Billy Mack's War (17 page)

I was so relieved.
That
much I could do. ‘Okay, Dad,' I agreed, kneeling down and cradling the rifle across my lap, the barrel pointing away from the others.

Dad took his lantern and went to the back end of that poor cow, who was watching me, begging me with her eyes to help her. I could hear her grunting, groaning, and her enormous expanse of stomach was moving in strange and violent waves.

‘It's okay,' I told her. ‘My Dad's real good with cows — he'll help get it out.'

Dad and Stan were busy at the other end. In the pale lamplight I saw Dad reaching into dark places with his arm, his face a grimace of concentration as he felt about. He shook his head. ‘It's no good, Stan,' he said at last. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Can't you turn it?'

‘No, I can't. It's too late for that.' Dad stood up. A sheet of lightning exploded nearby, and I saw that his arm was all shiny. ‘We need to do what we discussed.'

‘Isn't there another way?' Stan asked.

Dad shook his head again. ‘There's no time. You'll lose both of them, Stan. Besides, we're standing under a tree in a thunderstorm. I'd like to get inside as soon as we can.'

‘All right, Freddy, but please don't ask me to do it,' said Stan.

‘Aye, all right. Take a walk then. Billy-boy,' he said. ‘The knife.'

‘Why?'

‘Just give me the knife!' he snapped, holding out his hand, slick with wetness. I handed him the knife and he unsheathed it. ‘All right, laddie, you know what to do.'

I frowned. This wasn't part of the adventure. ‘What?' I asked, disbelieving. ‘What do I have to do?'

‘Help her.'

‘Help her how? Help her do what?'

‘Help her die, Billy! Shoot her!'

I fumbled my way to my feet. The rifle dropped into the mud, and the cow watched this new development with her staring, desperate eyes.

‘Pick it up, laddie. Pick up your weapon. Pick it up! Speedo!'

‘Don't say speedo!' I shouted. ‘Don't tell me to shoot this poor cow, and
don't say speedo
! I'm not one of your bloody soldiers! You can't give me orders! I have a choice!'

Dad jammed the knife into the ground and stood up, glaring at me. His anger was so strong I could almost feel it pumping through the air between us. He picked up the rifle, flicked off the safety, cocked it, and placed the barrel against the white diamond, clearly visible against the broad blackness of the cow's forehead. ‘Look away,' he said, and he squeezed the trigger.

It took him barely a minute to wipe off the blade of the knife and slit the dead cow's belly right down the middle. Blood gushed out blackly, until a sudden flash of lightning showed Dad's hands and arms bright red, just for the briefest of moments. Then it was back to the washed-out colours of hurricane lamplight, and the strange shapes of the calf, all too-big head and too-long legs. The body of its mother seemed to collapse a little as Dad pulled it out of the huge wound. Stan had his jacket off in a flash, and wrapped it around the shivering calf.

‘How's it look?' Dad asked, feeling around the calf's head.

‘She'll be okay, I reckon,' Stan said. He looked at Dad, who was still kneeling by the cow's belly, and me, standing stupidly near its head. ‘Ta, Freddy. Ta, Billy.'

Dad wiped his knife clean on the wet grass before re-sheathing it. Then he picked up the rifle. ‘I was only being neighbourly, that's all,' he said. Then he leaned close to Stan, and I heard him say something that I don't think I was supposed to hear. It sounded as if he said, ‘If you ever come near my wife again …' I missed the rest as a thunderclap sounded very close, making me jump. ‘Come on, let's get home before we're struck,' he said to me, and taking one of the lanterns, he strode off, not even bothering to look back to see if I was following.

We didn't say a word to each other all the way home. Despite our hats and our coats we were both soaked to the skin by the time we peeled our clothes off in front of the fire. Completely naked, Dad dumped his clothes in my arms and said, ‘Put them somewhere.' I saw blood still caked in dark stains between his long fingers as he picked up the rifle and headed to the gun cabinet in the hall.

I dropped our clothing in a sodden pile on the back porch. As it hit the boards I heard a loud thunk, and remembered that the knife was still in Dad's pocket. I found it and drew it from its leather sheath. There was blood around the handle and the hilt. The edge was very sharp against the ball of my thumb. And the taste of acid was sharp against the back of my throat as I knelt on the edge of the porch and vomited into my mother's rose garden.

