Shoes for Anthony (29 page)

‘Just our luck,' said Bozo, staring out. ‘Coming down in sheets. We're gonna get soaked.'

‘If we're soaked, he's soaked,' said Ade. ‘There's no such thing as bad weather. Just the wrong clothes.'

Fez turned and looked at him, frowning. ‘But we're all in the wrong clothes. 'Part from Ant,' he added, pointing towards my wellingtons.

‘I'm not bothered by a bit of wet,' said Ade, peering out into the slashing rain.

‘I'm cold,' said Bozo, hugging himself. ‘We'll never find him in this.'

‘Stop mithering! Look. You two stay here. Keep a look out. Me 'n' Ant'll go over b'there. That way.' Ade pointed off towards a far peak. ‘We can climb that ridge. Get a good look down the valley.'

‘But it's almost dark, man,' said Fez. ‘You'll be lucky to see the hand in front of your face in five minutes.'

‘You're like a pair of old women,' said Ade, shaking his head. ‘Come on, Ant, you with me?'

I wanted to say no, but the inexplicable tug of fate was calling me. I'd once watched Emrys thrust his hand into a pot he'd been told had a snake in it. He knew he'd be bitten. And he still did it. I pushed myself up from the bench.

‘All right,' I said, quietly. ‘I'll come.'

Ade took the lead. He was more nimble than I, lighter on his feet, and he scrambled up the hillside with the confidence of a goat. I was less agile, my wellingtons slipping on lichen-covered rocks, and as he climbed, ahead of me, I fell behind, staring down so I could tread a more secure path.

The rain was relentless, thick and bitterly cold. I could taste the last remnants of the pomade on my lips, washed away at last. Of that, at least, I could be thankful. Ade had stopped and was standing on a ridge above me. He had bobbed down into a crouching position, one hand resting on the butt of the rifle that hung down from his back. It was like the war films we had seen at the flicks where soldiers are moving forwards, the constant stop, start, stop, start of combat. We had spent hours on this mountain, playing war, and now here we were, doing it for real.

I was panting. It didn't matter how many times I climbed the mountain, my wellingtons took their toll. ‘When's your mam gonna get you proper shoes, like?' said Ade, as I joined him. He nudged his head down towards my boots. ‘Man can't get about in them. You're as slow as my nan. Imagine how fast you'll be when you get the right togs.'

I stood still to catch my breath, my eyelashes wet with rain.

‘Ant!' shouted Ade. ‘Hello? You're away with the fairies, man. Forget the rain. Keep your eyes peeled. We're coming up to the crash site.'

We were below a craggy outcrop and I pressed myself into a crevice for a little shelter. The wind had picked up and the storm was becoming ragged, unpredictable, dangerous. Everywhere, wild shadows flung themselves across the hillside. Everything was movement, chaos, wind whipping the rain sideways. Low clouds were dipping down, a rolling dense mist that wiped out the landscape. I wiped the wet from my eyes. ‘I can't see anything, Ade,' I said. ‘Fog's come down too thick.'

He joined me in the crevice and leant back against the rock, his face peering upwards into the storm. ‘Wind's up, mind,' he said. ‘It'll blow over. Look, there's gaps.' He pointed over to a patch of gorse still visible in the distance. ‘It's coming and going. I could walk this mountain with my eyes shut. Fog won't stop me.'

I cast a glance sideways at him, seeing his face as bold and untroubled as it ever was. He was fearless, not a scrap of doubt etched into his face. Where had it come from, this certainty, this confidence? I thought of Piotr, alone in a French field, fighting his way towards fallen comrades, no thought of his own safety. This is how heroes are made, I thought. Bravery is simply not being afraid.

But I couldn't feel anything but afraid. I had taken my brother's gun, I was up the mountain when I had been told not to, and I was wet, cold and uncomfortable. I couldn't feel the thrill of the chase like Ade; I didn't want to find the German. I wanted to go home, see Mam and quietly return what I had taken.

The key jabbed into my thigh. The corner of my shorts had snagged on the rock behind me, and now yanked them tight to my skin as I moved. The short, sharp pain sucked me from the dark corridors of my thoughts. I was here and I was with my friend. It would have to be enough.

‘What was that?' whispered Ade, pressing back into the rock face. ‘Up there. Above us. Did you hear it?'

I shook my head. The wind was howling, bouncing off the boulders, whistling through the gorse. Then, suddenly, there was a small rockfall, leaving shards of flint scattered at our feet. Ade turned sharply and stared at me, wide-eyed. ‘Up there,' he mouthed. ‘He's up there.'

