the boy’s blood that was keeping him upright. There were moments – a sickening wave of exhaustion, a clouding of his vision as he reached for a high note – when he was sure he was about to pass out, to topple down and be lost or trampled to death. He was tempted to close his eyes and let it happen.
At the moment when the noise and the heat and the passion of the crowd was at its height, the boy suddenly found himself alone with Joseph and Francis at the edge of the marketplace. There was space around him as he was led along a track towards a row of undecorated huts.
‘Are you a woman?’ Joseph asked.
‘No,’ the boy said.
The boy wondered if thinking about his mother and father made him one. He knew that they would be waiting, huddled together among the coffee plants, listening for the signal that it was over. Did wishing that he was with them, even for the few moments it would take to shake his father’s hand and smell his mother’s neck, make him less than Grade A?
‘Are you a woman?’ Francis repeated.
‘No!’ the boy shouted.
His uncles stepped in front of him and pushed open a door to one of the peat latrines.
‘This will be your last chance,’ Joseph said.
The boy moved inside quickly, dropped his shorts and squatted above the hole formed by the square of logs. He looked up at the grass roof, then across at his uncles who had followed him inside. He knew that they had sworn to stay with him until the final moment, but honestly, what did they think he was going to do? Did they think he would try to kill himself by diving head first into the latrine?
Did they think he would try to run?
Joseph and Francis smiled as the shit ran out of him like water.
‘Better now than later,’ Francis said.
The boy knew that his uncle was right.
He stood and wiped himself off. He felt no shame, no embarrassment at being watched. He was no more or less than a slave to it now.
A slave to the ritual.
The beercan hit him first, bouncing off his shoulder. It was almost empty, and Vincent was far more concerned by the beer that had sprayed onto his cheek and down his shirt. The can was still clattering at his feet when the cigarette fizzed into his chest. He took a step back, smacking away the sparks, listening to the skinny one and the one with the shaved head jabbering.
‘I don’t believe it, he’s still fucking here.’
‘Is he? It’s getting dark, I can’t see him if he isn’t smiling.’
‘He said he wasn’t looking for trouble.’
‘Well he’s going to get a fucking slap.’
‘He’s just taking the piss now.’
‘We gave him every chance.’
‘They’re all taking the piss.’
‘He’s the one that’s up for it, if you ask me. It’s him who’s kicking off, don’t you reckon? He could have walked away and he just fucking stood there like he’s in a trance. He’s trying to face us down, the twat. Yeah? Don’t you reckon?’
‘Come on then.’
‘Let’s fucking well. Have. It.’
Vincent became aware that he was shifting his weight slowly from one foot to the other, that his fists were clenched, that there was a tremor running through his gut.
A hundred yards away, on the far side of the estate, he saw a figure beneath a lamppost. He watched it move inside the cone of dirty orange light. Vincent wondered if whoever it was would come if he shouted.
His eyes darted back to the boy in the cap, and to the boy’s hand, which tilted slowly as he emptied out what drink there was left in his bottle.
The noise in the marketplace died as each one stepped forward, then erupted again a minute or two later when the ritual had been completed.
It was the boy’s turn.
The crowd had moved back to form a tunnel down which he walked, trancelike, his uncles slightly behind. He tried to focus on the two red splodges at the far end of the tunnel and when his vision cleared he saw the faces of the cutters for the first time. Their red robes marked them out as professionals – men who
At the moment when the noise and the heat and the passion of the crowd was at its height, the boy suddenly found himself alone with Joseph and Francis at the edge of the marketplace. There was space around him as he was led along a track towards a row of undecorated huts.
‘Are you a woman?’ Joseph asked.
‘No,’ the boy said.
The boy wondered if thinking about his mother and father made him one. He knew that they would be waiting, huddled together among the coffee plants, listening for the signal that it was over. Did wishing that he was with them, even for the few moments it would take to shake his father’s hand and smell his mother’s neck, make him less than Grade A?
‘Are you a woman?’ Francis repeated.
‘No!’ the boy shouted.
His uncles stepped in front of him and pushed open a door to one of the peat latrines.
‘This will be your last chance,’ Joseph said.
The boy moved inside quickly, dropped his shorts and squatted above the hole formed by the square of logs. He looked up at the grass roof, then across at his uncles who had followed him inside. He knew that they had sworn to stay with him until the final moment, but honestly, what did they think he was going to do? Did they think he would try to kill himself by diving head first into the latrine?
Did they think he would try to run?
Joseph and Francis smiled as the shit ran out of him like water.
‘Better now than later,’ Francis said.
The boy knew that his uncle was right.
He stood and wiped himself off. He felt no shame, no embarrassment at being watched. He was no more or less than a slave to it now.
A slave to the ritual.
The beercan hit him first, bouncing off his shoulder. It was almost empty, and Vincent was far more concerned by the beer that had sprayed onto his cheek and down his shirt. The can was still clattering at his feet when the cigarette fizzed into his chest. He took a step back, smacking away the sparks, listening to the skinny one and the one with the shaved head jabbering.
‘I don’t believe it, he’s still fucking here.’
‘Is he? It’s getting dark, I can’t see him if he isn’t smiling.’
‘He said he wasn’t looking for trouble.’
‘Well he’s going to get a fucking slap.’
‘He’s just taking the piss now.’
‘We gave him every chance.’
‘They’re all taking the piss.’
‘He’s the one that’s up for it, if you ask me. It’s him who’s kicking off, don’t you reckon? He could have walked away and he just fucking stood there like he’s in a trance. He’s trying to face us down, the twat. Yeah? Don’t you reckon?’
‘Come on then.’
‘Let’s fucking well. Have. It.’
Vincent became aware that he was shifting his weight slowly from one foot to the other, that his fists were clenched, that there was a tremor running through his gut.
A hundred yards away, on the far side of the estate, he saw a figure beneath a lamppost. He watched it move inside the cone of dirty orange light. Vincent wondered if whoever it was would come if he shouted.
His eyes darted back to the boy in the cap, and to the boy’s hand, which tilted slowly as he emptied out what drink there was left in his bottle.
The noise in the marketplace died as each one stepped forward, then erupted again a minute or two later when the ritual had been completed.
It was the boy’s turn.
The crowd had moved back to form a tunnel down which he walked, trancelike, his uncles slightly behind. He tried to focus on the two red splodges at the far end of the tunnel and when his vision cleared he saw the faces of the cutters for the first time. Their red robes marked them out as professionals – men who
Similar Books
Marrying Miss Marshal
Lacy Williams
Bourbon Empire
Reid Mitenbuler
Starfist: Kingdom's Fury
David Sherman & Dan Cragg
Sinful Purity (Sinful Series)
K.A. Standen
Over the Misty Mountains
Gilbert Morris
Unlike a Virgin
Lucy-Anne Holmes
Doctor Who: Timelash
Glen McCoy
Demon Vampire (The Redgold Series)
Virgil Allen Moore
Stealing Grace
Shelby Fallon