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646 lines
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HTML
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<h1>12</h1>
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<p><em>June:</em></p>
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<p>Kids were screaming and yelling. A rough voice cursed loudly and
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comprehensively and a high pitched one cried out in sudden
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pain.</p>
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<p>"Let me go you big swine," the boy squawked, clenching his teeth
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so that he wouldn't cry. Up on the hill behind the school, close to
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the angle-iron fence that bordered the old sandstone diggings, it
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was a bad idea to let people see you cry. It would let them know
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you were soft. In Quarryhill School, rough and ready as any, you
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had to keep your footing.</p>
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<p>Further down the hill a crowd of boys broke into a raucous
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cheer, the kind you hear in a school-yard when kids are up to
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mischief. A bell rang in the distance and the smaller boy squirmed
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away from the older one who was twisting his arm up his back.</p>
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<p>"I'm telling the teacher," he yelled. "You're in trouble."</p>
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<p>Quarryhill School. It stood just off the Arden Road leading out
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of town on its west edge, and the paved schoolyard backed onto the
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slope known to generations of pupils as The Hump. Here the tall
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green-painted spiked fence formed the boundary of the school land.
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Beyond it the chasm of the old quarry which had supplied stone for
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most of the old tenement buildings in the town was a barren
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landscape of sheer drops, massive tumbled blocks of stone, and
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tangled weeds and scrub. The fence was supposed to keep the pupils
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away from danger but naturally, this being a school, nobody ever
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came up the Hump to check how effective the barrier was. In one
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section, three of the spars had been torn away, leaving a space a
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man could walk through without turning sideways There were other
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places, closer to the low hill on the far side where the pigeon
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huts huddled, where the earth underneath the bottom spar had simply
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been scraped away by years of boys escaping the boredom of the
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classes on sunny afternoons. That part of the fence was not visible
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from any part of the school building, so any for any truant, the
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space under the fence was the ideal escape route. It was used so
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often that no grass grew there. It was Quarryhill's back door.</p>
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<p>At lunch time, especially on a dry day, the back yard of
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Quarryhill was just like tribal lands. Down close to the wall, the
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first year girls played skipping ropes and a hopscotch game called
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<em>peever</em>. Smaller boys played tag, though they called it
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<em>tig.</em> High tig, low tig, ball tig if they had a ball. Over
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at the sheds, the second and third year boys gathered to play
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five-a-side, or heading the football onto the roof, taking it in
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turn, scoring points if they could keep it up without letting it
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drop. When they tired of that, they might goggle at the senior
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girls of sixth year who hung around with the older boys who had
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lost interest in heading the ball and cared no longer about games
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of tig or kick-the-can.</p>
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<p>On the Hump, lower downslope where the ground was almost flat,
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teams of boys would mill around with a football, yelling and
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bawling the way that they do, sometimes twenty to a side, everybody
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chasing the ball at once to kick it between piles of schoolbags and
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jackets. Nobody outside the game ever knew how the score was kept,
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but again, that's the way it is in schools. Further up-slope there
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was a hollow close to the fence where any of the fights took place
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and that was generally a couple of times a week and an occasion for
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half the male population and a substantial fraction of the girls
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too, to come swarming up to spectate. Some of the fights were
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particularly violent, though most of them were simply pushing and
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shoving affairs involving a lot of swearing and name-calling as two
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reluctant boys squared up to each other, each determined not to be
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the first to land a blow. In real fights it was different. There
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were bruises, contusions, broken noses, mud, blood and snot flying.
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At any time outside class periods, the noise was horrendous. Kids
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were yelling and screaming, roaring and bawling. The senior boys,
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all of them smooth and cocky, or so it seemed to the
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thirteen-year-olds, had their radios turned up to a roar, listening
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to the Who or Manfred Mann, most of them with Beatles fringes and
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hair down over their collars and most of them with bad florescent
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acne. The back schoolyard and the Hump was like a cluster of
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galaxies, every group milling around with its own kind, and two
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groups hardly in contact, kept apart by the reverse gravity of age.