When I'd recovered and closed the door against the weather, I walked naked and shaking through the house to my room. I had to walk past my parents' bedroom, and I slowed, then stopped, as I heard Dad's voice, sounding strange and different. His accent was stronger than ever, and even though he wasn't shouting, his voice was angry. ‘Aye, ye just thought ye'd keep your boy nice and safe. Well, ye cannae keep him safe forever, can ye? Ye cannae keep him safe from the wind and rain, and ye cannae keep him safe from the truth.'

‘The truth about what?' Ma asked, her face ashen.

‘About what it means to do the work of a man. It's nae about mucking stables, and it's nae about fixing tractors. It's about billing when the time comes to kill, even though it feels damned unnatural, Alice. It's about being forced into doing something ye wouldn't choose to do, ever. It's about knowing when to walk away from a scrap, and it's about knowing when to scrap for all ye're worth.'

‘Well, I don't want my son killing at all. You should understand that better than anyone.'

‘Ye donnae want your son killing? Neither did
my
ma, Alice. Neither did Tierney's ma. But they didnae give us a choice, so we did what we had to, even though we couldnae face ourselves the next day, or the next, or the one after that.'

‘But that's different, Fred,' Ma argued. ‘Billy's only a boy. He shouldn't have to do what you asked of him tonight.'

‘It was just a cow, Alice. A cow that was suffering, and he would'nae take an order, he would'nae do what was required.'

Ma's voice was rising too now. ‘You can't treat him like one of your men, Fred! And you can't take everything that happened to you out on him. Don't you see?
He's only a boy!'

‘Aye, and that's all he'll ever be. Your da told me that Billy decked that bank manager's lad.'

‘Yes, well —'

‘Aye, and I was proud of that.'

‘He behaved terribly!' Ma protested.

‘Aye, but it needed to be done.'

‘I've got nothing more to say to you, Fred,' I heard Ma say. ‘I won't let you turn our boy into a violent man.'

‘Then at least let him be some kind of a man,' Dad said.

And suddenly he was there, standing before me in the doorway from their room. His patch was gone, one eye cold, his other just that ugly, ugly scar. He looked down at me, shaking and naked, dripping water on the floor.

‘Clean yourself up, boy. Speedo.'

Chapter 22 Danny

Mr McAuliffe wiped his eyes and smiled at Danny, who was sitting on the couch, stunned. ‘So there it is,' he said. ‘Freddy McAuliffe, war hero. What, you didn't think he was always that eccentric old man who forgot where he lived, did you?'

‘But the way you tell it, it sounds like he was awful.'

Mr McAuliffe shook his head. ‘We're all awful sometimes. And some of us have less excuse to be that way than most. I think my father was entitled to the odd fit of anger, don't you?'

‘I guess,' Danny replied.

Dad sighed. Danny had forgotten that he was there. ‘When did he start thinking of you as a man instead of a boy?'

‘I'm not sure that he ever did. But I do know one thing — he thought the world of you, Daniel. He thought
you
were brave. And I think I agree.'

Danny smiled shyly and looked at the rug.

‘I brought something for you, Daniel.' Mr McAuliffe held out a small cardboard box.

‘Should I open it now?' Danny asked as he took it.

‘Absolutely.'

Danny opened the box. Inside was a cap, banded in tartan, with a silver badge featuring a crown and the head of a stag with antlers. Below the stag was a banner with words he couldn't understand.

‘It's Dad's regimental cap,' Mr McAuliffe explained. ‘And it's yours.'

‘I can have this? Are you sure?'

‘Completely.'

‘Thank you, Mr McAuliffe,' Danny said, turning the cap over and over in his hands.

‘Yes, thank you, William,' Dad said. ‘That's very kind indeed.'

‘It's my absolute pleasure. My father would have wanted you to have it, Daniel.' He chuckled. ‘Actually, we both know he wanted you to have his VC, but we've discussed that already.'

‘No, this is really good. Thank you.'

Mr McAuliffe smiled and stood up. ‘Well, I should get going. Thank you for the tea.'

