The Last of the Gullivers (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

IN A
FIELD
OF
CLOVER

M
ichael dropped the Game Machine in the street and went running. The Boys were gone from the alley and he ran alone down the closing-in Sheep Street and on through the Market Square and past St. Edwards. There was a siren now, and another, another, louder, louder. He turned again, up an alley, and ran harder. He ran across Stow Street, every part of him aching. His breath burned inside him and he was too scared to think of stopping.

He passed the Inn, unlevel with the weight of years, and ran till the shops became houses and these became farms, the village fast-fading in the mist. He jumped a low wall and ripped his trousers on the sharp stone comb. He didn't know where he was or was going, but he kept on. He followed old tractor tracks through fields of wheat that traced the shape of a never-ending wind.

For a minute, he thought he heard music. But no, these were sirens, howling like a pack of wolves in the valley. Wolves, hungry for him. He ran until the sound and the wind were gone. He came to a meadow, where the air was still, but full of life. A badger ambled into the nettle, and Michael stopped to pull spiky cleavers from his socks.

A Jay was squawking at him from a tree branch. “You think you got problems,” the boy told it. “I ditched school, robbed a store, got hit by a car, chased by cops—and it's not even lunchtime yet.”

He saw, on the far side of the meadow, a small house—what was left of one—an old stone cottage, rough-walled, whitewashed, roof of thatch. In a better day, it would have been one of those fairy-tale places where tourists stop to take pictures.

But it was a sad sight now, forgotten and falling apart, small diamond windows broken and stuffed with newspaper. By the sagging, uncertain chimney there was a large and empty bird's nest. The rock wall around the front was mostly fallen in, the walk gone to weed.

The place looked unlived in, unlivable. And, to a twelve year old felon, it looked like a good place to hide for a while.

Michael tried the door, but it was locked or swollen shut. He went to the back of the house and saw a stone wall around the garden, a huge wall, ten feet tall and mossed over. He walked and found no door, no gate, no way in or way out.

Then he heard the music, coming from the other side. It was very strange music, like none he'd ever heard, peaceful, wild, sad, happy, and all at once, if that was possible.

And then it was gone.

He went on around the back garden, walking the length of the long ambling wall, until he came to the cottage again. He found a low window, unlocked, and wrestled it up a few inches. That was enough. They say a rat can fit through a hole the size of a fifty cent piece, and Michael squeezed through this narrow slot and was in the cold dark kitchen. He stopped and listened and heard no one. He moved on and found a door to the back garden. It was open, a crack, moonlight fanning across the floor. He stepped through it and into a small courtyard full of clover, with overgrown shrubs hiding the rest of the garden.

The music must have come from back there, somewhere farther. Michael was about to start down the walkway when a gunshot tore through the windless air. The boy fell, headfirst, to the brick path and rolled into the clover.

This,
he was thinking, as everything went dark,
just isn't my day.

When he woke up again—was it minutes, hours, days?—there was a moon and there was blood. His head had been bleeding, a lot, but wasn't now. He tried to sit up and couldn't. There were small fuzzy spots of light around him. Was this the will-o'-the-wisp that Freddie and his mates sometimes talked about? A superstition said the lights were the lost, wandering souls of the un-baptized, unsure how to get to Heaven, not meant for Hell. Michael lay there and moaned and the little lights went scattering in every direction, into the untended shrubs.

He tried to sit up, but was lashed to the ground, held in some spidery web. Fine binding twine crisscrossed his chest, arms, legs, everywhere. He felt something crawl onto him and over him and he tried to see, but his head and neck were bound, too.

He yelled out—“Shoo, go away!”—and whatever-it-was hurried into the dark. He heard a sound like words, a muddy murmur from the shadows of the clover. The boy had never been as scared as this and could hardly breathe from it.

Before he found a voice to scream with, a mountainous dog was on him, its hot slaver pouring into his face.

“All right, Whitby,” came a voice, “settle now,” and the dog settled but didn't seem happy about it. “No, no,” the voice was saying. “He's not dead.”

Michael lay still, eyes shut.

“They thought you were a bear.”

He opened his eyes and saw a shape against the moon, a man, tall and bent and old as dirt, wild white hair, a beard glowing with starlight. The man used a walking stick to break the threads and Michael leapt to his feet and went running.

He ran through the house and out the front door, ran the many long miles to the village, and straight into the big arms of a policeman. He was put in the back of a dim reeking van and wind whistled at the wire grate. A crowd pushed close to see.

“Is that the boy?” Stanley Ford, the policeman, asked.

“S'him,” grunted Tiswas.

The dark-car man was there, too. “That's the one, that's the yahoo.”

“It's him it's him it's him!” said the tiny pet shop woman, Francis Froth, excited and hopping about.

