Day Boy (28 page)

‘You've few friends around you, now,' he says. ‘Think on that. This town is all the
leaner of comforts for you now.'

‘Yes, sir,' I say. ‘Goodnight, sir.'

Egan looks at me like I am some sort of puzzle that he's failed to solve. At last
he frowns. ‘Goodnight indeed,' he says. And is gone, all at once, into it. As good
as this night, as bleak and dark and terrible. And I'm alone. I'm alone.

But I feel like, just for a moment, I've won something. Knowing that winning now
might be losing later. It's always that way, isn't it? Victories never last long.
Hold them or let them go, they leave you anyway.

When I get home, bruised and bitter, there's a small package on my bed, wrapped in
brown paper. I tear it open.

And in that package is Thom's hat. It's wrapped around the stake he carved, the taipan's
eyes coloured eggshell blue. I lift it in my hands, and I realise that he never made
it for himself. It's weighted perfectly for me.

CHAPTER
41

THE NEXT EVENING, after a day where I reckon I couldn't have done less if I tried,
Dain calls me to his study, asks for two shots of his whisky. And when I bring it
I see such a look of contrition that I don't know whether to cower or laugh, and
can't muster much for either.

I set the whisky down on his desk. He looks up at me from the book he's reading.
An old, well-thumbed thing, the yellow jacket thinning to brown in places.

‘Mark,' he says, ‘there are some things you need to know. There's two reasons I went
to the city. One, as you're aware, was to speak for you.' He stands and puts the
book down on his desk. ‘The other was to speak for Anne.' He looks at me, perhaps
to gauge my reaction. I can't help myself, my fingers curl to fists. But Dain's lips
thin.

I take a deep breath. Then another; neither's deep enough.

‘She will be safe there. She will be respected. She has a talent, and a will to use
it. And she wanted this. Not just Mary,
Anne wanted this.' Dain takes a sip of his
drink. ‘So, do you hate me, too?'

I pretty much do right now. But it comes out as a child's cry, not a man's. ‘Why
does everyone go?'

‘Because everyone does.' He pats my arm. ‘Your time will come, boy. Sooner than we
will credit it. That's the way of things. You will forgive me? And her?'

‘In time,' I say, and I don't sound like a child anymore.

‘Time dulls every sting, believe me.' Dain picks his book up again, and sighs. ‘I've
read this book a dozen times. Nothing new since we came,' he says. ‘No new stories.
We put an end to them.'

‘Why don't you write some? Finish your book.'

His eyes narrow at that, but he lets it pass.

‘I keep trying,' he says. ‘It's dead, if I'm honest. Withered in me. But I still
try.'

Perhaps that's all the Masters have left to them, an unchanging eternity, a dulling
endless road. Perhaps that's why they hold to their old feuds; they've so very little
left that even hatred is a treasure.

Been a year since I was hunted in the river and now the other hunt is on, the deer
hunt. Guns are cracking, fools shooting at shadows with rifles banned but for this
single day of the year. Whistles blowing, drums beating. Deer running for their lives.

Morning, and there's always a list left on the table.

And there always will be—except there won't. I still don't know what's coming after,
and in truth there's a panic in me. When I'm done, who's going to tell me what to
do? Where will I be? This town doesn't have a place for me. I used to think it
did;
maybe that was true, but now it isn't. Not anymore. I have to push those thoughts
away, and focus on this, on these. Still work for me; still purpose. And panic fades
in the face of drudgery.

Lists and lists, I'm in a valley of them, all those words written neat, piling up,
do this, do that, get this, see to that. Here's some writing that he's finished!
Though it's never-ending. I'm not in any mood for tasks, but I'm in less of a mood
for a clip under the ear. World's got its challenges enough and I'm done with pain.
Done with looking after anyone but myself. Who else is there in this town?

I study that damn list. The door to be marked, and the places where money's to be
paid. Then the yard work. I'll see to these things in the order made out. Make my
circuit of the town, close in on home. Good to have a plan. Seems like everyone else
has.

