The Standing Water (16 page)

After some hours I
woke up. There was a singing which filled the house and must have echoed for
miles across the fields beyond. It was beautiful, unintelligible, high – a
soaring, crystalline babble. Though meaningless to me, I could tell this music
was delivered in some sort of language. With this strange noise around me –
indeed, the notes seemed to swirl and swoop, leaving comet trails of sound – I
pulled my drowsy frame from the bed, stretched some of the sleep from my body
and stumbled from my room onto the landing. Here, if anything, the song was
stronger – I realised there were many parts to its harmonious whole. It now
resembled some fountain – spurts of translucent sound were hurled up, others
curved in clear arcs or splashed back down to join the pool of bass noise at
the bottom: a pool – which while one entity – was fractured into a thousand
glassy fragments. Guided by the singing, I tottered downstairs. The curtains of
all the windows were closed and it somehow felt forbidden to open them. But –
through the fabric and through the gaps between fabric, sides and sill – I
could see an orange glow. The kitchen door was shut, but a rectangle of orange
light shone from behind it. I reached up, twisted the knob, pushed the door.
The light wasn’t on, but the kitchen was filled with a gleam. My mother stood
at the table, knife in hand, slicing fruit for the next day’s salads.

‘Ryan,’ she said, ‘go
back to bed, please, I’m busy.’

The curtains were
open, and the window showed the source of the noise and light. In the black
heavens, were long lines of angels. Hands joined they floated in the midnight
sky, singing out their weird melody. And on these angels no faces, no robes, no
halos, no feathers could be seen. They were simply an outline, a shape, filled
with nothing except a raging fire: my fiery angels, singing strangely beautiful
songs to me on Christmas Eve. If I had to gauge their position, I’d have said
they were somewhere over our fence, but a long, long way above. Yet their
flaming bodies shone light down – piercing the night, lighting our back garden
with their glow. I could see our bushes, our fruit trees, the crust of snow on
the ground puckered and dimpled like Christmas cake icing.

‘Mum, what’s going on?’

Mum looked up from
her hurried chopping while the exquisite singing resounded in our kitchen. It
was like being shut in a music box.

‘Oh that,’ Mum
said, ‘oh, they’re just angels, love. I wouldn’t pay them too much attention –
they’re probably just celebrating Christmas.’

She gathered up a
few peelings, flung them in the bin. I again looked through the window. Five
lines of angels floated, each one grasping his neighbour’s hand. The lines were
not straight, but rather had peaks and dips. On each angel, a pair of wings was
outlined, and the angel at the highest point on each row wore a fiery crown. I
guessed they must be what I’d heard called archangels. I began to get
hypnotised, enchanted by that fountain of sound: lost among its shooting jets
and clear spinning spheres.

‘Come on, Ryan,’
Mum said, as a lettuce lay on the table beneath her poised knife, ‘don’t just
stand there – off to bed! If Santa comes and sees you up, you won’t get any
presents.’

I reluctantly
turned to go. Both Santa
and
angels – that would be too much. I closed
the kitchen door, retreated from its orange oblong shine. My feet trudged the
stairs while my mind was tossed and whirled by those crystal sounds on its way
to sleep.

Jonathon and I
stood on the shore of Marcus’s pool. Over the flat fields, the beginnings of
twilight seeped into the sky – painting it with moody streaks and slashes of grey,
red, black. The pond reflected the darkening dome above – its surface a mirror
of the heavens’ melancholy. The pool was a deep rich brown, fattened with
snowmelt. Its stench had been softened by all that extra water, but still the
familiar smell – of rotten eggs, blocked drains – floated up. Jonathon fumbled
in the carrier bag he held by his side. I gasped as he pulled out a dagger –
one he’d got for Christmas, a gift with which he’d been overjoyed. It was, of
course, plastic, but that’s not how I saw it then. To me, its blade was silver,
its handle gold. And it was at that gold I gazed – that gold carved in knotted
loops, etched with complex patterns. Jonathon turned it in his hand. He stared
at it – mulling, I guessed, its breath-taking beauty, pondering that lethal
blade. He looked like a knight of old admiring a long-treasured weapon, an
esteemed heirloom.

‘Can’t be easy for
Marcus,’ Jonathon said. ‘Stuck in that pond, no toys to play with.’

His knife’s silver
edges, its golden curves caught the fading light, the weapon gleaming as
Jonathon’s fingers lovingly fondled it.

‘Can’t be much fun
…’ I replied – my voice low, lacklustre like the sky.

‘It’s the best Christmas
present I’ve ever had!’ Jonathon said, his lips starting to quiver.