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Whenever two groups collided, as happened now and again, somebody
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could get hurt.</p>
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<p>The smaller boy with the now-sore arm ran away threatening to
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tell the teacher and the older boy, who was strolling up the hill
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tapping a ball lightly ahead of him with the toe of his scuffed
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Chelsea boot gave him the sign and turned away grinning. He kicked
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the ball to his friend who passed it to the third and then it came
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back. They were going up the hill towards the fence.</p>
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<p>"Got any smokes?" Crawford Rankine asked. His voice was just on
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the cusp of breaking, going from deep to high and then cracking to
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a thin gravelly rasp. His skin was just beginning to erupt in a
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line or risen weals on the edge of his jaw.</p>
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<p>"A couple," Don Whalen replied. "But we can club together and
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get more." He was a thin boy with fine, crinkled hair through which
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his scalp showed pink. He'd pulled his tie off and was trying to
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whip it against the third boy's backside.</p>
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<p>"Chuck it," Derek Milne told him. Don ignored the warning and
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whipped the tie, making it crack like a lash. Derek tried to catch
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it but failed.</p>
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<p>"If at first you don't succeed, fuck it, chuck it, never heed,"
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Don chanted, mocking his pal.</p>
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<p>"Use the boot and then the <em>heid</em>," Derek snarled back in
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mock threat. There was no malice in it. They were pals. They moved
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up the hill, skirting the low wall where the huddled groups of
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gamblers sheltered from the breeze, deftly dealing cards for
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high-speed three-card brag (deuces floating wild) brag, or rapid
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fire blackjack pontoon with double odds for twenty one and better
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than that for a five card trick. Some expert hustlers would be
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thumbing coins against the brickwork in sudden death challenges of
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pitch and toss.</p>
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<p>"Deuce is wild," a high voice complained vehemently "That's
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three aces. A <em>prile</em>, and that beats you."</p>
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<p>"Piss off, you lunatic," a deeper voice countered "Jokers don't
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count,".</p>
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<p>"You're the flippin' joker Caldwell. That's my game. I win."</p>
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<p>Somebody shouted and somebody else yelled back and there was the
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unmistakable thud of a fist landing on a cheek.</p>
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<p>"Fight, fight."</p>
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<p>The words bounced from one group to another. The game of
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football on the flat grass stopped.</p>
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<p>"Fight, <em>fight!</em>"</p>
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<p>The girls stopped skipping. The senior boys with the acne pushed
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themselves away from the side wall, craning their heads to see what
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was going on. Small galaxies spun off groups of wheeling
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individuals and whirled them towards the gamblers. By now, two boys
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were rolling on the ground, locked together, each of them grunting
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and snorting with effort.</p>
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<p>"It's a fight," Derek, said.</p>
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<p>"No, it's a kissing and hugging match," Crawford said. "Look at
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them. Just a pair of jessies."</p>
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<p>He strolled on and the others followed as far as the fence. Up
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against the green metal railings, another group of younger boys had
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been playing dead man's fall, pretending to attack a machine gun
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nest and then being shot and dying in the most spectacular and
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dramatic fashion. When the fight cry had sparked from group to
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group they had forgotten their little private war and gone trotting
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down the slope like pups coming down to a kill, heads up, feet
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fast. The three pals reached the fence. Crawford Rankine threw his
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bag over the spikes at the top, eased himself down to the ground
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and limbo-crawled under the deep space there the earth had been
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worn away by the passage of generations of previous escapees.</p>
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<p>"Listen," Derek said. "I can't go. We got Matt Bryson for second
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period."</p>
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<p>"So what?"</p>
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<p>"He said if I don't bring in that essay today, he'll have my
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guts. He will an' all."</p>
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<p>"Oh, he's nothing but a big Nancy," Crawford sneered. "Come on
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man. My uncle Mickey said there's a run of sea-trout coming up.