I could feel my heart pumping, blood throbbing between my ears. I was glued to the wall of the crevice. ‘What shall we do?' I whispered, the words coming hard and fast.

Ade put a hand on the edge of the rock and, in one, quick, decisive move, peered round it and looked up. He darted back inside, a cat who's seen his mouse. ‘I can see a leg,' he mumbled. ‘But it's dark, didn't see his face.'

He silently removed the rifle from his shoulder and brought it round to his chest. Panic coursed through me. ‘What you doin'?' I mouthed, frantic. ‘Don't be mad, man, it might not even be him!'

‘He doesn't know I'm here,' whispered Ade, slipping his finger over the trigger. ‘I'll creep up on him. Only shoot once I look him in the face. You stay here. You'll never make it up this crag in them boots. Hold tight. I'll be back in a bit.'

‘No!' I cried. ‘Ade, wait …'

But he was gone.

I stared wildly at the edge of rock, longing for his face to slip back round it. I went to call out his name but my strength had gone, fear draining me of the ability to make even the slightest sound. I strained to hear, the beating of the rain drowning out everything. All I could catch hold of was the howling of the wind ricocheting off the rocks around me. I had to stand and wait, feeling every drop of blood pumping through me. Faster, faster. Where was he? Pumping. WHERE WAS HE?

A cry.

A shower of broken flints.

A shot.

The rifle skidded on the shale onto the ground in front of me.

Pumping. Pumping.

I gripped the rock behind me.

A thud. I stared. I stared. I stared.

And everything stopped.

I don't know how long I looked at him. All I was aware of was my chest heaving and one black, dead eye staring up at me. That face I knew so well. Frozen for ever.

Somehow I had to get him home.

Shoulder high.

I don't know how long I stood, pressed against the wet rock. I remember my breathing being quick and shallow, as if I was drowning. I don't think I blinked for the longest time. I remember watching his fringe dancing in the wind, like fresh grass, and wondering how something that was dead could be so alive. I remember being afraid that the German was still above me and would appear at any moment. Perhaps he'd kill me, too? Perhaps he'd take me, like a rabbit, and twist my neck, quick and sharp? I wished he would.

It was almost dark by the time I moved. The storm was still whirling, the miserable backdrop against which the end of our game would be played out. I took a step forwards, terrified, and glanced upwards into the driving rain. I thought I might see him, this German on our mountain, standing above me, waiting, but there was nothing but accusing skies.

I walked over to Ade's body, limp and sunken into the sodden ground. He was splayed, limbs scattered, so that he almost looked like a swastika. His face was over to one side, his eyes wide open, startled.

‘Ade,' I said, hope still beating. ‘Ade, get up!'

Dead bodies were grey and old. They had sunken cheeks, their hair was thin, they had a sweet, sickly smell to them, a sort of gentle rotting. Dead bodies weren't supposed to be young, full of mischief, brimful with larks. The order of things was broken. Broken.

I stood over him, staring down, my heart racing. I didn't know what was expected. The rain was seeping down the back of my collar, my eyes stinging from the liquid pomade. I turned and looked back over my shoulder towards the ridge above us. There was a stone that looked like a small tree trunk. Was that the leg that Ade had seen?

I bent down and picked up Ade's hand. It was limp, the fingertips blue. ‘Come on, Ade,' I said, the words squeezing out of me. I felt desperate, longing for that staring eye to suddenly wink, for him to jump up, tell me he'd been pulling my leg.

But he didn't do any of these things, and I let go of his hand, watching it fall with a dull thud. And I stood, staring.

And I didn't know what to do.

I would have to remember everything. Every last detail. I would be quizzed on every moment. This was a scene I would have to revisit again and again. The way he had fallen, the shape of him, the small trickle of blood that quietly worked its way down from his nostril. Why we were up there …

I shut my eyes tight and felt into my pocket for the strange metal key that had sent us spiralling towards disaster. I hated it. Perhaps it wasn't a key at all? Perhaps it was just a random lump of metal that had fallen from the air with all the other day-to-day flotsam that rattles round an aircraft?

But I couldn't bear the thought. That it had all been for nothing.

I gripped the key tightly. I would have to tell. Have to tell about the radio, the key, the rifle, Ade's dead body. Father's words rang in my ears: ‘It's always best to do what is right, rather than what is popular.'

