Иэн Рэнкин - The Flood

‘It’s freezing in there,’ he said. ‘Dare you.’ He looked around, but the rest of them were busy opening cans and catching the foam in their mouths. He wiped himself with his T-shirt. ‘Fair shares,’ he said, walking towards them.

They lay in the long grass and stared at the sky as if it were a picture-show. They had blades of grass in their mouths. It was a time for lazing. They had spent their energy fighting in the pool.

‘The dole in eight weeks,’ said Clark. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘It would be better if we all had jobs, though,’ said Colin.

‘Ach, we’ll get jobs eventually,’ said Mark. ‘We’ve deserved our rest. Complete rest and relaxation. No early rises except when you’ve to sign on. It’s just what the doctor ordered.’

‘Oh aye?’ said Sandy. ‘Seeing the doctor, are you, Mark? I wonder what for?’

‘The clap if I know him.’

‘Now, now, lads. Let’s not be too hasty in condemning the poor sod. Let’s condemn him slowly.’

‘Ha fucking ha,’ said Mark.

‘Any advance on that?’ said Sandy.

‘But seriously, guys. No more school! It’s like being let out of jail after doing thirty years’ hard labour.’

‘Now, now, Mark. Remember one of us has to go back.’

‘Oh yes. Sorry, Witchy. I forgot.’

‘I don’t like being called Witchy, Marcus.’

‘I don’t like being called Marcus, Witchy.’

Sandy stuck a hand up into the air and Mark clasped it. They shook. Then there was silence for a time. Sandy lay with his shirt crumpled over his genitalia. They had to be protected, he had told his friends, as you never knew when they would come in handy. Sandy worked hard at every utterance he made in this group. His jokes were his defence in a way, and were also what had first gained him entrance to the gang. He did not want to lose his privilege.

‘Freedom,’ said Clark. ‘It’s okay, Sandy. You don’t have any exams when you go back. No work to do. Just sit it out, like you were in jail in Monopoly.’ Everyone chuckled, grass still wedged between teeth. The sun was too bright. It made Sandy’s eyes dizzy to look at it. He watched the blood red of a foetus form whenever he closed his eyelids.

‘That little shit Belly Martin. It’s about time somebody got him. And good, too. Give him something as a souvenir.’

‘You’re right, Colin. But how?’ They thought for a few moments.

‘Bring him down here,’ said Sandy, savouring the words as they formed inside his aching head, ‘and throw him in the pond. Then leave him, naked, wet, lost in the dark, and just go home.’ Somebody sat up. Their shadow blocked the sun.

Sandy peered up but could not see who it was.

‘That’s brilliant, Sandy. But how do we capture him?’ said Colin.

‘Kidnap him some evening when he leaves the chip shop,’ said Sandy, closing his eyes again.

‘It’s a fine plan,’ Clark said lazily.

‘A great plan,’ said Colin. Everybody agreed. ‘So great that I think we should have a trial run!’ Colin was on Sandy immediately. Sandy gasped, nearly choking on his blade of grass. He clung with one hand to his shirt while the other clawed at the earth. Colin was dragging him by the feet towards the pond. Too late, Sandy released his grip on the shirt and grabbed for Colin. With a splash, he had been thrown in a semi-circle right into the pond. He was going down. It seemed incredibly deep, and certainly much deeper than it had been twenty minutes before. It was like being tossed into the sea from a helicopter. Sandy turned and turned. He sucked in some liquid and began spluttering. The water was sour for a second and then was bland, filling his mouth, trickling down his resisting throat. It was dark down there, but he fought against the darkness. His feet touched bottom. He pushed hard, and his head rose above the surface. Someone was shouting.

‘By Christ! Here comes the Loch Ness Monster!’

He stood coughing and retching for a minute. They were at the edge of the pool and began to help him out. They could see that something quite frightening had just happened.

