<>@6 -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ *4@5 THEY'LL BENEFIT *3]5@3 by Andrew Campbell *1]1@6 _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- @1 *2 I remember the moment he knocked on my door one year five months since school. i was knelt beside the bedroom bin scraping shit off my shoes with a survival knife. i slid the blade under my pillow and carried my shoes downstairs expecting to find bailey behind the door, cinema tickets in hand - "new one out, finch, you comin down?" - but the colour of the coat behind the distorted glass this time was an alien bright blue. i opened up wearing a worried frown. "hey hey, finchie boy, fuckin hell, been donkeys or what? ya look completely different, man." at first i hadn't a clue who this guy was, couldn't fit the face, and then it clicked and i grinned and stepped out in to the drive. "jeez! hardin! christ, what the fuck're ]5 you]1 doin here?" i hadn't used the f-word for months, just came out, no control. "juss passin by, thought'd drop in and see howya doin." "I'm alright, still livin here like, but... hey, hang on, stay there, I'll just get my coat." @2 -:- @1 the sky was a duller shade than the snow that was scattered around the fields like spilt icecream. brown-stained icewater, deep in some areas deeper still in others, green-grass skids, gritty footprints, yellow patches with last few drips heading north as the dog or the child ran away, scared, scared of what? of the all-consuming white dome over head or the relentless approach of two ex-schoolboys, trampling without wellies over a landscape they once ruled like Gods. "s'fuckin cold man, you alright in that jacket?" "me?" harding gave me a solid stare. "am fine. am alright." "so... tell us somethin then." "whatjoo wanna know?" "i dunno. what've bin doin since ya left?" "allsorts," he kicked a dead branch. "odd jobs. i got in at Jacksons design, you know, usin' macintoshes n stuff. z'alright i suppose. i got kicked out, though." "for what?" "bein late all'time" i smiled. harding used to be late every day back at school. he'd arrive mid-way through registration, mid-assembly, sometimes even at break time. "i slept in miss." he used the same excuse so many times they didn't bother asking him after a while. "hey that reminds me," i decided it was time i spewed out the question i had been eager to throw up since i'd laid eyes on him. "joo know what happened to debbie?" "certainly do." he replied almost instantaneously. in true western movie tradition we'd only had one girl in the gang. bailey, parker and Jackson had always seemed to accept her as another guy - one of the lads - and to a certain extent so had we. but between harding and i there had always been an invisible, tug-o-war competition over debbie. i remember once, drugged up to our back teeth, we'd mutually admitted we'd do ]5anything]1 for her. whether we were growing up faster than the rest of the tribe or just happened to have the same taste in girls, our shared feelings didn't make things easy. i'm still not sure to this day if Debbie was aware of our interest. she was impressed by very little, seemed to have her eye on nobody. Harding's knowledge of Debbie's whereabouts brought back a sting of bitter jealousy that i hadn't experienced for about a year and a half. i felt so sick i wanted to cry. "so... where is she then?" i said, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible. "close," Harding told me and winked and offered a minute smile. i tried to get him to explain but irrelevancies got in the way of conversation as they often do. eventually, the matter was forgotten. we'd come all the way down the right hand side of the football fields and had even clambered over the barbed wire fence at the bottom - just like old times. we were heading towards the path that led to the local library: in harding's presence, the library was yet another compendium of childhood memories. if he'd have suggested we go there, i'd have told him no, not now. perhaps not ]5ever]1. "and started up doin table tennis but i gave up cos it was borin. you still paintin pictures n stuff?" "not really. i write sometimes." "yeah? write what?" "stories n stuff, you know." "nah, man, you wanna start writin scripts," he looked up into the sky, squinting. "where'djoo think all't unemployed people are? sat at home, aren't they, scribblin away, hopin to be't next tarantino." "i don't like scripts." "fuckin don't like scripts," he laughed and looked down again, hands in pockets. "whatjoo write about then?" "i dunno. allsorts." "allsorts. whatjoo write about that nobody's