Daggers Drawn

Roots Jerry Sykes

For over twenty years the house had been a part of the dark dreamscape of my life, but as I crested the hill it rose anew out of the mist, a burning red ember fanned by the wind of change that blew in my heart.

A pale sun hung low over the hills and the cool mist rolled down the valley, chasing a river that ran sepia from the iron ore in the soil. I could smell wet bracken and new grass through the open window.

I turned off the engine and let the car roll down the hill, tyres crunching on gravel the only sound in the still morning. I pulled up under a huge oak that buckled the road at its roots and watched the house through the rearview.

All the homes in the valley were made of stone, cottages built at the turn of the century for mill workers and their families.

Except the red brick house in my mirror.

The house had been built during the Second World War by a man named Thad Irwin, a foreman at the brickworks a mile further up the valley. Rumour was that he had stolen the bricks a wheelbarrow at a time right from under the owner’s nose, the owner turning a blind eye due to the fact that Thad was the only regular worker left, all the others off fighting for their country. Any vengeful thoughts on the part of the owner were laid to rest when his heart exploded a month before VE Day, spraying the inside of his eyes a deep red.

Thad eventually completed his task, but there were still piles of hot bricks in the yard thirty years later when I was a regular visitor of his grandson, Rob.

The yard may have held our attention on cold evenings, but it was the old quarry that lay beyond the brickworks that demanded our presence throughout the summer.

A gaping wound in the green hills that rippled through the valley, the quarry had been abandoned for as long as I could remember. With a huge pond of stagnant water that could only be navigated by rafts built from strapping twisted planks across oil drums, a dirt track worn smooth by daredevil circuitry, a junked Mini complete with four tyres, flowers of rust blooming on the cracked paintwork, the place was considered a death-trap by anyone over the age of thirty, but to us it was the surface of the moon, Monument Valley, and Wembley Stadium all rolled into one.

But the one truth of childhood was that our parents knew best.

Perspiration slicked my hair and ran down my neck, spooking a shiver that snaked along my spine. I climbed on, hands pushing down on my thighs, my ankles tearing through the tangled undergrowth. My lungs felt scorched and tiny black stars exploded before my eyes. I could see the stone wall that rode the hills above me and promised myself a cigarette on reaching it.

A few minutes later I placed my hands on the wall and rested my forehead on my arms. I couldn’t breathe deeply enough and I felt nauseous.

Eventually I turned to look out over the valley.

A deep haze shimmered before my eyes, turning the view into a faded water colour. At the foot of the hill I could just make out the abandoned buildings of the old brickworks, the corrugated iron sheets covering the doors and windows booming in the wind like thunder. To the north of the brickworks I could see the old cemetery, the gravestones like broken teeth scattered on the ground, the spire of the church reaching upwards like a skeletal finger to scratch at the sky. To the south, armies of trees ran down the valley and circled the village.

I turned my attention to the sweep of hill before me. Where the quarry had once been there was now only a sunken crater filled with scraggly brown grass, the dead land all that remained of the landfill site. Green grass crept up to the crater’s edge and waved at its dead kin.

I wiped the rain from my eyes, felt the sting of tears.

An invisible sun was burning in a clear blue sky as we snaked along the path that circled the brickworks and down towards the quarry. Beads of sweat bubbled on my forehead and I could feel my T-shirt sticking to my back. Rob walked a few paces ahead of me, kicking a football, red dust swirling around his ankles and sticking to his calves.

At the front of the building a group of men were standing on the loading dock. They were stripped to the waist and their torsos glowed red in the light from the kiln. Steam clouded above their shoulders and trousers heavy with sweat hung low on their hips. They looked like the newly dead at the gates of Hell.

As we reached the dirt track that led to the quarry itself, we saw Tom Dillon down by the water’s edge. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but he looked to be watching something in the water. Rob held his finger to his lips and gestured for me to follow him.