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It's a great day for fishing."</p>
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<p>Derek hesitated. Don urged him to come along and for a moment it
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looked like their friend could be persuaded, but he shook his head
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regretfully.</p>
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<p>"Okay, don't say you weren't asked," Crawford told him. He
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picked up his bag and started walking on the path on the other side
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of the fence, heading away from the quarry and down toward the
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pigeon huts and shacks where the Quarryhill men kept their lurchers
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and greyhounds and occasionally, some fighting dogs. Don gave Derek
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an apologetic shrug and then scrambled under the fence. On the
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down-slope, the low rush of sound rolled up the hill, the tense and
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somehow hungry sound a crowd of teenagers make as they mill around
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two fighting bodies. Derek turned and walked towards the melee.</p>
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<p>Don and Crawford skirted the top shacks, and followed the
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natural alleyway between the old wooden huts. Pigeons coo-ed and
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mumbled from behind slatted openings. Overhead a flock of them
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clapped through the air, wheeling together with such perfect timing
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they might have been joined together by threads. Here the track, no
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more than a yard wide, fell away heading for the old back road that
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was once the service access for the stone-haulers at the quarry. On
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this party the yards and small paddocks were bounded by thick chain
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link or heavy duty chicken wire. Crawford stopped at the corner and
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Don opened the pack of cigarettes.</p>
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<p>"Got a match?"</p>
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<p>"Not since Samson died," Crawford threw back..</p>
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<p>"You mean his crippled baby sister, don't you?"</p>
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<p>They lit up and drew in deep then sauntered casually down the
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hill to where some steps had been constructed with old planks of
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wood in a rickety descent. Just as they reached the top stair a big
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black shape came lunging out from behind one of the corrugated-iron
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shacks and hit the chain-link with such force that the wire
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shrieked through the stay-holes. Don drew back with a cry of alarm
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and dropped his cigarette into the mud at the side of the track.
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The pit-bull terrier lunged again, a squat and powerful beast with
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a head twice as wide as any normal canine head should be. Its
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pin-prick eyes were flat black in a grey face wrinkled into a snarl
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and showing an impossible array of teeth. It growled deep and
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rumbling in the back of its throat.</p>
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<p>"Jee-<em>fuh</em>..." Crawford gasped. He was further from the
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fence than Don but the powerful dog's attack had pushed the wire
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right out to the middle of the path. The beast snarled and
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slavered.</p>
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<p>"Look at the teeth on that," Crawford said. "If that got you it
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would take your bloody arm off."</p>
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<p>The fighting dog launched itself at the fence, massive and
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muscular, leaping right up from the ground to hit with ugly snout
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and paws. Specks of saliva splashed on the two boys who had cringed
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back to the far side of the track.</p>
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<p>"It's like a Tasmanian devil," Don said, and they both laughed,
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now realising they were safe and that the powerful beast couldn't
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get through the fence. He picked up a slender twig from a privet
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that overhung the track and poked it through the wire. The dog
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leapt up at it, jaws snapping together with the sound of boulders
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clashing and Don pulled his hand away. Crawford reached for Don's
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smouldering cigarette. He drew hard on it, making the end glow
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brightly.</p>
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<p>"Here poochie-poo, here boy," he wheedled. The black dog twisted
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its head to the side curiously, though the low rumble continued.
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Crawford pushed a finger through the mesh. Without hesitation the
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dog lunged. Crawford whipped his finger away, twisting as he did to
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bring his other hand up. The dog hit the fence and Crawford jammed
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the lit end of the cigarette against its shiny nose.</p>
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<p>The pit-bull terrier seemed to explode. It leapt back in a
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perfect somersault, howling madly with pain and rage. It landed
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square on its feet, smooth hair now all spiked and hackled. Its
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thick neck seemed to have ballooned to twice its previous bull
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thickness. The howl turned into a slavering snarl and it leapt for
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the fence again, hitting it with such powerful force that one of
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the staples on the high upright popped out and pinged on the
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barrier on the other side of the track.</p>
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<p>"Flamin' hell Craw," Don yelped. The dog leapt at them, pushing
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its nose far enough through the mesh that the skin beside its snout
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pulled back so violently that it began to bleed. Its black eyes
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were rolling wildly, showing a ring of yellow-white all around. It
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snapped and slavered like a crazed beast, which in fact it was. Don
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and Crawford took to their heels hooting with laughter.</p>
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<p>Down to the left a trio of greyhounds started growling. Don and
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Crawford scampered down the swaying steps past the dog pen while
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the pit-bull terrier snarled and slavered behind them, attacking
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the fence with such ferocity it seemed certain to break through and
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come after them. The pair darted to the right past the greyhounds,
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tall emaciated dogs with arched backs and goitred eyes and long
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grinning mouths. They began to bark in chorus as the boys ran past,
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thrusting their thin noses through the holes in the wire.</p>
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<p>Crawford got to the flat just ahead of Don and they ran along
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the gravel path, past a series of old shacks and reached the dead
