.

  I went downstairs. I added my own note to theirs.

  I'm on the beach. B. x.

  “Joseph,” I called, but he didn't hear.

  He was bowed forward; he carried great timbers across his bare shoulders. He dragged them away from me, toward the huge pile down by the shoreline.

  “Joseph!” I yelled, and he turned at last.

  He dropped the timbers and laughed and came to me.

  “Bobby Burns! What you doing out this time of day?”

  My feet shifted on the sand at the excitement of saying it:

  “They hoyed me out, Joseph.”

  “You? Bobby Burns?”

  “Me, Joseph, and they might not let me back!”

  His eyes widened at the amazement of it.

  “But what you done, Bobby?”

  “Oh … everything!”

  He came and held my face in his hands.

  “But what about university and all that stuff?” he said. “What about the future?”

  “What future, Joseph?”

  Then he whispered, “Look!” and he turned around, and I saw that the whole of his dragon had been filled in. Blood still marked the needle points. There was bruising under the garish greens and golds and reds of the beast's body. There were horns
and warts. The claws gripped Joseph's sides, the tail whipped down beneath his ice-blue jeans. Flames belched from the open jaws, they flared across the back of his neck, licked toward his throat and beneath his hairline. The dragon seemed like part of him, something growing out from him.

  “Isn't it bloody wonderful?” he said.

  I reached out and touched it gently and felt how soft his skin was and how tender it was.

  “Was agony!” he said.

  A tiny scab broke off beneath my touch.

  “Should still have it covered up,” he said. “Got to keep it clean. But what the hell?”

  He turned to me again.

  “It's beautiful,” I said.

  “Dad stuffed a wad of notes into me hand yesterday. Gan on, he says. Get the whole lot done at once. No point waiting for nothing now. It took hours! Now I'm getting the bonfire ready. Been doing it all day. It'll be the biggest ever.” He spread his arms against the sky to show how massive it would be. “We'll not wait for Guy Fawkes Night this year. Set it off early, eh?”

  “Aye!”

  He laughed loudly.

  “They're gonna blast us all to smithereens so there'll be no Guy Fawkes Night anyway! Help us, Bobby?”

  “Aye,” I said.

  We searched the beach and its hinterland for timber. We dragged logs and dried-out seaweed and fish boxes and tires from the jetsam. There were fence posts and gates in the sand, remnants of disappeared gardens. We dragged fallen branches from among the pines. We went to where the shacks were. We found fallen roof timbers, ruined armchairs, floorboards and doors: anything that was old, anything that was dilapidated. Over the hill of sand, McNulty's smoke continued to rise. We stood for a moment and watched but we didn't go to him.

  “Been dreaming about him,” said Joseph. “Been dreaming that I touch the fire, that I feel nothing, that I'm him.”

  He tilted his head and breathed powerfully out, as if there was a fire roaring from his throat.

  “I want to learn it from him,” he said. “To hell with being a builder!” He laughed. “I want to be a fire-eater!”

  We hauled our discoveries back to the shoreline and heaped them up and flung them high. We worked and sweated and cursed and laughed and I tried to think of nothing but being with Joseph Connor as I'd been with him so many times since I'd been born. Then we rested. Joseph lit a cigarette and grimaced and grinned at the pains in his back. I looked back toward home and saw no movement there. I trembled and my fears for Dad and my memories of the awful time in Grace's office came streaming back. I couldn't control myself and I cried and Joseph put an arm around me and I told him about Todd and Daniel and the school and my dad and I leaned on him, Joseph Connor, the boy I'd known since I was born, the greatest friend I'd had, who'd always been something like a brother. He told me I'd done right and my dad would be fine but I couldn't stop the tears running from my eyes, I couldn't stop the feeling of helplessness and uselessness.