Danny walked him to the door. As they reached it, Mr McAuliffe held out his hand and Danny shook it. ‘Goodbye, Daniel.'

‘Wait,' Danny said. ‘You never told me what present your dad gave you that Christmas.'

‘Didn't I? He gave me that cap you're holding now.'

‘He gave you this? So why are you giving it to me?'

Mr McAuliffe smiled. ‘Goodbye, Daniel. It's been good talking to you.' He turned and walked to his car.

Danny looked down at the cap. It wasn't quite a VC, but it was still very special. Doubly so because it had belonged to Captain Freddy McAuliffe. And one thing was for certain — this piece of military regalia wasn't going to be making a trip to school. Not ever.

Mr McAuliffe had opened his car door and was about to get in when he stopped and looked back. ‘Daniel, keep in touch, all right?'

‘Yes, sir,' Danny replied.

‘Good lad.'

Chapter 23 Danny

The Year 10 kids were back at it. Henry Butler and Jonathon Spivey had relocated their game of chess yet again, to a table over by the bike racks. The big kids had noticed, and had accordingly moved their game of nuisance-ball to a spot also very close to the bike racks. They stood around with their reflective shades and trendy hair, sending their basketball on barnstorming passes over the heads of the pawns and knights and bishops, like a stunt-plane in some kind of weird medieval airshow.

‘I hate them,' Danny muttered.

‘Who?' Caleb asked.

‘Those kids. Why can't they leave those two in peace? All they're doing is playing a game of chess.'

‘Yeah, but
that's
their problem,' Caleb said. ‘If they were playing anything else there wouldn't be a hassle, would there?'

Danny stared at Caleb. ‘Why should they get picked on just because of what they're playing? They should be able to play Barbies if they want to.'

Caleb shook his head. ‘No, mate —
I'd
pick on them if they were playing Barbies.'

‘Yeah, but you know what I mean? They're not causing any trouble, are they?'

The basketball clipped the top of Henry's king and knocked it over. The older boys laughed and jostled each other. Neither Henry nor Jonathon said anything. They just rearranged the pieces and kept on playing.

‘See, that's what I'm talking about,' Danny said. ‘Their mums have probably said, “Ignore them and they'll go away”. But they don't go away. People like that never go away. They just hang around and annoy people until someone makes them stop.'

Caleb shrugged. ‘Well, what are you going to do about it? Put on your cape and fly to their rescue?'

‘Maybe I am. Here, hang onto these for me.' Danny handed his folders and books to Caleb, who looked surprised.

‘You're not really … Oh, so obviously you are,' Caleb said, as Danny strode across the quad. ‘Great. Here we go all over again. I'll be waiting for you in the principal's office.'

Danny ignored him. ‘Hey,' he said as he reached the table.

‘Hey yourself, Dan the Man,' said Tom Shearman, who was the biggest of the Year 10 boys. Grinning, he held up his hand, ready to give Danny a high-five. Henry glanced up, saw Danny, and immediately dropped his head and went back to examining the board.

‘What's going on?' Danny asked.

‘Just chucking a ball around,' Tom said. ‘Why?'

‘Why don't you chuck it somewhere else?'

Tom's face suddenly changed. He wasn't looking so welcoming any more. In fact, he was looking downright menacing. ‘Why should we?' he asked, pushing his shades onto the top of his head.

‘Because these two are trying to play a game of chess.'

Josh Landau feigned surprise.
‘Are
they?'

‘Yeah, they are, so why don't you take your ball somewhere else?'

Tom held the ball at arm's length, then dropped it right in the middle of the chessboard. Pieces scattered everywhere — across the table, onto the ground, into Jonathon's lap. Henry cleared his throat nervously and tried to return some of the pieces to their places, but of course it was no good now.

Tom had stepped right up to Danny, who adjusted his glasses and tried to swallow the dry lump growing in his throat. It had been fun hanging around with the bigger boys when they thought he was a hero. It wasn't so much fun now, with Tom Shearman glaring down at him. ‘I'm not quite sure what you think you're going to do about it,' Tom said. ‘You see, that kid you beat up, Shane —'

‘Shaun. And I didn't beat him up —'

‘Hush, child,' Tom said quietly, placing one finger on Danny's lips. ‘Shh, don't speak. That kid you beat up was your age, wasn't he? But you see, I'm not. None of us are,' he added, indicating his friends with a broad sweep of his arm. ‘So don't come here telling us where we can and can't play with our ball, and don't think that beating up one little kid is going to scare us.'

