me. At the end of my patience with his turmoil, the poses he struck, his callow pretensions to martyrdom. Now I was faced with a shocking reality. It was.
Stuart McGowan's blood I was staring at. What impressed me, in the brute light of day, was its wetness, how much there was of it, the alarming blatancy of its red.
He caught the look on my face, and something in what he saw there encouraged him back into a bravado he had very nearly lost the trick of.
“Angus,” he said. He might just have noticed me there in the tense crowd around him and recalled that I was the one who had found him. “Waddya think then?” He managed a crooked smile, and his voice, though strained, had the same half-jokey, half-defensive tone as when on those early visits to my sleepout he had picked up one of my books and asked, "So what's this one about?”
As if on this occasion too he were faced with a puzzle on which I might somehow enlighten him, and in the same expectation, I thought, of being given credit for the seriousness of his interest.
A smile touched the corner of his lips.
He was pleased with himself!
At being the undoubted centre of so much drama and concern. At having done something at last that shocked me into really looking at him, into taking him seriously. The wound was worth it, that's what he thought. All it demanded of him was that he should grit his teeth and bear a little pain, physical pain, be a man; he had all the resources in the world for that. And what he gained was what he saw in
me.
Which, when I got back, I would pass on to her, to Katie. When she was presented with the facts—that hole in his naked thigh with its raw and blackened lips, the near miss that had come close to draining him of the eight pints of rude animal life that was in him—she would have to think again and accept what she had denied: the tribute of his extravagant suffering, the real and visible workings of his pure, bull-like heart. He had done this for
her
!
“Okay,” Matt Riley was saying. “That's the best we can do for now.”
He got to his feet, rubbed his hands on the cloth of his thighs, and told Jem: "You—-Jem—we'll need some sort of stretcher to get ‘im to the truck. See what you can knock up.” Then, quietly, to Wes McGowan: "The quicker we get ‘im back to town now the better. It's not as bad as it looks. Bullet went clean through. Bugger'll need watchin', but.”
It took me a moment to grasp that what was being referred to this time was the wound.
In all the panic and excitement around Stuart, I had lost sight of Braden. He was hunched on the ground a little way off, his back to Stuart and the rest, his head bowed. I thought he was crying. He wasn't, but he was shaking. I squatted beside him.
“You okay?” I asked. I thought he hadn't heard me. “It's just a flesh wound,” I told him. “Nothing serious. He's lost a bit of blood, but.”
He gave a snort. Then a brief contemptuous laugh.
Was that what it was? Contempt?
He thought Stuart had done it deliberately! I was astonished. But wasn't that just what I had assumed a moment back, when I told “He's done this for her"?
I touched Braden lightly on the shoulder, then got up and turned again to where Stuart, wrapped in a blanket now and with his eyes closed, but still white-lipped and sweating, lay waiting for the pallet to be brought.
I told myself that it had never occurred to me that he would go so far. It was too excessive, too wide of what was acceptable to the code we lived by. A hysterical girl might do such a thing but not a man, not Stuart McGowan's sort of man. But at the edge of that I was shaken. Maybe what I thought I knew about people—about Stuart, about myself—was unreliable. I looked at Stuart and saw, up ahead, something that had not come to me yet but must come some day. Not a physical shattering but what belongs to the heart and its confusions, the mess of need, desire, hurt pride, and all the sliding versions of himself as lover
Stuart McGowan's blood I was staring at. What impressed me, in the brute light of day, was its wetness, how much there was of it, the alarming blatancy of its red.
He caught the look on my face, and something in what he saw there encouraged him back into a bravado he had very nearly lost the trick of.
“Angus,” he said. He might just have noticed me there in the tense crowd around him and recalled that I was the one who had found him. “Waddya think then?” He managed a crooked smile, and his voice, though strained, had the same half-jokey, half-defensive tone as when on those early visits to my sleepout he had picked up one of my books and asked, "So what's this one about?”
As if on this occasion too he were faced with a puzzle on which I might somehow enlighten him, and in the same expectation, I thought, of being given credit for the seriousness of his interest.
A smile touched the corner of his lips.
He was pleased with himself!
At being the undoubted centre of so much drama and concern. At having done something at last that shocked me into really looking at him, into taking him seriously. The wound was worth it, that's what he thought. All it demanded of him was that he should grit his teeth and bear a little pain, physical pain, be a man; he had all the resources in the world for that. And what he gained was what he saw in
me.
Which, when I got back, I would pass on to her, to Katie. When she was presented with the facts—that hole in his naked thigh with its raw and blackened lips, the near miss that had come close to draining him of the eight pints of rude animal life that was in him—she would have to think again and accept what she had denied: the tribute of his extravagant suffering, the real and visible workings of his pure, bull-like heart. He had done this for
her
!
“Okay,” Matt Riley was saying. “That's the best we can do for now.”
He got to his feet, rubbed his hands on the cloth of his thighs, and told Jem: "You—-Jem—we'll need some sort of stretcher to get ‘im to the truck. See what you can knock up.” Then, quietly, to Wes McGowan: "The quicker we get ‘im back to town now the better. It's not as bad as it looks. Bullet went clean through. Bugger'll need watchin', but.”
It took me a moment to grasp that what was being referred to this time was the wound.
In all the panic and excitement around Stuart, I had lost sight of Braden. He was hunched on the ground a little way off, his back to Stuart and the rest, his head bowed. I thought he was crying. He wasn't, but he was shaking. I squatted beside him.
“You okay?” I asked. I thought he hadn't heard me. “It's just a flesh wound,” I told him. “Nothing serious. He's lost a bit of blood, but.”
He gave a snort. Then a brief contemptuous laugh.
Was that what it was? Contempt?
He thought Stuart had done it deliberately! I was astonished. But wasn't that just what I had assumed a moment back, when I told “He's done this for her"?
I touched Braden lightly on the shoulder, then got up and turned again to where Stuart, wrapped in a blanket now and with his eyes closed, but still white-lipped and sweating, lay waiting for the pallet to be brought.
I told myself that it had never occurred to me that he would go so far. It was too excessive, too wide of what was acceptable to the code we lived by. A hysterical girl might do such a thing but not a man, not Stuart McGowan's sort of man. But at the edge of that I was shaken. Maybe what I thought I knew about people—about Stuart, about myself—was unreliable. I looked at Stuart and saw, up ahead, something that had not come to me yet but must come some day. Not a physical shattering but what belongs to the heart and its confusions, the mess of need, desire, hurt pride, and all the sliding versions of himself as lover
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