The Kimota Anthology (28 page)

Then on one of the small corpses I saw a flash of steel. A silver St Christopher.

Now I did want to be sick. In my mind, uninvited, Roberts spoke up:

“You came close...

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

JULY

by Paul Finch

Greg had never expected to see the two cooling towers again. At least, not outside his nightmares.

As the minibus crested the low hill on the country road, the whole of Kent spread out before it, a quiltwork of golds and greens. The two monoliths of concrete, heads buried in clouds of stationary steam, loomed up to the left. Red-brick buildings were clustered around their feet, behind fields of electricity pylons. Greg stared at the two gigantic chimneys through the side-window. They were the same. The very same. Weren't they?

Sweat trickled into his eyes and he wiped it away. They couldn't be. It hadn't been round here, where it had happened. Had it? Of course, this time the red orb of the sun wasn't hanging between the towers, throwing off its searing, sapping heat, turning the land a bloody crimson, setting the clouds aflame... so the illusion wasn't entirely complete.

Greg turned round to face the rest of the team. They hadn't noticed his discomfort. Most were still talking together, a couple rooting through their kit-bags, sorting their whites and pads. He could already smell the grass and linseed oil.

It was only five o'clock, he reflected. The sun wasn't ready to set yet. It would be by the end of the match, though. He glanced at the towers again. He'd know for sure, then. A moment later, they'd pulled off the road and were on a single-track lane.

Sumpton Margaret. It meant nothing to him. Why should it? Just another minor team in another minor midweek league. Of course, he hadn't noticed any names this time last year. He hadn't noticed much. All he remembered was driving: endlessly, recklessly driving; the red globe of the sun and its sentinel towers filling the sky ahead, bleared through dust and tears and drink, like a scene from the Apocalypse.

And then... Tara. Tara in the back.

Greg was last out of the minibus. The rest of the team were scampering about on the forecourt in front of the clubhouse. He could hear his father barking orders: “Tom, you'll be opening with me.”

“Righto, Colonel.”

“Harry! Give it all you've got. Remember, we owe these chaps.”

“Wilco, Colonel.”

“Greg! Where the hell is Greg? Come on lad, we haven't got all night. Five hours of sunlight at the most, by my reckoning.”

Five hours? Was that how long he had driven for, that day? Or had it been longer? Maybe he'd gone on into the night, the sun and towers the last things he'd seen in daylight?

“What are you mooning about for?”

Greg shook himself. His father, hugely-chested, iron-grey sideburns down either side of his leathery, nut-brown face, was peering at him from the clubhouse door, a bat over one shoulder. “Not been smoking more of that blasted weed again?”

Greg shook his head dumbly. The cooling towers soared into the azure sky beyond the clubhouse. The boy was too agitated to work out whether the sun would sink between them in its final moments of glory, or simply pass them by in some other direction. At the moment it was a distant fireball, far overhead. It gleamed on the bonnet of the minibus. How had he found his way to this place, that night?, he wondered. Or had he? How many pairs of cooling towers were there in Britain?

“Hmmphf!” With a familiar grunt of disapproval, the Colonel disappeared into the shady interior of the clubhouse, his feet clumping on its floorboards. “I knew we should've picked Cambridge,” he was saying to himself

The Colonel's men were all out for forty-eight.

Greg's contribution didn't help much. “We're counting on you, boy,” his father boomed, clapping him hard on the shoulder as he went in last, the bat tight under his arm.

Greg's mind wasn't on matters, basically. For one thing, the cooling towers dwarfed everything, and now threw dusky shadows over the wall of foliage at the far side of the pitch. For another, evidence of the power station was everywhere: to the south, beyond a green net fence, high voltage pylons stood in regimented rows, linked together by jungles of cable. To the east, behind the clubhouse and its gravel car park, spoil-heaps of cinder were visible, rolling away in a desert of reddish-brown humps. There was no escaping it.

Then there was the fast bowler; a husky, bearded man, standing at the other end of the square, tossing the ball up and down as Greg took his crease, staring hard and trying to suppress an ironic grin, as if he knew something the batsman didn't. Greg had no time to wonder what it was. The first missile came at him before he even knew what was happening. He flailed at it without looking, knowing that he'd missed and jerking his head away from any possible rebound. It was actually a relief to hear the click of the middle stump and the muted applause from the deck-chairs in front of the clubhouse.

