The Fire-Eaters (10 page)

“Smell deep enough and you'll smell the jungle and the war and the journey home.”

I breathed. I tried to imagine the smells of such
strange and distant things. I put the hat on my head and it fell down and hooded my eyes.

“Was hardly more than a bairn meself when I first put that on,” he said.

He coughed again. He recovered himself. He put the hat back on his own head. Then he got up and marched toward the window.

“Ten-shun!” he snapped.

He stood dead still, a silhouette against the sea and sky.

“He's got to have a checkup at the hospital,” whispered Mam. “But don't worry, Bobby. He's fine.”

M
y homework was about skin, its elasticity, its networks of nerve endings, its blood vessels and sweat glands and follicles, its loops and whorls, its textures, its colors, the way it reacts to heat and cold, the way it reddens and whitens, the way it trembles and creeps, the way it keeps the outside out and the inside in, but how the barrier is broken time and again by germs and sweat and biting insects and how easy it is to pierce, how easy it is to draw blood. I wrote a couple of pages. I drew a few diagrams. Then I stopped. I got my blazer and searched the seams. I found Mam's tacking pin. I sat in front of the Lourdes light and started touching the needle point to my skin. In the places where I felt nothing, I pressed harder until I could feel something. In one or two places, I drew tiny bulbs of blood. I pushed the needle into the hard skin at the edge of my thumbnail and found I could push it all the way through and feel no
pain. I tried other places, but could tell that I'd quickly be in agony. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being McNulty. I held an imaginary skewer and mimed pushing it from cheek to cheek. How could he do such a thing? I went downstairs. Mam and Dad were watching telly. I told them I was getting a drink of water. I found a box of matches and took them upstairs. I opened my window to let the smell out. I lit a match. I touched the flame with my fingertip and gasped with pain. But I found I could run my finger through the flame and feel next to nothing. I practiced doing it slowly and more slowly. I tried to imagine being McNulty. I held a lighted match before my open mouth and drew it closer, closer. I flinched from its heat. I imagined taking a great blazing torch into my mouth. How could he do such a thing? I went to the little bookshelf on the landing. I found a picture of St. Sebastian with a dozen arrows in him and his eyes turned toward heaven. I read about saints who fasted and whipped themselves and went mad and spent years in wild places. Why did they do such things? What was the point of all that pain? I thought of Jesus writhing on his cross. What did it mean, that his pain had helped to save us? I went back to my room and watched night falling over the sea. The light turned, the sea turned, the stars came out. I breathed the night air. I wanted to stop being me, just for a moment, a second. I wanted to break free of my skin, to be the sea, the sky, a stone, the lighthouse light,
to be out there in the gathering darkness, to be nothing, unconscious, wild and free.

“Bobby! Bobby!”

“Yes, Mam?”

“Howay, son. Leave them books. I've put some cocoa on.”

A
nother Sunday morning. I went to the quayside again with Mam but McNulty was nowhere to be seen. We drank hot mugs of tea. We watched the seagulls plunging from their nests on the underside of the bridge. We inspected the rainbow patterns on the surface of the river. Mam bought some scarves for the coming winter and as she passed the money over, she said, “There's often a man here. He breathes fire and…”

The stall holder had a thick woollen coat on and thick gloves.

“Oh, him,” she said. “The nutter. He's not been seen. Just as well, if you ask me. You call that entertainment? Should be strung up, if you ask me.”

We took the lift up to the bridge again. The man inside remembered us. He giggled and showed us the entry in his notebook.

“See,” he said. “You're written down. You really do exist.”

He ushered us out.

“Goodbye, madam,” he said. “Farewell, young sir.” He dictated our new entry to himself. “The return visit from a lady and her son …”

We looked down from the bridge, but still no sign of McNulty. We walked back up into the city. We headed homeward in the bus. I looked out at the streets and then the fields and lanes, hoping that I'd see him. Mam hummed “Bobby Shafto” at my side.

At home, Dad was roaring with laughter as we went in.

“Come and see!” he said. “Quick! Come and see!”

He had the TV on. There was a man in a sports jacket smoking a pipe. A Labrador lay peacefully at his side. There was a deep hole in the ground. It had a concrete floor and it was lined with concrete blocks.

“It is important that the walls are at least ten inches thick,” he said. “The roof, of course, should also be of concrete. And this roof should ideally be at least four feet underground.”

He pointed downward with his pipe.

“This, then,” he said, “is the basic construction of your family fallout shelter. The shelves are for storing food and water supplies. The cabinet here is for your chemical lavatory. A radio will be essential for keeping
up to date with what's going on outside. Beyond the basics, though, let your invention run riot. TV sets, hi-fi systems … the possibilities are endless!”

He puffed on his pipe.

“We have estimated that it would take two men three weeks to build. Give or take a day or so, depending on fitness, strength, age, availability of materials, nature of the ground to be dug, weather conditions, et cetera, et cetera. Helpful leaflets with detailed plans are available. With good materials and proper construction, the shelter will be able to withstand an attack of several megatons.” He smiled and stroked his dog. “Beyond this, we're in need of a lady's touch.”