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end. Here a piece of sheet iron had been set up as a makeshift
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gate, but it had been peeled back by others in the past and the
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narrow gap allowed them to squeeze through. This was the final
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paddock and beyond it, there was a secondary worn track that led
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down to the back quarry road. They stopped and got their breath
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back.</p>
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<p>"Nearly shit myself," Don wheezed. "And look. My smoke's all wet
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now. It's like a duck's arse."</p>
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<p>Crawford flicked it out of his hand and ground it into the
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earth. He passed his own smoke over and Don took a big draw.</p>
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<p>"Cured my constipation as well," Crawford said. "If that thing
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got out it would eat you alive." The danger over, they began to
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laugh nervously.</p>
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<p>"It would eat <em>you</em>. I'd be a hundred yards clear ahead
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of you."</p>
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<p>They finished the cigarette, smoking it down until it almost
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burned Don's lip and then they moved through the mass of tall weeds
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that filled the paddock. The brambles and willowherb grew higher
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than their heads and they had to push the trailing runners aside to
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reach the far side. Here an old railway box-car was angled against
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the barbed wire fence that marked the east edge of the quarry. Don
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made to go past it when he stopped and bent down.</p>
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<p>"What is it?"</p>
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<p>"A padlock." Don straightened up and turned to his pal.
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"Somebody left it."</p>
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<p>They turned simultaneously towards the boxcar which was grey
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with age. A faded number 188 was just visible against the pocked
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grain of the wood. Any time they had passed this way the truck had
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been firmly closed. Somebody had jemmied the lock off. Don leaned
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forward and touched the pale gouges where the wood had been chipped
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off. Crawford moved past him and gave the door a tug to the left.
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It refused to budge but he got two hands to it and heaved. It gave
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a squeal of protest and slid back a few inches on its solid runner
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wheels. He peered through the gap.</p>
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<p>"Can't see anythinmg," he answered the unasked question. He
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pulled back and his pal got a grip on the door and between them
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they rolled it open enough to let them inside. A pale pillar of
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light crossed the dusty floor and climbed up the wall, illuminating
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the centrefolds tacked to the wall.</p>
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<p>Crawford pushed his way inside with Don clambering just behind
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him.</p>
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<p>"Look at the tits..." he started to say craning forward to ogle
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a blond boasting a stupendous and quite improbable chest. Behind
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him Don grunted.</p>
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<p>A loud thud shook the goods truck.</p>
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<p>He turned round, only curious at that moment. Don came swinging
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up in front of him., moving fast, his pale frizzled hair catching
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the light.</p>
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<p>"What the heck are you doing?" Crawford blurted in surprise.</p>
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<p>Crawford grunted again. A tall figure loomed out from the
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shadow. He had Don by the neck. Crawford got a glimpse, no more, of
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thick fingers clamped against the back of the boy's head. His
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friend hit the side of the wagon. Don's bag flew off to the
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side.</p>
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<p>"Donny...?"</p>
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<p>The tall figure came lunging forward, his other hand reaching
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out. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Don went slamming against
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the side, flicking out of the light and disappearing into the
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gloom. The pale hand, massive and wide came expanding toward
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Crawford's face. It reached the pillar of light. The fingers
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brightened. Crawford jerked back reflexively, instinctively. His
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feet slipped and he fell to the floor. The hooked hand clawed the
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empty air.</p>
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<p>"<em>Ungh</em>," Don said. His feet hit the side again. His head
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was almost at the curved roof of the wagon. Dreadful panic twisted
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in Crawford's belly. The hand lunged for him again, crossing the
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shaft of light once more. Crawford rolled. His bag slipped from his
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shoulder as his feet scrabbled on the wooden boards. He twisted
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again and, by a sheer miracle, he tumbled out of the wagon and into
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the daylight.</p>
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<p>The man growled, almost as loud, almost as ferocious the pit
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bull. Crawford's shin scraped down the edge of the door runner,
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burning a sliver of fire up on the bone, but at that moment he
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hardly felt a thing. The awful sound that had come out of Don's
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mouth was ringing in his ears, even louder than the growl of the
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big man who had lifted his friend up by the neck and slammed him,
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one handed, against the side of the rail truck so violently that
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the whole thing had shook.</p>
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<p>Crawford's foot shoved at the muddy ground, failed to grip. The
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panic burst inside him and he whimpered in fear. His foot got a
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purchase, pushed him forward. Something heavy - and he knew it was
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that reaching hand - hit him on the backside. He felt fingers
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hooking at the flannel of his pants, pulled away from it with a
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desperate heave. The material dragged away. He shot forward, got to
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his feet and crashed through the weeds. Behind him the man grunted
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again and snarled ferociously. Crawford reached the makeshift gate
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where he and Don had bent back the thin metal. They hadn't pushed
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it back into position and it was still open. He dived through, not
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trusting himself to squeeze between the uprights quickly enough.
