Atomic Theory

The Sergeant was sucking quietly at his stumps and carried a black shadow on his brow as if it were a hat.

As he walked he turned in my direction after a time.

‘The County Council has a lot to answer for,’ he said.

I did not understand his meaning, but I said that I agreed with him.

‘There is one puzzle,’ I remarked, ‘that is hurting the back of my head and causing me a lot of curiosity. It is about the bicycle. I have never heard of detective-work as good as that being done before. Not only did you find the lost bicycle but you found all the clues as well. I find it is a great strain for me to believe what I see, and I am becoming afraid occasionally to look at some things in case they would have to be believed. What is the secret of your constabulary virtuosity?'

He laughed at my earnest inquiries and shook his head with great indulgence at my simplicity.

‘It was an easy thing,’ he said.

‘How easy?'

‘Even without the clues I could have succeeded in ultimately finding the bicycle.'

‘It seems a very difficult sort of easiness,’ I answered.

‘Did you know where the bicycle was?'

‘I did.'

‘How?'

‘Because I put it there.'

‘You stole the bicycle yourself?'

‘Certainly.'

‘And the pump and the other clues?'

‘I put them where they were finally discovered also.'

‘And why?'

He did not answer in words for a moment but kept on walking strongly beside me looking as far ahead as possible.

‘The County Council is the culprit,’ he said at last.

I said nothing, knowing that he would blame the County Council at greater length if I waited till he had the blame thought out properly. It was not long till he turned in my direction to talk to me again. His face was grave.

‘Did you ever discover or hear tell of the Atomic Theory?’ he inquired.

‘No,' I answered.

He leaned his mouth confidentially over to my ear

‘Would it surprise you to be told,' he said darkly, ‘that the Atomic Theory is at work in this parish?'

‘It would indeed.'

‘It is doing untold destruction,' he continued, ‘the half of the people are suffering from it, it is worse than the smallpox.'

I thought it better to say something.

‘Would it be advisable,' I said, ‘that it should be taken in hand by the Dispensary Doctor or by the National Teachers or do you think it is a matter for the head of the family?'

‘The lock, stock and barrel of it all,' said the Sergeant, ‘is the County Council.'

He walked on looking worried and preoccupied as if what he was examining in his head was unpleasant in a very intricate way.

‘The Atomic Theory,' I sallied, ‘is a thing that is not clear to me at all.'

‘Michael Gilhaney,' said the Sergeant, ‘is an example of a man that is nearly banjaxed from the principle of the Atomic Theory. Would it astonish you to hear that he is nearly half a bicycle?'

‘It would surprise me unconditionally,' I said.

‘Michael Gilhaney,' said the Sergeant, ‘is nearly sixty years of age by plain computation and if he is itself, he has spent no less than thirty-five years riding his bicycle over the rocky roadsteads and up and down the hills and into the deep ditches when the road goes astray in the strain of the winter. He is always going to a particular destination or other on his bicycle at every hour of the day or coming back from there at every other hour. If it wasn't that his bicycle was stolen every Monday he would be sure to be more than half-way now.'

‘Half-way to where?'

‘Half-way to being a bicycle himself,' said the Sergeant.

‘Your talk,' I said, ‘is surely the handiwork of wisdom because not one word of it do I understand.'

‘Did you never study atomics when you were a lad?' asked the Sergeant, giving me a look of great inquiry and surprIse.

‘No,' I answered.

‘That is a very serious defalcation,' he said, ‘but all the same I will tell you the size of it. Everything is composed of small particles of itself and they are flying around in concentric circles and arcs and segments and innumerable other geometrical figures too numerous to mention collectively, never standing still or resting but spinning away and darting hither and thither and back again, all the time on the go. These diminutive gentlemen are called atoms. Do you follow me intelligently'

‘Yes.'

‘They are lively as twenty leprechauns doing a jig on top of a tombstone.'

A very pretty figure, Joe* murmured.

‘Now take a sheep,' the Sergeant said. ‘What is a sheep only millions of little bits of sheepness whirling around and doing intricate convolutions inside the sheep? What else is it but that?'

‘That would be bound to make the beast dizzy,' I observed, ‘especially if the whirling was going on inside the head as well.'

The Sergeant gave me a look which I am sure he himself would describe as one of non-possum and noli-me-tangere.

‘That remark is what may well be called buncombe,' he said sharply, ‘because the nerve-strings and the sheep's head itself are whirling into the same bargain and you can cancel out one whirl against the other and there you are - like simplifying a division sum when you have fives above and below the bar.'

‘To say the truth I did not think of that,' I said.

‘Atomics is a very intricate theorem and can be worked out with algebra but you would want to take it by degrees because you might spend the whole night proving a bit of it with rulers and cosines and similar other instruments and then at the wind-up not believe what you had proved at all. If that happened you would have to go back over it till you got a place where you could believe your own facts and figures as delineated from Hall and Knight's Algebra and then go on again from that particular place till you had the whole thing properly believed and not have bits of it half-believed or a doubt in your head hurting you like when you lose the stud of your shirt in bed.'

‘Very true,' I said.

‘Consecutively and consequentially,' he continued, ‘you can safely infer that you are made of atoms yourself and so is your fob pocket and the tail of your shirt and the instrument you use for taking the leavings out of the crook of your hollow tooth. Do you happen to know what takes place when you strike a bar of iron with a good coal hammer or with a blunt instrument?'

‘What?'

‘When the wallop falls, the atoms are bashed away down to the bottom of the bar and compressed and crowded there like eggs under a good clucker. After a while in the course of time they swim around and get back at last to where they were. But if you keep hitting the bar long enough and hard enough they do not get a chance to do this and what happens then?'

‘That is a hard question.'

‘Ask a blacksmith for the true answer and he will tell you that the bar will dissipate itself away by degrees if you persevere with the hard wallops. Some of the atoms of the bar will go into the hammer and the other half into the table or the stone or the particular article that is underneath the bottom of the bar.'

‘That is well-known,' I agreed.

‘The gross and net result of it is that people who spent most of their natural lives riding iron bicycles over the rocky roadsteads of this parish get their personalities mixed up with the personalities of their bicycle as a result of the interchanging of the atoms of each of them and you would be surprised at the number of people in these parts who nearly are half people and half bicycles.'

I let go a gasp of astonishment that made a sound in the air like a bad puncture.

‘And you would be flabbergasted at the number of bicycles that are half-human almost half-man, half-partaking of humanity.'

Apparently there is no limit, Joe remarked. Anything can be said in this place and it will be true and will have to be believed.

I would not mind being working this minute on a steamer in the middle of the sea, I said, coiling ropes and doing the hard manual work. I would like to be far away from here.

I looked carefully around me. Brown bogs and black bogs were arranged neatly on each side of the road with rectangular boxes carved out of them here and there, each with a filling of yellow-brown brown-yellow water. Far away near the sky tiny people were stooped at their turf work, cutting out precisely shaped sods with their patent spades and building them into a tall memorial twice the height of a horse and cart. Sounds came from them to the Sergeant and myself, delivered to our ears without charge by the west wind, sounds of laughing and whistling and bits of verses from the old bog songs. Nearer, a house stood attended by three trees and surrounded by the happiness of a coterie of fowls, all of them picking and rooting and disputating loudly in the unrelenting manufacture of their eggs. The house was quiet in itself and silent but a canopy of lazy smoke had been erected over the chimney to indicate that people were within engaged on tasks. Ahead of us went the road, running swiftly across the flat land and pausing slightly to climb slowly up a hill that was waiting for it in a place where there was tall grass, grey boulders and rank stunted trees. The whole overhead was occupied by the sky, serene, impenetrable, ineffable and incomparable, with a fine island of clouds anchored in the calm two yards to the right of Mr Jarvis's outhouse.

The scene was real and incontrovertible and at variance with the talk of the Sergeant, but I knew that the Sergeant was talking the truth and if it was a question of taking my choice, it was possible that I would have to forego the reality of all the simple things my eyes were looking at. I took a sideways view of him. He was striding on with signs of anger against the County Council on his coloured face.

‘Are you certain about the humanity of the bicycle?' I inquired of him. ‘Is the Atomic Theory as dangerous as you say?'

‘It is between twice and three times as dangerous as it might be,’ he replied gloomily. ‘Early in the morning I often think it is four times, and what is more, if you lived here for a few days and gave full play to your observation and inspection, you would know how certain the sureness of certainty is.'

‘Gilhaney did not look like a bicycle,' I said. ‘He had no back wheel on him and I did not think he had a front wheel either, although I did not give much attention to his front.'

The Sergeant looked at me with some commiseration.

‘You cannot expect him to grow handlebars out of his neck but I have seen him do more indescribable things than that. Did you ever notice the queer behaviour of bicycles in these parts?’

‘I am not long in this district.'

Thanks be, said Joe.

‘Then watch the bicycles if you think it is pleasant to be surprised continuously,' he said. ‘When a man lets things go so far that he is half or more than half a bicycle, you will not see so much because he spends a lot of his time leaning with one elbow on walls or standing propped by one foot at kerbstones. Of course there are other things connected with ladies and ladies' bicycles that I will mention to you separately some time. But the man-charged bicycle is a phenomenon of great charm and intensity and a very dangerous article.'

At this point a man with long coat-tails spread behind him approached quickly on a bicycle, coasting benignly down the road past us from the hill ahead. I watched him with the eye of six eagles, trying to find out which was carrying the other and whether it was really a man with a bicycle on his shoulders. I did not seem to see anything, however, that was memorable or remarkable.

