Cheap-shot Carter

I won't tell you the name of the village the both of us grew up in. If I did, it gets too real. I will say though, it's got these thick trees all around the east side, and on the west side there's great crumbling sea-cliffs that put us on a pedestal so we can sit out there at night and hear the sirens trying to lure us all in. I think that's real enough.

On the south side, there's the road out of town. That's where Cheap-shot Carter and I shot each other with homemade catapults and threw chestnuts at all the family cars on their way to church. One day in particular, I dared him to stick a slug in his mouth and swallow it whole, and fuck me, he did it. I'd brought Dad's unbranded vodka in a hip flask (I used water and vinegar as a replacement) and passed it over, and then he went and downed that too! He vomited over the roadside and then I did the same. We tumbled into a thick meadow on the countryside of the road cussing each other out with adult words.

On our knees in the tall grass, we're both panting and wiping each other's mouths with Sunday sleeves. Carter says, You think slugs go to heaven? If they do, you sure aren't going with it, I say. Son, you ate that thing whole. Carter stands up and shakes dead grass from his hair like a dog. I didn't chew though, so it doesn't count. You eat your roasts, Mick. What difference does it make? They've got them right on the table still bleeding out and that means they still got soul. Not on my plate they don't, I say. That's on Dougie Rankin and his boys— You can smell them before you see 'em! Carter says. Then he pulls his catapult and pings a walnut off my forehead. Keep letting me hit you and you'll be as dumb as them too.

We hike across the meadow, me nursing my head and Carter skipping forward. There are no bears or wolves or anything up here, but there could be. Carter says he once saw a big black cat on the treeline in October last year. He'd gone all the way up to it but it ran away, and there was this sow carcass with its innards spread all the way to the bank by the burn. Let's check it out now, Carter says. Like it'd come back after seeing your ugly mug, I say.

But wouldn't you know it, at the bank there's this dead rabbit with its guts all peeled up. We creep up and poke it with a stick and watch its head lilt from left to right. Man, that could have been a fox or anything, I say. No way, Carter says. I know wildcat tracks when I see them. Look— He points to the bushes on the other side of the burn. I don't see nothing, I say. It's gone and escaped that way, Carter says. Must have heard us coming, 'cause these tracks are fresh. Give me a leg up so I can swing across the water on this branch here. No chance, Carter. You give me a leg up. You're too fat. I'm not fat! Too many slugs, buddy. Hey, fuck you, man. If anyone's fat here, it's your ma. At least I have a ma.

He lunges at me, plunging head-first into my waist, and we both tumble into the burn. A rock catches my spine and I yell out, then I'm swallowing water, and everything spins.

Moments later, I'm spitting everything out and Carter is rolling on the bank howling with laughter and kicking rocks into the burn. That was amazing! He says. What the fuck happened? I say. Who cares. We crossed it, right? Let's go find the panther. He opens his palm and inside there's a handful of pebbles from the bank. Take some, he says. I think it's dangerous now. Let's load up, boy. I'm all waterlogged, I say. I think I cut my head somewhere, I can't see straight. Aim to the right then, Carter says. You look fine, no bruises or blood or nothing.

I climb to my feet and squelch with every step forward. My trousers stick to my thighs and my shirt wraps itself around my wrists like a second skin. Man, it was totally a fox, Carter. If we catch it, you going to eat that too?

Carter stops. He turns around and puts a hand on my shoulder, his eyes wide. He moves his head closer until I can feel the warmth of his breath. Moo, moo, bitch, he says. Then he slaps me on the cheek and skips away chuckling. Arsehole! I yell, chasing after him.

We emerge from the forest into a field big enough you could say it's endless, like those American ones you see on TV. Golden corn as high as our waists for miles, painted all the way across the hills. We don't say anything, but we stand for a full solid minute before Carter takes off again as I'm rubbing my head. The next thing he says is, If that slug and your cows and my Ma were all up there, it might look like this, I think. I put my hand on his shoulder and say, Better, even. They don't need to go like we do.