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His hip hit the ground on the other side, abraded a red scrape into
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his skin, and then he was up and away.</p>
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<p>Behind him there was a thud of something heavy hitting the side
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of the wagon. Almost immediately the weeds and bramble runners
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snapped as an even heavier mass pushed through them. Crawford's
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whimper became a wail of pure terror. He ran along the track, past
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the snarling greyhounds, pushed himself off a slatted wall to get
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round the corner and then went skittering down the final track
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towards the Lochend Road which curved in a long bend past the base
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of the path. He stopped, head swinging right and left. If he used
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the road, he had five hundred yards to get to the junction that
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would lead him back up to the front of the school.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Five hundred yards. Would he make it? Could he make it? His mind
|
|
was jittering and jerking, not gauging consciously, but working it
|
|
out none the less.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>To the left, the entrance to the quarry gaped, an overgrown and
|
|
rutted space between two perpendicular faces of stone where the
|
|
rock had been blasted and chiselled. Between them, a thick bow of
|
|
steel chain acted as a barrier against people who dumped rubbish on
|
|
any vacant spot, or who dumped cars there too.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The quarry was forbidden to every pupil at the school, which
|
|
meant that everyone, at least almost every boy had explored it at
|
|
some stage and some of the older girls had made their own teenage
|
|
explorations there too. There were paths up on the ledges, worn by
|
|
the feet of countless boys taking a short cut or playing
|
|
truant.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Behind him he heard the growling of the man coming after him.
|
|
Feet thudded on the track, heavy and deadly. Crawford froze for a
|
|
second, paralysed with fear and indecision, then he spun on his
|
|
heel and ran hell for leather for the opening of the quarry. He
|
|
reached the chain and leapt over it like a hurdler, his shirt-tail
|
|
pulled out of his waistband and flying free.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The man came thundering down the track, moving so fast that when
|
|
he reached the edge of the road his momentum carried him clear
|
|
across to the far side of the road and almost into the line of
|
|
trees. He looked left and right, much as Crawford had done, then
|
|
the boy's flapping shirt caught his eye. It flashed in the shadow
|
|
of the quarry like the tail of a startled fawn. He turned and went
|
|
thundering after it.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Even in the height of summer, the south faces of the quarry
|
|
never saw the sun. They were covered in ivy and moss and constantly
|
|
dripped the dampness down into the trenches where the masons had
|
|
carved the blocks way back at the turn of the century. Jumbled and
|
|
tumbled piles of stones were covered in willowherb and wild
|
|
rhubarb, while close to the sheer face, square blocks of stone,
|
|
some of them ten feet tall, lay like dice thrown by a giant hand.
|
|
Crawford ran for the nearest block, jinked round the side and
|
|
squeezed between it and its neighbour. The narrow defile led to a
|
|
series of steps which had been cut in the sandstone and he clawed
|
|
his way up them, breathing hard and fast. He risked a look behind
|
|
him and saw the big man come rushing in through the man-made chasm.
