Read Online Home Boys by Bernard Beckett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bernard Beckett
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to be careful. That’s all you have to know.’
‘And I’m not walking any further,’ Colin told him. ‘Not tonight. And that’s all you have to know.’ Colin stood and the cold hit him again. ‘Come on. Let’s get a fire or we’ll freeze.’
‘This isn’t cold.’ Dougal tried to shrug it off but he was shivering too. ‘I suppose if it’ll stop you complaining.’
Colin collected the wood while Dougal arranged the fire. It didn’t need discussing, it was just the way it was. Dougal was the leader. Anything that needed doing, anything that wasn’t simple, that could go wrong, Dougal would do it. Colin watched him, crouched over his collection of sticks, placing them carefully one at a time, his face screwed up in concentration like they might combust by the force of his will alone. And Colin was reminded of the flames from the night before, and the blood on the handle of the knife, and although he didn’t know exactly what had happened, it was getting easier to guess.
The fire took quickly and soon embers had fallen to the centre, glowing orange and red. Colin sat with his feet so close they ached. He felt the warmth spread up his body, and across from him Dougal’s face sweated red through the flames. It was late and evening had already fallen beneath the bush. The light of the fire danced on the trunks of the surrounding trees and Colin might even have felt contentment, were it not for the gnawing in his stomach.
‘I’m still hungry you know. Shall we start to cook the meat?’
‘We need to gut it first, and skin it too. The skin can keep us warm.’
‘How do you do that?’
Dougal looked at him, like he thought he might be joking.
‘Don’t know much do you, for a farm boy.’
‘It was cows.’
‘That’ll be useful, if we find one needs milking. Come on then. You can still help.’
Colin followed Dougal’s instructions, first holding the unlucky beast by the shoulders while Dougal hacked through its neck, causing the head to loll about as if in protest. Then he was through and the sheep was no longer a sheep. It was a collection of wool, and skin and meat and bone, and other useful things that would have to last them until the next time they killed. Dougal made a great show of taking the head and placing it in the fork of a tree, so that it could look down on proceedings. He looked at Colin, like he was hoping he would laugh, or protest, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t horrible, it wasn’t anything. It was just meat, and Colin was hungry.
Next they found some young supplejack, thin enough to actas twine, and while Colin held the carcass over his shoulder Dougal tied its forelegs to an overhead branch, so it hung as if by a hook behind a butcher’s counter. They found two rocks, just bigger than their hands with sharp edges, and scooped out a hole beneath the animal, wide enough for both of them to stand in, and as deep as their knees when they did.
Dougal had evidently done these things before, or had watched carefully while someone else had. With careful quick slits around the legs and shoulders, and with much pulling on Colin’s part, they were able to peel the skin off in a single piece. Next Dougal ran a deeper cut up the stomach and stood back as the insides fell out in a noisy rush of twists and bulges. He cut them free and they slopped into the hole. Dougal took down the head and threw it in as well, before they covered it over and tramped the dirt back down.
‘So they won’t know we were here,’ Dougal said. Colin wasn’t about to ask again who ‘they’ were, and Dougal wasn’t about to tell.
It was another two hours before Dougal was satisfied the beast was cooked. They had it stuck through with a strong stick and balanced across two uprights, and they watched it sizzle and colour over the flames, stirring to turn it occasionally, talking even less. For Colin it wasn’t because there was nothing to say, but more that there was too much.
‘And I’m not walking any further,’ Colin told him. ‘Not tonight. And that’s all you have to know.’ Colin stood and the cold hit him again. ‘Come on. Let’s get a fire or we’ll freeze.’
‘This isn’t cold.’ Dougal tried to shrug it off but he was shivering too. ‘I suppose if it’ll stop you complaining.’
Colin collected the wood while Dougal arranged the fire. It didn’t need discussing, it was just the way it was. Dougal was the leader. Anything that needed doing, anything that wasn’t simple, that could go wrong, Dougal would do it. Colin watched him, crouched over his collection of sticks, placing them carefully one at a time, his face screwed up in concentration like they might combust by the force of his will alone. And Colin was reminded of the flames from the night before, and the blood on the handle of the knife, and although he didn’t know exactly what had happened, it was getting easier to guess.
The fire took quickly and soon embers had fallen to the centre, glowing orange and red. Colin sat with his feet so close they ached. He felt the warmth spread up his body, and across from him Dougal’s face sweated red through the flames. It was late and evening had already fallen beneath the bush. The light of the fire danced on the trunks of the surrounding trees and Colin might even have felt contentment, were it not for the gnawing in his stomach.
‘I’m still hungry you know. Shall we start to cook the meat?’
‘We need to gut it first, and skin it too. The skin can keep us warm.’
‘How do you do that?’
Dougal looked at him, like he thought he might be joking.
‘Don’t know much do you, for a farm boy.’
‘It was cows.’
‘That’ll be useful, if we find one needs milking. Come on then. You can still help.’
Colin followed Dougal’s instructions, first holding the unlucky beast by the shoulders while Dougal hacked through its neck, causing the head to loll about as if in protest. Then he was through and the sheep was no longer a sheep. It was a collection of wool, and skin and meat and bone, and other useful things that would have to last them until the next time they killed. Dougal made a great show of taking the head and placing it in the fork of a tree, so that it could look down on proceedings. He looked at Colin, like he was hoping he would laugh, or protest, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t horrible, it wasn’t anything. It was just meat, and Colin was hungry.
Next they found some young supplejack, thin enough to actas twine, and while Colin held the carcass over his shoulder Dougal tied its forelegs to an overhead branch, so it hung as if by a hook behind a butcher’s counter. They found two rocks, just bigger than their hands with sharp edges, and scooped out a hole beneath the animal, wide enough for both of them to stand in, and as deep as their knees when they did.
Dougal had evidently done these things before, or had watched carefully while someone else had. With careful quick slits around the legs and shoulders, and with much pulling on Colin’s part, they were able to peel the skin off in a single piece. Next Dougal ran a deeper cut up the stomach and stood back as the insides fell out in a noisy rush of twists and bulges. He cut them free and they slopped into the hole. Dougal took down the head and threw it in as well, before they covered it over and tramped the dirt back down.
‘So they won’t know we were here,’ Dougal said. Colin wasn’t about to ask again who ‘they’ were, and Dougal wasn’t about to tell.
It was another two hours before Dougal was satisfied the beast was cooked. They had it stuck through with a strong stick and balanced across two uprights, and they watched it sizzle and colour over the flames, stirring to turn it occasionally, talking even less. For Colin it wasn’t because there was nothing to say, but more that there was too much.
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