We were silent for
a moment, as was the standing water. I stared at its motionless skin. I glanced
up, looked at Jonathon: he now stood sideways, arm drawn back, limbs tensed,
solid as a statue’s. I tried to catch his eye, but he stared ahead – face both
wavering and determined. A few more seconds, and he lunged forward – his arm
thrust, hurled the knife over the pond. It flew in a tumbling arc, pierced the
quiet pool. A crown of sludgy liquid sprang up – a gesture of thanks – before the
knife was pulled under, the water sloshed back down and the swaying surface was
sealed. Just a few lethargic ripples hinted at what Jonathon had lost.

‘Well, we did
promise him,’ I said, solemn in the way the moment seemed to demand.

Jonathon turned to
me – face pinched with the sorrow of his sacrifice, his sad eyes blinking.

‘Now you,’ he said.

I too had a plastic
bag. I delved into it, heard its sharp rustle. I also pulled out a knife,
another Christmas gift. Though it didn’t quite match the workmanship of
Jonathon’s, it did have one special feature. Its bronze handle – all of it was
bronze in colour – was topped with the head of a dragon. Its fearsome snout,
wicked teeth, vast nostrils had been carefully sculpted. And – best of all –
beneath a heavy curve of skin, the green jewel of that monster’s eye sparkled.

‘Chuck it in,’
Jonathon said. ‘We have to make Marcus happy – we need his protection! You’ve
seen the incredible whackings Weirton’s given out this term: that one with
Darren Hill last week – I really thought we’d have another Lucy! And I’ve such
an idiot for a brother – remember when he nearly blinded me! God knows what
problems he’ll cause me next!’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘and
remember when Craig got Stubbsy back after Christmas – wouldn’t like him to do
something like that to me!’

I manoeuvred my
body sideways. Clasping my dagger, I brought my arm back. I guess I looked
solid in my stance, but I could feel myself tremble. In that silent moment, I
thought of how I’d unwrapped my present on Christmas morning – the surge of
tingly bliss that had started in my stomach then gushed into my chest at that
sight of that weapon. I remembered my parents’ smiles when they’d seen my grin,
heard my happy yell. My lips had also curled up at the thought of brandishing
it in front of a cowering Stubbs. But now my belly ached with sorrow as guilt
throbbed in my heart. At least Marcus would enjoy it – it wasn’t as if I’d just
hurl it into a dustbin. I tipped my torso back then flung the dagger. It curved
sadly in its twisting flight. My eyes watched each inch of its arc. It plunged
into the pond; a splash went up; the pool gave a gulp before contented ripples
spread over its surface.

‘Do you think
that’ll be enough?’ I said. ‘He’s done pretty well today – those two brilliant
knives.’

Jonathon stared at
the bank; his eyes darted as if searching for something in the sludge. His lip
was still shaking.

‘Maybe…’ he
eventually said, ‘maybe we should give something else – something extra special,
just to be sure. Remember the last thrashing Weirton gave Stubbs – blimey, I
was sure he’d choke!’

I fumbled again in
my bag. My hand clasped a familiar hilt. As if unsheathing my weapon from a
scabbard, I drew from that carrier a majestic sword. I held it up: the silver
of the blade flashed over the water. It shone with the weak fire of the dying
sun – a sun already being wrapped in its cloudy shroud.

‘Whoah!’ Jonathon
said.

Patterns snaked
around the golden handle, a handle whose centre was set with a huge ruby. The
blade tapered in magnificence to its deadly point. Gripping the hilt with both
hands, I swung the sword – repeatedly carving a figure-of-eight before parrying,
feinting as I battled an unseen enemy. I stepped back, thrust my weapon,
plunging it into my opponent’s belly of air. My invisible slaying complete, I
turned victorious to Jonathon.

‘Should I lob it
in?’ I asked, half-hoping my display of the sword’s prowess would have put him
off the idea.

‘Yeah, if we give
him something so fantastic, he’ll
have
to keep us safe from my brother,
the other kids and Weirton! I’m sure Marcus would love it!’

‘He would. Isn’t
there a legend of someone throwing a sword into a lake?’

‘King Arthur.’
Jonathon nodded.

‘That’s right! I
could be like King Arthur!’

‘The only problem
was,’ Jonathon said, ‘when he chucked his sword into the lake, he died.’

‘But he’s coming
back!’ I said. ‘When England really needs him, he’ll come alive again!’

‘How long ago did
King Arthur live?’ Jonathon asked.

‘A very long time
ago – I don’t know exactly, maybe a hundred years.’

‘A hundred years!’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘so
Weirton couldn’t have known him, but maybe Weirton’s granddad or great-granddad
did.’