And a woman in a flowery dress walked on, smiling.

“Now then,” she said. “Move aside, John. What can we do to make this more like home? And how are we going to occupy those kiddies for all that time? Well, here's a few suggestions, girls.”

“Hell's teeth,” said Dad.

“The world's gone mad,” said Mam.

She clicked it off. We said nothing for a while.

“He wasn't there,” said Mam eventually.

“Who?” said Dad.

“McNulty.”

“That's a shame.”

“Hope he's OK, eh?”

“Aye.”

Dad looked at me.

“D'you think we count as two men?” he said. “A scrawny brat like you and an old wheezer like me?”

I shook my head.

“It'd take us more than three weeks, then, eh?”

“Aye,” I said.

“We'd better get started this afternoon, then?”

“Better had.” “Have you got a shovel?”

I shook my head.

“Or some concrete?” he said.

I shook my head.

“Pity,” he said. “Mebbes we'll leave it awhile, then.”

“Aye,” I said.

“Aye.”

L
ater, I went to see Ailsa. Yak was in the yard, heaving coal from the cart to the pickup truck.

“Allreet, Bobby lad?” he called.

“Aye,” I said.

“She's in the kitchen.” He winked. “Nae lovey-dovey stuff, mind. She's got our tea to make. OK?”

I just looked at him.

“How's that new school ganning?” he said.

“Fine.”

“You'll soon be too posh to gan on the cart, I s'pose?”

“No, I won't.”

“That's allreet, then. But you'll be learning tons, eh?”

“Aye.”

“Top of the class, are ye?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Course ye are, kidder. I kna ye. Head stuffed full of
brains. So answer us this. What d'you call a bloke with nae lugs?”

“I don't know. What do you call a bloke with no lugs?”

“Do they teach you nowt in that place? You call him owt you like ‘cos he cannot hear you.”

I found Ailsa in the kitchen with an apron on. She was rolling pastry.

“Rabbit pie,” she said. “Losh shot it. You could stay if you like.” It smelt delicious. “Go on. Your mam wouldn't mind.”

“Mebbe,” I said. “Do you not get sick of it?”

“Of what?”

“Looking after them.”

“No,” she said. “I love them. And since me mam died…”

“How's the fawn?”

“Grand. Getting stronger.”

She took a bowl out of the oven. A dark bubbling stew. She laid the pastry over the top of it. She trimmed the edges. She quickly made the shape of a rabbit from spare pastry and put it at the center. Then she put the whole thing back in the oven and rubbed the flour from her hands. I thought of what Mam said: It isn't right. The girl's too young for such a life. What can her dad be thinking of?

“Isn't it weird?” she said. “I cook the rabbit but I look after the fawn. Do you understand it?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither, and they'll not teach you that at school. They come again, you know.”

“Who did?”

“The buggers from the council. They were in a big black car. ‘We've come to get your daughter to go to school,' they said. ‘Have you now?' says Dad. ‘You and whose army?' says Yak. ‘We don't want any trouble now,' they says, ‘and we know you folk is independentminded, but it's the law, Mr. Spink.' One of them turns to us, a big fat feller with specs and goggly eyes. ‘Do you not want to pursue your education, little lady?' he says. ‘No,' I say. ‘You'll be left behind, you know,' he says. ‘This is a time of opportunities and great improvement for common folk like you. All the other bairns is grabbing their opportunities.' ‘I diven't care,' I says. ‘I'm happy.' ‘See?' says Yak. ‘But it's the law, Mr. Spink,' says Goggle Eyes. ‘Then you can take your law,' says Losh, ‘and stick it up your hairy arse. Now hadaway. We've got work to do.’

“And did they go?” I said.

“Oh, aye, but they'll be back. They said the police might have to get involved. ‘Then so might this shovel of mine,' says Losh. They scarpered back to the car and off they went.”

She peeled a potato, cutting away a perfect curling slice of skin.

“They'll be back,” she said. “And probably I'll end up
going. But it's fun to keep them hopping, like me daddy says. Boring buggers.”

I helped her to peel the potatoes. She put them on to boil. We set the table. “Aye,” I said, when she asked again if I would stay for tea. “Me mam'll know I'm here.”

We drank some of her lemonade.

“Ailsa,” I said. “What was it like when your mother died?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, it was just great!” She laughed. “It was such fun! What do you think it was like? It was horrible. It was the worst thing. It was …”

She looked at me.

“What's wrong?” she said.

“Nowt.”

Then her dad and her brothers came in, filthy and huge and with their eyes sparkling in filthy faces.

“We're feeding Hollow Legs, are we?” said Yak. “You should've shot a cow, Losh.”

They washed their hands in a basin by the door, lit cigarettes and swigged big glasses of beer.

Ailsa's dad put his arms around me and Ailsa.

“These lovely bairns,” he said. “They're a credit to each and every one of us.”