For once, his father wasn't able to deride his puny effort as he came off - the Colonel had only made three himself. He still managed to glare at his son with undisguised contempt before stalking away.

After tea, he despatched Greg to the distant boundary. “Long-on,” he said irritably. “Let's see if you can get that right.”

Greg's heart sank as he sloped across the green. This meant that he'd be directly facing the clubhouse... and the cooling towers. He shook his head to clear it. The July heat was still intense, sweat dribbling down his nose. The air was full of midges and sweet with the smell of cropped turf. He wiped his hands on the back of his white pants as he approached the boundary. It was marked by a wall of vegetation - trees with blue shadows among them, dense leafy bushes and tall mid-summer grasses. Greg viewed it nervously as he approached. He remembered tangled woodlands last year - hot and dark, twisted, primeval, crimson sunlight shafting through, thorns snagging his soaked shirt and waistcoat, nettles stinging through his dress-trousers.

He was biting a knuckle when he turned his back on it to try and concentrate on the game. The home side were just starting their innings; they had a useful batting order by all accounts. Coincidence... pure coincidence, he told himself over and over again. Somewhere in front, the opening bat hooked a straight six from the first ball. Greg looked up at the cooling towers - deep blue sky, now with a trace of purple, was still framed between them.

“Damn your lovely hide, Tara!” he hissed under his breath. “Look... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but it's over. I can live with it, now. I'm sorry. Alright... I'm bloody sorry!”

The final apology came out so loudly that one or two other fielders glanced briefly round at him. He grinned and shrugged, then had to duck as the powerhouse batsman hooked his second ball straight for the boundary, this time on Greg's side.

“Six!” shouted the umpire.

Greg went scrambling into the foliage after it, dodging round the first mesh of thickets, then wading through a profusion of weeds and nettles. Green shadows closed in. In the distance, he could hear his father complaining bitterly to his team. The old soldier's sixth sense had still not deserted him. Even at an early stage of combat like this, he recognised impending doom. Greg sniggered. The old windbag. He'd had plenty of practise.

Then he stopped dead.

The ball was visible a few feet in front. But beyond it, by fifteen yards or so, what looked like an old van was peeking through the lush undergrowth. For a second, Greg was rooted to the spot. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

The vehicle was mottled and mossed, and sunk to the fenders in briars, but it was definitely a van - a Ford by the looks of it. Greg came a step closer, fresh sweat breaking on his brow. The white and brown paint had now faded and was riddled with cracks. In many places it had flaked away completely, leaving rusty metal beneath. You could no longer read the words 'Gallagher & Son, Caterers' on it. Not unless you had a good imagination. Or knew what you were looking for.

Greg qualified on both counts. He picked the ball up, turned stiffly, and walked through the trees to the pitch. He threw the ball back and resumed his position without a word. It didn't prevent him shaking violently. It couldn't stop the frightful jack-hammer of his heart.

At least the door at the back was still closed, he thought vaguely. It was the van's rear-end he'd seen, so he knew that for a fact. It couldn't have been the front - that was still hard on the oak-tree, where it had mashed itself twelve months ago, after that manic five-hour drive into the setting eye of the sun.

Greg mopped new sweat from his brow. It felt like cold grease.

Twelve months! Had it really been so long ago, that day at his uncle's country seat. In the middle of that first university summer; those endless, idle months of holiday, when Greg, long-haired, bored and now on his father's lead again, was re-introduced after many years to Cousin Tara. Lovely Tara, her hair a wave of flaxen glory, her young lips ripe and red as wine.

For seconds Greg lived it again. Leading her giggling and tipsy down the steps to the lower veranda, where no reveller could see them from the high terrace-windows. Taking another slug from the bottle of Jim Beam, before throwing it into the flowerbeds. Kissing her, her arms wrapping around him. Pushing her back against the ivy-clad balustrade. The silken bridesmaid's dress riding up. The pretty white stockings and suspenders beneath. Tara struggling slightly. His hand on the smooth flesh of her upper thigh, gripping it hard... harder. Suddenly drunk with lust. Ignoring her cries of pain. His fingers yanking at the lacy crutch of her panties.