‘Sorry, Sandy,’ said Colin, patting his back. ‘It was just a joke. Are you all right?’ Sandy nodded.

‘Fine,’ he said. Then, tipping his body slightly forward over the pool, he brought up a foamy concoction of lager and lemonade and algae and water. The others stood back a little.

‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘we’ll not be swimming in there for a while.’

They lay down again and were reflective for some time. Sandy stared at the grass and let himself dry in the hot sun.

He felt fine, but shaky.

‘Are you still seeing Shona McKechnie?’ Mark asked Colin. This brought an interested glint to every eye: sex.

‘Well, lads,’ said Colin, ‘that’s confidential. Hush-hush. I wouldn’t like to say, really.’

‘That means she’s chucked him in,’ said Clark, hoping it were true.

‘Just you keep thinking that, young Clark, if you want to.’

‘Well, tell us then, Colin.’

‘Okay, boys. Are you sitting comfortably?’ They shifted closer to Colin. ‘Once upon a time,’ he began, ‘there was a sexy young lad called Colin McLintock. Now, Colin happened to stumble across a ravishing princess one day...’

‘Stumbled is the right word! You were pissed as a fart.’

‘Okay, Mark,’ said Colin angrily, ‘you tell the story.’ But they poked Mark in the ribs and pleaded with Colin to continue. ‘No more interruptions then,’ he said. ‘Now, as I was saying, this handsome lad one day met a lady at a party, and the lady’s name was Shona McKechnie. They enjoyed one another’s company, and started necking on the couch. He walked her home. There was a passionate goodnight kiss on her doorstep, and that, thought Colin, was that. But no! It was not to be, my children. For, as it turned out, this Shona person had a fiery reputation with the older boys in town. After school, it turned out, she would go up into the Wilderness and cavort with the whole of the Cars gang. Word had got around that Shona had the hots for noble young Colin, and so the Cars, in their infinite stupidity, decided to scare him away from the princess, a bit like the Ugly Sisters in “Cinderella”...’

‘Christ, Colin, you better watch that they’re not hiding in the grass this very minute. If they could hear you...’

‘So,’ Colin’s voice became even louder, ‘the aforementioned Cars gang, being a cowardly bunch of shits, chased poor Colin for weeks and would be waiting for him outside school, forcing him to sneak home by devious routes, and they made his life hell to the extent that he gave up seeing Shona, though she still chased him in school. So you see, lads, he was in a tight spot. Chased by two fearsome elements.’ Colin was on his feet now, acting with gusto. ‘What could he do? He did what a man must do.’

‘Quite right,’ said Sandy.

‘He started seeing Shona again, but making certain that it was kept as secret as was humanly possible. He told only his most trusted friends. And, my most trusted friends, he is still seeing her. He is seeing her tonight, he thinks. And he is regularly getting his nuts from her.’

‘You jammy bastard,’ said Mark.

‘What’s she like then, Colin?’ asked Clark.

‘Princesses are not to be discussed in such terms,’ said Colin, sitting down again. There were groans of dissent.

Sandy knew these games. They were old, and their utility value, as the Economics exam would have had it, seemed to decrease with each rendition. They all knew what sex was. They had learned about it from boys with older brothers, from glossy magazines flicked through in public conveniences, from tentative dates at parties and school discos. But probably, despite all their bravado, Colin was the only one of them who had properly lost his virginity. The rest of them were left straining on the leash like bug-eyed dogs. Sex for them was the toilet at home or under the sheets with a handkerchief and the mild queasiness and guilt afterwards. The horror that your mother would find or had already found some telltale stain. Not all the boys at school were as innocent. The Cars, the town’s gang, were not innocent, but then they were mostly older boys who had already left school. Sandy picked a new blade of grass and chewed it, crushing the sap with his teeth. He thought of his own princess. Dark golden kisses, treasured like jewels. He had written some poetry for her, but would never let her see it. What if she couldn’t read? All the better: the poem was terrible.