The Sergeant was looking into his black notebook.

‘That was O'Feersa,' he said at last. ‘His figure is only twenty-three per cent.'

‘He is twenty-three per cent bicycle?'

'Yes.'

‘Does that mean that his bicycle is also twenty-three per cent O'Feersa?'

‘It does.'

‘How much is Gilhaney?'

‘Forty-eight.'

‘Then O'Feersa is much lower.'

‘That is due to the lucky fact that there are three similar brothers in the house and that they are too poor to have a separate bicycle apiece. Some people never know how fortunate they are when they are poorer than each other. Six years ago one of the three O'Feersas won a prize of ten pounds in John Bull. When I got the wind of this tiding, I knew I would have to take steps unless there was to be two new bicycles in the family, because you will understand that I can steal only a limited number of bicycles in the one week. I did not want to have three O'Feersas on my hands. Luckily I knew the postman very well. The postman! Great holy suffering indiarubber bowls of brown stirabout!' The recollection of the postman seemed to give the Sergeant a pretext for unlimited amusement and cause for intricate gesturing with his red hands.

‘The postman?' I said.

‘Seventy-one per cent,' he said quietly.

‘Great Scot!

‘A round of thirty-eight miles on the bicycle every single day for forty years, hail, rain or snowballs. There is very little hope of ever getting his number down below fifty again.'

‘You bribed him?'

‘Certainly. With two of the little straps you put around the hubs of bicycles to keep them spick.'

‘And what way do these people's bicycles behave?'

‘These people's bicycles?'

‘I mean these bicycles' people or whatever is the proper name for them - the ones that have two wheels under them and a handlebars.'

‘The behaviour of a bicycle that has a high content of humanity,' he said, ‘is very cunning and entirely remarkable. You never see them moving by themselves but you meet them in the least accountable places unexpectedly. Did you never see a bicycle leaning against the dresser of a warm kitchen when it is pouring outside?

‘I did.'

‘Not very far away from the fire?

'Yes.'

‘Near enough to the family to hear the conversation?'

‘Yes.'

‘Not a thousand miles from where they keep the eatables?,

‘I did not notice that. You do not mean to say that these bicycles eat food?'

‘They were never seen doing it, nobody ever caught them with a mouthful of steak. All I know is that the food disappears.'

'What!'

‘It is not the first time I have noticed crumbs at the front wheels of some of these gentlemen.'

‘All this is a great blow to me,' I said.

‘Nobody takes any notice,' replied the Sergeant. ‘Mick thinks that Pat brought it in and Pat thinks that Mick was instrumental. Very few of the people guess what is going on in this parish. There are other things I would rather not say too much about. A new lady teacher was here one time with a new bicycle. She was not very long here till Gilhaney went away into the lonely country on her female bicycle. Can you appreciate the immorality of that?'

‘I can.'

‘But worse happened. Whatever way Gilhaney's bicycle managed it, it left itself leaning at a place where the young teacher would rush out to go away somewhere on her bicycle in a hurry. Her bicycle was gone but here was Gilhaney's leaning there conveniently and trying to look very small and comfortable and attractive. Need I inform you what the result was or what happened?'

Indeed he need not, Joe said urgently. I have never heard of anything so shameless and abandoned. Of course the teacher was blameless, she did not take pleasure and did not know.

‘You need not,' I said.

‘Well, there you are. Gilhaney has a day out with the lady's bicycle and vice versa contrarily and it is quite clear that the lady in the case had a high number - thirty-five or forty, I would say, in spite of the newness of the bicycle. Many a grey hair it has put into my head, trying to regulate the people of this parish. If you let it go too far it would be the end of everything. You would have bicycles wanting votes and they would get seats on the County Council and make the roads far worse than they are for their own ulterior motivation. But against that and on the other hand, a good bicycle is a great companion, there is a great charm about it.'

‘How would you know a man has a lot of bicycle in his veins?'

‘If his number is over Fifty you can tell it unmistakable from his walk. He will walk smartly always and never sit down and he will lean against the wall with his elbow out and stay like that all night in his kitchen instead of going to bed. If he walks too slowly or stops in the middle of the road he will fall down in a heap and will have to be lifted and set in motion again by some extraneous party . This is the unfortunate state that the postman has cycled himself into, and I do not think he will ever cycle himself out of it.'

‘I do not think I will ever ride a bicycle,' I said.

‘A little of it is a good thing and makes you hardy and puts iron on to you. But walking too far too often too quickly is not safe at all. The continual cracking of your feet on the road makes a certain quantity of road come up into you. When a man dies they say he returns to clay but too much walking fills you up with clay far sooner (or buries bits of you along the road) and brings your death half-way to meet you. It is not easy to know what is the best way to move yourself from one place to another.’

After he had finished speaking I found myself walking nimbly and lightly on my toes in order to prolong my life. My head was packed tight with fears and miscellaneous apprehensions.

‘I never heard of these things before,' I said, ‘and never knew these happenings could happen. Is it a new development or was it always an ancient fundamental?'

The Sergeant's face clouded and he spat thoughtfully three yards ahead of him on the road.

‘I will tell you a secret,' he said very confidentially in a low voice. ‘My great-grandfather was eighty-three when he died. For a year before his death he was a horse! ,

‘A horse?'

‘A horse in everything but extraneous externalities. He would spend the day grazing in a field or eating hay in a stall. Usually he was lazy and quiet but now and again he would go for a smart gallop, clearing the hedges in great style. Did you ever see a man on two legs galloping?'

‘I did not.'

‘Well, I am given to understand that it is a great sight. He always said he won the Grand National when he was a lot younger and used to annoy his family with stories about the intricate jumps and the great height of them.'

‘I suppose your great-grandfather got himself into this condition by too much horse riding?'

‘That was the size of it. His old horse Dan was in the contrary way and gave so much trouble, coming into the house at night and interfering with young girls during the day and committing indictable offences that they had to shoot him. The police were unsympathetic, not comprehending things rightly in these days. They said they would have to arrest the horse and charge him and have him up at the next Petty Sessions unless he was done away with. So my family shot him but if you ask me it was my great-grandfather they shot and it is the horse that is buried up in CloncoonIa Churchyard.'

The Sergeant then became thoughtful at the recollection of his ancestors and had a reminiscent face for the next half-mile till we came to the barracks. Joe and I agreed privately that these revelations were the supreme surprise stored for us and awaiting our arrival in the barracks.

When we reached it the Sergeant led the way in with a sigh.

‘The lock, stock and barrel of it all,’ he said, ‘is the County Council.'



---- from The Third Policeman, by Flann O'Brien



* Joe is the narrator's soul, with whom the narrator can converse.

The Swan

Ernie had been given a .22-caliber rifle for his birthday.

His father, who was already slouching on the sofa watching television at nine-thirty on this Saturday morning, said, "Let's see what you can pot, boy. Make yourself useful. Bring us back a rabbit for supper."

"There's rabbits in that big field the other side of the lake," Ernie said. "I seen 'em."

"Then go out and nab one," the father said, picking breakfast from between his front teeth with a split matchstick. "Go out and nab us a rabbit."

"I'll get yer two," Ernie said.

"And on the way back," the father said, "get me a quart bottle of brown ale."

"Gimme the money, then," Ernie said.

The father, without taking his eyes from the TV screen, fished in his pocket for a pound note. "And don't try pinchin' the change like you did last time," he said. "You'll get a thick ear if you do, birthday or no birthday."

"Don't worry," Ernie said.

"And if you want to practice and get your eye in with that gun," the father said, "birds is best. See 'ow many spadgers you can knock down, right?"

"Right," Ernie said. "There's spadgers all the way up the lane in the 'edges. Spadgers is easy."

"If you think spadgers is easy," the father said, "go get yourself a jenny wren. Jenny wrens is 'alf the size of spadgers and they never sit still for one second. Get yourself a jenny wren before you start shootin' yer mouth off about 'ow clever you is."

"Now Albert," his wife said, looking up from the sink. "That's not nice, shootin' little birds in the nestin' season. I don't mind rabbits, but little birds in the nestin' season is another thing altogether."

"Shut your mouth," the father said. "Nobody's askin' your opinion. And listen to me, boy," he said to Ernie. "Don't go wavin' that thing about in the street because you ain't got no license. Stick it down your trouser leg till you're out in the country, right?"

"Don't worry," Ernie said. He took the gun and the box of bullets and went out to see what he could kill. He was a big lout of a boy, fifteen years old this birthday. Like his truck-driver father, he had small, slitty eyes set very close together near the top of the nose. His mouth was loose, the lips often wet. Brought up in a household where physical violence was an everyday occurrence, he was himself an extremely violent person. Most Saturday afternoons, he and a gang of friends traveled by train or bus to soccer matches, and if they didn't manage to get into a bloody fight before they returned home, they considered it a wasted day. He took great pleasure in catching small boys after school and twisting their arms behind their backs. Then he would order them to say insulting and filthy things about their own parents.

"Ow! Please don't, Ernie! Please!"

"Say it or I'll twist your arm off!"

They always said it. Then he would give the arm an extra twist, and the victim would go off in tears.

Ernie's best friend was called Raymond. He lived four doors away, and he, too, was a big boy for his age. But while Ernie was heavy and loutish, Raymond was tall, slim, and muscular.

Outside Raymond's house, Ernie put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long, shrill whistle. Raymond came out.

"Look what I got for me birthday," Ernie said, showing the gun.

