The Loney (9 page)

We came to the Panzer and Father Bernard laid his hand against the rock and felt its texture. He ran his finger up a long crack and picked at a clod of moss, teasing the fibres of it between his fingers.

‘God understands it’s not all plain sailing, you know. He allows you to question your faith now and again,’ he said, looking closely at the fossils, the tiny bivalves and ammonites. ‘Come on now, mastermind, what does it say in Luke fifteen?’

‘Something about lost sheep?’

‘Aye. See, if you can remember that, sure you’re not damned for all eternity just yet.’

He moved around the rock, feeling for hand holds and pulling himself up onto the top. He put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the view, then something under his feet caught his attention.

‘Hey, Tonto,’ he called down. ‘Come up here.’

He was on his knees, paddling his fingers in a hole full of water. He looked at my puzzled expression.

‘It’s a bullaun,’ he said. ‘We had one on the farm when I was a wee boy.’

He looked at me again and took hold of my hand, pressing my fingers to the edges of the hole.

‘Feel that?’ How smooth it is? That’s not been made by water. It was cut by a man.’

‘What’s it for, Father?’

‘They made them hundreds of years ago to collect rain. They thought the water was magical if it didn’t touch the ground, you see.’

He stood up and dried his hands on his coat.

‘My granny used to make the cows drink out of the one in our field,’ he said. ‘And if I ever had a fever, she’d take me down there and wash me in it to make me better.’

‘Did it work?’

He looked at me and frowned and gave a little laugh. ‘No, Tonto, it didn’t,’ he said.

He climbed down and I was about to do the same when I noticed the Land Rover parked on the road down below. I could tell it was Clement’s by the cross painted on the door, though Clement wasn’t inside.

The two men in the front had their faces turned towards me, though it was hard to tell whether they were staring at me or Moorings or the woods behind. Whatever they were looking at, it was clear even from this distance that it was the two men Father Bernard had asked for help the day before. The one built like a bull and the one with the dog. Parkinson and Collier.

‘What do you think those noises were last night, Father?’ I asked.

‘Between you and me,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’

‘But you said it was farmers.’

‘It was a wee fib.’

‘You lied to them?’

‘Ah come on, Tonto, I was just trying to reassure them that they weren’t going to get murdered in their beds. Are you coming?’

‘Yes, Father.’

I looked back at the Land Rover and after a moment the driver set off in a plume of steel coloured smoke.

***

Hanny was still asleep when I got back. Mummer hadn’t yet forgiven him and the effort of rousing him and getting him dressed and nursing his headache was too much for her to cope with. So she allowed him to stay in bed while they went off to church for The Blessing of the Oils and The Washing of the Feet. It wasn’t an integral part of his preparation for the shrine and he would only spoil it if he came.

‘But don’t let him lounge around all day,’ said Mummer, looking up the stairs as they were all leaving.

‘Keep out of mischief,’ Farther added as he plucked his flat cap from the peg and helped Mr and Mrs Belderboss out.

I watched them go and when I closed the front door and turned around, Hanny was standing at the top of the stairs. He had been waiting for them to leave too. Now we could go down to the beach at last. We could leave their world and find ours.

S
ince we had decided to come back to Moorings, I had rehearsed the journey down to the beach many times, trying to re-imagine the road and what I used to be able to see on either side. Now that I was here and walking across the marshes with Hanny it all seemed to unfold as it should. I remembered the single, twisted hawthorn tree overhanging the road, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck that had staggered inland, torn and cowed by the sea. I remembered the way the wind rasped through the reeds and shuddered across the black water. The way the sea hung between the valleys of the dunes.

This was the real world, the world as it should be, the one that was buried in London by concrete plazas and shopping parades of florists, chip shops and bookmakers; hidden under offices and schools and pubs and bingo halls.

Things lived at The Loney as they ought to live. The wind, the rain, the sea were all in their raw states, always freshly born and feral. Nature got on with itself. Its processes of death and replenishment happened without anyone noticing apart from Hanny and me.

