The Tower

The three figures walked across the field, two men and a boy. The boy looked with fascination at the silky black barrel of the shotgun. He had never seen one up close before and now, as he climbed the slope, his eye was constantly drawn to its matt metallic sensuality, to its rising and falling in the crook of his uncle’s arm. “It’s a braw gun eh son?” his uncle said. The boy looked away, embarrassed. The strange feelings of excitement the gun was giving him left a guilty echo inside, in a part of him he was only just starting to feel, like looking at a girl’s legs in class and getting caught. “Do you want ti hold it?”

“Naw yer alright there Alec.” The other man interrupted. “You had better jist hold onto it. He’s too wee ti be carrying a gun. He’s no even twelve yit.”

“Whatever ye say John, you’re the boss. Your right…as ever.” Alec replied, the last word drifting off into a contemptuous mumble. “Aye, am expecting gid things fi you John, what wi yer army training an that,” Alec continued, now with a note of contempt, “A wid imagine yer a crack shot eh?”

“A did alright.” Replied John as he lifted the boy over a fence at the edge of the field. As he lowered his son down on the other side the sleeve of his leather jacket snagged on the barbed wire. “Shite! This jacket cost me a fortune.” He cursed.

“A bet. Looks like yer still doing alright. Fancy clase, an that. Yon motor you got yersel? That must o cost a bob or two!” said Alec “ye always did land on yer feet.”

“Dinny start Alec” John replied, still angry from the ripped sleeve, “you screwed up, the rest o us jist got on.”

Alec stopped and turned, a twisted upper lip showing his yellowed teeth, punctuated with gaps. “Jist got on!” he spat “Dinny give me that crap. You only got on coz oor fether though the sun shined oot yer erse. He set you up in that job. Daddy’s bloody golden boy. ‘He’s jist oot the Guards ye ken, Falklands an that.’ If a heard him say that once he must have said it a million times.”

“Look Alec, kin ye jist drop it. Am here wi the boy and we’re ment ti be puttin aw that behind us, noo that yer aff...ye ken...the drink an that.”

“Yer right John. Yer right again.” Alec’s voice trailed off into silence.

Up ahead lay the tower. It stood on top of the hill, a look out post by all accounts, built by some unknown merchant from years ago who watched the sea for the approaching cargo ships. Now it stood in ruin, just the four bare walls. The boy knew this place well. This tower was the limit of his independent world, the point beyond which he never dared to venture. Standing as it did on the crest of the hill, to go beyond it was to loose sight of home back down in the valley. Going beyond the tower meant leaving the invisible zone of protection which radiated out from his mum, up over the park, through the fence and over the field to the top of the hill and the tower. Today it was different. He was with his Dad, he carried that feeling of protection with him.

“This is a grand spot. Let’s stop here. The rabbits come oot the whins ower there. We jist need to sit still lang enough.” Said Alec.

“Wid it no be a bit better if we…” John replied but exchanging a look with Alec, his words trailed off then returned suddenly. “No, yer right. Here’s as guid a place and any.”

The three figures knelt down in the grass and rested in silence. Slowly rabbits started to appear here and there. Alec loaded the shotgun with two blood red cartridges and lifted the barrel into place with a smooth click. The boy still transfixed by the weapon, couldn’t take his eyes off it. But now something was different, the atmosphere around the gun had changed. No longer did it ooze a sensual magnetism, an almost erotic attraction, now it was cold. Where the black steel of the double barrels had once seemed slick and smooth, they now appeared hard and brutal. Still he stared at the gun. He could not look away. It was if the moment he took his eyes of this thing it would turn into a snake and strike out at him. He had to hold its gaze. It seemed to the boy that his uncle felt the same fear for his hands were trembling, his knuckles white with the strain of holding this serpent in check. It looked as if he was privately wrestling with a powerful animal, intent on slipping free from its handler and unleashing its raw, destructive potential.

Then just as suddenly as the change had come it stopped. The hands relaxed, the trembling faded and the boy’s uncle seemed to breathe a sign of…was it relief? Alec turned the gun towards his brother. John only had time to turn and blurt “Alec don’t be a..” when the gun went off, sending an iron fist through the blood and bone of the man’s chest. Alex started to laugh, a loud shouting laugh, a laugh that seemed to laugh at the world.

By the time the boy ran into the fence at the bottom of the hill the laughing had stopped. He breathlessly crossed the fence at the back of the park which abutted the farmland through which he had just run blindly. The boy felt like the protective bubble his mum projected had never been so far away. She was in the front garden, talking to the neighbour, when the boy ran across the road, without hesitating to look, and crashed into her, holding on tight. In the distance, beyond the park, with its witch’s hat and swings. Beyond the fence and over the fields to the tower, the gun fired for a second time. The boy looked up at his mum and started to cry.