‘Look, all I'm saying is —'

‘We know what you're saying, and the answer is still no. So why don't you find somewhere else to play?'

Danny looked at Tom. He glanced at Josh and the other big boys, all looking cool and hostile. He knew that he could never compete with that level of hostility, let alone the coolness. He realised that all his feelings of heroism had been nothing but him fooling himself. And it didn't seem like he'd really fooled anyone else, either.

Jonathon and Henry were still sitting across the table from each other, staring at the empty chessboard, shoulders hunched, trying not to attract any attention. All the pieces had been put away in the little box, except for one white horse next to Henry's heel.

Danny reached out and folded the board. Then he picked up the box. ‘There's one piece there, near your foot,' he said, pointing, and Henry bent to pick it up. ‘Come on, let's go.'

‘Where do you think you're going?' Josh asked.

‘My friends and I are going somewhere else to play. Come on, guys.'

‘Is that the best you've got?' Tom asked. ‘Pick up your stuff and walk away?'

Danny turned around. ‘Is that the best you've got? Words? Is that it? Words and a big orange ball?'

He turned his back on the big boys and walked away with Henry and Jonathon, fully expecting to be hit in the back of the head by the basketball. But it never came.

Caleb met them on the other side of the quad. ‘Are you nuts? What happened to ignoring them until they go away?'

‘I told you before, that never works,' Danny replied. ‘Anyway, what were they going to do that Shaun and Grant haven't already done?'

‘Where are we going to go?' Henry asked.

‘We'll find somewhere else,' Jonathon replied.

‘How about the library?' Danny suggested. ‘They'll never go in there.'

Henry shook his head. ‘No, they're not going to beat us. Like you said, Danny, it's easy to fight if you know you're right.'

‘Yeah,' Jonathon agreed. ‘We're going to stand up for ourselves. Besides, Danny, you've told them to leave us alone.'

Danny frowned ‘I know all that, but why not just go somewhere sensible? Don't draw attention to yourselves, at least for a while.'

Henry shook his head. ‘No, we're going to do what you did. We're not going to hide away in the library.'

Danny caught Caleb's eye. He fully expected his friend to look like he was going to laugh. But he wasn't. He seemed kind of gloomy. He looked disappointed, and Danny knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking, How can these two boys be so naive? How can they think that Danny telling those Year 10 boys to back off is going to make any difference at all? Do they really think that Danny's reputation means anything? Do they really expect to be able to play chess without interruption from now on? And don't they realise that Danny will be a target as well now?

Danny knew what his friend was thinking, and it made him pleased and sad at the same time. Pleased that Caleb seemed to finally understand what he'd been trying to tell him ever since he'd met Captain Mack — that nothing is ever simple. And sad, because nothing is ever simple.

‘Well, thanks for sorting them out,' said Henry, and he and Jonathon set off to find another place, chessboard and pieces safely under their arms. Danny stole a quick glance at Tom and his friends, who'd been watching, and were beginning to stir. ‘They're so dead,' he muttered. ‘Those two are so dead.'

‘You've got that right.'

Danny and Caleb turned and headed in the opposite direction, towards the path leading to the top oval.

‘It's a shame, really,' Caleb said.

‘What is?'

‘That people don't know when to stop being brave and start being sensible.'

‘Are you talking about me?' Danny asked.

‘Partly. You could have walked away.'

Danny thought about his mother, fighting a battle she knew she couldn't win, and that she could never avoid fighting. He thought about Captain Mack, trapped into doing something he never wanted to do. And he thought about Billy McAuliffe, shivering with cold and shock under a tree during a thunderstorm.

‘Yeah, I could have walked away,' Danny said. ‘But at least I had a choice.'

‘Huh?' said Caleb.

Danny shook his head. Perhaps I was wrong, he thought. Maybe Caleb hasn't really understood anything we've talked about after all. ‘You know what? It doesn't matter. Let's just go and kick a footy or something.'

He had the strong feeling that his mother would have been proud of that answer.