Jonathon stared
down in thought for a moment.

‘Anyway,’ he said,
‘you couldn’t be King Arthur because he
got
his sword from the lake
first! You didn’t get yours from the pond.’

‘He
didn’t
–
King Arthur drew his sword out of a stone on Christmas Day! I got mine out of wrapping
paper – same thing!’

‘No, it isn’t!’

For some moments,
we just looked at the pond.

‘When Arthur threw
his sword into the lake,’ Jonathon said, ‘a hand reached out of the water to
catch it.’

‘A hand!? Really!?’

‘Yeah, it caught
the sword, held it up then dis-ap-peared under the surface!’

‘Wonder if the same
thing will happen today – maybe Marcus will reach out his hand and grab it.’

‘Let’s try and
see.’

I again got into my
throwing stance. I pressed my feet into the oozing mud, held my body sideways,
with my arm – hand clutching the sword – stretched back. Another look at my
weapon, and sadness tugged my heart down. The silver blade shimmered; the
carvings on the handle swirled around the ruby; the sun’s last rays glinted on
that jewel: lit the endless chambers within that blood-red gem. My eyes moved
to my weapon’s tip: a point so sharp it could have punctured the low cloud. I
hauled my gaze away; sucked in breath to calm my nerves, and – with a couple of
bounds forward – I cast that sword like a spear. It winged over the pond,
slicing the air in a neat curve before it pricked the surface. The weapon dove
into the pool; shards of water flew up: I counted five strands of dirty liquid
– four as long as fingers; one thicker, stubbier like a thumb. Like a fist,
those five shards gripped the sword, dragged it swiftly down. The surface closed
over it; the pond gave a gloopy belch. The ripples that spread across the pool
seemed especially satisfied.

The winter had passed
– that force which had lashed us with cold and snow had eventually handed
spring its weary baton. After Marcus’s pond had melted, we had a few mild
weeks, with little rain. It stayed dry as we inched into March, which meant the
children could be released from the asphalt paddock of the playground and
allowed onto the grass. And, for all that time, Marcus showed his gratitude by
protecting us – though Weirton’s hand swooped and walloped, neither Jonathon
nor I caught any of its blows. Though Craig clashed with Stubbsy, Richard
Johnson, even his mate Darren Hill, he got on OK with Jonathon and me. And no
other lads did anything too terrible to us, nothing that could put us in danger
of sharing the grim fates of Lucy and Marcus. I remember, one break-time, lying
on the school field. The shouts, squawks and giggles of the children formed a
distant and strangely melodious hubbub. I was staring up, gazing at the
drifting clouds. Some looked like the continents on the school’s globe –
floating Africas or Asias. Others were built from bulbous boulders, towering
strongholds that could be the misty fortresses of giants. Were there worlds up
there? Did their peoples look down on us – pondering as the breeze carried them
over land and ocean? I felt a sudden desire to be up in those clouds – floating
freely with just the wind as my ruler. How great it would be to look down on
Emberfield as it flitted by far below – to watch it speed past before those
currents high above carried me elsewhere.

‘Ryan.’

A voice shattered
my musings – I moved my eyes towards a figure standing over me.

‘Hi, Jonathon.’

‘Hi, Ryan. What you
up to?’

I roused my sleepy
brain before I answered.

‘Oh, now I was just
daydreaming, but before I was thinking about the world.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You know, I was
thinking – what’s it all made of?’

‘How do you mean?’
Jonathon asked.

‘Well, think about
the different things in the world, right. There’re solids, like this earth.’ I
bashed the ground in demonstration. ‘Then there’re liquids – like water.’

‘And orange squash,’
Jonathon cut in.

‘Yeah, and the
coffee Weirton drinks. And air – air’s just air. And the only other type of
thing is fire. So that’s what the world’s made of: four kinds of thing –
solids, liquids, air and fire.’

Jonathon nodded.

‘Yeah, see what you
mean,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a different idea.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I sort of
think everything’s made of smaller bits. But these bits are so tiny, you can’t
even see them.’

Stubbs rushed past,
chasing Richard Johnson in a game of tig. He thrust out his hand to slap
Jonathon; Jonathon ducked; Stubbs hurtled away.

‘Yeah, look at this
shoe.’ Jonathon pointed at his. ‘It’s made of leather, seems pretty solid. But
really, it’s not: it’s full of these tiny bits – like little balls – that are
always moving around. It’s the same for everything – the grass, the soil, even
our bodies. It’s just that the little balls – I think they call them
part-ic-les – that make up the grass look different from those that make the
soil and both are different to those that make the skin.’

