Brother in the Land (8 page)

It must have been a week or so later that Ben said, ‘Where's Mum?' It was dusk, and we were sitting under the awning. We'd just finished our meal. We'd never gone back to Ramsden Park after that first time, so at least Dad wasn't hoarding his stock and pinching rations as well. No soldiers had come near the shop, and I was beginning to relax.

He looked at the kid for a bit without answering, then at me. I could see he was taken aback. I mean, it was like she'd been gone about ten minutes and the kid had just missed her. I raised my eyebrows, looked at Ben and said. ‘She can't be with us anymore, Ben. She wouldn't have liked it, living like this.'

He sat with his hands between his knees, his feet in heavy boots dangling. He gazed at the floor a moment, then said, ‘Is she dead?'

‘Yes.' I expected him to burst out crying but he didn't. He sat looking at the floor, swinging his matchstick legs so that his boot heels struck the legs of his chair again and again. Dad got up and busied himself with the dishes.

I said softly, ‘D'you want to see where Dad and me put her?'

He nodded, without looking up. ‘M-m. Can we go now?'

I glanced over at Dad, who nodded. ‘Yes,' I said. ‘We can go now if you like. It's just across the road.'

I lifted him over the counter and took him across. I hadn't been back since we'd buried her. Everything was the same,
except that some weeds had grown on the mound of yellow clay. They were black; shrivelled by the frost.

Ben stared at the mound and I wondered what was going on inside his head. After a bit he said, ‘Is it like being asleep, Danny?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I suppose it is.'

He pondered this. ‘Does she know I'm here?'

‘Well, yes, Ben, I think she knows you're here.'

‘Can she hear us talk?'

‘Yes.'

‘How, if she's asleep?'

He had me there. I didn't answer straight away. Presently I said, ‘I don't know, Ben. Nobody does. I think she hears us, that's all.'

‘Well –' He bent over the mound and in a louder voice said, ‘You wouldn't like it now, Mum: it's horrible.' It was the first time he'd given any sign that he was aware of our situation. I took his hand.

‘Come on Ben,' I said. ‘It's nearly dark.'

We were turning, when a voice behind us said, ‘He who places his brother in the land is everywhere.' I turned round, and saw an old man leading a donkey on a bit of rope. I'd been so preoccupied with the kid, I hadn't heard him coming. He stopped. The donkey dropped its head and waited. ‘Sam Branwell,' said the man.

I screwed up my eyes, trying to make out his features. ‘Sam Branwell, the farmer?'

‘Smallholder,' he corrected.

I knew his place. It was on the way to school. A little field, fenced off from the road, with some chicken-coops and a shed with goats in it. We used to call it the farm.

‘What was that you said?' I asked. Ben was gazing at the donkey.

‘He who places his brother in the land is everywhere,' said the old man again. ‘It's a quotation.' I shrugged.

‘I don't get it.'

He nodded towards the grave. ‘Who's is that?'

‘Our mother's,' I told him.

‘And you have placed her in the land. It's happening everywhere these days and that's what the quotation means.' He didn't sound clever or anything, just sad.

‘Ah.' I didn't know what else to say. He was watching us narrowly.

‘Not on your own, are you?'

‘What?'

‘On your own. You have someone you live with; a parent or something?'

‘Oh, yes.' I looked over at the shop. ‘Over there: our Dad.'

I was nearly crying, if you want to know. He nodded. ‘All right, then. I'd be getting back if I were you: there's Purples about.'

‘Purples?' It was the first time I'd heard the word.

‘Oh aye; whole pack of 'em. You stick with your dad till daylight.'

He jerked on the rope and said, ‘Gaaa!' They moved away, clopping along the frosty tarmac. We watched them fade to shadow, then crossed the road.

Purples. I'd no idea what the word meant, then. If I had, we'd have moved a whole lot faster.

An uneventful week had lulled us into a false sense of security. I'd just got back with the water next afternoon when the soldiers came.

It wasn't like I'd pictured it: them spread out, advancing over the snow; me and Dad crouching behind the wall, blazing away and Ben safe in the cellar.

It was dusk. I handed the bucket over the counter to Dad and he carried it towards the stove, leaving the gun propped against the barricade. They must have been watching, because I was swinging myself over the counter when they came bounding from all directions.

I don't think I'd have taken them on, even if I'd had the chance. I was grabbed from behind, and they were over the counter like lightning. Ben saw them coming, grotesque in their fallout gear, and cried out, but they were onto Dad before he could turn round.

‘Okay,' quacked a voice in my ear. ‘Just take it nice and easy and nobody'll get hurt.' It was like something on the telly, except that the man had his arm round my throat and I was half-throttled. He slid easily over the counter, with me in one hand and the gun in the other.

Two got Dad down and sat on him, and the rest went straight to the cellar. One of them shoved Ben so hard he went sprawling and lay on the ground, howling. A truck came down
the street and pulled up, and an APC lurked nearby with its engine running.

One man, a sergeant maybe, gave orders and they made a human chain, passing stuff from hand to hand up the steps while three of them scurried backwards and forwards, chucking it into the truck. There was a heck of a lot of stuff down there, but they cleaned us out in about twenty minutes while I choked under this guy's arm and Dad lay cursing on the floor.

When they were through, the man in charge said something through his mike. They hauled Dad to his feet and began dragging him towards the truck.

‘Hey!' I twisted, trying to free myself. ‘Leave him – he didn't make any trouble!'

The grip tightened round my throat and the guy said, ‘You were warned. We'll have you along too, if there's any more of your lip!'