Tom Dillon was a weak child and consequently natural prey to anyone with muscles to flex. He was also well-off, and to someone like Rob, who never had anything of his own, well, that was like taking money out of Rob’s own pocket. And Rob wasn’t too subtle about hiding that resentment. One winter he had severed Tom’s earlobe with a piece of shale hidden in a snowball, drops of blood bursting on the ground like brilliant red flowers. And the previous spring he had chased Tom through the cemetery with a fresh oak sapling torn from the ground, flicking it at his back until welts rose in the skin that looked like worms buried in his flesh.

I scrambled after Rob as he climbed the side of the quarry and into the thick bracken that grew along its edge. We crawled further up the hill until we had a good view of Tom. I looked at the water, slick with oil; ripples carried rainbows to the shore. The raft that Rob and I had built the previous summer had been dragged onto the far bank, the dry warped planks the bleached bones of a giant skeleton.

“What’s he doing?” said Rob.

Tom was sitting on his haunches and fiddling with something on the floor in front of him. He had his back to us. The ground by his feet was wet and there were footprints leading to the pond, as if he had been in the water.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I can’t see anything.”

“What is it?”

I shook my head.

Just then Tom shifted to the right and I caught sight of the object in his hands.

“Looks like a boat,” I said. “A speedboat.”

“A what?” Rob looked at me with quizzical eyes.

“You know. Remote control.” I mimed the joystick.

“Hey,” he said slowly, “let’s go take a look.”

Rob climbed over the edge of the quarry and ran down the slope, digging his heels into the shale to keep from tumbling over. At the bottom he paused briefly, wiping his palms on the seat of his jeans, before crossing towards Tom. His shoulders were held artificially high and I sensed something nasty was about to happen.

I ran down the slope, fitting my footsteps to the grooves left by Rob, and walked towards them. But something held me back, an intruder in their private drama, and I pulled up short. I shielded my eyes against the sun.

Tom was explaining how the boat worked. It sounded simple enough — two-speed gearbox, forward/reverse switch, joystick — and Rob appeared to be listening. But after a moment I saw a change in the light in his eyes, the way a candle will flicker and then right itself when someone leaves the room, and I wanted to shout at Tom, tell him to run.

Lesson over, Tom took the boat over to the pond and carefully placed it in the water. Rob followed, eager to see the boat in action. I stayed put, a reluctant spectator, my heart thumping in my chest, the sound of blood swirling in my ears.

The boat kicked out a few bubbles and started to move away from the shore, but after a moment its movements didn’t tie in with the way Tom was rattling the controls, his fingers knuckled white in frustration.

“It’s jammed,” he said. His eyes flicked between the boat and the controls.

Rob reached out a hand. “Here, let me,” he said.

Tom whipped the controls away and turned his back on Rob. “No!” he snapped. “It’s mine.” He continued to work the controls frantically, his eyes off the boat.

“C’mon, it’s going to crash,” shouted Rob, pointing towards the boat.

Then, without warning, he snatched at the remote and knocked it to the ground. The boat responded to the violent command by cutting its engine. Within seconds it came to a halt.

Tom immediately picked up the remote and wiped it clean with the palm of his hand. He gave it a gentle shake. A muted rattle told us something was broken.

The boat drifted in a slow arc thirty feet from the shore.

Tom looked at the boat and then back at Rob. “What did you do that for?” he said. His words sounded as if they were being squeezed out of his throat and tears welled up in his eyes. “You’ve broken it... I only got it on Saturday.”

A sneer appeared on Rob’s face. “It’s not broken you little fuckin’ cry baby. Here, give it to me.” He held out his hand for the remote. “Let me have a go.”

Tom put his hands behind his back.

Rob looked at his face, at the tears streaking the dusty cheeks. “C’mon...” he said, trying to reach around Tom for the remote.

I couldn’t watch it any more. I walked to the edge of the pond and picked up a couple of chunks of shale, thick plates about the size of my hand. I took a step forward and hefted one into the water. It landed with a slap about ten feet from the boat. Ripples shot out but the boat didn’t move any closer.