|
|
All he saw was a shock of black hair and a flapping coat. He could
|
|
hear the thud of boots on the hard ground and the angry, almost
|
|
inhuman growl.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Help," he bawled. The cry bounced off the sheer faces of the
|
|
cut rock and faded to merge with the steady drip of the seeping
|
|
water.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>From higher up, beyond the flat edge, the schoolyard shrieks and
|
|
shouts came louder as he scrambled up the narrow defile.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Behind him the man was growling words which were all mashed and
|
|
jumbled together and made no sense at all. Crawford pushed himself
|
|
up and through the cleft and onto the top of the first massive
|
|
stone block. From there he could take a run and a short jump over
|
|
the yard-wide cleft that would take him to the next block. The
|
|
sound of the running man's boots came thudding up to him.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Help," his voice was getting higher and the word seemed to
|
|
squeak out from a dry throat. His heart was thudding and kicking
|
|
against his ribs and his knees threatened to buckle under him.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Up on the top, where the grass was short and the paths leading
|
|
away from the fence radiated in all directions, worn smooth by the
|
|
feet of those years of truancy, there was a hollow depression that
|
|
had once been the original quarry works when the stone was first
|
|
cut out for an ancient farmhouse which stood on the land now
|
|
occupied by the school. The hollow was bounded on three sides by a
|
|
tangle birch trees and over-run by a thick matt of creeping ivy.
|
|
From the school fence anyone inside the dip could not be seen.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Brenda Fortucci, a plump and dark-haired sixteen-year old whose
|
|
attractions included a large and pallid pair of soft breasts and
|
|
the fact that her uncle ran the cafe and snooker hall along Kirk
|
|
Street, pushed herself away from Brian Grittan. In a couple of
|
|
months a group of boys would use a scrag street-pigeon as a decoy
|
|
while they robbed the store where Brenda's mother worked.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Did you hear something?" she asked. Brian ignored the question
|
|
and sneaked his hand back inside her school blouse to the smooth,
|
|
yielding warmth.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Sounds like a fight," he said quickly, in a voice that said he
|
|
couldn't care about anything outside the hollow, or outside her
|
|
blouse for that matter. He gently pushed her back down onto the
|
|
grass and hunched over her to press his mouth against hers. She had
|
|
a soft tongue and clumps of black hair under her armpits and Brian
|
|
tantalised himself with the notion that between her thighs it was
|
|
the same luscious dark shade. He hadn't risked putting his hand
|
|
down there, not yet...</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Help, oh, please help me," Crawford Rankine bleated. The words
|
|
came out all crimped and squashed together.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Behind him he could hear the ragged breath of the man who had
|
|
lifted Don up by the neck and hit him against the wall. It was much
|
|
closer now. He leapt over the space onto the next block and angled
|
|
right up the steep track, hands scrabbling for purchase on the ivy
|
|
roots.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Up in the hollow, Brenda pulled away again. "I did hear
|
|
something," she said. Brian tried to fasten on to her again but she
|
|
squirmed away. "Sounds like some kid."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"There's always kids around here." Brain was seventeen and was
|
|
about to spectacularly fail in maths, French and physics because
|
|
his mind had recently become so distracted from schoolwork. "Come
|
|
on, Brenda, the bell's going to ring in a minute."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Over beyond the fence, a strangely hushed roar went up as the
|
|
crowd around the fighting pair of boys reacted to the contest.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Kick his head in," a loud voice rasped.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Closer, on the other side of the dell, a higher voice called
|
|
out. Brenda sat up.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"There. That's it again. Don't you hear it?" She began to fasten
|
|
her blouse, flicking off the dried grass that stuck to the
|
|
material.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"It's only kids playing games."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Down below them, Crawford Rankine was climbing for his life.
