Country of the Blind (Christopher Brookmyre) by of the Blind (v1.0) Country

Author:of the Blind (v1.0) Country [Country, of the Blind]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-12-12T15:15:54+00:00

NINE

Tam sniffed back tears and catarrh, sighed and took another drink from the receptacle proffered patiently by Spammy. Spammy had found the Irn‐Bru can lying discarded at the bottom of a wide tree‐stump, which jutted out of the ground to a height of about three feet, and had either been used as a stool or a table by the vessel’s previous owner. He had explained to Paul that the small metal item had profound ideological significance.

Oh Christ, Paul had thought.

It was proof, Spammy said, that those bobble‐hatted rambler wankers aren’t quite as self‐righteously green and eco‐friendly when they’re halfway up a mountain and nobody can see them. To Paul’s immense relief, he left it at that and went off in search of a burn so that he could fill it.

Paul heard his dad’s approach before he saw him. They had found a spot high on the ridge, as instructed, which afforded a good view of all approach routes, but he hadn’t been on the lookout at the time, not really expecting Tam to have made it this far yet. He heard a panting – heaving, hurried breaths – and the regular but rapid thud of running feet. Crouching low behind a tree, he looked down the slope and saw Tam clambering towards him, driving forward desperately, erratically, the protest of his exhaustion seemingly silenced by the need to keep moving.

Paul saw the tears as his dad drew closer, thinking at first that they were the drawings of the crisp, cool breeze from wide, uncovered eyes.

Tam now sat on Spammy’s tree‐stump, holding Spammy’s ideologically significant can. When he had finally stopped running, the cumulative anger of his abused limbs had dropped him to his knees, and then to prostration, gasping and moaning, lacking the breath to voice what was wrong.

Tam handed Spammy back the can and stared at the ground. No‐one had spoken since his staccato splutterings, the horrifying facts delivered in wheezy, one‐word issues. Neither Paul nor Spammy seemed to know whether they should say anything before Tam broke his own silence, if they could actually find anything to say.

It was the bleakest, coldest silence Paul had ever known, leaving each of them alone with the torment of their thoughts and imaginings.

“He started to run,” Tam eventually said, eyes gazing forward, into the shadows and the trees. His voice was low and slightly questioning, as if he was having difficulty understanding his own words. “He couldnae run, no really. That’s what was even queerer. He was walkin’ towards them, givin’ himself up, then he started to run. Hauf‐bouncin’ on that big pole he had. Why did he run?”

“Mibbe he saw they had guns,” Paul offered.

Tam grimaced, shaking his head. “Mibbe. But I never saw them pull a gun until the last minute. Besides, he’d have been expectin’ guns – he’d have known they suspect we might have guns fae the bus, unless they’ve found that wee shite an’ his pal. Ach, fuck knows. Whatever, he saw somethin’ that scared the hell oot him, an…”

He shook his head, wiped at his bloodshot eyes again.

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