“What are you doing?” squealed Tom. He ran over to me and slapped the other piece of shale out of my hand.

“Hey, we’re trying to get your boat back, all right?” I said, holding up my hands.

“You’ll break it.”

I dropped to my haunches and reached for another piece of shale. “The waves’ll push it to shore,” I explained.

Just then a loud splash echoed around the quarry. A drop of oily water hit me on the forehead. I saw Tom touch the back of his head and then quickly turn around, his eyes scanning the water.

Small waves lapped at the shore, the shale hissing as the water pulled back. Towards the centre, tiny bubbles broke on the surface.

“Where’s my boat?” screamed Tom. He ran to the pool, the toes of his baseball boots in the water. “Where’s the fuckin’ boat?” He turned to Rob. “What’ve you done? Where is it?”

“It was only a fuckin’ boat.” Rob was holding a piece of shale in his hands. He turned to walk away. “No big deal. I’m sure Daddy’ll buy you another.”

Tom grabbed his arm, pulled him back. “You’re mad. Fuckin’ mad. Just because you never have anything...” He stopped abruptly, took a step closer. He struggled to keep his voice under control as he focused all his anger into his next words. “Man, you even live in a stolen house!”

I saw Rob’s eyes flare with a demonic iridescence. He lifted his arm to the side of his head, and then with a force that came from deep within, he brought his hand and the chunk of shale down on the side of Tom’s head.

I walked back down the hill, my boots dragging through the grass. The morning dew had yet to burn off and my feet felt damp and heavy. I reached the car and sat for a long while just staring out of the window, thinking of the cheap life I had lived, afraid to enter my imagination for fear of what I might find.

I put the car in gear and headed into the village. It had begun to cloud over and I could taste rain in the air.

I pulled into the gravel car park of the Beaumont Arms and went into the public bar. I climbed onto a stool and ordered a large scotch. There was one other customer in the place, some kid in dirty green overalls playing the fruit machine. A bottle of lager was on the table nearby, a cigarette feathering in the ashtray.

I looked at my watch. It was still not yet twelve. I rattled my empty glass on the wooden bar.

I helped Rob drag the body along the edge of the quarry. I held the right arm, my fingers sinking into the cold flesh, and watched Tom’s baseball boots lay down a trail of broken plants and ragged grooves.

Rob had hold of the other arm. It was his idea that we throw Tom from the top of the quarry. The shoreline below was littered with large slabs of shale and other debris and the ‘fall’ would explain the wound above Tom’s ear.

When we reached the spot where we had earlier spied on Tom, I let go of his arm. But instead of flopping to the ground, the arm moved slowly and for one mad moment I thought Tom might still be alive.

I looked over the edge, at the pool of dark blood that had formed around Tom’s head as we had watched life drain out of his body. We would have to go back and bury it later.

I looked at Rob. “We can’t just throw him over the edge,” I said. “It’s Tom.”

He looked at me with hard eyes. “He’s dead, man. He ain’t going feel nothing.”

I looked at the stranger before me — even his voice had taken on a different texture — and for the first time I felt scared. “We should go back, tell someone.” Then, “It was an accident...”

“No,” said Rob calmly. “Everyone knows that I never liked the spoilt fucker. Picked on him. They’ll just think I took it too far this time.” He sounded like he had always known that he would kill him one day.

“But it was an accident.” I had to believe that, for it to have been anything else was beyond my comprehension.

I looked at Tom lying in the undergrowth. Most of the colour had drained from his body but I could see where I had held his skinny arms, the impressions of my fingers deep bruises in his flesh.

Rob grabbed Tom by the ankles and nodded at me. “C’mon, get a hold of his arms.” I took hold. Rob counted to three and we hefted the body off the ground. He moved his arms to the left and grunted at me. I realised he meant for us to swing the body out over the edge. He started counting again, his voice a painful echo in my heart. “One... two... three...”