"Cripes!" Raymond said. "We can have some fun with that!"

"Come on, then," Ernie said. "We're goin'up to the big field the other side of the lake and get us a rabbit."

The two boys set off. This was a Saturday morning in May, and the countryside was beautiful around the small village where the boys lived. The chestnut trees were in full flower and the hawthorn was white around the hedges. To reach the big rabbit field, Ernie and Raymond had first to walk down a narrow hedgy lane for half a mile. Then they must cross the railway line, and go around the big lake where wild ducks and moorhens and coots and ring-ouzels lived.Beyind the lake, over the hill and down the other side, lay the rabbit field. This was all private land belonging to Douglas Highton, and the lake itself was a sanctuary for waterfowl.

All the way up the lane, they took turns with the gun, potting at small birds in the hedges. Ernie got a bullfinch and a hedge sparrow. Raymond got a second bullfinch, a whitethroat and a yellowhammer. As each bird was killed, they tied it by the legs to a line of string. Raymond never went anywhere without a big ball of string in his jacket pocket, and a knife. Now they had five little birds dangling on the line of string.

“You know something,” Raymond said. “We can eat these.”

“Don’t talk so daft,” Ernie said. “There’s not enough meat on one of those to feed a woodhouse.”

“There is, too,” Raymond said. “The Frenchies eat ‘em and so do the Eyrties. Mr. Sanders told us about it in class. He said the Frenchies and the Eyeties put up nets and catch ‘em by the million and then they eat ‘em.

“All right, then,” Ernie said. “Let’s see ‘ow many we can get. Then we’ll take ‘em ‘ome and put ‘em in the rabbit stew.”

As they progressed up the lane, they shot at every little bird they saw. By the time they got to the railway line, they had fourteen small dead birds dangling on the line of string.
“Hey!” whispered Ernie, pointing with a long arm. “Look over there!”

There was a group of trees and bushes alongside the railway line, and beside one of the bushes stood a small boy. He was looking up into the branches of an old tree through a pair of binoculars.
“You know who that is?” Raymond whispered back. “It’s that little twerp Watson.”

“You’re right!” Ernie whispered. “It’s Watson, the scum of the earth!”

Peter Watson was always the enemy. Ernie and Raymond detested him because he was nearly everything that they were not. He had a small, frail body. His face was freckled, and he wore spectacles with thick lenses. He was a brilliant pupil, already in the senior class at school although he was only thirteen. He loved music and played the piano well. He was no good at games. He was quiet and polite. His clothes, although patched and darned, were always clean. And his father did not drive a truck or work in a factory. He worked at the bank.

“Let’s give the little perisher a fright,” Ernie whispered.

The two bigger boys crept up close to the small boy, who didn’t see them because he still had the binoculars to his eyes.

“‘Ands up!” shouted Ernie, pointing the gun.

Peter Watson jumped. He lowered the binoculars and stared through his spectacles at the two intruders.

“Go on!” Ernie shouted. “Stick ‘em up!”

“I wouldn’t point that gun if I were you,” Peter Watson said.

“We’re givin’ the orders round ‘ere!” Ernie said.

“So stick ‘em up, unless you want a slug in the guts!”

Peter Watson stood quite still, holding the binoculars in front of him with both hands. He looked at Raymond. Then he looked at Ernie. He was not afraid, but he knew better than to play the fool with these two. He had suffered a good deal from their attentions over the years.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to stick ‘em up!” Ernie yelled at him. “Can’t you understand English?”

Peter Watson didn’t move.

“I’ll count to five,” Ernie said, “and if they’re not up by then, you get it in the guts. One...two...three...”

Peter Watson raised his arms slowly above his head. It was the only sensible thing to do. Raymond stepped forward and snatched the binoculars from his hand. “What’s this?” he snapped. “Who you spyin’ on?”

“Nobody.”

“Don’t lie, Watson. Them things is used for spyin’! I’ll bet you was spyin’on us! That’s right, ain’t it? Confess it!”

“I certainly wasn’t spying on you.”

“Give ‘im a clip over the ear,” Ernie said. “Teach ‘im not to lie to us.”

“I’ll do that in a minute,” Raymond said. “I’m just workin’ meself up.”

Peter Watson considered the possibility of trying to escape. All he could do would be to turn and run, and that was pointless. They’d catch him in seconds. And if he shouted for help, there was no one to hear him. All he could do, therefore, was to keep calm and try to talk his way out.

“Keep them ‘ands up!” Ernie barked, waving the barrel of the gun gently from side to side the way he had seen it done by gangsters on television. “Go on, laddie, reach!”

Peter did as he was told.

“So ‘oo was you spyin’ on?” Raymond asked. “Out with it!”

“I was watching a green woodpecker,” Peter said.

“A what?”

“A male green woodpecker. He was tapping the trunk of that old dead tree, searching for grubs.”

“Where is ‘ee?” Ernie snapped, raising his gun. “I’ll ‘ave ‘im!”

“No, you won’t,” Peter said, looking at the string of tiny birds slung over Raymond’s shoulder. “He flew off the moment you shouted. Woodpeckers are extremely timid.”

“What you watchin’ ‘im for?” Raymond asked suspiciously. “What’s the point? Don’t you ‘ave nothin’ better to do?”

“It’s fun watching birds,” Peter said. “It’s a lot more fun than shooting them.”

“Why you cheeky little bleeder!” Ernie cried. “So you don’t like us shootin’ birds, eh? Is that what you’re sayin’?”

“I think it’s absolutely pointless.”

“You don’t like anything we do, isn’t that right?” Raymond said.

Peter didn’t answer.

“Well, let me tell you something,” Raymond went on. “We don’t like anything you do either.”

Peter’s arms were beginning to ache. He decided to take a risk. Slowly, he lowered them to his sides.

“Up!” yelled Ernie. “Get ‘em up!”

“What if I refuse?”

“Blimey! You got a ruddy nerve, ain’t you?” Ernie said. “I’m tellin’ you for the last time, if you don’t stick ‘em up I’ll pull the trigger!”

“That would be a criminal act,” Peter said. “It would be a case for the police.”

“And you’d be a case of the ‘ospital!” Ernie said.

“Go ahead and shoot,” Peter said. “Then they’ll send you to Borstal. That’s prison.”

He saw Ernie hesitate.

“You’re really askin’ for it, ain’t you?” Raymond said.

“I’m simply asking to be let alone,” Peter said. “I haven’t done you any harm.”

“You’re a stuck-up little squirt,” Ernie sain. “That’s exactly what you are, a stuck-up little squirt.”

Raymond leaned over and whispered something in Ernie’s ear. Ernie listened intently. Then he slapped his thigh and said, “I like it! It’s a great idea!”

Ernie placed his gun on the ground and advanced upon the small boy. He grabbed him and threw him to the ground. Raymond took the roll of string from his pocket and cut off a length of it. Together, they forced the boy’s arms in front of him and tied his wrists together tight.

“Now the legs,” Raymond said. Peter struggled and received a punch in the stomach. This winded him, and he lay still. Next, they tied his ankles together with more string. He was now trussed up like a chicken and completely helpless.

Ernie picked up his gun, and then, with his other hand, he grabbed one of Peter’s arms. Raymond grabbed the other arm and together they began to drag the boy over the grass toward the railway line.

Peter kept absolutely quiet. Whatever it was they were up to, talking to them wasn’t going to help matters.

They dragged their victim down the enbankment and on to the railway tracks themselves. Then one took the arms and the other the feet and they lifted him up and laid him down again lengthwise right between two rails.

“You’re mad!” Peter said. “You can’t do this!”

“‘Oo says we can’t? This is just a little lesson we’re teachin’ you not to be cheeky.”

“More string,” Ernie said.

Raymond produced the ball of string, and the two larger boys now proceeded to tie their victim down in such a way that he couldn’t wriggle away from between the rails. They did this by looping string around each of his arms and then threading the string inder the rails on either side. They did the same with his middle body and his ankles.When they had finished, Peter Watson was strung down helpless and virtually immobile between the rails. The only parts of his body he could move to any extent were his head and feet.

Ernie and Raymond stepped back to survey their handiwork. “We done a nice job,” Ernie said.
“There’s trains every ‘arf ‘our on this line,” Raymond said. “We ain’t gonna ‘ave long to wait.”
“This is murder!” crie the small boy lying between the rails.

“No it ain’t,” Raymond told him. “It ain’t anything of the sort.”

“Let me go! Please let me go! I’ll be killed if a train comes along!”

“If you are killed, sonny boy,” Ernie said, “it’ll be your own ruddy fault and I’ll tell you why. Because if you lift your ‘ead up like you’re doin’ now, then you’ve ‘ad it, chum! You keep down flat and you might just possibly get away with it. On the other ‘and, you might not because I ain’t exactly sure ‘ow much clearance them trains’ve got underneath. You ‘appen to know, Raymond, ‘ow much clearance them trains got underneath?”

“Very little,” Raymond said. “They’re built ever so close to the ground.”

“Might be enough and it might not,” Ernie said.

“Let’s put it this way,” Raymond said. “It’d probably just about be enough for an ordinary person like me or you, Ernie. But Mister Watson ‘ere I’m not so sure about and I’ll tell you why.”
“Tell me,” said Ernie, egging him on.

“Mister Watson ‘ere’s got an extra big head, that’s why. ‘Ee’s so flippin’ big-’eaded I personally think the bottom bit of the train’s gonna scrape ‘im whatever ‘appens. I’m not sayin’ it’s goin’ to take ‘is ‘ead off, mind you. In fact I’m pretty sure it ain’t goin’ to do that. But it’s goin’ to give ‘is face a good old scrapin’ over. You can be quite sure of that.”