ever written about before, s'warra mean. the local area? your excitin life? how old are ya finch?" "seventeen." i was answering him mechanically. he was making me feel bad. depressed. i didn't care, didn't want to listen. "yeah, seventeen, what the fuck kind of age is that to start writin? fuckin no age, that's what, you've got jack all to say. you should be out there, man, havin a laugh." he wiped his nose. "fuck it, come down't skull n cross wi'me on Friday, eh? wadjoo say?" "i go down town with bailey on Fridays." i told him, which was true. for one night a week i became a stupid, careless bastard like the rest of the population (not that i was any better the rest of the time, i suppose). "yeah?" harding looked up in the sky again. "woopie for you. bailey, aye, sea do withim self these days, then?" i thought (perhaps hoped is a better word) that he'd pester me about getting a girlfriend, but he didn't. a shame, because i had one back then: Lynette mills, twenty years old, incredibly pretty. when i thought of Lyn, Debbie seemed a million lightyears away... the last stitch in a healing wound. i smiled at the snow-coated landscape and took a big breath. "s'up with you? you listenin to me or what?" "no," i turned to face him, still happy. "no, am not listenin to you, hardin." i carried on walking. so did he. "you've fuckin changed man. fuckin hell you've changed." "yeah," i nearly slipped. laughed at myself. glanced at harding. "you haven't." we heard the kids then, somewhere up ahead beyond the trees, shouting and screaming. a horrible feeling swept over me. i decreased my walking speed, attempted to block out the memories of this place. the arguments. the fights. the brick wars. the broken bones. it wasn't right... us, being down here on the battlefield. not enough water had passed under the bridge. the horror was unforgotten. unforgiven. "we shouldn't have been able to get away with what we did, finch." said harding, now by my side as we stared through a jigsaw of bare branches. from here we could see the source of the yelling: a gang of youngsters, taking it in turns to go skiing down a self-created slide. "what do you mean?" i said softly, although i knew. i knew too well. my eyes wouldn't leave those children. "Scott and the rest," said harding. "still see em down town, you know, fuckin around. s'like they don't remember. s'fadin away for them, finch. it was just a fuckin game. s'nothin, man, not a fuckin thing compared to life, now, is it? "s'just... sometimes i wish it would fade away. hide itself, like it never happened. you know?" i sighed. "put a zip on it, Hardin, fuck's sake." he didn't answer... continued walking. i didn't want to go anywhere near that noisy cluster - and that was exactly where he was heading. "oi, hardin, s'gote other way, man," i yelled. "come on, fuck that direction..." but he didn't take any notice. i wiped my nose on my coat sleeve whilst his back was turned, then jogged to catch up. "fuckin wait, man." "you daren't go past em dare ya?" he grinned. "fuckin memories are ]5that]1 shit, aren't they? you remember what Scott did to tony, don'tcha? s'what you see everytime you look at a kid, isn't it?" "is it bollocks," but he was right. oh god he was so ]5right]1. "s'bollocks, finch. s'what i see, too. s'what we all see. we're gonna abuse our own kids, you know. s'how it starts." "]5what?]1" "us. all of us. bailey, parker, chip, Jackson. fuckin string of child-abuses-" he slipped, landed on his arse and did nothing for a few seconds but hold his hands in the air and breathe clouds. "y'alright?" i stood over him and offered a glove. the loud-mouthed gang of kids stopped arsing around and turned and stared and laughed at us. i guess it's what we would have done at their age - considered the fall of another human being the most hilarious gag of all time. "ha-haha!" "have a nice trip!" "diiiick- heaaaaad." i looked at them, stunned. in so many ways we ]5were]1 those kids. they were ]5us]1. recreated to torment. "cheers," said harding, taking up my offer. he brushed himself down. "ah well. s'my old coat anyway, who gives a shit." "diiiick heeeeeaaaaad." "waaaank-eeeer." we both stood still and squinted. "s'gote other way, come on," i took harding's sleeve. he shook me off. "fuck it, finch, why should we?" "look, just let's, alright? hardin- orr, come on-" he hadn't changed. he went his own way, determined to face the music, to walk into the flames. and like a soldier secretly covering his comrade's back, i splashed through the snow after him. the amused gathering had one girl, too, cherry-faced, pig-tailed