I bent down and tried to lift Ade, but, lacking the strength, I let his body roll back into the wet grass. The pistol, stuffed so triumphantly into Ade's shorts, fell onto the ground beside him. I stared down at it and found myself wondering if I'd be standing here now if I had given it to Piotr when he'd asked. I picked it up, the wet metal heavy in my hand. I looked back up towards the ridge – still nothing – and quietly tucked it into my waistband.

I had never known sadness like it. The weight of it, thick and heavy in my ribs, like a boulder that would never be shifted. I had never been a crier, but now tears came freely, hot and pathetic, the slightest thing sending me back to that lonely, dark place where it was me, alone, standing in that crevice and staring. I would never be free of it, this scar across my heart.

I would find out later that Ade hadn't died of a gunshot wound. He'd broken his neck falling. Tripped or pushed? I couldn't say. Had I seen the German with my own eyes? No. I hadn't. But somehow, it didn't matter. It was my fault. I'd given him the rifle, the bullets. I'd gone with him, the coward who stood, back against the wall, watching his friend die.

I ran back to the den, rifle in hand, as fast as I was able. This burden was no longer my own, and my priority now was to get Ade home. A blind numbness had set in and I ran, oblivious to everything. All I knew was that I had to tell someone, and as I jumped down off the lip of the ridge above our den and crouched in the wet earth, rain coursing down my face, and looked up to see Fez and Bozo, I knew that the real horror hadn't even begun.

I will always wonder if they somehow knew, had felt it in the air. I remember hearing the words coming out of my mouth, but it was as if someone else was saying them.

‘Ade's dead.'

They stood, staring at me, rigid. No doubt wondering, like me, whether this was just a grand lark or whether, if true, just how much trouble we were going to be in. I was fighting the urge to run and run and run and never look back; but knowing that, somehow, we had to take Ade home, kept me standing there, waiting for someone to say something.

‘What you talkin' about?' said Fez, quietly, his head tilting slightly.

‘Something went wrong,' I mumbled. ‘He's up there. I can't carry him.'

‘You're mucking with us, man,' said Bozo, his voice anxious. ‘Pack it in.'

I shook my head, my eyes red from crying. ‘I'm not,' I whispered. ‘Please, help me.'

I led them to his body and the three of us stood, wind still howling, mourners at a grave not yet dug. It was so odd seeing the life knocked out of him. I would never again hear him calling my name. Never hear his clatter up our hallway. Never hear his rousing cry.

Bozo started crying. I remember that. He was scraping his hand across his face, the back of his forearm lifted to hide his eyes. Fez was shivering: he'd come up the mountain without a jumper. I was soaked through, but I don't recall feeling cold. I was deadened. That was something different.

We took him down the mountain, as carefully as we could. Fez and I carried him at his shoulders, Bozo holding his legs. A shoe had fallen off. We stopped to put it back on. We didn't talk much, apart from the odd ‘Careful!' from Fez. It was like carrying a box of eggs. We didn't want to break him.

When we reached the tinder path, the dread came again. Until this moment, it had somehow not been real, but now, as we stepped into Scott Street, we had to tell grown ups. My stomach felt sour, my throat tight. Someone was walking towards us, and I knew that what happened next would happen fast, like a cloud covering the moon.

Things spiralled away. I remember the terrible, wounded cry let out by his mother. I remember her cradling his limp body. I remember women coming and surrounding her. I remember being stared at. I remember stumbling backwards and standing on my own, outside looking in. I remember an arm coming about me, being guided back home, my mother's hand clutching her face, Bethan crying. I remember standing, with Piotr, and handing him the pistol, and then crawling under my bed and seeing the picture of the shoes, glued to the wall.

And then the tears came. And I would never be free of it, this scar across my heart.

‘Tell him everything you told me, Ant,' said Mam, her face grave and ashen. Piotr was standing behind me, his hand on my shoulder. Arthur Pryce was sitting on a corner stool, his helmet in his hands. He was staring down at his boots, the cowlick of his fringe dangling. Alwyn, Emrys and Bethan were standing to my right, gathered around the hearth. Bethan was still crying, her eyes red and swollen. Emrys hadn't looked at me since he heard, his arms folded tight. Alwyn had his one good arm resting on the edge of the mantelpiece. He looked exhausted. One thing after another. That's what this was. One thing after another. There was a tray of tea things on the occasional table, and in front of me sat Captain Willis, the nice man from St Athan. He had that attaché case on his lap again, and his pen was poised.