“Come on you silly bitch,” he jabbered, as material tore. “It's just a bit of fun... you silly, horny bitch!”

God, the rapture of penetration! The hot tight folds enclosing his manhood. Tara's cries becoming shrieks. His hand clamping over her mouth. Bucking savagely against her, jarring her again and again on the crumbling, ivy-clad balustrade... which apparently was not crumbling as much as he'd thought.

The loud crack was terrible in its finality. Greg heard the smack of wood on leather. He looked up just as another clean drive came rocketing towards him, and ducked with seconds to spare.

“Six!”

The Colonel began to berate his men again, as Greg turned to the darkling woodland behind him. The barrage of abuse this time was something about nobody being deep enough. Now somebody was taking his father on. Somebody always took his father on. This one sounded gruff and working class.

The row faded into the background as Greg ventured into the trees again. It was hotter and gloomier than before. Moths flitted among the groves. The air felt clammy. He glanced warily about him, but nowhere could he see the ball. He knew that within seconds he'd be back in the glade with the vehicle. He swore. Surely this wasn't possible? Surely, somebody must have found it during the last twelve months? It couldn't have lain here undiscovered for so long. What would the odds be against him being the first? Then he remembered hearing something in the clubhouse about the pitch having been re-marked recently, and the square turned around. Good God, he might be the first after all!

He toyed with the idea of going back and saying the ball was lost. Sumpton Margaret were bound to have more than one. They probably wouldn't be satisfied with that, of course - corkys were expensive. They'd expect a more thorough search. Some of them might even come over to help him. Christ... they might find the van! Now Greg fought his way through into the clearing. He had to find that ball, and quickly.

He did. At least he found where it had gone to... and it couldn't have been worse. Greg felt his jaw drop. By the looks of things, the ball had struck the vehicle in the middle of its rear door. The old lock, caked with rust, had smashed off with the impact. The door now hung ajar, sullen darkness within.

Greg stared blankly at it. The horror was almost too much to bare. Seconds passed and he couldn't do anything; neither advance nor retreat. If only he'd been more sensible, he found himself saying. If only he'd kept a cool head that day, and thought his way through. But of course, he'd panicked. God, how he'd panicked.

He remembered staggering backwards across the lower lawn, dragging Tara's leaden weight behind him. Remembered hearing calls for her on the veranda. Natalie - Tara's older sister - looking to pass on the bridal bouquet. Oh Christ, they'd seen him dancing with her! They'd seen them come out together!

“Jesus wept, Tara!” he spat. “It was just a bit of fun. It didn't mean anything. What the hell are you crying for, for Christ's sake!”

Not that Tara had been crying. The sobs he'd heard were his own. From the glaze in her eye and the angle of her neck, Tara would never cry again.

Moments of sheer madness had followed. A winding garden path, which seemed to lead nowhere. The frightening click of croquet balls just over a hedge. Natalie calling again, some short distance behind them. Greg's eyes filled with sweat, his crooked back aching. And then, suddenly, salvation! A side-gate leading to the drive, and there, unattended, one of the catering vans. Its rear compartment unlocked, keys still in the ignition.

As Greg stood staring at the vehicle, in its shroud of forest debris, he remembered the mad, directionless drive, and always that sinking ball of flame ahead; his only marker. How many hours had he driven for, and how many times over the legal limit of alcohol had he been? Even then, that awful thought had penetrated his skull; so much so that he'd finally had the sense to get off the road before some traffic patrol stopped him. Greg cringed as he remembered turning sharply down a rural track, and hearing that tumbling weight in the rear.

Oh God... oh Lord, what had he done
?

He swallowed and padded quietly forwards, vision locked on the half-open door, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He closed his eyes as his mind tried to grapple with the magnitude of the thing he had to do. He came to another halt, and stood swaying, hugging himself. The van's interior was a chasm before him. Nothing stirred in its depths.

He stared into it, his hair prickling.

From some distant place behind him, he fancied he heard shouting. How long had he been gone?, he wondered. Seconds? Minutes? They'd be coming to help soon, whether he liked it or not. And they wouldn't hesitate to look in the van.