“I think you’re right,” Ernie said.

“It don’t do,” Raymond said, “to ‘ave a great big swollen ‘ead full of brains if you’re lyin’ on th railway tracks with a train comin’ toward you. That’s right, ain’t it, Ernie?”

“That’s right,” Ernie said.

The two bigger boys climbed back up the embankment and sat on the grass behind some bushes. Ernie produced a pack of cigarettes, and they both lit up.

Peter Watson, lying helpless between the rails, realized now that they were not going to release him. These were dangerous, crazy boys. They lived for the moment and never considered the consequences. I must try to keep calm and think, Peter told himself. He lay there, quite still, weighing his chances. His chances were good. The highest part of him was his head and the highest part of his head was his nose. He estimated the end of his nose was sticking up about four inches above the rails. Was that too much? He wasn’t quite sure what clearance these modern diesels had above the ground. It certainly wasn’t very much. The back of his head was resting upon loose gravel in between two sleepers. He must try to burrow down a little into the gravel. So he began to wriggle his head from side to side, pushing the gravel away and gradually making for himself a small indentation, a hole in the gravel. In the end, he reckoned he had lowered his head an extra two inches. That would do for the head. But what about the feet? They were sticking up, too. He took care of the by swinging the two tied-together feet over to one side so that they lay almost flat.

He waited for the train to come.

Would the driver see him? It was very unlikely, for this was the main line, London, Doncaster, York, Newcastle and Scotland, and they used huge long engines in which the driver sat in a cab way back and kept an eye open only for the signals. Along this stretch of track they traveled around eighty miles and hour. Peter knew that. He had sat on the bank many times watching them When he was younger, he used to keep a record of their numbers in a little book, and sometimes the engines had names written on their sides in gold letters.

Either way, he told himself, it was going to be a terrifying business. The noise would be deafening, and the swish of the eighty-mile-an-hour wind wouldn’t be much fun either. He wondered for a moment whether there would be any kind of vacuum created underneath the train as it rushed over him, sucking him upward. There might well be. So whatever happened, he must concentrate everything upon pressing his entire body against the ground. Don’t go limp. Keep stiff and tense and press down into the ground.

“How’re you doin’, ratface?” one of them called out to him from the bushes above. “What’s it like, waitin’ for the execution?”

He decided not to answer. He watched the blue sky above his head where a single huge cumulus cloud was drifting slowly from left to right. And to keep his mind off the thing that was going to happen soon, he played a game that his father had taught him long ago on a hot summer’s day when they were lying on their backs in the grass above the cliffs at Beachy Head. The game was to look for strange faces in the folds and shadows and billows of a cumulus cloud. If you looked hard enough, his father had said, you would always find a face of some sort up there. Peter let his eyes travel slowly over the cloud. In one place, he found a one-eyed man with a beard. In another, there was a long-chinned laughing witch. An airplane came across the cloud traveling from east to west. It was a small high-winged monoplane with a red fuselage. An old Piper Cub, he thought it was. He watched it until it disappeared.

And then, quite suddenly, he heard a curious little vibrating sound coming from the rails on either side of him. It was very soft, this sound, scarcely audible, a tiny little humming, thrumming whisper that seemed to be coming along the rails from far away.

That’s a train, he told himself.

The vibrating along the rails grew louder, then louder still. He raised his head and looked down the long and absolutely straight railway track that stretched away for a mile or more in the distance. It was then that he saw the train. At first it was only a speck, a faraway black dot, but in those few seconds that he kept his head raised, the dot grew bigger and bigger, and it began to take shape, and soon it was no longer a dot but the big, square, blunt front-end of a diesel express. Peter dropped his head and pressed it down hard into the small hole he had dug for it in the gravel. He swung his feet over to one side. He shut his eyes tight and tried to sink his body into the ground.

The train came over him like an explosion. It was as though a gun had gone off in his head. And with the explosion came a tearing, screaming wind that was like a hurricane blowing down his nostrils and into his lungs. The noise was shattering. The wind choked him. He felt as if he were being eaten alive and swallowed up in the belly of a screaming murderous monster.

And then it was over. The train had gone. Peter opened his eyes and saw the blue sky and the big white cloud still drifting overhead. It was all over now and he had done it. He had survived.

“It missed ‘im,” said a voice.

“What a pity,” said another voice.

He glanced sideways and saw the two large louts standing over him.

“Cut ‘im loose,” Ernie said.

Raymond cut the strings binding him to the rails on either side.

“Undo ‘is feet so ’ee can walk, but keep ‘is ‘ands tied,” Ernie said.

Raymond cut the string around his ankles.

“Get up,” Ernie said.

Peter got to his feet.

“What about them rabbits?” Raymond asked. “I thought we was goin’ to try for a few rabbits?”

“Plenty of time for that,” Ernie answered. “I just thought we’d push the little bleeder into the lake on the way.”

“Good,” Raymond said. “Cool ‘im down.”

“You’ve had your fun,” Peter Watson said. “Why don’t you let me go now?”

“Because you’re a prisoner,” Ernie said. “And you ain’t just no ordinary prisoner neither. You’re a spy. And you know what ‘appens to spies when they get caught, don’t you? They get put up against the wall and shot.”

Peter didn’t say any more after that. There was no point at all in provoking these two. The less he said to them and the less he resisted them, the more chance he would have of escaping injury. He had no doubt whatsoever that in their present mood they were capable of doing him quite serious bodily harm. He knew for a fact that Ernie had once broken little Wally’s Simpson’s arm after school, and Wally’s parents had gone to the police. He had also heard Raymond boasting about what he called “putting the boot in” at the soccer matches they went to. This, he understood, meant kicking someone in the face or body when he was lying on the ground. They were hooligans, these two, and from what Peter read in his father’s newspaper nearly every day, they were not by any means on their own. It seemed the whole country was full of hooligans. They wrecked the interiors of trains, they fought pitched battles in the streets with knives and bicycle chains and metal clubs, they attacked pedestrians, especially other young boys walking alone, and they smashed up roadside cafés. Ernie and Raymond, though perhaps not quite yet fully qualified hooligans, were most definitely on their way.

Therefore, Peter told himself, he must continue to be passive. Don’t insult them. Do not aggravate them in any way. And above all, do not try to take them on physically. Then, hopefully, in the end, they might become bored with this nasty little game and go off to shoot rabbits.

The two larger boys had each taken hold of one of Peter’s arms and they were marching him across the next field toward the lake. The prisoner’s wrists were still tied together in front of him. Ernie carried the gun in his spare hand. Raymond carried the binoculars he had taken from Peter. They came to the lake.

The lake was beautiful on this golden May morning. It was a long and fairly narrow lake with tall willow trees growing here and there along its banks. In the middle, the water was clear and clean, but nearer to the land there was a forest of reeds and bulrushes.

Ernie and Raymond marched their prisoner to the edge of the lake, and there they stopped.

“Now then,” Ernie said. “What I suggest is this. You take ‘is arms and I take ‘is legs and we’ll swing the little perisher one-two-three as far out as we can into them nice muddy reeds. ‘Ow’s that?”

“I like it,” Raymond said. “And leave ‘is ‘ands tied together, right?”

“Right,” Ernie said. “’Ow’s that with you, snotnose?”

“If that’s what you’re going to do, I can’t very well stop you,” Peter said, trying to keep his voice cool and calm.

“Just you try and stop us,” Ernie said, grinning, “and then see what ‘appens to you.”

“One last question,” Peter said. “Did you ever take on somebody your own size?”

The moment he said it, he knew he had made a mistake. He saw the flush coming to Ernie’s cheeks, and there was a dangerous little spark dancing in his small black eyes.

Luckily, at that very moment, Raymond saved the situation. “Hey! Lookit that bird swimmin’ in the reeds over there!” he shouted, pointing. “Let’s ‘ave ‘im!”

It was a mallard drake with a curvy spoon-shaped yellow beak and a head of emerald green with a white ring around its neck. “Now those you really can eat,” Raymond went on. “It’s a wild duck.”

“I’ll ‘ave ‘im!” Ernie cried. He let go of the prisoner’s arm and lifted the gun to his shoulder.

“This is a bird sanctuary,” Peter said.

“A what?” Ernie asked, lowering the gun.

“Nobody shoots birds here. It’s strictly forbidden.”

“’Oo says it’s forbidden?”

“The owner, Mr. Douglas Highton.”

“You must be joking,” Ernie said and he raised the gun again. He shot. The duck crumpled in the water.

“Go get ‘im,” Ernie said to Peter. “Cut ‘is ‘ands free, Raymond, ‘cause then ‘ee can be our flippin’ gundog and fetch the birds after we shoot ‘em.”

Raymond took out his knife and cut the string binding the small boy’s wrists.

“Go on!” Ernie snapped. “Go get ‘im!”

The killing of the beautiful duck had disturbed Peter very much. “I refuse,” he said.

Ernie hit him across the face hard with his open hand. Peter didn’t fall down, but a small trickle of blood began running out of one nostril.

“You dirty little perisher!” Ernie said. “You just try refusin’ me one more time and I’m goin’ to make you a promise. And the promise is like this. You refuse me just one more time and I’m goin’ to knock out every single one of them shiny white front teeth of yours, top and bottom. You unnerstand that?”

Peter said nothing.

