Footprints (16 page)

“Maybe,” said Mr. Meating. “But you know how it is these days. The police are jumpy. They've taken poor old Garrett Needle in for questioning again, the guys at the mill say.”

Harper finds himself at the end of the old logging road. He decides to go for a walk in the woods. When he comes to the trail to the camp, he marches deliberately past it. He keeps going for five minutes, gradually slowing his steps. He returns. He tells himself even if he is no longer friends with Drumgold and Isora, there's no reason he shouldn't walk the trail. It's on crown land and he has every right to walk there if he wants. But when he comes to the fence around the cottage grounds, he hesitates. The loss of friendship doesn't preclude his entering forbidden territory – it's Mr. Anderson's land, not Drumgold's, anyway – but does, he feels, negate his right to enter the camp itself. Drumgold and Isora had made it years ago, when they were little kids, long before his friendship with them. He decides he'll just look at it, without entering. He squirms under the fence and plods across the marsh. He slows as he nears the camp, peering ahead through the trees.

Drumgold is sitting on the chest, gazing down at Isora, who is stretched out on the rug, languid, one hand holding George on his leash, the other twirling her hair and letting it fall across her face.

Without looking up, Drumgold says, “We knew you'd come, Harp.”

Harper shambles forward a few steps. He stops as Drumgold looks up at him, coolly.

Isora scrambles to her feet and hugs Harper. She says, “Poor old Harp. We missed you.”

Harper can only nod.

Drumgold starts talking as if the split had never occurred. “Is and I have been discussing BARF, and getting Anderson to
open the beach, and the plan to set fire to the stuff in the barn.”

Harper thinks, It was talk like this that led to that night at the Riverside Café and me walking out on Drumgold and Isora, and I told them it wasn't worth the trouble it led to, and they know I think it's getting too heavy, but it's like to Drumgold, it never happened.

Harper wonders if he has the courage to walk out again. He doesn't think so, not with Isora still hugging him.

Drumgold goes on, “What we're thinking is: We might as well give it all up and go back to how we were before, sneaking on the beach and swimming, when we can, and having a laugh at Droopy and Diamond Head. Things were okay like that. We just have to make sure we keep clear of Anderson and his goons and then everything will be like it was last summer.”

Relief is sluicing through Harper. He nods and smiles.

“We're not getting anywhere with the campaign, anyway,” says Isora. “We're just making ourselves look stupid, with our tricks and stuff, which aren't even doing any good.”

Harper nods again. “I've been thinking the same thing.”

Drumgold pokes him in the back and says, “We wondered how long you'd hold out before we saw you.”

Harper grins sheepishly.

Still hugging Harper, Isora gathers Drumgold into her arms, too. She lays her head on Harper's chest and turns her face up to Drumgold.

Harper always remembers the next few seconds as stillness, with everything perfect. He's reunited with his friends, and they are at the camp, and it's a warm summer day, and shafts of sunlight glint through the trees, and the beach is nearby, and their days of direct action are over.

Isora murmurs, “Where's George?”

“You were holding him – on his leash,” says Harper.

“I must have let him go when you arrived.”

Harper says, “Sorry.”

“He'll be on the beach,” says Drumgold.

At the same time as Drumgold speaks, there's a shot, followed by a yelp and a whine.

Isora is running for the beach, Drumgold following.

Harper is standing, still savouring the scent and warmth of Isora. He plunges through the trees after his friends.

Isora, breaking from the trees on to the beach, calls over her shoulder, “He's all right.”

George is running in circles. Isora kneels in the sand and claps and calls, “George.” He runs to her. He's panting, his tongue lolling out and saliva flecking his jaws. Isora gathers him up and hugs him to her. She lowers him and says, “You mustn't run off like that.” There's blood and saliva and something else on her tee-shirt.

Drumgold, emerging from the trees, says, “You bastards.”

Isora looks up. Diamond Head and Droopy are standing halfway between the woods and the sea. Diamond Head holds a rifle low in one hand.