There's a line scratched on the door. Dougie's called a meeting at twelve. I'm not
going. He can come and drag me out of bed for all I care. I wipe the damn line off
with my thumb. Easiest job of the day.

I go out and make payments with those Sun-stamped coins.

Mary calls out at me across the street. I don't feel like talking, but I come anyway.
Of course I do. It's Mary, she's all I have of Anne.

Into the shop I go, and she shuts the door behind me. Pours me a tea, gestures at
a stool by the counter. ‘Sit.'

I take a sip of that tea, and wait. And she doesn't sit with me, doesn't even pour
herself a cup, and I look at mine suspiciously.

‘You set to poisoning me?'

Mary almost smiles at that.

‘I'm not Tennyson, but there's all manner of poisons, I suppose. Mark, I was the
one that sent her away,' Mary says. ‘A girl like that, like mine, this town's too
small for her. This town would have killed her.'

And I know what she means, I know she's talking about me. I don't know what to do.
I don't know how to feel. I want to hit her, I want to put the world between forefinger
and thumb and squeeze until it pops.

Instead I put that teacup down, gentle as. ‘You know what you done to me?'

Mary nods. ‘But don't you realise that this wasn't about you? This was about her.
She's safe now.'

‘You didn't like me an' her,' I say.

‘No, I didn't. I like you, Mark. I love you, almost; as much as one can love one
of your sort. But I love my daughter more, and I had to let her go.'

‘But she loved me.'

Mary laughs and it's as thin and bitter as any poison. ‘You don't know nothing about
love.'

‘You ever stop to think that you don't neither?'

Mary slaps me. Hard enough to loosen teeth. ‘Foolish boy. Foolish, foolish boy. All
you know is chest-puffing and sentimentality. You think the world loves you for
what you are? It hates you for what you do. You serve the monsters.'

My eyes are wet, and I don't hide it. I let her look. ‘How am I supposed to be? Where
am I supposed to go? I've lost it all, and I gave it all away. What else am I supposed
to do? ‘

Mary's face softens some. ‘You'll learn that. And maybe survive it. My Anne is safe,
and maybe you are too.'

‘Nothing safe about this world,' I say.

Mary nods. ‘And there never was. But you have to try. And your Master thought likewise.'

Don't hear anything else. Because I'm slamming open the front door, running onto
the street. Running away from her.

I'm feeling those tears. They're just welling up, and there isn't a thing I can do
about them. Not a thing. I don't feel like paying any more bills, I don't feel like
walking. I find myself a bit of gutter and I sit in it and I sob, knees pressed against
my chest, face down.

‘Eh,' Grove says from behind me. ‘Eh, what's this about?'

I give him a fair bit of glare. ‘You know what this is about.'

Grove settles me down. ‘It's all right,' he says. ‘What's done is done. You might
see her again.'

Might don't mean nothing, I want to shout, but I keep my teeth shut, stop my lip
quivering. Squint through the rude light of midday at my friend. If he blames himself
for Anne's leaving, I'll give him a serve of knuckles, I swear.

‘Ain't the end of the world,' Grove says, and laughs. But I don't laugh with him.
‘All she did was talk about you, you know.'

Don't even crack a smile.

Grove winces. ‘Boy and girl in love. Nothing new there. You're not the first to find
tragedy. Not the first who's been messed with by the world.'

I look at him hard. Like this lad understands such things! Maybe Anne said no to
him, maybe she was interested in me, but what does that amount to? World's never
messed with him, not hard. It hasn't pushed the way it's done with me. He's made
for this world, and it accommodates him.

‘Now, enough of your moping. We're running late for that meeting of Dougie's.'

‘Not going,' I say.

I'm yanked to my feet. Grove's eyes burning. I think he's going to hit me. Second
round from those I count as friends. But he doesn't.

‘You're a Day Boy,' he says. ‘When a meeting is called, you go. Until you're not.
We're late as it is. We'll have to cut past the Summer Tree.'

Half the town's in the woods. Shooting at stuff. There's guns cracking, whistles
blowing, and all them deer regretting the tradition, regretting that they're not
already in the High Land. Isn't safe to be in these woods, but here we are. The Summer
Tree, with its red flowers ready to drop in this heat.

