Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

Before long the separate pieces of rope have begun to form a single long rope. The knots are firm; overdone, if anything, but at least they will hold when the real work starts.

“So what do we do after?” Simon looks up at his friends. “I mean, when we’ve done this? If we leave it here, unguarded, some other kids will come along and wreck it.”

There is a brief pause when the boys stop working, glance at each other, and wait for someone to say what they are all thinking.

Simon continues: “We need to guard the den,” he says, once again assuming his role as the leader, the member of the group whose responsibility it is to say such things aloud, to give voice to the collective consciousness of the Three Amigos. “Like army blokes. Like soldiers, yeah? We need to stand guard and protect what we’ve built.”

Marty nods. Brendan squints, blinks, and then finally nods his own assent.

“Me and Bren will go back to mine and tell my mum and dad that I’m sleeping at his. Then we’ll go to his and say to his mum that we’re sleeping at mine. They won’t check. They never do. They don’t care.” Silence again, but this one tense and filled with things that can never be discussed: the unfeeling attitude of both sets of parents; the fact that even at ten years old, the boys know that their mothers and fathers should take more care with their offspring. They all know that Simon’s mother and father will be caught up in their own private war, and that Brendan’s mother will be so far into the bottle of gin she keeps in the magazine rack at the side of her chair that she won’t even remember the conversation.

“I’ll climb out of the window after I’m supposed to be in bed.” Marty’s eyes are hard, cold. Behind them, just about visible through the tears that he always manages to keep at bay, are the images of violence that dwell in his own home. The father that hates everyone, including himself, and takes out those feelings of rage and helplessness on his own son. The bruises hidden beneath Marty’s shirt. The cigarette burns on his upper arms.

“We’ll meet back here, then.” Simon raises his left hand, palm facing outward, splays his fingers, and then slowly makes a fist, one finger at a time folding in towards the palm, little one first and the thumb last: the secret salute of the Three Amigos. The other two boys follow suit, making their own slow-motion fists. Brendan does it with his eyes closed. Marty stares at Simon’s face, his jaw clenched tight and his cheekbones as sharp as blades.

Without another word on the subject, the boys continue their work, knotting the ropes, making their primitive pulley.

Soon the job is done. The boys stand and admire what they have made. Brendan holds the rope in his hands and tests the joints, pulling at them, trying to tug them apart. “This is good,” he says. “This’ll definitely work.”

Brendan kneels beside the sheet of plywood. There are already holes drilled along one edge, perhaps construction joints for the piece of furniture the wooden panel was built to be part of. He threads one end of the rope through two of the holes, and then loops the rope over itself, securing it tightly. He tests this knot, too, second-guessing his own work. The knot holds.

“Who’s going up there?” Simon looks up, at the rickety structure they’ve created across two sturdy branches.

Brendan drops the plywood onto the ground. “I think the strongest one should climb up there. Marty, you’re easily stronger than us two, so you can go up. You’ll need to grab the edge of the wood and try to push it into place on the frame. It’ll be really hard, but me or Simon wouldn’t have a chance of doing it.” He holds out his skinny arms, as if to underline his point.

“Okay.” Marty runs to the base of the tree and leaps up, catching hold of a low branch. He seems happy to be physical again.

“We’ve gotta be careful,” says Simon. “We don’t want to get hurt. This thing’s got sharp edges.”

Brendan glances at the wood, nods. “Yeah. Do it slowly.”

“Okay, I’m ready. Throw one end of the rope up here!” Marty’s arm is dangling, his fingers grasping. “Hurry up.”

Brendan grabs the loose end of the rope, gathers in a good length, and then stands directly beneath the platform. He swings the rope, squints as he takes aim, and then throws the end upwards. It barely lifts above his head before falling back down to earth.

“Bugger,” says Brendan, his body going loose and his bottom lip pushed out in a sulky half-pout.

“Don’t be daft,” says Simon, bending down to pick up a large stone. “We need to make the end heavy. Here… tie the rope around this.”

Brendan takes the stone and forms the end of the rope into a tight knot around the heavy object. “It’s a monkey’s fist,” he says, grinning. “Old sailors used them as weapons when they had fights. I read it in a book . ” He swings the rope, the heavy end whistling through the air. “God, I bet it would hurt if you got someone on the head with it.”

“Throw it up!” Marty’s arm is still dangling. It looks like the tail of some weird animal.

Still swinging the rope, Brendan takes a single step back and hurls the stone into the branches. Marty’s hand clutches, misses, and then clutches again; the rope wraps around his forearm, and his fingers close quickly over the rough hemp. “Got it!” he shouts. “I’ll sling it over this branch.”

“Yay!” Brendan jumps up and down on the spot.

“Yes!” Even Simon is caught up in the moment, thrilled by this small success.

There’s a pause while Marty removes the stone, and then it drops at Simon’s feet. Then the end of the rope comes down out of the tree, twisting like a snake. Simon grabs the rope and guides it down. Then he and Brendan start to take up the slack.

“Okay,” says Simon, loudly. “We’re going to start pulling.”

“ Tally-ho! ” Marty screams from his spot on the branch, his voice funny and high-pitched.

Laughing, the other two boys begin to pull on the rope. The plywood panel shifts, turns, spins, and then slowly begins to rise. The weight isn’t as much as they’d guessed, but it’s an awkward method of lifting a rectangular sheet, and the exertion starts to tell on them.

“It’s coming! I can see it.” Marty is excited. He is in his element.

Simon grits his teeth and concentrates on making his pulling action steady and rhythmical. He doesn’t want the timber to jolt or judder. It needs to rise as smoothly as they can make it; and if they try to rush what whey are doing, somebody might get hurt.

The panel swings as it rises, and the two boys on the ground keep their heads down, staying low so that it won’t take off the top of their skulls. As soon as it is hanging at a level far enough above them for safety, they straighten up, planting their feet and keeping a tight grip on the rope. Simon is at the rear, and he makes sure that he gathers the loose end as more of the rope is fed through his hands, forming a coil near his left foot.

“I’ve got it!” Marty sounds as if he is shouting through clenched teeth.

“Brace yourself.” Simon sets his body, leaning backwards.

“This is working…” Brendan peers up into the branches, trying to get a good view.

“Careful,” says Simon, as he feels the rope tighten in his hands. The panel drops a few inches, then, as he takes the weight, it is suspended for a moment above them. “Bren… I can’t hold it… it’s gonna drop!” But Brendan is staring at the plywood panel, as if he is seeing something magical.

Inevitably, the panel drops. The rope skids through Simon’s fingers, burning his skin, and the panel plummets to the ground. He falls back, stumbling but not quite going down, and Brendan doesn’t move. He just watches as the panel drops towards him, whistling as it moves through the space.