The body seemed to hang in the air for ever. I didn’t hear it hit the ground.

Tom’s body was found later that evening as the sun fell behind the hills above the quarry and turned the clouds a deep purple so that they looked like bruises floating in the sky. His father had got worried when he had not returned at dusk and, knowing that he had taken off with his new boat, had made straight for the quarry, assuming that Tom had just forgotten the time.

As he walked down the dirt track towards the pond, the spokes of the dying sun picking out the acid shapes that whorled around the breaks in the surface, he realised with mounting horror that the small figure lying in the shale, a twisted arm outstretched to the water in grotesque imitation of a dying man reaching an oasis, was the broken body of his only son. It was a realisation that was to tear his heart from his chest, again and again.

When I returned to the quarry later that evening it seemed like the whole of the village was there, etched into the landscape by a string of brilliant white arc lights that hovered in the darkness like giant fireflies. The sounds of whispered conversations drifted in the air and half-raised arms pointed to the spot where Tom’s body had fallen.

I looked up at the edge of the quarry and saw disembodied faces staring back at me from the bracken. I wondered if the tracks made by Rob and I as we had dragged the body up the hill had been scrambled by these ghouls.

I looked over the faces of the people that were nearest the pond. Their eyes burned with a religious intensity, as if they were waiting for a spiritual cleansing in the murky waters before them.

On the far side of the pond I could see Rob standing next to Tom’s father, tears burning on his cheeks like diamonds embedded in the skin.

The following morning both Rob and I were questioned by the police. I don’t think that they ever really suspected us of having anything to do with Tom’s death, but as we’d been the last ones to have seen him alive, we’d made sure that our stories were in sync just in case. In the event, the police didn’t appear to be interested in finding out what had happened and were happy to absorb the tragic accident explanation that had passed silently through the crowd the previous night.

But far from being relieved at the turn of events, the wall of silence that had been erected around Tom’s death served only to cast a dark shadow in my heart. Although I had not dealt the blow that had killed him, I was as guilty of his murder as Rob, and that guilt pumped through my veins with an intensity that would burst me awake at night in a cold sweat feeling that my head was about to explode.

Rob and I did not speak about the events of that day again, but when I saw him in school, his face open and bright, I immediately understood that it was me who would have to bear the burden of guilt for both of us.

The following November an opportunity for atonement presented itself in the shape of a school science project — a time capsule.

The idea was simple: between us the class would collect a selection of items that best represented the year — a newspaper, magazine, records, pages from a diary, photos — that would then be buried in a specially built chest in the school garden, to be exhumed in the year 2000 when a reunion party would be held.

My mind immediately locked into the possibilities and I volunteered to provide some photographs. On the way home that night I talked Rob into helping me out.

Following Tom’s death the council had finally caved in to pressure from the parents in the village and decided to do something about the quarry, earmarking it as a landfill site. Work was due to start in the New Year. It was my idea to take photos of the area for inclusion in the time capsule. One of my ideas, anyway — Rob would have to wait to hear the other. I arranged to meet him at eight the following Sunday morning.

As we walked down the dirt track the smell of stagnant water assaulted my nostrils. I turned to tell Rob that I had never noticed the smell before and caught him staring at the spot where he had felled Tom. His eyes seemed to be locked inside his head and his face was bleached of colour. I turned and followed his stare to the edge of the pond. I swore I could see the impression that Tom’s body had left.

I swung my rucksack from my back and sat on the shale. I took out the cassette recorder and slotted in a fresh tape.

“What’s that? I thought we were going take some photos,” said Rob. He had stopped several feet from the water’s edge.

“Later,” I said. “We’ve got something else to do first.” I pushed the jack of the microphone into the socket. I cleared my throat, but as I tried to speak my words seemed to spin in the air like dust and vanish before reaching the microphone.

I rewound the tape and started again.

“This is a confession,” I began. “On the twenty-fifth of August, 1976, I, George Lowell, and Robert Irwin murdered Tom Willis...”