I can't help pausing. Standing in front of it, clenching my fists, like I could strike
out at the world and get in a good hit.

‘You'll be all right,' Grove says. His head swinging this way and that. ‘But we have
to hurry.'

A deer skitters in our path, stops dead still when it sees us.

‘Bugger me,' Grove says.

A gun cracks nearby. We both jump, and laugh.

The deer stares at us both. Long and lingering. And then it does something peculiar.
It walks up to Grove and sniffs his hand. Such a beauty, and here we are before the
Summer Tree.

‘Something's set their heart on ya,' I say, and it's the first time I find a bit
of light in the day. A wind starts blowing. Warm and from the west, and the deer
doesn't move. Keeps its eyes on Grove.

Grove settles himself on his haunches. And extends his
hand. He touches it gentle
behind the ears. ‘World's too cruel for the likes you. Run, little thing. Run.'

‘We better, too,' I say, and the deer comes to life, startled by my voice. It's all
a flurry of legs, and fear, and it's racing west past the Summer Tree, back into
the woods.

Grove gives me a look, irritated. ‘You scared it,' he says.

There's a crack of gunshot, real close.

Grove grunts next to me. ‘I think—' he says, and that's all he says.

I scramble to him, and he's blinking at me. Gasping for air, and I'm holding his
hands, and there's blood on them. And he's moving his mouth but there's no words
coming. His hands grip mine back. And I'm looking into his eyes.

He lifts his head a little.

‘I'll get help. I'll get help.' But I don't want to leave him. ‘I'll get help.'

I hear myself start yelling. Then people coming. And Grove's there, and I'm holding
him, and there's blood, and more blood, a lifetime's worth. And he's just looking
at me.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘So sorry.'

I just want him to yell at me. To curse me and hurl a plague on my house like in
that play, but he don't. Just looks at me with his frightened eyes.

He tries to lift his head again, squeezes my hand even tighter. So I lower mine.
Can hear his breathing, frantic. But then it catches and slows.

‘Don't—' he says, there's more blood in his words than sound. He shakes his head,
and there's no hate in his eyes, just a calm rising up as he falls into nothing.

And his hands aren't holding me back anymore.

I'm howling, and Mick comes at us through the woods. He's holding his rifle, and
he sees what he's done.

‘You,' I scream, still on my knees, and I lift my bloody hands. ‘You.'

‘All I saw was a deer. Big old stag. The boy, the boy, is he—' He shakes his head,
his eyes are wide, never seen such horror in a man's eyes, not even Mr Stevens' when
he was hung. ‘All I saw was that deer. Not the—'

But he's already backing away: dropping the rifle, and running. And even then, on
the sharp edge of my hatred, I know two people are dead because of that shot. Because
of me.

‘You,' I say to his back, but he doesn't bother turning, and I'm already filling
with pity for him. There's nowhere he can run, and Grove won't ever take another
step.

There's others coming at me, eyes wide.

‘He's dead,' I scream. ‘Shot dead.'

I'm holding him, and none of them come near. A circle that they can't seem to breach,
too frightened, like those gentle-boned boys that watch us fight.

There's flies though, big fat bastards coming for my friend, and I'm brushing them
away. Big fat flies so quick to find him like they find all death. Not gonna have
him yet.

‘He's dead,' I say, and my eyes burn, and I'm brushing away those bastard flies.
And they're on my face, too, crawling over my tears. Flies aren't fussy. Flies will
eat anything. And I can't brush them all away. So I do the best I can with my friend.
I do the best I can.

It's Certain and Mary that come. That push through that mute circle. That pull him
from my hands. How long have I
been there? How long did people do nothing? He's cold
in my grip, and I scream and swing, but Certain's got hold of me.

‘Calm,' he whispers. ‘Calm.'

Then louder. ‘Dougie. Twitch. All of you. Grove needs seeing to.'

Don't need seeing to. He's dead. Won't need seeing to again.

Dougie nods. Him and Twitch, they get their arms around Grove. The twins do, too.
They lift him up gentle.