He says, “I warned you not to let that dog run on the beach.”

“Crapping and pissing all over the sand,” says Droopy, beside him. “You think we've got nothing better to do than clean up dog shit all day?”

Diamond Head is walking away, heading for the distant cottage.

Droopy, still watching Isora as she cradles George, says, softer, “We warned you.”

Isora looks round at the boys. She holds George towards them, like an offering. Harper takes him. He's lying still now. The panting seems to have stopped. Harper sees a glaze on the
dachshund's eyes and hopes Isora hasn't noticed. She's marching towards Droopy.

He says, softly again, “Sorry, but...”

She punches him in the face. He nods once, turns away, and follows Diamond Head.

George is lying limp and still in Harper's arms.

Isora peers at him and says, “I think he's in shock.”

Drumgold puts his arm round her shoulders and shakes his head slowly.

Isora says, “What shall I tell Dex?”

They wrap George in one of the blankets from the chest in the camp and take turns carrying him back to the trailer park. They find Lully's door open. He's in the kitchen, his backpack lying just inside the door. He's watching the news on the little television on the counter. His eyes are fixed on the screen, and he doesn't notice their arrival. They pause on the threshhold, his fierce concentration stopping them. They recognize Anderson's voice and watch with Lully from the doorway.

Anderson is telling the interviewer, “The police have informed me that they have several persons of interest they want to talk to, and they are closing in on one particular suspect and are confident of making an arrest within a few days.” Anderson turns from the interviewer and talks directly to the camera. “Meanwhile, whoever you, or they, are – personally I think it's the work of one sad, misguided individual – you would do well to understand that Eastern Oil's plans for the LNG terminal, having gone through all the exhaustive planning and environmental reviews required by the government, will go ahead, regardless of reckless and irresponsible acts like the one today, in which you attempted to–”

The interviewer interrupts Anderson's tirade. “How do you feel about these terrorist acts?”

Anderson echoes, “How do I
feel
?”

“How do you feel...
personally
?” the interviewer prompts. “Are you afraid?”

Anderson laughs. “If our terrorist friend wants to try again to intimidate me and to thwart the honest efforts of Eastern Oil to bring prosperity to an area badly in need of it...” The camera closes in on Anderson, whose sneering face fills the screen. “I say: Bring it on, you sad little man.”

Isora shuffles forward a step.

Lully starts and looks up. He snaps the television off and says, “Sorry. I just got back and wanted to catch the news.” He sees Isora's red-rimmed eyes. She starts to cry, and he says, “What's up?”

They push into the kitchen. Harper is carrying George.

Isora says, “They shot George. Anderson's men shot George.”

They bury George at the edge of the woods behind the trailer, still wrapped in the blanket from the camp.

Lully says, “He liked it back here.”

Afterwards, they sit at the picnic table, gazing into the trees.

Isora says, “Sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault,” says Lully. “If you want to blame anyone, blame me, for having to be away so much and expecting you to look after George, or blame Anderson for
giving his men the licence to shoot on the beach.”

Drumgold says, “We were going to stop the BARF campaign, but not now. We're going to set fire to the barn beside the cottage. We decided on the way back from the camp.”

Lully frowns. “You'll have to get inside the grounds first, and then you're likely to find the barn locked.”

“Is got the code to open the gates, and we can get in the barn through a hole we found behind it, that time we got trapped in the grounds.”

“But how do you plan to set fire to it?”

“There's all sorts of stuff in there that'll burn,” says Isora. “Straw and cardboard and old cans and stuff.”

Lully is shaking his head. “You mean cans – like oil drums?”

Isora nods.

“It's too dangerous,” says Lully. “It'll take too long to get a fire going, and who knows what Anderson's got stored in there. It could be chemicals, in which case you'll be in danger of getting overcome by fumes before you get out.”