and cocky like Debbie. she stepped away from the rest, a sharpened tree-branch held tight in both hands. "Claire, watchit, his comin." "Claire, oi. get back here ya tart." i felt blood gushing through my veins as harding came to a halt and looked down at the girl. she said something i didn't quite catch and then without delay made her attack: a low, slow-motion sweep with the stick, which whapped softly against harding's damp trousers. harding stared at her - right ]5into]1 her - as her mates shuffled up behind, brandishing laughably sized penknives, stones, snowballs. "Claire, come here." "touch her and ya dead, pal, alright? come here Claire." the girl's weapon slid away, making claw-marks through the icy ground. her face was as white as the weather, her eyes glimmered with uncertainty. harding hadn't moved out of the way: she'd ]5hit]1 him. she'd actually ]5hit]1 him. "s'that it?" harding sniffed up. "can i walk past you now?" "hardin come on," i butted in. "sod em, come on, let's go." "shurrup finch. s'that it? you done, lassie?" the girl - who now looked as though she'd been hypnotised - nodded weakly and muttered some empty, boyish threats. harding took a quick breath, glanced around, crouched, took hold of the girl's stick (which slipped out of her hands as if it were oiled). he stood up, held the weapon over his shoulder, arced it down with speed. the girl hit the ground as if she'd been shot, uttering the kind of moan your mum makes when she gets two numbers on the lottery. her friends started screaming: two dropped their brick-bombs and ran; the rest advanced, all guns blazing. She bled them all as i watched, harding. warrior. he got one up against a tree, pounded until an eerie screech of pain sent black birds fluttering across the jigsaw. most were ground into the soil, some picked up by their privates and ploughed into the hill. the last, harding threw down the slide. blood trail. an echoing wail. and i had to fight hard to resist mutiny. "you fuckin idiot!" i shouted and covered my face with both hands. when i opened up i saw that my were gloves wet with tears. "]5why?]1" i begged. "why? fuckin why why ]5WHY?]1" "just shurrup finch," he dabbed his bottom lip with his wrist. "they'll benefit. s'what we never got," he kicked snow. "s'what we ]5shoulda]1 fuckin got, don'tcha see?" my teeth fell together. "you're a DICKHEAD." my voice shattered into pieces like frozen pond. "you've got one guess," harding pointed at me. he was panting, tired after the battle, bits of blood on his cheeks. "one guess, finch, who- joo think she's fuckin, eh?" "what?" i could barely concentrate. birds were shooting across the sky and the kids were bleeding and moaning. "whatchoo on about?" "]5debbie!]1" he roared and grabbed me by the collars. i slipped, toppled over, crunched into the grass; harding came with me, snow on his face now turning pink. "debbie, who else you stupid bastard, who's she fuckin? go on, one guess. shoot." "i dunno," grassblades were tickling my forehead. "hardin i can't breath, gerroff-" "]5who's the biggest? who's the killer? who's the overlord?]1" he spat. "]5who? who put us all in hospital over the fuckin summer?]1" "scott," I swallowed. "scott, alright, get the fuck off me." "]5yes!]1" harding leapt backwards, spun around on one foot. "yes," he shouted. "debbie's bin sat on scott's dick for the past eight months, finchie boy. how's that for a fuckin headache. s'gorrit all, scott has. fuckin life-ruining demon bully bastard. and he's gorrit ]5all]1." he began to walk away. i staggered up, wiped my freezing cold face and did the same. @2 -:- @1 By three o'clock we were in the middle of town, where we said our goodbyes and divided. harding went straight into the nearest pub - i know, because i followed him, made sure he wasn't going to do anything stupid. i hated him. but i understood him. me? i eventually ended up at the railway station, contemplating leaping onto the track in front of a train for the sake of old times. @2 -:- @1 i remember the moment i recalled this memory, walking with new friends along a muddy country road, brown white green ground letting off fumes of the past, of faint recollection. grass blades scrolled and dog shit rolled and then a kid's face with bleeding lips who wouldn't be told silently drifted before my cold-stung eyes. "joo always stare at the ground, Alex?" an educated innocent older man, black wellies, feet splashing, clean socks, neat hairstyle. some girl like Debbie sat spinning on his dick. "yeah," i replied, looking up at him. looking ]5into]1 him. "why? s'that it? you finished?"