When we came to the base of the dunes, we veered from the road and took off our boots to feel the cold sand under our feet.

I slung the rifle around so that it sat against my back and helped Hanny up. He had insisted on bringing the stuffed rats with him in his school satchel and kept slipping down, gouging deep scars into the sand with his feet.

At the top we could see the grey sea spreading out towards the horizon that was pressed flat by the huge block of sky. The tide was coming in quickly, washing over the mudflats.

Everything here was as it always had been, apart from the botched swastika someone had spraypainted on the side of the pillbox as a companion to the letters
NF
.

‘How are you feeling now, Hanny?’ I said and put my hand on his brow, the way Mummer did to check his temperature.

He smiled and shook his head. The headache had gone.

‘Mummer means well,’ I said. ‘She’s just worried that you won’t get better. Fear can make people do funny things, you know.’

We walked down onto the beach, following a ragged trail of debris. Seagulls had been strangled by the sea into sodden, twisted things of bones and feathers. Huge grey tree stumps, smoothed to a metallic finish had been washed up like abandoned war-time ordnance. All along the beach, in fact, the sea had left its offerings like a cat trying to curry favour with its owner. The Loney had always been a dumping ground for the North’s detritus, and tangled with the seaweed were shoes and bottles, milk crates and tyres. Yet all of it would be gone at the next high tide, raked back into the jumble of the sea.

With a difficulty that I didn’t remember from the last time we’d come here, we climbed up onto the roof of the pillbox and stood either side of the hole. Inside it was deeply carpeted with sand. Pools of seawater sat in the gloom.

Hanny jumped down first and held me round the waist as I came down through the hole. Someone had been in here; the same person who had sprayed the outside wall, no doubt. It smelled of urine and spent matches. There was litter thrown up against one corner. Beer cans and chip wrappers. But despite all that, it remained more or less as sturdy as when it had first been built. There was never any bombing here and until we had claimed it for our own, I doubted that it had ever been manned at all. The Loney was just a place the Luftwaffe passed on their way to the Clyde. And the Third Reich never did come marauding up the Irish Sea in the end, of course.

We’d had to smash a hole in the roof to get inside—as the dunes had swallowed the back end where the door was—and the side facing the sea had begun to reveal its rusty skeleton, but it still felt as though it would last forever.

Using our hands we picked up and dumped the sand against the walls. Hanny worked like a machine, raking great clods of the stuff between his legs, checking his watch to see how long it was taking him.

Once there was space, Hanny opened the satchel and carefully arranged the rats on the floor and then his toy soldiers to face them. I took the rifle off my shoulder and positioned it through one of the gun slits, fitting my eye to the rubber cup at the end of the sight. It took time to get it right—for a few seconds there was only the magnification of my own eyelashes—but once I had the sea contained in the circle, it was brought to me sharp and silent.

The horizon I had seen with the naked eye from the top of the dunes was dragged closer and replaced by another much further out. A boat with a white sail that had been too far away to see before tracked slowly from one edge of my vision to the other, rising and falling, outrun by the terns and gulls scudding over the waves. There was another world out there that no one else but I could see.

I fancied myself as a naval captain on the lookout for U-boats, or a lone gunner charged with the defence of the coastline.

Those sorts of games only ever seemed real at The Loney. London was hard to convert into the kinds of places the men in
Commando
seemed to find themselves.

Although I had assassinated the park keeper—who morphed from one important Gestapo officer to another—several times from a hideout in the huge oak tree by the tennis courts and blown Mummer to pieces when she stepped on the land mine I’d buried in the vegetable patch, the parks, our garden, they were too prim and clean.

The cemetery up in Golders Green with its flat, white graves that looked as though they had been levelled by a bomb blast made for a half-decent blitzed town, but the groundsman had a dog that was supposed to be rabid. And anyway I could only play there on Saturdays when the Jews weren’t allowed to do anything, even visit the dead.

