Silent Voices

“We’ve gotta be careful,” says Simon. “We don’t want to get hurt. This thing’s got sharp edges.”

Brendan glances at the wood, nods. “Yeah. Do it slowly.”

“Okay, I’m ready. Throw one end of the rope up here!” Marty’s arm is dangling, his fingers grasping. “Hurry up.”

Brendan grabs the loose end of the rope, gathers in a good length, and then stands directly beneath the platform. He swings the rope, squints as he takes aim, and then throws the end upwards. It barely lifts above his head before falling back down to earth.

“Bugger,” says Brendan, his body going loose and his bottom lip pushed out in a sulky half-pout.

“Don’t be daft,” says Simon, bending down to pick up a large stone. “We need to make the end heavy. Here… tie the rope around this.”

Brendan takes the stone and forms the end of the rope into a tight knot around the heavy object. “It’s a monkey’s fist,” he says, grinning. “Old sailors used them as weapons when they had fights. I read it in a book.” He swings the rope, the heavy end whistling through the air. “God, I bet it would hurt if you got someone on the head with it.”

“Throw it up!” Marty’s arm is still dangling. It looks like the tail of some weird animal.

Still swinging the rope, Brendan takes a single step back and hurls the stone into the branches. Marty’s hand clutches, misses, and then clutches again; the rope wraps around his forearm, and his fingers close quickly over the rough hemp. “Got it!” he shouts. “I’ll sling it over this branch.”

“Yay!” Brendan jumps up and down on the spot.

“Yes!” Even Simon is caught up in the moment, thrilled by this small success.

There’s a pause while Marty removes the stone, and then it drops at Simon’s feet. Then the end of the rope comes down out of the tree, twisting like a snake. Simon grabs the rope and guides it down. Then he and Brendan start to take up the slack.

“Okay,” says Simon, loudly. “We’re going to start pulling.”

“Tally-ho!” Marty screams from his spot on the branch, his voice funny and high- pitched.

Laughing, the other two boys begin to pull on the rope. The plywood panel shifts, turns, spins, and then slowly begins to rise. The weight isn’t as much as they’d guessed, but it’s an awkward method of lifting a rectangular sheet, and the exertion starts to tell on them.

“It’s coming! I can see it.” Marty is excited. He is in his element.

Simon grits his teeth and concentrates on making his pulling action steady and rhythmical. He doesn’t want the timber to jolt or judder. It needs to rise as smoothly as they can make it; and if they try to rush what whey are doing, somebody might get hurt.

The panel swings as it rises, and the two boys on the ground keep their heads down, staying low so that it won’t take off the top of their skulls. As soon as it is hanging at a level far enough above them for safety, they straighten up, planting their feet and keeping a tight grip on the rope. Simon is at the rear, and he makes sure that he gathers the loose end as more of the rope is fed through his hands, forming a coil near his left foot.

“I’ve got it!” Marty sounds as if he is shouting through clenched teeth.

“Brace yourself.” Simon sets his body, leaning backwards.

“This is working…” Brendan peers up into the branches, trying to get a good view.

“Careful,” says Simon, as he feels the rope tighten in his hands. The panel drops a few inches, then, as he takes the weight, it is suspended for a moment above them. “Bren… I can’t hold it… it’s gonna drop!” But Brendan is staring at the plywood panel, as if he is seeing something magical.

Inevitably, the panel drops. The rope skids through Simon’s fingers, burning his skin, and the panel plummets to the ground. He falls back, stumbling but not quite going down, and Brendan doesn’t move. He just watches as the panel drops towards him, whistling as it moves through the space.

“Bren!”

Brendan begins to turn, and it is this which saves him from taking a blow to the head. Instead, the panel slices across his right forearm, taking off a swathe of skin and drawing blood, as it flashes past him. Brendan falls down, grabbing his wounded arm, and opens his mouth to scream.

Simon moves quickly, running to his friend. He goes down onto his knees and inspects the arm. Blood is running freely, and the skin has peeled away from wrist to elbow. The cut is not deep, but it is messy; Simon thinks he’ll probably need stitches.

Brendan is wailing, but he’s trying not to cry. His eyes are wide. His face is pale.

“Bloody hell,” Marty is at Simon’s side. “Bloody, bloody… bloody hell.”

“Are you okay? Can you move?” Simon is afraid to touch his friend’s arm, in case he makes things worse.

“Y-yeah… I can move.” Brendan sits up. His arm is coated in blood. The blood looks bright, like movie blood. That’s all Simon is able to think.

“You need to go home. Or to a hospital.” Marty starts to move, bending down to help the injured boy to his feet.

“No!” Brendan shouts the word. It is enough to stop the other two boys in their tracks. For a moment, they can’t move, can’t breathe. They just stand there and stare down at the third Amigo.

“You’re hurt, mate. This is finished.” Simon feels a twinge of regret as he speaks. He doesn’t want this to be over, not any of it: the day, the den-building, the summer. He wants to stay ten years old forever, staving off an uncertain future by playing in the trees on Beacon Green.

“No,” says Brendan, but softer this time. “I’ll be fine. It’s just scraped off some skin. Once the bleeding stops, we can start again.”

Simon feels a sense of admiration towards his friend. A choice has been made. Blood has been spilled. Like a sacrifice. Brendan’s inner strength is revealed.

“We can’t stop now. We have to finish what we started.” Brendan’s face is still pale, but his eyes are on fire. “We’ve gotta finish this.”

For a second, perhaps even less, nobody knows what Brendan means. Then, like water flowing through a crack in a dam, reality pours in and they realise that he means the den, the work they have been doing all day.

Now that the moment is broken, the boys feel able to move again. Marty takes off his T-shirt. “Here,” he says. “Use this as a bandage.”

Simon turns around and stares at Marty’s body. The boy already has muscles: his arms are hard; there is the vague suggestion of a future six-pack airbrushed across his stomach. There are fresh cigarette burns alongside the old, white scars on his upper arms and in the soft skin of his elbow joints.

He takes the shirt and slings it over one shoulder. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket — the one his grandmother bought him the Christmas before she died; he always carries it with him, but is never quite able to say why — and starts to scrub the blood off Brendan’s arm. The bleeding has slowed, almost stopped.

Once the arm is relatively clean, Simon uses Marty’s T-shirt to cover the wound, which under close inspection isn’t as bad as it looks. He ties it tightly, remembering from a film or a book that pressure will stop a wound from bleeding. It was probably in a war film. He loves war films. So he pretends that this is a combat situation, and he is treating a fallen comrade. In order to continue with the fight, the soldier has to get back on his feet, and it is his responsibility to make sure that happens.

“Are you sure you’re okay, soldier?” He stares into his friend’s eyes, looking for the cracks in his wall of courage.

Brendan nods. That’s all he does. He does not speak. Then, slowly, he gets back to his feet and walks over to the plywood panel, begins to inspect it for damage. “It’s fine,” he says without turning around. “Everything’s fine.”

But for some reason Simon doesn’t believe that. Deep down inside, like a big bass drum sounding some terrible beat, he feels certain that nothing will ever be fine again.

PART TWO Localised Necrosis