“Answer me!” Ernie barked. “Do you unnerstand that?”

“Yes,” Peter said quietly. “I understand.”

“Get on with it, then!” Ernie shouted.

Peter walked down the bank, into the muddy water, through the reeds, and picked up the duck. He brought it back, and Raymond took it from him and tied string around its legs.

“Now we got a retriever dog with us, let’s see if we can’t get us a few more of them ducks,” Ernie said. He strolled along the bank, gun in hand, searching the reeds. Suddenly he stopped. He crouched. He put a finger to his lips and said, “Sshh!”

Raymond went over to join him. Peter stood a few yards away, his trousers covered with mud up to the knees.

“Lookit in there!” Ernie whispered, pointing into a dense patch of bulrushes. “D’you see what I see?”

“Holy cats!” cried Raymond. “What a beauty!”

Peter, peering from a little farther away into the rushes, saw at once what they were looking at. It was a swan, a magnificent white swan sitting serenely on her nest. The nest itself was a huge pile of reeds and rushes that rose up about two feet above the waterline, and upon the top of all this, the swan was sitting like a great white lady of the lake. Her head was turned toward the boys on the bank, alert and watchful.

“’Ow about that?” Ernie said. “That’s better’n ducks, ain’t it?”

“You think you can get ‘er?” Raymond asked.

“Of course I can get ‘er. I’ll drill a ‘ole right through ‘er noggin!”

Peter felt a wild rage beginning to build up inside him. He walked up to the two bigger boys. “I wouldn’t shoot that swan if I were you,” he said trying to keep his voice calm. “Swans are the most protected birds in England.”

“And what’s that got to do with it?” Ernie asked him, sneering.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” Peter went on, throwing all caution away. “Nobody shoots a bird sitting on its nest. Absolutely nobody! She may even have cygnets under her! You just can’t do it!”

“’Oo says we can’t?” Raymond asked, sneering. “Mister bleedin’ snottynose Peter Watson, is that the one ‘oo says it?”

“The whole country says it,” Peter answered. “The law says it and the police say it and everyone says it!”

“I don’t say it!” Ernie said, raising his gun.

“Don’t!” screamed Peter. “Please don’t!”

Crack! The gun went off. The bullet hit the swan right in the middle of her elegant head and the long white neck collapsed onto the side of the nest.

“Got ‘im!” cried Ernie.

“Hot shot!” shouted Raymond.

Ernie turned to Peter, who was standing small and white-faced and absolutely rigid. “Now go get ‘im,” he ordered.

Once again, Peter didn’t move.

Ernie came up close to the smaller boy and bent down and stuck his face right up to Peter’s. “I’m tellin’ you for the last time,” he said, soft and dangerous. “Go get ‘im!”

Tears were running down Peter’s face as he went slowly down the bank and entered the water. He waded out to the dead swan and picked it up tenderly with both hands. Underneath it were two tiny cygnets, their bodies covered with yellow down. They were huddling together in the center of the nest.

“Any eggs?” Ernie shouted from the bank.

“No,” Peter answered. “Nothing.” There was a chance, he felt, that when the male swan returned, it would continue to feed the young ones on its own if they were left in the nest. He certainly did not want to leave them to the tender mercies of Ernie and Raymond.

Peter carried the dead swan back to the edge of the lake. He placed it on the ground. Then he stood up and faced the two others. His eyes, still wet with tears, were now blazing with fury. “That was a filthy thing to do!” he shouted. “It was a stupid, pointless act of vandalism! You’re a couple of ignorant idiots! It’s you who ought to be dead instead of the swan! You’re not fit to be alive!”

He stood there, as tall as he could stand, splendid in his fury, facing the two taller boys and not caring any longer what they did to him.

Ernie didn’t hit him this time. He seemed just a tiny bit taken aback at first by this outburst, but he quickly recovered. And now his loose lips formed themselves into a sly wet smirk and his small close-together eyes began to glint in a most malicious manner. “So you like swans, is that right?” he asked softly.

“I like swans and I hate you!” Peter cried.

“And am I right in thinkin’,” Ernie went on, still smirking, “am I absolutely right in thinkin’ that you wished this old swan down ‘ere were alive instead of dead?”

“That’s a stupid question!” Peter shouted.

“’Ee needs a clip over the ear-’ole,” Raymond said.

“Wait,” Ernie said. “I’m doin’ this exercise.” He turned back to Peter. “So if I could make this swan come alive and go flyin’ round the sky all over again, then you’d be ‘appy. Right?”

“That’s another stupid question!” Peter cried out. “Who d’you think you are?”

“I’ll tell you ‘oo I am,” Ernie said. “I’m a magic man, that’s ‘oo I am. And just to make you ‘appy and contented, I am about to do a magic trick that’ll make this dead swan come alive and go flyin’ all over the sky once again.”

“Rubbish!” Peter said. “I’m going.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Grab ‘im!” Ernie said.

Raymond grabbed him.

“Leave me alone!” Peter cried out.

Raymond slapped him on the cheek, hard. “Now, now,” he said. “Don’t fight with auntie, not unless you want to get ‘urt.”

“Gimme your knife,” Ernie said, holding out his hand. Raymond gave him his knife.

Ernie knelt down beside the dead swan and stretched out one of its enormous wings. “Watch this,” he said.

“What’s the big idea?” Raymond asked.

“Wait and see,” Ernie said. And now, using the knife, he proceeded to sever the great white wing from the swan’s body. There is a joint in the bone where the wing meets the side of the bird, and Ernie located this and slid the knife into the joint and cut through the tendon. The knife was very sharp and it cut well, and soon the wing came away all in one piece.

Ernie turned the swan over and severed the other wing.

“String,” he said, holding out his hand to Raymond.

Raymond, who was grasping Peter by the arm, was watching, fascinated. “Where’d you learn ‘ow to butcher up a bird like that?” he asked.

“With chickens,” Ernie said. “We used to nick chickens from up at Stevens Farm and cut ‘em up into chicken parts and sell ‘em to a shop in Aylesbury. Gimme the string.”

Raymond gave him the ball of string. Ernie cut off six pieces, each about a yard long.

There are a series of strong bones running along the top edge of a swan’s wing, and Ernie took one of the wings and started tying one end of the bits of string all the way along the top edge of the great wing. When he had done this, he lifted the wing with the six string-ends dangling from it and said to Peter, “Stick out your arm.”

“You’re absolutely mad!” the smaller boy shouted. “You’re demented!”

“Make ‘im stick it out,” Ernie said to Raymond.

Raymond held up a clenched fist in front of Peter’s face and dabbed it gently against his nose. “You see this,” he said. “Well, I’m goin’ to smash you right in the kisser with it unless you do exactly as you’re told, see? Now, stick out your arm, there’s a good little boy.”

Peter felt his resistance collapsing. He couldn’t hold out against these people any longer. For a few seconds, he stared at Ernie. Ernie with the tiny close-together black eyes gave the impression he would be capable of doing just about anything if he got really angry. Ernie, Peter felt at the moment, might quite easily kill a person if he were to lose his temper. Ernie, the dangerous, backward child, was playing games now, and it would be very unwise to spoil his fun. Peter held out an arm.

Ernie then proceeded to tie the six string-ends one by one to Peter’s arm, and when he had finished, the white wing of the swan was securely attached along the entire length of the arm itself.

“’Ow’s that, eh?” Ernie said, stepping back and surveying his work.

“Now the other one,” Raymond said, catching on to what Ernie was doing. “You can’t expect ‘im to go flyin’ round the sky with only one wing, can you?”

“Second wing comin’ up,” Ernie said. He knelt down again and tied six more lengths of string to the top bones of the second wing. Then he stood up again. “Let’s ‘ave the other arm,” he said.

Peter, feeling sick and ridiculous, held out his other arm. Ernie strapped the wing tightly along the length of it.

“Now!” Ernie cried, clapping his hands and dancing a little jig on the grass. “Now we got ourselves a real live swan all over again! Didn’t I tell you I was a magic man? Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to do a magic trick and make this dead swan come alive and go flyin’ all over the sky? Didn’t I tell you that?”

Peter stood there in the sunshine beside the lake on this beautiful May morning, the enormous limp and slightly bloodied wings dangling grotesquely at his sides. “Have you finished?” he said.

“Swans don’t talk,” Ernie said. “Keep your flippin’ beak shut! And save your energy, laddie, because you’re goin’ to need all the strength and energy you got when it comes to flyin’ round in the sky.” Ernie picked up his gun from the ground, then he grabbed Peter by the back of the neck with his free hand and said, “March!”

They marched along the bank of the lake until they came to a tall and graceful willow tree. There they halted. The tree was a weeping willow, and the long branches hung down from a great height and almost touched the surface of the lake.

“And now the magic swan is goin’ to show us a bit of magic flyin’,” Ernie announced. “So what you’re goin’ to do, Mister Swan, is to climb up to the very top of this tree, and when you get there you’re goin’ to spread out your wings like a good clever little swanee-swan-swan and you’re goin’ to take off!”

“Fantastic!” cried Raymond. “Terrific! I like it very much!”

“So do I,” Ernie said. “Because now we’re goin’ to find out just exactly ‘ow clever this clever little swanee-swan-swan really is. ’Ee’s terribly clever at school, we all know that, and ’ee’s top of the class and everything else that’s lovely, but let’s see just exactly ’ow clever ’ee is when ’ee’s at the top of the tree! Right, Mister Swan?” He gave Peter a push toward the tree.

