Nicholas Royle: First Novel

‘What made you buy it? What made you want to read it?’

I think for a moment. ‘I met the author years ago at a party in London,’ I say, ‘and he told me he’d written a novel that was due to be published. I remember being impressed and promising myself not only that I would read it, but that one day I too would meet someone at a party and they would ask me what I did and I would say that I was a novelist.’

‘You should read Elizabeth’s book,’ Carol advises.

‘I intend to,’ I say.

AJ lopes into the garden followed by a short, dark man in sports gear.

‘Sorry I’m late, everyone,’ says the newcomer, looking straight at Juliet.

‘Don’t you think you should go and get changed?’ Juliet suggests.

‘ Ksssh —’

The rest of Lewis’ laugh is drowned out by the roar of another 747 looming over the apex of the roof and dragging its shadow across the garden.

From a distance of thirty yards, Ray saw immediately what was happening. There was Flynn, in his new full uniform, which the two older men, in engineer’s overalls, would have insisted he wear. Ray stepped back behind the trunk of a palm tree, observing.

Several ginger-cream chickens pecked in the sand, looking for seed that the two engineers, whom Ray recognised as Henshaw and Royal, would have scattered there. Ray could see Henshaw talking to Flynn, explaining what he needed to do, Flynn looking unsure in spite of the new recruit’s desire to please. Henshaw was a big man with red hair cut severely short at the back and sides of his skull. Royal — the shorter of the two engineers, with a greased quiff — who had been bending down watching the chickens, stood up and took something from the pocket of his overalls, which he handed to Flynn.

Ray caught the flash of sunlight on the blade.

Henshaw mimed the action Flynn would need to copy.

Ray considered stepping in, stopping the ritual, for it was a ritual. He hadn’t had to suffer it on his arrival on the island, but only because he had been a little older than Flynn on joining up. Henshaw and Royal were younger than Ray, which would have been enough to discourage them.

But for the time being, he remained where he was.

Flynn, his golden hair falling over his forehead, took the knife in his left hand. With his right, he loosened his collar. He would have been very warm in his blue airman’s uniform and he clearly wasn’t looking forward to using the knife. His shoulders drooping, he made a last, half-hearted appeal to the two engineers. Henshaw made a dismissive gesture with his hands as if to say it wasn’t such a big deal. It was just something that had to be done. The squadron had to eat.

Flynn tried to catch one of the wary chickens, but found it difficult to do so and hang on to the knife at the same time. Henshaw swooped down, surprisingly quickly for such a big man, and grabbed a chicken. Flynn bent over beside him and switched the knife to his right hand, looking set to do the job while the bird was held still, but Henshaw indicated that Flynn needed to hold the chicken himself. He passed it over and swiftly withdrew. Royal took several steps back as well.

Flynn secured the chicken between his legs and encircled its neck with his left hand, then glanced over his shoulder for encouragement. Royal gave a vigorous nod and as Flynn turned back to the chicken the two older men exchanged broad smiles.

Ray knew this was the moment at which he ought to step in, but still he made no move from behind the tree.

To his credit, Flynn got through the neck of the struggling chicken with a single slice and then leapt back as a jet of blood spurted out. Liberated, the chicken’s body spun, spraying the airman with arterial blood until his uniform was soaked. The recruit dropped the severed head as if it were an obscene object.

The butchered bird ran around in ever decreasing circles still pumping out blood. At a safe distance the two engineers laughed. Ray glared at them as he approached. He put a protective arm around the shoulders of Flynn and muttered comforting words, but the young airman, not yet out of his teens, seemed traumatised.

‘Come on,’ said Ray. ‘They were just having a bit of fun.’ Though he didn’t know why he should excuse their behaviour.

Flynn wouldn’t move. The chicken’s body had given up and had slumped to the sand. But it was the bird’s head that transfixed Flynn. It twitched. The eye moved in its socket. A translucent film closed over the eyeball and then retracted again.

‘It can still see,’ Flynn whispered.

‘It’s just a nervous spasm,’ Ray said.

‘No, it’s still conscious,’ said the teenager. ‘Look.’

As they watched, the bird blinked one more time, then the eye glazed over and it finally took on the appearance of death.

Ray looked over his shoulder and saw that Henshaw and Royal were now a long way down the beach, their dark overalls shimmering in the heat haze, which caused their bodies to elongate and become thinner, while their heads became distended, like rugby balls hovering above their shoulders.

Three days after AJ’s barbecue I’m working in my own back garden, removing ivy from the crown of a hawthorn tree and stripping it off the remains of a fence that separates my garden from the one beyond. The hawthorn is a big tree and there may be a danger the ivy is going to make it unstable if I don’t deal with it. My approach is not very scientific. I begin by pulling bits of ivy off the fence, aware all the time of several thick stems sunk into the rockery. Clearly they are what feeds the profusion of shiny green leaves among the hawthorn branches. If I don’t attack the stems I won’t make any actual progress. But the fence part is easy to do and it’s quick to see an improvement. All I’m actually revealing, however, is the extent of the damage to the fence itself, which is rotting and giving way where it isn’t being penetrated and pulled apart by the ivy.

I’m thinking about the barbecue and remembering the tension that was in the air while Juliet’s husband, Kelvin, was off getting changed.

I had been wondering if Lewis was going to keep going with his pilots routine. An attempt was made to steer the conversation into safer areas, but the moment Kelvin reappeared, in a pale-blue polo shirt and chinos, another aircraft passed directly over the garden.

‘What’s with all these planes, Kelvin?’ AJ asked him. ‘I thought the flight path was down over Cheadle Royal.’

Kelvin had just lifted a bottle of Beck’s to his lips and I saw Lewis take in a deep breath and prepare to hold forth.

‘I see you need a beer, Lewis,’ I said to him, pointing to his empty bottle. ‘Let me get you another one. What would you like? Same again?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sure. OK.’

As I returned from the coolbox I heard Kelvin beginning to answer AJ’s question. I handed Lewis his beer and sat down on his other side, encouraging him to turn his back on the others.

‘I imagine you’ve got your own answer to AJ’s question,’ I said to him.

‘The “extended runway centre line”… OK?’ He paused for acknowledgement of his having used an impressive piece of technical language, which he’d signalled by curling two sets of fingers in the air. I merely shrugged.

‘The extended runway centre line,’ Lewis repeated, dispensing with the air quotes, ‘runs back from the airport out towards the Peak District. It passes over the David Lloyd gym at Cheadle Royal and the Stockport Pyramid. In non-busy periods, pilots coming from the north are sometimes asked if they would like a “six-mile final”, allowing them to loop in over Didsbury and join the “extended runway centre line” at Stockport instead of the usual ten miles out. Ksssh-huh-huh .’