The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [169]
Keir went for a pee in the garden while I cleaned the door; he said he couldn’t possibly use the toilet upstairs. As I took the smelly dishcloth back–it stank of old onions–I heard him call. ‘Indy! Car coming.’
I dropped the dishcloth and ran, only remembering just in time to pull the front door closed after me. Keir was diving into the bushes at the end of the garden. I followed him, wriggling under cover between overgrown raspberry canes. A bramble scored a line of blood-beads down my leg. I came to rest a couple of feet away from where Keir lay on his stomach, behind a clump of low, spiny bushes through which tall, bleached grasses grew. He pulled a fat gooseberry off one and passed it to me.
We heard the car engine cut. Two doors opened, then slammed, one after the other. The gate’s rusted hinges made a fingers-on-a-blackboard screech, then Louis and the posh one were coming through the long grass towards the house. They passed within kicking distance of us, but we held our breath, and anyway they were lads: children were invisible to them. If it had been Mum, she’d have smelt us at thirty paces.
‘You tit,’ said the posh one. ‘You left the door unlocked.’
‘You were last out.’
‘Was I bollocks.’ They disappeared inside, emerging a minute later with cans of beer. The psssh of the ring pulls made me thirsty. I popped the gooseberry into my mouth for moisture, then screwed up my face at its sour, metallic taste. I spat it out. Keir kicked me.
‘That was a wasted trip,’ said Louis, sinking onto one of the picnic chairs.
‘Worth a try’
‘They were slappers.’
‘Come on. We need more stage dancers. And they were better than that old slag you’re obsessed with.’
‘I’m not obsessed,’’ said Louis. ‘She’s iconic. Like that poster of the tennis player scratching her bum.’
‘She’s geriatric’
‘She’s pretty fit for her age.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve had her. Jesus, you have. You sad git.’
‘I have not’
‘I can tell when a boy’s lost his virginity and become a man.’ A clunk, as the empty beer can Louis threw at his friend missed and hit the side of the house. ‘When did you manage to slip her the laughing carrot, then?’
‘Wash your mouth. She’s a goddess.’ Louis was grinning.
‘It was that time you took her off in the car to show her the party field, wasn’t it? Fucking hell, man. You are really twisted. I wouldn’t stuff her with a cold chip.’
‘What the flick you on about? Of course I haven’t shagged her. She’s old enough to be my mum.’
‘Word is, Townsend, that wouldn’t stop you.’ There was another liquid psssh, a screech, guffaws. They were having a play fight, drenching each other with beer. Keir rolled his eyes. We wriggled silently backwards on our stomachs, through the raspberry canes, past a crabby old apple tree and into the birdsong of the scrubby wood.
‘What was Stonehenge like?’ I asked him on the way back to Tolemac.
‘Mick let me drive the van,’ said Keir, proudly. ‘Round the field. I sat on his lap and he did the pedals but I steered.’
‘What about the helicopter chasing you through the stones and all that?’
‘Dunno. They left me in the van.’ Keir screwed up his face to think. ‘There were black helicopters flying low all night, making that horrible noise, like giant pterodactyls. I had a bad dream about one picking up the van in its claws and flying away with me. But I don’t think there was much of a chase, because Mick’s legs weren’t working when they came back. He kept flopping about and Riz did all the driving after that.’
On thy belly thou shalt go
‘Mick liked ketamine,’ says John. ‘You know what they used to call it, don’t you? Going to Mr Softeeland. It’s a horse tranquillizer,