How much farther could this madness go? Peter wondered. He was beginning to feel a little mad himself, as though nothing was real anymore and none of it was actually happening. But the thought of being high up in the tree and out of reach of these hooligans at last was something that appealed to him greatly. When he was up there, he could stay up there. He doubted very much if they would bother to climb up after him. And even if they did, he could surely climb away from them along a thin limb that would not take the weight of two people.

The tree was a fairly easy one to climb, with several low branches to give him a start up. He began climbing. The huge white wings dangling from his arms kept getting in the way, but it didn’t matter. What mattered now to Peter was that every inch upward was another inch away from his tormentors below. He had never been a great one for tree climbing and he wasn’t especially good at it, but nothing in the world was going to stop him from getting to the top of this one. And once he was there, he thought it unlikely they would even be able to see him because of the leaves.

“Higher!” shouted Ernie’s voice. “Keep goin’!”

Peter kept going, and eventually he arrived at a point where it was impossible to go higher. His feet were now standing on a branch that was about as thick as a person’s wrist, and this particular branch reached far out over the lake and then curved gracefully downward. All the branches above him were thin and whippy, but the one he was holding onto with his hands was quite strong enough for the purpose. He stood there, resting after the climb. He looked down for the first time. He was very high up, at least fifty feet. But he couldn’t see the boys. They were no longer standing at the base of the tree. Was it possible they had gone away at last?

“All right, Mister Swan!” came the dreaded voice of Ernie. “Now listen carefully!”

The two of them had walked some distance away to a point where they had a clear view of the small boy at the top. Looking down at them now, Peter realized how very sparse and slender the leaves of a willow tree were. The gave him almost no cover at all.

“Listen carefully, Mister Swan!” the voice was shouting. “Start walking out along that branch you’re standin’ on! Keep goin’ till you’re right over the nice muddy water! Then you take off!”

Peter didn’t move. He was fifty feet above them now and they weren’t ever going to reach him again. From down below, there was a long silence. It lasted maybe half a minute. He kept his eyes on the two distant figures in the field. They were standing quite still, looking up at him.

“All right then, Mister Swan!” came Ernie’s voice again. “I’m gonna count to ten, right? And if you ain’t spread them wings and flown away by then, I’m gonna shoot you down instead with this little gun! And that’ll make two swans I’ve knocked off today instead of one! So here we go, Mister Swan! One...two...three...four...five...six...”

Peter remained still. Nothing would make him move from now on.

“Seven...eight...nine...ten!”

Peter saw the gun coming up to the shoulder. It was pointing straight at him. Then he heard the crack of the rifle and the zip of the bullet as it whistled past his head. It was a frightening thing. But he still didn’t move. He could see Ernie loading the gun with another bullet.

“Last chance!” yelled Ernie. “The next one’s gonna get you!”

Peter stayed put. He waited. He watched the boy who was standing among the buttercups in the meadow far below with the other boy beside him. The gun came up once again to the shoulder.

This time he heard the crack and at the same instant the bullet hit him in the thigh. There was no pain, but the force of it was devastating. It was as though someone had whacked him on the leg with a sledgehammer, and it knocked both feet off the branch he was standing on. He scrabbled with his hands to hold on. The small branch he was holding onto bent over and split.

Some people, when they have taken too much and have been driven beyond the point of endurance, simply crumple and give up. There are others, though they are not many, who will for some reason always be unconquerable. You meet them in time of war and also in time of peace. They have an indomitable spirit and nothing, neither pain nor torture nor threat of death, will cause them to give up.

Peter Watson was one of these. And as he fought and scrabbled to prevent himself from falling out of the top of the tree, it came to him suddenly that he was going to win. He looked up and he saw a light shining over the waters of the lake that was of such brilliance and beauty that he was unable to look away. The light was beckoning him, drawing him on, and he dove toward the light and spread his wings.

* * *

Three different people reported seeing a great white swan circling over the village that morning: a schoolteacher called Emily Mead, a man who was replacing some tiles on the roof of the chemist’s shop whose name was William Eyles, and a boy called John Underwood who was flying his model airplane in a nearby field.

And that morning, Mrs. Watson, who was washing some dishes in her kitchen sink, happened to glance up through the window at the exact moment when something huge and white came flopping down onto the lawn in her back garden. She rushed outside and sank down on her knees beside the small crumpled figure of her son. “Oh, my darling!” she cried, near to hysterics and hardly believing what she saw. “My darling boy! What happened to you?”

“My leg hurts,” Peter said, opening his eyes. Then he fainted.

“It’s bleeding!” she cried, and she picked him up and carried him inside. Quickly she phoned for the doctor and the ambulance. And while she was waiting for help to come, she fetched a pair of scissors and began cutting the string that held the two great wings of the swan to her son’s arms.

'The Swan', by Roald Dahl, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Other Stories, 1977

Paying for Patriotism

Somebody was recently remonstrating with me in connection with certain remarks that I have made touching the history of English misgovernment in Ireland. The criticism, like many others, was to the effect that these are only old unhappy far-off things and battles long ago; that the present generation is not responsible for them; that there is, as the critic said, no way in which he or I could have assisted or prevented them; that if anyone was to blame, he had gone to his account; and we are not to blame at all. There was mingled with his protest, I think, a certain suggestion that an Englishman is lacking in patriotism when he resurrects such corpses in order to connect them with crime.

Now the queer thing is this: that I think it is I who am standing up for the principle of patriotism; and I think it is he who is denying it. As a matter of fact, I am one of the few people left, of my own sort and calling, who do still believe in patriotism; just as I am among the few who do still believe in democracy. Both these ideas, were exaggerated extravagantly and, what is worse, erroneously, or entirely in the wrong way, during the nineteenth century; but the reaction against them today is very strong, especially among the intellectuals. But I do believe that patriotism rests on a psychological truth; a social sympathy with those of our own sort, whereby we see our own potential acts in them; and understand their history from within. But if there truly be such a thing as a nation, that truth is a two-edged sword, and we must let it out both ways.

Therefore I answer my critic thus. It is quite true that it was not I, G. K. Chesterton, who pulled the beard of an Irish chieftain by way of social introduction; it was John Plantagenet, afterwards King John; and I was not present. It was not I, but a much more distinguished literary gent, named Edmund Spenser, who concluded on the whole that the Irish had better be exterminated like vipers; nor did he even ask my advice on so vital a point. I never stuck a pike through an Irish lady for fun, after the siege of Drogheda, as did the God-fearing Puritan soldiers of Oliver Cromwell. Nobody can find anything in my handwriting that contributes to the original drafting of the Penal Laws; and it is a complete mistake to suppose that I was called to the Privy Council when it decided upon the treacherous breaking of the Treaty of Limerick. I never put a pitchcap on an Irish rebel in my life; and there was not a single one of the thousand floggings of '98 which I inflicted or even ordered. If that is what is meant, it is not very difficult to see that it is quite true.

But it is equally true that I did not ride with Chaucer to Canterbury, and give him a few intelligent hints for the best passages in The Canterbury Tales. It is equally true that there was a large and lamentable gap in the company seated at the Mermaid; that scarcely a word of Shakespeare's most poetical passages was actually contributed by me; that I did not whisper to him the word "incarnadine" when he was hesitating after "multitudinous seas"; that I entirely missed the opportunity of suggesting that Hamlet would be effectively ended by the stormy entrance of Fortinbras. Nay, aged and infirm as I am, it were vain for me to pretend that I lost a leg at the Battle of Trafalgar, or that I am old enough to have seen (as I should like to have seen), ablaze with stars upon the deck of death, the frail figure and the elvish face of the noblest sailor of history.

Yet I propose to go on being proud of Chaucer and Shakespeare and Nelson; to feel that the poets did indeed love the language that I love and that the sailor felt something of what we also feel for the sea. But if we accept this mystical corporate being, this larger self, we must accept it for good and ill. If we boast of our best, we must repent of our worst. Otherwise patriotism will be a very poor thing indeed.

G.K. Chesterton, 'Paying for Patriotism', The Common Man.

Guests of the Nation

At dusk the big Englishman, Belcher, would shift his long legs out of the ashes and say " Well, chums, what about it ? " and Noble and myself would say "All right, chum " (for we had picked up some of their curious expressions), and the little Englishman, Hawkins, would light the lamp and bring out the cards. Some­times Jeremiah Donovan would come up and supervise the game, and get excited over Hawkins' cards, which he always played badly, and shout at him as if he was one of our own, "Ah, you divil, why didn't you play the tray?"

But ordinarily Jeremiah was a sober and contented poor devil like the big Englishman, Belcher, and was looked up to only because he was a fair hand at documents, though he was slow even with them. He wore a small cloth hat and big gaiters over his long pants, and you seldom saw him with his hands out of his pockets. He reddened when you talked to him, tilting from toe to heel and back, and looking down all the, time at his big farmer's feet. Noble and myself used to make fun of his broad accent, because we were both from the town.

I could not at the time see the point of myself and Noble guarding Belcher and Hawkins at all, for it was my belief that you could have planted that pair down anywhere from this to Claregalway and they'd have taken root there like a native weed. I never in my short experience saw two men take to the country as they did.

They were passed on to us by the Second Battalion when the search for them became too hot, and Noble and myself, being young, took them over with a natural feeling of responsibility, but Hawkins made us look like fools when he showed that he knew the country better than we did.

" You're the bloke they call Bonaparte," he says to me. " Mary Brigid O'Connell told me to ask what you'd done with the pair of her brother's socks you borrowed."