Gadbury nodded.

And the cop asked, “What's your name, boy?”

“Michael.”

“Michael what?”

“Pine.”

“Your head hurt?”

“Not too bad.”

“What happened to you, Michael Pine?”

“I. Guess. I. Fell.”

“How old are you?” asked Stanley, tall fellow, decent and patient and often lonely.

“Twelve. Twelve today.”

The officer sighed and said, “Now, Michael, is this any way to spend your birthday?”

CHAPTER THREE

PIG'S NOSE, PARSLEY & ONION SAUCE

T
he wind of Moss-on-Stone was maddening and ever-there. It uncombed your hair, grabbed papers from your hands, and whistled through every unseen crack in your house. On the afternoon Michael went to Youth Court, the wind was very wet and very cold.

The court buildings sat at the north edge of the town, grim places with stained concrete walls and murky windows. Nick's Boys were across in a car park, watching, waiting.

“That little eejit's going to rat on us.” Robby was oldest and meanest and he hated Michael. “The little eejit's going to rat us out, you watch, you'll see.”

“Y'really think?” asked Gordy. “Y'think, really?” Gordy was as big as a Gloucester pig and half as smart.

Phil, a quiet boy who had running dreams like dogs, said nothing.

“Now here's the way I see it.” It was Peter, the one who thought
everything
through. “They'll let squire off easy. He's littlest and youngest and they go easy on young little ones. He's, what, ten? They'll go easy on him.”

“Y'think, really?” Gordy again. “Y'really think?”

They'd all been locked up in YOI, the Young Offenders Institution at Ambridge, one time or another. Robby had been in six times. Nick alone had kept out.

“Michael's smarter than you lot put together,” said Nick. “He knows what's expected of him.”

The building was as plain inside as out and smelled like ink and sweat. There were a few brown chairs in the back and these were for onlookers, but onlookers weren't let in the Youth Court. There were four bent military desks set in a square, for the Court Usher, the Clerk, and the Magistrates.

Michael sat, quiet, unsure and ashamed.

Freddie shifted, edgy and uneasy: he'd been here too many times when he was younger. Michael's duty solicitor, Mr. Fenworth, was there and silent, too. He was a tall and reclusive man who had no children and didn't think much of them.

The Court Clerk came in first: Maxine Bellknap, an intent woman with a gardener's rosy glow. She had been a barrister here once, a good one, had retired many times, but never found the heart to leave the Court. Her daughter Hetty was Michael's teacher.

Mr. Tiswas sat in a chair to the side, alone, staring at the floor. Stanley Ford, the policeman, was in the next row.

Three Magistrates entered. The Chief Magistrate, Horace Ackerby II, was a giant and weighed a hundred pounds too many. He had cat eyes, a mop of messy hair, and the fiercest, shortest temper in Moss-on-Stone. Once a bank official, he'd become a Magistrate late in life. The other two looked like old children.

“The first duty of man,” Ackerby finally said, “is the seeking after of truth. It was Cicero said that, not me. But it's what I'm after. Truth is what I seek. Tell me, child—the Truth—did you steal the, ah, the, um”—he checked his notes—“the Game Machine?”

Michael sat, silent, uncertain.

The lawyer Fenworth said, “
Answerrr
.”

And Michael answered, “No.”

Fenworth sighed, “The
truuuth
.”

And Michael said, “No, sir, but I tried.”

“The child spends his day how?” the Magistrate asked, but didn't wait for an answer. “Drifting, yes, looking for trouble? The parents are where?”

“Dead, Horace, car crash,” Freddie answered, helpful. “I'm stuck with him now.”

“I believe you're paid a stipend by the government,” said one of the other Magistrates.

“Not much of one, I'm not,” Freddie grunted back.

“He's never been arrested,” Fenworth offered.

“Or never been caught.” Ackerby took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes and said, “I wonder, child, what are your dreams?”

Michael didn't know what to say and said nothing.

“Tell me what—beyond stealing—are the things that interest you? That excite your blood?”

The boy could only shrug.

The Chief Magistrate put his glasses back on and raked a hand through his wild hair. “If you were as old as I am—and, yes, I'm old—you'd know that we chart a course for our lives, choosing right paths and wrong ones. Is there a reason, at your young age, you've chosen this?”

And again, Michael had no answer.

“The course to prison? Will you go where the wind blows you, boy—nowhere else?” Ackerby hit the old steel desk with a huge hammy fist. He was a banshee now in a spittle-spewing fury. The other Magistrates shifted in their small cold chairs. “Do you want to end up
like him
?!” He meant Freddie. “Is that the best you can dream!?”

“Ah, c'mon now, Horace,” from Freddie.

