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Authors: James Long
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scratched spoor of visitors.
He ran his fingers over some of the deep-cut words. ‘Riga Latvia’ said one, then below it ‘F & G’, and a heart surrounding the two words ‘Angels –
Daisy.’
Square openings barred with iron showed him quarters of the surrounding land and he looked through each in turn, hoping something might be revealed. He saw trees and fields and the distant misty
hills and despaired that this might be all there was to show for his efforts, leaving him to pedal all the way back to that loveless house. He felt a scream rising in him and let it out, yelling at
the sky in an abandonment that amazed him, yelling at two dots that came from those misty hills and grew into jet fighters coming straight at the tower, hurdling his hilltop wing tip to wing tip.
His yell was soaked up into an immense noise that arrived at the same moment they did and persisted long after they had gone. When it diminished it had silenced him and the whole land seemed
quieter, as if they had muscled all other sound out of the way.
In that new peace a twist of wind lifted the smell of early summer to his nose and carried with it a gentle murmur of human voices. They drew him back down the stairs and at the bottom he heard
laughter, a call, the ring of metal, beckoning him to the far edge of the plateau. He saw red and white tape down below in the black mass of trees, a plastic barrier stretched between their trunks.
The sounds came from beyond them in the darkness and they drew him on down. He picked his way, cautious and silent, intending to spy from cover, but the tape marked the start of an even steeper
drop and a dead branch, shrouded by leaves, tricked his feet. They shot from under him so that he tobogganed over the edge under the abrupt violence of gravity, feet first and head back.
He fell for long enough to know fear and his lungs flattened as he met the earth below at full length, still on his back, all the air forced out of him. For a moment the world was changed by the
concussion. Where there had been trees above, all he could see were purple spheres filling his vision. The shock of impact overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes to concentrate on the fight to fill
his lungs. When he opened them again there were faces bent over him with expressions of alarm – three girls’ faces focused on him like a fantasy.
‘Where did
you
come from?’ said a blonde girl, close enough to kiss, and he tried to say sorry through the head-to-toe hurt but there was still no air to make the words. The
purple shapes had gone and he would have searched for them but didn’t even want to move his eyes.
‘Give him space,’ growled a man’s voice. The girls’ faces vanished and a huge head with white hair strapped back in a ponytail took their place. Luke felt unbearable
regret and his eyes grew damp with all sorts of pain.
‘Just twitch both feet for me,’ the man said, then, ‘All right, matey, let’s get you on your side.’ Large hands turned him gently over. ‘Pull your knees up
all the way. You’re winded, that’s all. You’ll be all right in half a mo.’
Just when he knew he would suffocate he drew a little air, then more, until he was gasping it in.
‘Now,’ said the big man. ‘Where does it hurt?’
‘My back.’ He felt fingers gently exploring.
‘Just a scratch. You landed on my trowel. Lucky it’s made of strong stuff. Can you move everything?’
The boy tried. ‘Yes.’ He lifted his head and saw that he was lying across a strip of bare earth and all around were buckets, shovels and plastic trays. A ring of people surrounded
him.
‘Show’s over,’ growled the man with the ponytail. ‘He’ll live. Back to it, you sorry lot.’
Too late, Luke saw the swing of a girl’s hair between all the older people as they turned away. He sat up but she was lost to view. He looked up at the steep face of the slope he had
fallen down and the man with the ponytail followed his
He ran his fingers over some of the deep-cut words. ‘Riga Latvia’ said one, then below it ‘F & G’, and a heart surrounding the two words ‘Angels –
Daisy.’
Square openings barred with iron showed him quarters of the surrounding land and he looked through each in turn, hoping something might be revealed. He saw trees and fields and the distant misty
hills and despaired that this might be all there was to show for his efforts, leaving him to pedal all the way back to that loveless house. He felt a scream rising in him and let it out, yelling at
the sky in an abandonment that amazed him, yelling at two dots that came from those misty hills and grew into jet fighters coming straight at the tower, hurdling his hilltop wing tip to wing tip.
His yell was soaked up into an immense noise that arrived at the same moment they did and persisted long after they had gone. When it diminished it had silenced him and the whole land seemed
quieter, as if they had muscled all other sound out of the way.
In that new peace a twist of wind lifted the smell of early summer to his nose and carried with it a gentle murmur of human voices. They drew him back down the stairs and at the bottom he heard
laughter, a call, the ring of metal, beckoning him to the far edge of the plateau. He saw red and white tape down below in the black mass of trees, a plastic barrier stretched between their trunks.
The sounds came from beyond them in the darkness and they drew him on down. He picked his way, cautious and silent, intending to spy from cover, but the tape marked the start of an even steeper
drop and a dead branch, shrouded by leaves, tricked his feet. They shot from under him so that he tobogganed over the edge under the abrupt violence of gravity, feet first and head back.
He fell for long enough to know fear and his lungs flattened as he met the earth below at full length, still on his back, all the air forced out of him. For a moment the world was changed by the
concussion. Where there had been trees above, all he could see were purple spheres filling his vision. The shock of impact overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes to concentrate on the fight to fill
his lungs. When he opened them again there were faces bent over him with expressions of alarm – three girls’ faces focused on him like a fantasy.
‘Where did
you
come from?’ said a blonde girl, close enough to kiss, and he tried to say sorry through the head-to-toe hurt but there was still no air to make the words. The
purple shapes had gone and he would have searched for them but didn’t even want to move his eyes.
‘Give him space,’ growled a man’s voice. The girls’ faces vanished and a huge head with white hair strapped back in a ponytail took their place. Luke felt unbearable
regret and his eyes grew damp with all sorts of pain.
‘Just twitch both feet for me,’ the man said, then, ‘All right, matey, let’s get you on your side.’ Large hands turned him gently over. ‘Pull your knees up
all the way. You’re winded, that’s all. You’ll be all right in half a mo.’
Just when he knew he would suffocate he drew a little air, then more, until he was gasping it in.
‘Now,’ said the big man. ‘Where does it hurt?’
‘My back.’ He felt fingers gently exploring.
‘Just a scratch. You landed on my trowel. Lucky it’s made of strong stuff. Can you move everything?’
The boy tried. ‘Yes.’ He lifted his head and saw that he was lying across a strip of bare earth and all around were buckets, shovels and plastic trays. A ring of people surrounded
him.
‘Show’s over,’ growled the man with the ponytail. ‘He’ll live. Back to it, you sorry lot.’
Too late, Luke saw the swing of a girl’s hair between all the older people as they turned away. He sat up but she was lost to view. He looked up at the steep face of the slope he had
fallen down and the man with the ponytail followed his
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