For it seemed, as they explained it, that the Second had little evenings, and some of the girls of the neighborhood turned up, and, seeing they were such decent chaps, our fellows could not leave the two Englishmen out. Hawkins learned to dance "The Walls of Limerick," "The Siege of Ennis" and "The Waves of Tory" as well as any of them, though he could not return the compliment, because our lads at that time did not dance foreign dances on principle.

So whatever privileges Belcher and Hawkins had with the Second they just took naturally with us, and after the first couple of days we gave up all pretence of keeping an eye on them. Not that they could have got far, because they had accents you could cut with a knife, and wore khaki tunics and overcoats with civilian pants and boots, but I believe myself they never had any idea of escaping and were quite content to be where they were.

It was a treat to see how Belcher got off with the old woman in the house where we were staying. She was a great warrant to scold, and cranky even with us, but before ever she had a chance of giving our guests, as I may call them, a lick of her tongue, Belcher had made her his friend for life. She was breaking sticks, and Belcher, who had not been more than ten minutes in the house, jumped up and went over to her.

"Allow me, madam," he said, smiling his queer little smile. "Please allow me," and he took the hatchet from her. She was too surprised to speak, and after that, Belcher would be at her heels, carrying a bucket, a basket or a load of turf. As Noble said, he got into looking before she leapt, and hot water, or any little thing she wanted, Belcher would have ready for her. For such a huge man (and though I am five foot ten myself I had to look up at him) he had an uncommon lack of speech. It took us a little while to get used to him, walking in and out like a ghost, without speaking. Especially because Hawkins talked enough for a platoon, it was strange to hear Belcher with his toes in the ashes come out with a solitary "Excuse me, chum," or " That's right, chum." His one and only passion was cards, and he was a remarkably good card player. He could have skinned myself and Noble, but whatever we lost to him, Hawkins lost to us, and Hawkins only played with the money Belcher gave him.

Hawkins lost to us because he had too much old gab, and we probably lost to Belcher for the same reason. Hawkins and Noble argued about religion into the early hours of the morning, and Hawkins worried the life out of' Noble, who had a brother a priest, with a string of questions that would puzzle a cardinal. Even in treating of holy subjects, Hawkins had a deplorable tongue. I never met a man who could mix such a variety of cursing and bad language into any argument. He was a terrible man, and a fright to argue. He never did a stroke of work, and when he had no one else to argue with, he got stuck in the old woman.

He met his match in her, for when he tried to get her to complain profanely of the drought she gave him a great come­down by blaming it entirely on Jupiter Pluvius (a deity neither Hawkins nor I had ever heard of, though Noble said that among the pagans it was believed that he had something to do with the rain). Another day he was swearing at the capitalists for starting the German war when the old lady laid down her iron, puckered up her little crab's mouth and said:

"Mr. Hawkins, you can say what you like about the war, and think you'll deceive me because I'm only a simple poor countrywoman, but I know what started the war. It was the Italian Count that stole the heathen divinity out of the temple of Japan. Believe me, Mr. Hawkins, nothing but sorrow and want can follow people who disturb the hidden powers."

A queer old girl, all right.

II

One evening we had our tea and Hawkins lit the lamp and we all sat into cards. Jeremiah Donovan came in too, and sat and watched us for a while, and it suddenly struck me that he had no great love for the two Englishmen. It came as a surprise to me because I had noticed nothing of it before.

Late in the evening a really terrible argument blew up between Hawkins and Noble about capitalists and priests and love of country.

"The capitalists pay the priests to tell you about the next world so that you won't notice what the bastards are up to in this," said Hawkins

"Nonsense, man ! " said Noble, losing his temper.

"Before ever a capitalist was thought of people believed in the next world."

Hawkins stood up as though he was preaching.

"Oh, they did, did they? " he said with a sneer. "They believed all the things you believe---isn't that what you mean? And you believe God created Adam, and Adam created Shem, and Shem created Jehoshophat. You believe all that silly old fairytale about Eve and Eden and the apple. Well listen to me, chum! If you're entitled to a silly belief like that, I'm entitled to my own silly belief - which is that the first thing your God created was a bleeding capitalist, with morality and Rolls-Royce complete. Am I right, chum?" he says to Belcher.

"You're right, chum," says Belcher with a smile, and he got up from the table to stretch his long legs into the fire and stroke his moustache. So, seeing that Jeremiah Donovan was going, and that there was no knowing when the argument about religion would be over, I went out with him. We strolled down to the village together, and then he stopped, blushing and mumbling, and said I should be behind, keeping guard. I didn't like the tone he took with me, and anyway I was bored with life in the cottage, so I replied by asking what the hell we wanted to guard them for at all.

He looked at me in surprise and said: "I thought you knew we were keeping them as hostages."

"Hostages? " I said.

"The enemy have prisoners belonging to us, and now they're talking of shooting them," he said. "If they shoot our prisoners, we'll shoot theirs."

"Shoot Belcher and Hawkins?" I said.

"What else did you think we were keeping them for? " he said. "Wasn't it very unforeseen of you not to warn Noble and myself of that in the beginning?" I said.

"How was it? "he said. "You might have known that much."

"We could not know it, Jeremiah Donovan," I said. "How could we when they were on our hands so long?"

"The enemy have our prisoners as long and longer," he said.

"That's not the same thing at all," said I.

"What difference is there? " said he.

I couldn’t tell him, because I knew he wouldn't understand. If it was only an old dog that you had to take to the vet's, you'd try and not get too fond of him, but Jeremiah Donovan was not a man who would ever be in danger of that.

"And when is this to be decided?" I said.

"We might hear tonight," he said. "Or tomorrow or the next day at latest. So if it's only hanging round that's a trouble to you, you'll be free soon enough."

It was not the hanging round that was a trouble to me at all by this time. I had worse things to worry about. When I got back to the cottage the argument was still on. Hawkins was holding forth in his best style, maintaining that there was no next world, and Noble saying that there was; but I could see that Hawkins had had the best of it.

"Do you know what, chum?" he was saying with a saucy smile." I think you're just as big a bleeding unbeliever as I am. You say you believe in the next world, and you know just as much about the next world as I do, which is sweet damn-all. What's heaven? You don't know. Where's heaven? You don't know. You know sweet damn-all ! I ask you again, do they wear wings? "

"Very well, then," said Noble. "They do. Is that enough for you? They do wear wings."

"Where do they get them then? Who makes them? Have they a factory for wings? Have they a sort of store where you hand in, your chit and take your bleeding wings? "

"You're an impossible man to argue with," said Noble. "Now, listen to me ---" And they were off again.

It was long after midnight when we locked up and went to bed. As I blew out the candle I told Noble. He took it very quietly. When we'd been in bed about an hour he asked if I thought we should tell the Englishmen. I didn't, because I doubted if the English would shoot our men. Even if they did, the Brigade officers, who were always up and down to the Second Battalion and knew the Englishmen well, would hardly want to see them plugged. "I think so too," said Noble. " It would be great cruelty to put the wind up them now."

"It was very unforeseen of Jeremiah Donovan, anyhow," said I. It was next morning that we found it so hard to face Belcher and Hawkins. We went about the house all day, scarcely saying a word. Belcher didn't seem to notice; he was stretched into the ashes as usual, with his usual look of waiting in quietness for something unforeseen to happen, but Hawkins noticed it and put it down to Noble's being beaten in the argument of the night before.

"Why can't you take the discussion in the proper spirit? "he said severely. "You and your Adam and Eve ! I'm a Communist, that's what I am. Communist or Anarchist, it all comes to much the same thing." And he went round the house, muttering when the fit took him : "Adam and Eve! Adam and Eve! Nothing better to do with their time than pick bleeding apples ! "

III

I don't know how we got through that day, but I was very glad when it was over, the tea things were cleared away, and Belcher said in his peaceable way: "Well, chums, what about it? "We sat round the table and Hawkins took out the cards, and just then I heard Jeremiah Donovan's footsteps on the path and a dark presentiment crossed my mind. I rose from the table and caught him before he reached the door.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I want those two soldier friends of yours," he said, getting red. "Is that the way, Jeremiah Donovan?" I asked.

"That's the way. There were four of our lads shot this morning, one of them a boy of sixteen."

"That's bad," I said.

At that moment Noble followed me out, and the three of us walked down the path together, talking in whispers. Feeney, the local intelligence officer, was standing by the gate.

"What are you going to do about it?" I asked Jeremiah Donovan.

"I want you and Noble to get them out; tell them they're being shifted again; that'll be the quietest way."

"Leave me out of that," said Noble, under his breath. Jeremiah Donovan looked at him hard.

"All right," he says. " You and Feeney get a few tools from the shed and dig a hole by the far end of the bog. Bonaparte and myself will he after you. Don't let anyone see you with the tools. I wouldn't like it to go beyond ourselves."

We saw Feeney and Noble go round to the shed and went in ourselves. I left Jeremiah Donovan to do the explanations. He told them that he had orders to send them back to the Second Battalion. Hawkins let out a mouthful of curses, and you could see that though Belcher didn't say anything, he was a bit upset too. The old woman was for having them stay in spite of us, and she didn't stop advising them until Jeremiah Donovan lost his temper and turned on her. He had a nasty temper, I noticed. It was pitch-dark in the cottage by this time, but no one thought of lighting the lamp, and in the darkness the two Englishmen fetched their topcoats and said good-bye to the old woman.