Drumgold starts, “But–”

Lully holds up his hand and goes on, “Even if you get a fire going, Anderson's men are around most of the time, aren't they? They'll have it under control in no time, and it'll be just another minor inconvenience which Anderson probably won't even be aware of, and it won't help you free the beach.”

Isora says, “This isn't just about the beach now.”

Lully looks at her, eyebrows raised. “What's it about then?”

“It's about revenge.”

Lully paces across the kitchen and stands with his back to the friends. “If you promise to be really careful and to do exactly as I say, I might be able to help you carry out your plan. I'm a bit of an amateur scientist, and I think I can rig up something to help you – a little incendiary device, with a
timer. Then you won't even have to go in the barn. All it'll take is for one of you to drop it in the hole behind the barn, and you'll have plenty of time to get clear.”

“But the cardboard and stuff is at the front of the barn,” says Drumgold. “Will it set fire to it from way in the back?”

Lully says, “Oh yes.”

Harper is staring at the floor, and Lully says, “The plan bothers you, doesn't it, Harper?”

Drumgold says, “Why, Harp?”

“It's a bit...
personal
, isn't it?” says Harper. “I mean – doing Mr. Anderson's car, and the fertilizer, and shooting the windows out – that was aimed at his
things
. But the broken glass and setting fire to his barn, right beside his home – that's like an attack on
him
, like a personal attack, and I thought – you said, Dex, remember? – I thought political action and protesting, weren't meant to be
personal
.”

Lully says, “You're right. After the first wave, the political action you take isn't personal. But when that doesn't work – when you're met with the usual intransigent lying and bullshit – then you make your protest personal. And if the people you're up against still refuse to listen, then you make it
very
personal.”

Harper says, “But he's not doing anything
personal
to us.”

“No?” says Lully. “The freedom to walk on a beach in the town where you were born seems pretty personal to me. It's like an elemental right, a birthright, like...like the right to have a home. That's why it's wrong for the Nasons and old Garrett Needle to lose what they love about their homes because of Eastern Oil's LNG terminal. In fact, they'll lose their homes altogether, because they won't be able to stay there with the terminal right beside them, whatever they think, and whatever Anderson and his men say. And when someone takes away one
of your birthrights – a beach you've always enjoyed, your home, something you're entitled to by virtue of being born in this country in this century – then you bet your goddamn life it's
very
personal, and you better take it very personally.”

Lully's voice, passionate and urgent, has risen. It frightens Isora and Harper.

Drumgold stares at him, nodding.

Lully mutters, “And when someone shoots your dog, then you better take that very personally, too.” He smiles, suddenly and unexpectedly. “Sorry. I didn't mean to give a speech. When do you plan to do it?”

Drumgold says, “Tomorrow.”

“I'll be away tomorrow. In fact, I may be away for some time, looking after Mom, you know. And I have to leave early, so I'll leave the device...” Lully looks around. “In the barbecue. It will be a little pipe, with a timer attached to it, like this.” He reaches into his backpack and takes out a small timer.

Harper recognizes it as like the one his mother uses when she's cooking.

“What time do you want the fire to start?” Lully asks.

“Noon,” says Drumgold.

“I'll set it when I leave,” says Lully. “All you have to do is put it at the back of the barn.”

Something wakes Isora. A sound. A gull scuttling across the roof? Her father rising early? She listens. The house is silent. She glances at the bedside clock. Five-thirty. They plan to plant Lully's device in the barn at seven-thirty, before they start their summer jobs. She can sleep for an hour. She dozes, thinking of George, of his smooth, hard little body wriggling in her arms and his tongue flicking at her face and his comical stumpy legs. Her eyes open. The sound again. Outside. She rises and peers through her window. It's Lully, behind his trailer, closing the
barbecue. He's wearing his cap and his old army surplus jacket, and has his backpack slung over one shoulder. She thinks he must keep a set of clothes at his mother's, because he always seems to travel with no luggage except his backpack. She taps on the window. Lully looks up sharply. She waves. He smiles, waves back, and strides between the trailers to the road.