In the cold grey of the yard I clutched the ratman’s airgun and stooped against the chill. I blew warm air into my scarf and watched the horde of pigeons fussing on the tarmac.
Over on the school-side of the yard Grant sat slouched on a stone step, Granddad’s gun cradled across his arm.
He beckoned me over and when I ran he scowled and put a finger to his lips. I slowed. He sucked at his cigar and let the smoke spill from the corners of his mouth, tapped ash onto the step beside him.
‘What you doing?’ I asked.
‘Shh! Hunting.’
I frowned and turned, looked back at the stretch of grass next to the cabins. ‘There’s no rabbits out.’
‘I know. Come sit down. We’ll wait.’
I brushed ash from the stone and sat. ‘Where’s their den?’
Grant pointed to the cabins. At the foot of one wall the grass dipped, exposing a narrow gap between the ground and the building.
‘Do they come out a lot?’
‘They were all out before you came.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
‘Is—’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Is your’s loaded?’
‘Obviously.’
I surveyed the yard, squinting like the hunters do in the films. Finally, I pointed ahead and whispered, ‘Reckon I could hit one of them birds?’
Grant chewed something on the tip of his teeth, spat, and said, ‘They’re too far away.’
‘Bet you. Bet you five pounds.’
‘Where’ll you get a fiver from?’
‘Pocket-money. Bet you.’
‘I’m not gonna take your pocket-money.’
I gave it up and tried to prise a piece of the step loose with my heel. It came away and I crunched it under my trainer.
‘Stop fussin’ will you?’ snapped Grant. He squashed the end of his cigar on the stone, then lifted Granddad’s gun. ‘How ’bout this then; if you hit one I’ll give you a quid.’
‘Just a quid?’
‘Yep. But if you miss, you’ve got to give me a quid. Sound?’ He rummaged in his coat pocket and produced a little grey pellet.
‘Alright,’ I said, taking it from him. I loaded the ratman’s rifle like Dad had said, by wrenching down the barrel and pressing the pellet into the hole. I let the barrel snap up and click in place.
I got down from the step and moved forward, keeping low, my eyes on the birds. They seemed oblivious to me as I raised the rifle to my shoulder and let the sight slip into their feathered mass; white, grey, white, yellow, always squawking, always fussing, nipping, stretching their wings, bickering over scraps, crisp crumbs, bread crusts ground into the tarmac.
Which one? I craned around to Grant and mouthed the words, and he motioned to the far right. A single pigeon had strayed from the horde and was pecking at the orange stub of a cigarette butt. I aimed and stroked the trigger, squeezed.
The barrel hissed. A puff of feathers and fluttering, screeching. The flock leapt to the air, some landing on the high gutters, some in the trees by the cabins, some lost to sight beyond the roof.
The pigeon was alone, thrashing in its own feathers and blood. Its beak was fixed open, its neck bent to a funny angle, seeping red through the dusty grey.
Something clattered at my feet. I clasped my face with both hands. Grant shoved the ratman’s gun in my arms but I let it drop again. The bird still fluttered, warbled, bled. Grant shot at it from point-blank and missed, taking a chunk out of the tarmac. He kicked the pigeon and it screeched and flapped across the ground. He swore and laughed. I sat down and pressed my ears, shut my eyes.
Dad came running from the boiler-house and saw the pigeon, saw me crying and Grant laughing. He shouted at Grant and called him something that made him quiet.
He ran to the bird, and the warbling stopped. Dad stood with the thing in his hands and made for the boiler-house. When I followed he growled and indicated the ratman’s gun, but I shook my head and ran and held his arm.
* * *
He steered the car through the gates, looking up at Grant in the rear-view mirror. Grant, reaching to close the gates behind us, held up a hand. Dad ignored him and edged out onto the main road.
I was beginning to think he’d never talk to me again. When he was angry you always knew about it. He face swelled purple. His finger jabbed. Spittle flew from his lips.
There was none of that. Just this silence.
I felt the pound coin in my breast pocket, the weight of it pressing a circle against the cotton. I’d bury it when I got home. Bury it and never spend it ever. I fumbled with the zip on my bubble-coat, pulled it to my chin.
Traffic lights flicked to amber, red. Dad let the car roll to a stop.
He rubbed his cheeks, groaned, then stared at me. I bit my lip to stop it trembling. ‘That was a mean thing you did. Really mean.’ The grim line of his mouth twitched and he grinned, shaking his head. He nudged my shoulder, messed my hair. ‘You bloody moron. That’s the last time I let you hold an air rifle.’ The lights changed and he took hold of the wheel again, checking the way was clear and turning towards home.
About the author:
Richard Bell lives (for now) and writes in Cheshire, UK. His stories have appeared in Neonbeam, Hackwriters, Skive, Fickle Muses, Midwest Literary Magazine, The Absent Willow Review and Anastomoo Handwritten. Two more are forthcoming; in Foundling Review and Black Lantern.