"Just as a man makes a home of a bleeding place, some bastard at headquarters thinks you're too cushy and shunts you off," said Hawkins shaking her hand,

"A thousand thanks, madam," said Belcher, "A thousand thanks for everything "---as though he'd made it up.

We went round to the back of' the house and down towards the bog. It was only then that Jererniah Donovan told them. He was shaking with excitement.

"There were four of our fellows shot in Cork this morning and now you're to be shot as a reprisal."

"What are you talking about?" snaps Hawkins. "It's bad enough being mucked about as we are without having to put up with your funny jokes."

"It isn't a joke," says Donovan. "I'm sorry, Hawkins, but it's true," and begins on the usual rigmarole about duty and how unpleasant it is. I never noticed that people who talk a lot about duty find it much of a trouble to them.

"Oh, cut it out!" said Hawkins.

"Ask Bonaparte," said Donovan, seeing that Hawkins wasn't taking him seriously. "Isn't it true, Bonaparte?"

"It is," I said, and Hawkins stopped. "Ah, for Christ's sake, chum!"

"I mean it, chum," I said.

"You don't sound as if you meant it."

"If he doesn't mean it, I do," said Donovan, working himself up.

"What have you against me, Jeremiah Donovan?"

"I never said I had anything against you. But why did your people take out four of your prisoners and shoot them in cold blood?"

He took Hawkins by the arm and dragged him on, but it was impossible to make him understand that we were in earnest. I had the Smith and Wesson in my pocket and I kept fingering it and wondering what I'd do if they put up a fight for it or ran, and wishing to God they'd do one or the other. I knew if they did run for it, that I'd never fire on them. Hawkins wanted to know was Noble in it, and when we said yes, he asked us why Noble wanted to plug him. Why did any of us want to plug him? What had he done to us? Weren't we all chums? Didn't we understand him and didn't he understand us? Did we imagine for an instant that he'd shoot us for all the so-and-so officers in the so-and-so British Army?

By this time we'd reached the bog, and I was so sick I couldn't even answer him. We walked along the edge of it in the darkness, and every now and then Hawkins would call a halt and begin all over again, as if he was wound up, about our being chums, and I knew that nothing but the sight of the grave would convince him that we had to do it. And all the time I was hoping that something would happen; that they'd run for it or that Noble would take over the responsibility from me. I had the feeling that it was worse on Noble than on me.

IV

At last we saw the lantern in the distance and made towards it. Noble was carrying it, and Feeney was standing somewhere in the darkness behind him, and the picture of them so still and silent in the bogland brought it home to me that we were in earnest, and banished the last bit of hope I had.

Belcher, on recognising Noble, said: "Hallo, chum," in his quiet way, but Hawkins flew at him at once, and the argument began all over again, only this time Noble had nothing to say for himself and stood with his head down, holding the lantern between his legs.

It was Jeremiah Donovan who did the answering. For the twentieth time, as though it was haunting his mind, Hawkins asked if anybody thought he'd shoot Noble.

"Yes, you would," said Jeremiah Donovan. "No, I wouldn't, damn you!"

"You would, because you'd know you'd be shot for not doing

it.”

"I wouldn't, not if I was to be shot twenty times over. I wouldn't shoot a pal. And Belcher wouldn't - isn't that right, Belcher? "

"That's right, chum," Belcher said, but more by way of answering the question than of joining in the argument. Belcher sounded as though whatever unforeseen thing he'd always been waiting for had come at last.

"Anyway, who says Noble would be shot if I wasn't ? What do you think I'd do if I was in his place, out in the middle of a blasted bog?"

"What would you do?" asked Donovan.

"I'd go with him wherever he was going, of course. Share my last bob with him and stick by him through thick and thin. No one can ever say of me that I let down a pal."

"We had enough of this," said Jeremiah Donovan, cocking his revolver. "Is there any message you want to send? "

"No, there isn't."

"Do you want to say your prayers?"

Hawkins came out with a cold-blooded remark that even shocked me and turned on Noble again.

"Listen to me, Noble," he said. "You and me are chums. You can't come over to my side, so I'll come over to your side. That show you I mean what I say? Give me a rifle and I'll go along with you and the other lads."

Nobody answered him. We knew that was no way out.

"Hear what I'm saying?" he said. "I'm through with it. I'm a deserter or anything else you like. I don't believe in your stuff, but it's no worse than mine. That satisfy you?"

Noble raised his head, but Donovan began to speak and he lowered it again without replying.

"For the last time, have you any messages to send?" said Donovan in a cold, excited sort of voice.

"Shut up, Donovan! You don't understand me, but these lads do. They're not the sort to make a pal and kill a pal. They're not the tools of any capitalist.”

I alone of the crowd saw Donovan raise his Webley to the back of Hawkins's neck, and as he did so I shut my eyes and tried to pray. Hawkins had begun to say something else when Donovan fired, and as I opened my eyes at the bang, I saw Hawkins stagger at the knees and lie out flat at Noble's feet, slowly and as quiet as a kid falling asleep, with the lantern-light on his lean legs and bright farmer's boots. We all stood very still, watching him settle out in the last agony.

Then Belcher took out a handkerchief and began to tie it about his own eyes (in our excitement we'd forgot ten to do tile same for Hawkins), and, seeing it wasn't big enough, turned and asked for the loan of mine. I gave it to him and he knotted the two together and pointed with his foot at Hawkins,

"He's not quite dead." he said. "Better give him another," Sure enough, Hawkins's left knee was beginning to rise. I bent down and put my gun to his head; then, recollecting myself, I got up again. Belcher understood what was in my mind.

"Give him his first," he said, "I don't mind. Poor bastard, we don't know what's happening to him now."

I knelt and fired. By this time I didn't seem to know what I was doing. Belcher, who was fumbling a bit awkwardly with the handkerchiefs, came out with a laugh as he heard the shot. It was the first time I had heard him laugh and it sent a shudder down my back; it sounded so unnatural.

"Poor bugger!" he said quietly. "And last night he was so curious about it all. It's very queer, chums, I always think. Now he knows as much about it as they'll ever let him know, and last night he was all in the dark."

Donovan helped him to tie the handkerchiefs about his eyes.

"Thanks, chum," he said. Donovan asked if there were any messages he wanted sent.

"No, chum," he said. "Not for me. If any of you would like to write to Hawkins's mother, you'll find a letter from her in his pocket. He and his mother were great chums. But my missus left me eight years ago. Went away with another fellow and took the kid with her. I like the feeling of a home, as you may have noticed, but I couldn't start another again after that."

It was an extraordinary thing, but in those few minutes Belcher said more than in all the weeks before. It was just as if the sound of the shot had started a flood of tall in him and he could go on the whole night like that, quite happily, talking about himself. We stood around like fools now that he couldn't see us any longer. Donovan looked at Noble, and Noble shook his head. Then Donovan raised his Webley, and at that moment Belcher gave his queer laugh again, He may have thought we were talking about him, or perhaps he noticed the same thing I'd noticed and couldn't understand it.

"Excuse me, chums," he said. "I feel I'm talking the hell of a lot, and so silly, about my being so handy about a house and things like that. But this thing came on me suddenly. You'll forgive me, I'm sure."

''You don't want to say a prayer?" asked Donovan.

"No, churn," he said. "I don't think it would help. I'm ready, and you boys want to get it over."

"You understand that we're only doing our duty?" said Donovan.

Belcher's head was raised like a blind man's, so that you could only see his chin and the top of his nose in the lantern-light.

"I never could make out what duty was myself," he said. "I think you're all good lads, if that's what you mean. I'm not complaining."

Noble, just as if he couldn't bear any more of it, raised his fist at Donovan, and in a flash Donovan raised his gun and fired. The big man went over like a sack of meal, and this time there was no need of a second shot.

I don't remember much about the burying, but that it was worse than all the rest because we had to carry them to the grave. It was all mad lonely with nothing but a patch of lantern-­light between ourselves and the dark, and birds hooting and screeching all round, disturbed by the guns. Noble went through Hawkins's belongings to find the letter from his mother, and then joined his hands together. He did the same with Belcher. Then, when we'd filled in the grave, we separated from Jeremiah Donovan and Feeney and took our tools back to the shed. All the way we didn't speak a word. The kitchen was dark and as we'd left it, and the old woman was sitting over the hearth, saying her beads. We walked past her into the room, and Noble struck a match to light the lamp. She rose quietly and came to the doorway with all her cantankerousness gone.

"What did ye do with them?" she asked in a whisper, and Noble started so that the match went out in his hand.

"What's that?" he asked without turning round.

"I heard ye, she said.

"What did you hear?" asked Noble.

"I heard ye. Do ye think I didn't hear ye, putting the spade back in the houseen?"

Noble struck another match and this time the lamp lit for him.

"Was that what ye did to them?" she asked.

Then, by God, in the very doorway, she fell on her knees and began praying, and after looking at her for a minute or two Noble did the same by the fireplace. I pushed my way out past her and left them at it. I stood at the door, watching the stars and listening to the shrieking of the birds dying out over the bogs. It is so strange what you feel at times like that that you can't describe it. Noble says he saw everything ten times the size, as though there were nothing in the whole world but that little patch of bog with the two Englishmen stiffening into it, but with me it was as if the patch of bog where the Englishmen were was a million miles away, and even Noble and the old woman, mumbling behind me, and the birds and the bloody stars were all far away, and I was somehow very small and very lost and lonely like a child astray in the snow. And anything that happened to me afterwards, I never felt the same about again.

Frank O'Connor, Guests of the Nation, 1931