“What the fuck!”

I turned off the cassette recorder.

“Rob, we’ve got to do something. I’m a nervous fuckin’ wreck.”

“Shit. You didn’t do anything.”

“I was there,” I said, the calmness of my voice betraying the drumroll of my heart. “I’m as guilty as you are. Rob, we threw him from the top of the fucking quarry!”

Rob looked away, to the spot from where we had thrown the body.

After a moment he sat on the ground, leaning back on his hands. He stared into the water for a long time. “No one’s ever going to hear this, right?”

“Not until the year 2000.”

“Yeah right. Give me the mike.” He flapped his hand at me and I leaned over and handed him the recorder.

Rob lit a cigarette and then spoke into the microphone. “This is the confession of Rob Irwin. In August 1976 I killed Tom Willis. We got into an argument and I hit him on the head with a chunk of shale. Me and George here then dragged him up the side of the quarry and threw him over the edge...” He pulled on his cigarette. “By the time you hear this I will be dead. Suicide. I can live with the guilt of Tom’s murder, but I could not go to prison. So, by the time you get to hear this...” His voice broke and he hung his head.

My whole body felt cold, chips of ice floated in my veins.

I ordered another drink and thought of that final day in the quarry. In many ways it haunted me far more than the day of the actual murder. My young heart, already cramped with guilt, was twisted beyond all recognition as we delivered our suicide notes on that day by the dead water of the pond.

As I grew older I began to feel more comfortable with myself, the twin demons of alcohol and guilt becoming the thuggish guardians of my soul, exuberant bouncers that kept the public at arm’s length.

My life had been an endless series of temporary postings to increasingly desperate locations, the only constant an expiry date handed to me one day in an abandoned quarry.

Rob had a different story to tell: he had escaped the past and made full use of his time on the planet. As well as successfully riding the software wave, he had been married for over fifteen years and had two healthy children. I had not seen much of him over the years as he had moved to London immediately after leaving college, but we had always met up for a beer on his increasingly infrequent trips back home. It was over five years now since I had last seen him.

It was almost noon. The sun slanted through the dirty window to my left and lit the polished wood of the bar with a grainy light. The drink in my hand burned liquid gold. I looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, at the eyes that were like dead candle wicks behind green glass, dead from lack of air. I thought about the murder and how both Rob and I had handled it, about how Rob had somehow transferred the whole stinking burden onto me. For a long time it had filled me with physical pain, a pain so deep that I could only communicate it through drunken threats and violence. But there was always something inside me that not even physical violence could release, the simple need for revenge.

The call came on a bright morning in December.

I was sitting at my kitchen table watching the neighbours’ cat chewing on a bird, my fingers knotted around a mug of coffee, when the phone started to ring. I was carrying a whisky hangover and thought about leaving it to ring and going back to bed, but there was urgency in the tone, as if it may be bad news. I picked up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, familiar. I felt my heart step up a beat.

“Yes?” Hesitant. I reached across the table for a cigarette.

“Is that George? George Lowell?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said with a note of finality in my voice, as if by guessing my name the caller had discovered my secret.

“I’m sorry. Have I called at a bad time?” She sounded hurt.

“No, no. Now’s fine. I’m just a little...” I waved my cigarette in the air.

“All right, well...” She gave a nervous laugh. “I’ll start again, shall I?” Another laugh. “I don’t know if you remember me... Claire Wish?”

My mind rewound furiously. Half remembered scenes. “Sorry,

I shouldn’t have expected you...”

I sensed the faint echo of a missed heartbeat.

“Red hair and skinny legs?” I said.

I heard her laugh again, a gentle, innocent sound this time. “Well, not so skinny now... but, yeah, the hair’s still red.”

I walked over to the cooker and lit the cigarette from the gas ring. “What can I do for you?” I said. I looked out of the window and saw that the cat had gone, leaving the torn carcass of the bird in the middle of the lawn.