“You keep company with thugs, you'll amount to
nothing
! You hear me?!”

Fenworth quietly whined, “
Answerrr
.”

“Yes,” said Michael. “Yes, sir,” he added, “I hear you.”

The Chief Magistrate grew just as quickly calm. He looked past Michael, to the Court Clerk and some unspoken words passed between them. “We are proposing an Action Plan Order. The boy will be given an after-school job and will work two hours each day. He will no longer consort with gang members. Each weekday, for twelve months, he will check in with an officer at six thirty in the evening. He will meet weekly to review his progress with Ms. Bellknap.”

“And who's s'posed to haul him all the way over”—Freddie saw Ackerby's cold eyes—“that'd be me, wouldn't it?”

“Ms. Bellknap will prepare a report,” the Magistrate went on, “for myself and the others. Is this all clear to you?”

Michael nodded, it was clear.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“No. No, sir. Nothing.”

“Ms. Bellknap will fill you in on the particulars.” The men stood, three at once, and Horace Ackerby turned back to Michael. “There are better courses a life can take. Surprise us, eh? See what else you can find.”

Michael only nodded and Freddie only grumbled, “Ah, crud.”

The boy never knew how close he'd come to YOI. The Chief Magistrate was sick of thugs who stole from the people, their Game Machines and peace of mind. He wanted to make an example of Michael and show that
he,
Horace Ackerby, JP, could put a stop to this kind of thing.

It was the Court Clerk, Maxine Bellknap, who saved Michael. Her daughter Hetty was his teacher and she knew there was still hope for the boy: she had seen a light in him, a spark that still flickered. “The Court gives you leeway in these juvenile cases,” Maxine had told Ackerby.

“That's right, Ms. Bellknap. It does.” The Magistrate was a man who liked routine and leeway bothered him.

“It isn't my place to say, but I was thinking—well, of a deferment. A deferment of sentence. Make the boy work and repay the loss to Mr. Tiswas.”

“He's too young,” Ackerby grunted. “What is he, ten?”

“Twelve,” Maxine told him. “Young, but just old enough that a job might steer him away from bad influences.”

“It'd let him off very easy, too,” Ackerby moaned. “I can give him a harsher sentence than that.”

“Of course you can. But I was thinking. Maybe it's structure he needs. Something to give reason to his life. If he had a job. I was thinking, you could draft an agreement with the boy. A contract. He'd sign it and if he missed work or caused trouble—well, then,” said Maxine, making it up as she went.

“That isn't a standard sentence,” Ackerby said.

“No,” Maxine admitted, “it isn't. But you could give him penalty points for every infraction. Like a Driving License. And if he lost too many points . . . well, then.”

“Straight to YOI,” the Magistrate said, chewing it over.

Maxine nodded. “To YOI.”

“M'hm. I would call it a Liberty License.”

“Well, then.”

That evening, as they headed back to the flat, rain fell in a cold wind and Freddie mumbled, “Isn't fair. Have a life of my own. Now I got to take you to court every week.
Cruuuuud
.”

At this same time, a short mile away, Chief Magistrate Horace Ackerby II took his usual table at the pub called
Folk-in-the-Clover
, by the fire, looking out on the windy and ghostless churchyard. He waited for Bertram, the wiry little cook, to bring him a meal of pig's nose with parsley-and-onion sauce, sautéed red cabbage, two pints of ale. When the tower bell rang seven, the Chief Magistrate, whose own children were grown and whose wife had died, began to eat alone.

He thought about the boy and wondered if the scheme would work. When Horace Ackerby had first seen Michael Pine, he'd seen himself as a child. They both had hair that wouldn't comb, and something else: the light inside, the flickering spark. Maybe, the Magistrate thought, Michael wasn't so far gone that a rescue couldn't be made. Perhaps if they got to him soon enough, while the light still burned . . . Or was he wrong? Was he going too easy on the boy? There was a feeling in the country that all effort to reform young criminals had failed. Voices were rising and saying these thugs needed to learn that actions have consequences.

Maxine had better be right, Horace thought. If something went wrong, if Michael Pine went wrong, this would come back to haunt him worse than any graveyard ghost. The voices would rise against him and he'd be out of a job.
That
would be the consequence of his action. And being Chief Magistrate meant a lot to Horace Ackerby.

Words began to come to him and he spoke them, quietly, to himself . . .

 

THE ACKERBY LIBERTY LICENSE

A FIRST CASE STUDY

by H. Ackerby, JP

 

Michael Pine was a boy without dreams, a distrustful and uncurious lad who believed in nothing. He was drifting into crime, and worse lay ahead. Could I, Horace Ackerby II, Justice of the Peace, Chief Magistrate for Moss-on-Stone, change the course of this one young life?