Look, Mick, Carter says, slapping his palm on my chest. There's some guy over there at the top of the hill. He's waving at us. There's this silhouette of a big guy with the setting sun to his back, one of his hands waving to the sky, and the other holding a shotgun. Balls, Carter, that's Dougie Rankin. I'm not so sure— Carter takes a step forward, and the silhouette raises the gun way above him and fires into the sky. Fuck, Mick, run.

My heart pounds as we slither through the corn like snakes, and the sound of Dougie Rankin's screaming grows louder. I cut my arms on shards of broken grass and lather myself in mud before Carter and I reach a barbed-wire fence. Give me a leg up, will you? Quickly! Carter says. I hold my hands out for his foot, and he places his on the fence post right as another shotgun blast shakes the wires. Fuck, can't he see we're trying to leave! Carter says. What's your problem, man? He screams. Hurry the fuck up, I wheeze. Carter, you're heavy as shit. He tumbles over to the other side, and I scramble up the fence post the best I can. He offers his arm for me to climb down with, but another shotgun blast makes me trip over and land on my face at the other side of the fence. We both pick ourselves up and scurry back into the next forest, whooping. Carter turns back to the field and raises two middle fingers. Fuck you, Rankin, you porky old bastard.

Dougie Rankin is running towards us, waving his arms in Morse code, and we slither into the bushes. The thorns and branches rip us to shreds, so by the time we're spat out to the other side, both of us are bleeding from our cheeks and limbs. That was cool as fuck, Carter says. You alive, Mick? Barely, you dumbass. I pluck flower buds from my temple and hold my arm tight over an open wound stretching from my elbow to my armpit. Da's going to kill me though, I say. The sound of our breathing. The grass sings with us. I close my eyes and listen to the music. Eh, we'll get by, Micky, Carter says. One good thing about my Ma dying is my Da is always real nice to me. Silver linings and all that. He'd kick Dougie Rankin's arse, you know. Think he's got a shotgun himself too. Let's take it next time. We catch our breath in the mud and I pull grass seed out my jeans. Hey, Carter, I say. What's up? Sorry about what I said about your ma. I didn't mean nothing by it, okay? Fuck off, Carter says.

We stumble through the new forest arm in arm, sweating and swearing and choking on our breath. I say, Not any place for a slug, and Carter says, Maybe we just weren't supposed to be there ourselves yet.

I'm not seeing so good. The trees weave and dance until they give way to roots and mud and sand. Beyond that, there's the sea with the sun melting into the horizon.

Hey, jeeze, I know my way back from here, I say. We're ten minutes from John Porter's cabin, then the old lighthouse behind that. Back in time for dinner, Carter says. Not even hungry. I shouldn't have eaten that slug, I guess. What you having, roast beef? Who cares?

We walk together along the beach. It's an evening where the tide is sinking back into the sea, and the sand is pulled back and stretched flat for miles. The only marks are our footprints. Think maybe they look a bit like wildcat prints, if you squint hard. I guess, Carter says. You want a cigarette? You're still doing that? Eh, only sometimes. Da doesn't know, okay? If you grass me up I'll slice you up. Deal? Deal, I say.

Carter stops to light up and looks at me. Mick, your head is really fucked up. Is that from the burn? I run my fingers along my forehead and examine the mizzles of blood on my forefinger. Nah, I'm good.

Carter's eyes fix back on our trail of footprints. He takes a puff, then without looking at me he says, Go fix yourself up, Micky Boy. I want to appreciate this a bit. You sure, Carter? Da says there's sirens out this end of the shore. I think I want to see one.

When I'm on my own, every so often I glance back at Carter and he's still looking at our footsteps, but his body changes. His feet sink into the sand and his arms spread out across the beach, his limbs stretching into each little imprint we made in the sand.

In this tiny village I won't name, nothing ever happens and in a way nothing ever will. I don't think we've ever had a tragedy in the way that young men overdose or hang themselves in their father's barn: city-boy things confined to a world far beyond our treeline.

I walk along the beach past John Porter's cabin and the old lighthouse just like I knew they'd be there, and I juggle both our catapults even though nobody watches me. I think about home, and how they've lit the fire and are preparing the real Sunday steak with the spices my gran made. Carter, maybe he's not thinking about the village, or home at all.

I think that's real enough too.