I nodded – though
we couldn’t see those little balls, it seemed a reasonable idea.

‘But there’s more,’
said Jonathon. ‘I imagine that each of those part-ic-les contains a whole
universe – just like ours, but much smaller. And in
those
universes
there are more things which are made of part-ic-les, and each part-ic-le has
another even
tinier
universe in it and so on and so on.’

This was quite a
revelation: much more complex than my theory of the four things, which now
seemed somewhat primitive.

‘Well, what about
our universe?’ I asked.

‘The same,’
Jonathon said, ‘our universe is just one of millions – millions and millions –
that make up a thing in a bigger universe. And that bigger universe is too, in
an even
more
enormous universe – and so on and so on.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘our
universe could be just a tiny part of a clump of dirt under a giant’s
fingernail.’

Jonathon lowered
himself onto the grass and we were silent for some moments, watching the
clouds. We were by the hedgerow which bounded the school field and my hand
reached into it, settled on a twig with which I began to fiddle, scraping the
bark and lichen off. As I did this, a strange notion formed.

‘Hang on,’ I said,
pulling that twig into view, ‘that means that if I snap this twig –’

I snapped it – a
sharp satisfying sound.

‘Then the millions
of universes that were in all its part-icles will be destroyed.’

Jonathon nodded.

‘And then all
their
little part-icles and the universes in them will also be destroyed and so on
and so on forever.’

Jonathon brought
his head down again.

I gasped – a
destroyer of worlds, I possessed an immense power. Tearing a leaf or squashing
a clod of dirt could result in endless apocalypse.

‘But
that
means –’

‘That’s right,’
Jonathon said solemnly. ‘The same is true for us. If in some much bigger
universe, a giant steps on a frog or smashes a plate then eventually –’

Jonathon drew his
finger across his throat, made a constricted noise.

‘In fact,’ he said,
‘it’s probably already begun.’

I looked at the
sky’s dome. I could picture some massive foot crashing through that fragile
shell – signalling our end, under some ogre’s boot. For some moments, I
pondered the stark inevitability of our Judgement Day.

‘I suppose,’
Jonathon said, ‘this world can’t last forever – it’s got to end sometime, just
like my set-outs.’

But then a sound
disturbed our dark musings. Familiar voices raised themselves in some
discussion or argument. A little way off, our hedge finished and a crumbling wall
replaced it. Some of its bricks were loose; others lay at the wall’s base,
wrapped in weeds and brambles. It was towards those bricks that Stubbs was
pointing. His face was twisted into a persuasive, pleading expression, like
that of a merchant eager to strike a deal. Jonathon’s brother loitered beside
him; arms folded, face sceptical.

‘Come on,’ I said
to Jonathon.

We scrambled up and
walked to where the two boys stood. A few other lads had drifted over,
intrigued by the debate. The brother was speaking.

‘So, you’re telling
me that if I drop one of those bricks on my head, you’ll give me a pound?’

‘Honestly, it’s
true,’ Stubbs said.

The brother’s face
knotted itself as he pondered. Doubt sent ripples across his forehead.

‘Where did you get
that much cash?’

‘I’ve been saving
my pocket money up, honest!’

Stubbs’s voice was
high – its shrillness shouting its hurt at the brother’s suspicion.

‘And you’ll give me
that pound if I drop a brick on my head?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

By now, more
spectators had turned up. A circle started to form around the two lads.

‘Do you swear on
the Holy Bible? Swear on your mother’s life?’

‘I swear,’ said
Stubbs. ‘If you drop a brick on your head, I’ll give you a pound.’

The brother turned,
took a few steps, reached into the patch of brambles and weeds. He drew out a
brick – a regular though aged brick: leached by endless rains, its colour was
dull, its edges worn. A couple of pinpoints of blood marked his hands where thorns
had snagged him. The brother walked back into the centre of that waiting
circle, that ring of eager faces. He knelt down, and – both hands clasping the
brick – raised it till it was about six inches above his head.

‘Come on,’ said
Stubbs, ‘a pound’s a lot, isn’t it? You have to do it properly – lift the brick
higher!’

The brother
frowned, glanced about, but – with a sigh – he stretched his arms straight. The
brick was held aloft – like an offering to the air – solemnly balanced on his
flat palms. The brother turned his face to Stubbs.

‘So, you’ll give me
a pound, promise?’

‘Promise,’ said
Stubbs, ‘on my life.’

