caught. That was another of the laws of nature. When they were seven and ten, Terry had masterminded the theft of three giantsized bottles of Coca-Cola from the garage shop. Jenny Steyning’s dad had caught them, and their own dad had taken their shorts and underpants down in front of everyone at the garage (in front of Jenny, Teddy remembered with a flush of embarrassment even after ten years) and taken his belt to their backsides. Since then, Terry had been caught for almost everything: bunking off school, knocking off records from the market in Bridgwater, snogging superhag Sharon Coram, smashing windows at the back of the village hall.
They were supposed to be out after rabbits, but even trigger-happy Terry hadn’t fired a shot in days. Hunting was bad this year, like everything to do with the land. It was the heat. The undergrowth was yellow and rotting. The rabbits must all have had their brains fried, or tunnelled to Iceland. At first, the summer had been great: being outside, getting a tan, earning an extra tenner picking plums. Now, it was a pain. Teddy’s back itched where his sunburn peeled. There was nothing to do. At least, not until the festival.
‘Meeting’s at six, Einstein,’ he reminded. ‘If we’m not there, James’ll cross us off the lists. Youm know he don’t like you.’
‘Six’s not for hours, thicko.’
‘This’s boring. ’
‘No, ’t ain’t.’
That was it. No more discussion needed. Terry wasn’t bored, so there was no shifting him. Terry fiddled with their dad’s binoculars, trying to get them in focus. The little wheel was missing, so he had to get his finger in and work a cog with a nail.
Teddy didn’t care either way about the Gosmore Farm people, but Terry fancied her and hated him. Terry said he must be a poof. Hazel wore shorts and a halter most days, and had good legs and a flat stomach. For a week, Terry had been thinking aloud, laboriously trying to come up with a scheme to get the boyfriend out of the way so he could have a crack at chatting Hazel up. Some hope. It was difficult not to laugh at Terry when he was plotting. His plans were so stupid, like the time he wanted to steal a barrel of beer from the Valiant Soldier. They wouldn’t have been able to lift it, let alone drink it.
Watching Gosmore Farm really was boring. Hazel was mostly out of sight in the old cow shed making pots. She only ever came out for meals and an hour or so of sunbathing in the late afternoon. The sunbathing was what got Terry worked up. Sometimes, she lay on her front and untied her halter. From the top of the hill, Teddy didn’t find it much of a thrill. When they first started to watch Hazel and her boyfriend, Terry had reckoned they’d take drugs and have it off in the garden. Terry said Hazel was probably a nympho. Terry had a thing about nymphos. According to Knave and Fiesta and him, nymphomania was as common as hay fever. Considering most of Terry’s ideas about women came from the times when Sharon couldn’t find anything better, Teddy supposed his brother’s delusions were understandable. However, he still considered nymphomania a mythical condition, like the curse of the werewolf.
It occurred to Teddy that his brother might be a werewolf. Terry had a thick pelt on his legs and chest, his eyebrows joined over his nose, and he did a lot of growling.
Any hairs on his hands, however, Teddy put down to something else Terry did a lot of. Terry growled now. Hazel and her boyfriend were out of sight.
‘Bet they’m going to have it off tonight,’ Terry said, pointing his shotgun at the house, taking an elaborate sniper’s aim. ‘Pow!’
‘Le’ss go, Einstein.’
Finally, Terry stirred.
‘I know a short cut,’ he said, and Teddy’s heart took a high dive. For someone who’d spent his whole life in Alder, Terry was incredibly unable to find his way around the woods. But he always tried to come on like Indiana Jones.
Teddy had only come out with his brother
They were supposed to be out after rabbits, but even trigger-happy Terry hadn’t fired a shot in days. Hunting was bad this year, like everything to do with the land. It was the heat. The undergrowth was yellow and rotting. The rabbits must all have had their brains fried, or tunnelled to Iceland. At first, the summer had been great: being outside, getting a tan, earning an extra tenner picking plums. Now, it was a pain. Teddy’s back itched where his sunburn peeled. There was nothing to do. At least, not until the festival.
‘Meeting’s at six, Einstein,’ he reminded. ‘If we’m not there, James’ll cross us off the lists. Youm know he don’t like you.’
‘Six’s not for hours, thicko.’
‘This’s boring. ’
‘No, ’t ain’t.’
That was it. No more discussion needed. Terry wasn’t bored, so there was no shifting him. Terry fiddled with their dad’s binoculars, trying to get them in focus. The little wheel was missing, so he had to get his finger in and work a cog with a nail.
Teddy didn’t care either way about the Gosmore Farm people, but Terry fancied her and hated him. Terry said he must be a poof. Hazel wore shorts and a halter most days, and had good legs and a flat stomach. For a week, Terry had been thinking aloud, laboriously trying to come up with a scheme to get the boyfriend out of the way so he could have a crack at chatting Hazel up. Some hope. It was difficult not to laugh at Terry when he was plotting. His plans were so stupid, like the time he wanted to steal a barrel of beer from the Valiant Soldier. They wouldn’t have been able to lift it, let alone drink it.
Watching Gosmore Farm really was boring. Hazel was mostly out of sight in the old cow shed making pots. She only ever came out for meals and an hour or so of sunbathing in the late afternoon. The sunbathing was what got Terry worked up. Sometimes, she lay on her front and untied her halter. From the top of the hill, Teddy didn’t find it much of a thrill. When they first started to watch Hazel and her boyfriend, Terry had reckoned they’d take drugs and have it off in the garden. Terry said Hazel was probably a nympho. Terry had a thing about nymphos. According to Knave and Fiesta and him, nymphomania was as common as hay fever. Considering most of Terry’s ideas about women came from the times when Sharon couldn’t find anything better, Teddy supposed his brother’s delusions were understandable. However, he still considered nymphomania a mythical condition, like the curse of the werewolf.
It occurred to Teddy that his brother might be a werewolf. Terry had a thick pelt on his legs and chest, his eyebrows joined over his nose, and he did a lot of growling.
Any hairs on his hands, however, Teddy put down to something else Terry did a lot of. Terry growled now. Hazel and her boyfriend were out of sight.
‘Bet they’m going to have it off tonight,’ Terry said, pointing his shotgun at the house, taking an elaborate sniper’s aim. ‘Pow!’
‘Le’ss go, Einstein.’
Finally, Terry stirred.
‘I know a short cut,’ he said, and Teddy’s heart took a high dive. For someone who’d spent his whole life in Alder, Terry was incredibly unable to find his way around the woods. But he always tried to come on like Indiana Jones.
Teddy had only come out with his brother
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