Suddenly I was gripped by panic.

“Well, do you remember the time capsule we buried...”

My blood ran cold.

“...in the fourth year? At school,” she added helpfully.

I couldn’t speak. I nodded and hoped she could see me.

“They can’t dig it up.”

Kaleidoscopic images of the murder flashed before my eyes, moving in and out of focus. Into focus: an iron fist breaking a face of stone.

“They...” I began to feel dizzy.

“You remember they planted it near that row of cherry trees?”

“Go on,” I managed. My voice was hoarse. I pulled out a chair and sat down, took a sip of coffee.

“Well, they buried it too near. Too near the trees. The roots have grown over the box.”

“They can’t dig it up? They can’t dig up the tree?”

“No, that’s right... Well, they reckon nobody’s going to remember what was in the capsule anyway. Or the exact spot where it was buried...”

I felt my heart start to beat again. I struggled to bring everything under control. “So they’re not going to dig it up, that’s what you’re saying? The whole thing’s off?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re going to bury another capsule.”

“And dig that one up instead?”

“Brilliant, isn’t it?”

“And where do I come in?” I felt a smile break on my face.

“Well, I’ve been given the job of recreating the whole thing. I’ve had a new capsule made up, so now I’m just asking a few people — discreetly, mind you — if they’ve got anything I can use.”

“I don’t know. I’d have to have a look around. Can I get back to you?”

“Sure.”

I took her number and promised to call back later.

My mind was reeling. Was this a sick joke? Had they already dug up the capsule and found the tape? I headed for the loft.

I spent the next couple of days choking on clouds of dust, cold sweat beading my face, until eventually I hauled a cardboard box down into the kitchen and hefted it onto the table. I had stuck things in the box as I came across them, but now I looked at them more closely.

There were items from before and after the murder: a copy of the Mirfield Reporter with a picture of the school cross country team on the front page, silver medalists in the Yorkshire Schools; a ticket stub from a Be Bop Deluxe concert at St George’s Hall in Bradford; my old school tie; a few singles, now scratched, covers torn, from punk bands long forgotten; a couple of music magazines, including a local fanzine.

I felt a great weight lift off my chest as I realised that these innocent items were going to erase over twenty years of fear.

But as I began to put the things back in the box, I was filled with a deep sense of dread. Something drew my attention to the window. The wind was blowing the apple tree in the back garden around so that its branches seemed to be pointing at me, jabbing accusing fingers. A strong gust threw a branch against the window and as it scratched across the glass I heard the ghost of Tom Willis whisper to me.

The bar was now full. A cloud of voices hung in the air, voices that spoke of emotions I had denied myself for so long. I heard laughter as if it was my native tongue and not the language of my neighbours.

The door opened and in the mirror I saw a man in a black leather car coat enter the bar. He moved his head as if looking around, but his eyes had the dark impenetrability of sunglasses. A spider web of burst veins was tattooed across his face and his belly pushed at his shirt.

I looked at the man for a couple of minutes before I realised it was Rob.

I leaned back on my stool and held up my arm. Rob weaved through the crowd and pushed into the bar beside me. “Large scotch when you’re ready,” he called to the barman.

Rob turned to face me and I saw nothing but darkness, dead eyes. He stepped back from the bar and pulled aside his jacket. Stuffed into the waistband of his jeans was a large black pistol.

“You remember that confession?” he asked, the words spilling out of his mouth.

I nodded slowly, unsure of what was happening.

“I meant every word of it.” His face looked as cold as marble, as if rigor had set in. He swirled the whisky around in his glass. “Every single word.”

I looked at him closely. “You remember Claire Wish?” I said, hesitant.

“Right after this drink...” He threw back the scotch and slammed the glass on the bar, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He pushed himself away from the bar and made to leave. “Claire Wish? Sure I remember her. What about her?”

I heard my heart beat deep inside my chest, once, twice...

“Oh nothing,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”