The brother twisted
his neck back and stared ahead. He screwed his face up as he braced himself. He
moved his hands, let the brick go. It seemed to hang in the air for some
seconds. Then the brick fell; the brick collided with his head; the brick broke
in two. The brother’s face jerked into a sharp wince; his eyes closed with
blunt pain; a jolt shuddered through his body. I looked at that snapped brick,
wondered how many particles with their tiny universes had been destroyed. The
circle’s mood – which had been hushed, respectful – now changed.

‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ Boys
crouched, grasping their stomachs, pointing at the brother. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’

Craig appeared not
to hear them as he looked up. His eyes opened – slow whirlpools of pain. I
imagined all that dull agony swirling in his skull, the throbbing ache at its
summit. He turned his eyes to Stubbs.

‘Come on then,’ his
slow lips mumbled, ‘give us the pound.’

‘You want a pound?’
Stubbs asked, a smile lighting his innocent face.

‘Yeah, you
promised.’

‘Well …’ Stubbs
paused, the eyes of all the boys on him. ‘I meant a pound of shit! Ha! Ha! Ha!’

Stubbs broke
through the circle – not a difficult task as many of its members were crippled
with laughter. He sprinted away as boys dropped to the ground, rolled on the
grass, clutching their ribs. The brother dimly looked at the space from which
Stubbs had fled. It seemed that through his daze, through his new pain-flooded
world, he was trying to comprehend, piece together the shattered spinning bits
of what had been his mind. Around him, boys knelt, faces in their hands as they
were juddered by spasms of unstoppable mirth. Others writhed on the grass –
kicking their legs, bashing their fists on the ground. In the whirl of the
brother’s brain, some understanding seemed to form. His face cleared somewhat;
his expression of hazy agony morphed into one of bull-like anger. Fury pursed
his lips, narrowed his eyebrows. He stumbled up to stand on swaying feet; his
hands locked themselves into fists. Stubbs was perhaps twenty metres away – one
hand pointing at the brother, the other banging his thigh as laughter shook
through him. The brother turned, tottered towards Stubbs. Stubbs jogged back a
couple of metres, still pointing, giggling. With dazed determination, the
brother staggered on. Stubbs just trotted backwards. It was hard to see how the
brother – his lumbering movements slowed by his haze of pain – would ever reach
his tormentor. But the brother continued to teeter towards Stubbs then jolted
into a run. With shambling steps, the brother chased Dennis. Stubbs could still
outpace, outmanoeuvre him – running backwards, he still pointed, mocked. But
the brother jerked into an ungainly sprint. With sudden speed, he charged down
on Stubbs. Dennis’s joyful lips wobbled, his laughing eyes now panicked. He
tried to lose the brother with a twisting run, but in seconds Craig was upon
him. The enraged hammer of his fist shot out. It banged the side of Stubbs’s
head – Stubbs dropped to the grass, ending his fall slumped sideways. The
brother swung a stiff leg, booted Stubbs just below the ribs, shifting him a
little way across the ground. Delight broke over the faces of the boys – they
picked ourselves up, ran to watch. Soon a chanting ring enclosed the combatants
– ‘Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!’

Stubbs scrambled up
– now it was his turn to feel the spiralling sway of dazedness. Like an
underdog boxer, he bravely raised his fists. But the bigger boy charged into
him – his clenched hands fury-driven mallets. One blasted onto Stubbs’s nose –
blood erupted then ran down his lips and chin. A roundhouse blow socked
Dennis’s ear – jolting his head so violently I thought his neck might snap. The
brother’s other fist hurtled into Stubbs’s eyes: his glasses now hung forlornly
– dangling by a bent arm from just one ear, with one pane shattered.

‘Scrap! Scrap!
Scrap!’ shouted the circle.

His eyes – now
unshielded – each received a hefty whack, the force of which made Stubbs
stumble onto his knees.

‘He’ll have a couple
of souvenirs for a few days!’ Richard remarked, fingers tracing circles in
imitation of Stubbs’s soon to be blackened eyes.

But Stubbs – like a
pugilist determined to beat the count – staggered back up and once more held
his fists in a fighting pose. He jabbed at the brother, got in blows to the
chest and jaw, but this merely heightened Craig’s fury. He flung his fist in an
uppercut; it slammed into Stubbs’s chin – hurling him backwards onto the earth.
This time there was no getting up. The brother would have usually left it
there. But his mind a whirlpool of rage and bewilderment, he’d lost all control.
With hazy gleefulness, he looked down at Stubbs then lashed kicks at him –
aiming at head, ribs, stomach. Stubbs curved himself into a hopeless ball. The
brother then paced some steps back, and – to the lads’ chanting accompaniment –
he dashed at Stubbs. With this extra speed, he powered a kick into him. I swear
Stubbs’s body lifted from the ground – as if tossed by a pitchfork.