At The Loney, on the other hand, one could be at Sword Beach, Iwo Jima, Arnhem, El Alamein without much strain on the imagination. The pillbox was easily transformed into a cell in a German prisoner of war camp, which we’d fight our way out of with our bare hands, thwacking
Achtunging!
Nazis in freeze frames. Or it was a jungle hideout from which we watched a line of buck-toothed Japs come stalking through the marram and the sea holly and then we’d unzipper them with a burst of machine gun fire before they had time to draw breath. The Japs were cruel and devious but screeched like girls when they died. They were always weaker than the Krauts and the Krauts were always more arrogant than the Brits, who naturally won every time.

‘Here,’ I said and Hanny, half crouching, took over, adjusting his grip, squinting into the sight. I moved to the slit next to Hanny’s and watched the hordes of birds come in with the rushing tide, ransacking the foaming bore for the things dragged along in its thrust, or heading inland to the marshes with food for their young.

A flock of gulls came to land, squabbling over some dead thing from which they tore bits of fur and skin, the craftier ones making off with larger portions—a cluster of innards, or bones still jointed in the middle.

The sudden boom of the sea against the rocks close by scared them and they took off together, screeching and honking. All but one. A large gull thrashed about on the sand, trying to lift itself out of the incoming water. It beat one wing against the air, while the other stuck out from its body at an angle. It had been broken in the scrum.

It cawed, nuzzled at its leg and then resumed its strange dance, hopping one, two, three steps, lifting off and tumbling back onto the sand.

Hanny looked at me.

‘We’ll have to kill it,’ I said. ‘It’s cruel to leave it in pain.’

Hanny frowned. He didn’t understand. I took the rifle off him and mimed stoving the bird in with the butt. He nodded and we climbed out of the pillbox and watched the seagull floundering on the sand. It stared back, wide eyed.

‘It’s the right thing to do,’ I said, and gave Hanny the rifle.

He looked at me and smiled and then he turned his head sharply the other way, when he heard the sound of a car. I took the rifle back and ushered Hanny up onto the dunes, making for a natural trough in the grass, from where we could lie flat and observe the road across the marshes.

Once the car had passed the hawthorn tree, I could see through the crosshairs of the sight that it was the one that had passed us when we’d broken down on our way to Moorings.

This time there were three people in the car. Two in the front—a man and a woman—and one in the back, presumably the sleeping girl. The car slowed and as it came closer the tyres threw out waves of spray before passing through the gap in the dunes and coming to a halt on the fringes of the beach. Seeing that the sandflats were rapidly disappearing, the driver reversed. The engine idled for a moment, then shrivelled away to a rapid ticking as the mechanisms cooled under the bonnet. The birds that had been frightened away returned to what they were doing—the gulls coming down again to fight over the carcass on the beach, the curlews chunnering in the grass.

We moved carefully along the ridge and at the end where it sloped down to the road, we pressed ourselves into the sand. Parting the grass with the muzzle I could see the front passenger more clearly now. Mummer would have thought her common the way she was applying lipstick in the mirror of the sun visor, rolling her lips in and out. She was the kind of woman Mummer would have pointed out to Farther. The kind of woman she would have commented on.

Lifting her chin and turning her head, she began clearing up some imperfection in the corner of her open mouth with a folded arrowhead of tissue and then ran the tip of her little finger down her philtrum, giving it a flick at the end.

The driver distracted her for a moment and she turned to face him. There was evidently some kind of disagreement and the woman went back to her preening, impatiently dabbing powder across her cheeks and nose and pausing to shout something half way through the process.

Inching to the right, I could see the girl sitting in the back. She leant forward and tried to intervene, but the adults in the front ignored her and she stared out of the window instead.

She looked straight at me, but didn’t see me. I was careful to stay well hidden. I always was. When I played my games in London, I could be as silent as the dead in the Jewish cemetery. Deader than the dead.

Watching the girl, I didn’t even hear my own breath, only sensed its warmth coming and going on my trigger finger.

Hanny was shaking my arm.

‘What’s the matter?’

He showed me his empty wrist, marked red from his watch strap.