|
|
Here the quarry ascended in a series of man-high steps, most of
|
|
them covered in ivy runners and bindweed. The boy pushed himself up
|
|
and through another narrow gap. The man was closer now, climbing
|
|
fast. The boy felt his sphincter clench and unclench as if he was
|
|
going to mess his pants. His throat clicked dryly. In his mind's
|
|
eye he saw Don's crinkly fine hair up close to the roof of the
|
|
railwagon, while the white hand floated into the beam of
|
|
sunlight.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Ah...Ah....<em>AAAAAH!"</em> No words now, just a wavering,
|
|
inarticulate cry. He reached the flat of the wide ledge where the
|
|
birches leaned out of the face. There was a corner here with
|
|
handholds, maybe twelve feet high. He had climbed it many a time
|
|
without difficulty, taking a short-cut back into school. But he had
|
|
never climbed it with a maniac chasing him up the side of the
|
|
quarry. Behind him the man growled. Crawford launched himself at
|
|
the corner and began to climb up, moving so fast and so desperately
|
|
that his foot slipped on the smooth rock. He slid down two feet to
|
|
the flat of the ledge again and started upwards once more.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Up in the hollow, Brenda got to her feet. She pushed her way
|
|
through the tall stands of willowherb close to the edge.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Watch that, or you'll go over," Brian warned. He was angry now,
|
|
frustrated and disappointed all at once, but he didn't want to see
|
|
her fall.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>A hand clamped on Crawford's ankle.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>It happened so suddenly that for a fraction of a second the boy
|
|
thought his foot had snagged on a loop of ivy.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The fingers squeezed so hard on his tendon that a dreadful pain
|
|
seared up the back of his leg. He thought he cried out but in fact
|
|
no sound came out of his throat. He struggled away from the grip,
|
|
managed to raise his foot six inches to the next little ledge.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Then he was down. The grip on his ankle simply jerked him off
|
|
the corner of the rock. His head hit against a knuckle of stone and
|
|
a white light flashed in front of his eyes. He came crashing to the
|
|
flat and hit with such a thud that all of his breath came out in a
|
|
whoosh of air. Another hand clamped on his neck and lifted him up
|
|
just as abruptly as he had been slammed down.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Got you," the man's voice growled, deep as rocks grinding
|
|
together.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He was lifted up and turned, as if he weighed nothing at
|
|
all.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"And he took him up to a high place," the man said slowly, in a
|
|
strange, distant tone, as if he was talking to someone else. His
|
|
dark hair was falling over his brow and his eyes blinked so rapidly
|
|
it looked like a quick-fire series of tics.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>A sudden and deadly knowledge sparked.
|
|
<em>"Twi....twi...twi..."</em> The boy stammered.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Call thy angels." The face loomed close. "And they will bear
|
|
thee up."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Crawford dimly realised that the face had not moved. It was
|
|
himself who had been drawn down wards towards it. The face moved
|
|
away. Crawford felt himself rise up. The hands let go. He was still
|
|
rising. The sun flashed over the rim of the quarry. He went up into
|
|
the air.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>And then he was falling.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Up at the edge where the brambles hung over the face, Brenda
|
|
Fortucci screamed. The boy soared out from the cleft. All she saw
|
|
were the arms windmilling for balance and the legs running in the
|
|
air. The figure went flying out from the rock and plummeted
|
|
straight down.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Oh look...oh Brian....he's.."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"What is it?" Brian asked, bulling through the weeds. He reached
|
|
her side and she turned into him, arms grabbing for his support
|
|
breasts pressing into him.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"He fell," he bawled. "Oh, that boy. He fell."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>A dull, somehow deadly thud rose up from below.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Brian peered over the edge. Down on a flat rock, fifty feet
|
|
below, the boy was spread-eagled on a flat block of stone. His legs
|
|
were shivering violently as if an electric current was running
|
|
through them. In the space of a few seconds, a stain spread out
|
|
underneath the boy's jacket, turning the rock dark.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Oh Brian he's dead. I know he is."</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He grabbed her by the hand and went running for the fence. Down
|
|
on the hillside, one of the teachers had pushed his way into the
|
|
centre of the crowd and was now hauling two bloodied boys out by
|
|
the scruffs of their necks.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>"Help," Brian Grittan shouted. "Mr Doyle!"</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Brenda made a soft sighing sound and fell in a dead faint at his
|
|
feet. Suddenly, without warning, Brian's gorge clenched, opened and
|
|
he retched so violently his recent lunch sprayed all over the fence
|
|
and his prostrate girlfriend.</p>
|
|
</div>
|
|
</div>
|
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</body>
|
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</html>
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