I struggled wildly as they bundled him over the barricade and lifted him, kicking, into the back of the truck. The soldier's arm was like a band of steel across my throat and he squeezed till I nearly blacked out. When all the others were in the truck he flung me to the ground and ran, vaulting the counter. By the time I got up, he'd scrambled into the APC.

The truck started moving, and the driver of the APC gunned his motor. I ran to the barricade, half-crazy, screaming at the top of my lungs. The APC fell in behind the truck and both vehicles lurched away down the street.

I cleared the counter and ran after them. Thin blue exhaust hung on the cold air and I ran through it, shouting God knows what in my terror.

The vehicle accelerated, pulling away from me and I suppose I was forty yards behind the APC when it blew up.

There was this terrific bang. I was lifted off my feet and flung onto my back. Bits fell all round and I rolled over, wrapping my arms round my head. The air was full of dust. I thought I heard voices, but when I tried to open my eyes the dust stung them, blinding me. I struggled to rise as tears ran down my face.

I was on my knees when the second explosion came. Debris
pattered onto the ground and I threw myself flat. The next thing I knew, there were shouts and footfalls and I staggered to my feet, dashing water from my eyes with my knuckles.

The APC was on its side, burning. Beyond it stood the truck, tilted to one side. Ragged men swarmed round it. Someone was dragging the driver down from the cab.

I stood gaping. My head reeled and I felt sick. Men were on the truck, chucking our stuff down to others who ran with it into the ruins. A man on a pile of rubble yelled, ‘Make it snappy!' It was Rhodes, the PE teacher at school.

I remembered Dad and cried out, running towards the truck. I was by the APC when Rhodes yelled ‘Stop there!' He came over.

‘What d'you want, Lodge?' he rapped. He wore a submachine-gun round his neck instead of his usual whistle. He was even wearing his maroon tracksuit. He'd never liked me.

‘My dad, sir!' I gasped. ‘He's on the truck.' He shook his head.

‘Not any more, lad. There's nothing you can do for him now.'

I stared at him, shaking my head; unable to take in what he was telling me.

‘C'mon laddie, move away.' He said it as though he'd found me loitering in the cloakroom. I didn't move. It was like one of those nightmares where you're caught up in a sequence of random events and you want to run but your legs won't work. He came towards me and I saw him raise the gun and still I couldn't move.

At that moment a figure emerged from the ruins away to my right, leading a donkey. ‘All right, Rhodes.' He called. ‘I'll take it from here.'

It was Branwell, the man who'd spoken to me by Mum's grave. He came over. ‘Here, take this.' He held out the halter to Rhodes. I knew from the way he said it he was mad at him. Rhodes took it and Branwell said, ‘Get it loaded up. Food only. Hide the rest. And make it quick, that truck's overdue now.'

Rhodes led the animal away and the old man looked at me. ‘I'm sorry about that,' he said. ‘He's a damn good soldier is Rhodes, but not what you'd call sensitive. What's the trouble, anyway?'

I told him about Dad. ‘Oh, God!' he cried. ‘The man's a barbarian. He must've known they had a prisoner – why the devil didn't he call it off?' He gazed after the departing Rhodes. ‘What did he say to you?'

I shrugged. ‘He just told me, then said I was to move away.'

‘Christ.' He looked shaken. After a bit he said, ‘Well, you can't stay where you are. When they find out about this lot they'll be looking for someone to blame. You could move away of course, but I think it'd be best if the two of you came to us.'

‘Us?' I said, unsteadily. ‘Who are you? Why'd you blow up the – ?'

‘Whoa!' He patted my shoulder. ‘There's no time for that, lad; not now. Get your brother away from the shop. Right
away. Hide in the ruins, till it's dark. Then, when things quieten down a bit, make your way to my place and we'll look after you. All right?'

‘I – don't know.' Things had happened so fast there was no time to think. Dad gone. Our home and all our stuff. Bang bang bang. Pick yourself up and go on like nothing's happened. Spacers, the lot of us. I shook my head and said, ‘I don't know, Mr Branwell. I don't even know if I can go on at all. Why bother, when everything's so – so ugly?'

His eyes fastened on mine. Hypnotist's eyes. ‘Everything?'

‘Aye!' I cried. ‘Everything. Cold and hungry all the time. People getting sick and everybody trying to kill everybody else. I'm sick of it.'

Pale eyes you can't look away from. ‘A little child in the midst of all this, still filled with wonder; even laughing sometimes. Ugly?'

‘Don't give me that.' Pinned by that stare.

‘A certain person,' he said, ‘the sound of whose very name makes your insides melt – for whom you'd face a hundred Goths and win.'

‘Knock it off.'

‘You picture her now,' he said, relentlessly. ‘Right now. You see her face and something stirs in you. Tell me.' His eyes burned into mine. ‘Is the feeling you have, one of ugliness?'

‘Leave her out of this, Mister,' I snapped. ‘You're trying to screw me up.'

‘They haven't killed that, have they?' he whispered. ‘With their bombs and their hunger and their cold. They haven't killed that.'

‘Leave me alone,' I said. ‘Okay?'

‘Very well.' He glanced away to where some men were loading stuff on the donkey. A few onlookers had gathered, and Rhodes was watching them from the top of a pile of debris. ‘I'll leave you. But get that brother of yours away from the shop. And if you want to come to us, you know where I live.' He began walking away, then paused and looked back. ‘She's one of us, you know,' he said softly. ‘Your Kim.'