The Dreams of Max & Ronnie by Niall Griffiths

Author:Niall Griffiths [Griffiths, Niall]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781854116130
Publisher: Seren

The Ned and the grinner finish their game and Ronnie is unsure who has won because the crowing of the victor is drowned out by yet another commotion, the grunt and bellow of another war-engine approaching. Ronnie notices that the crowd has stopped, at least for the moment, destroying itself and has stilled and he can now make out individuals within the mass, specific people standing there panting and crazed of eye, some missing limbs or noses or ears and all of them agleam with sweat and blood, some of the blood hardened to a black crust and some of it still fresh and redly pumping. The crowd’s collective panting mirrors the sound of the approaching war machine, the beating groan and pump of hot exhaust, and the crowd parts to let it emerge, another tank of course, this one all painted a dark blue with a big white X across it and ridden on by a burly young man with reddish stubble across his pale face, dressed in the same sandy-hued camouflage fatigues as the first two riders and wearing on his head a beret with a small patch of tartan stitched to the front of it. And like the first two he too carries a rifle with a sand-clogged barrel and his boots too have warped and shrunk tightly to his feet and the hands that protrude from the sleeves of the uniform and that tightly grip the gun are split and cracked and streaked with scabs. The eyes of this rider are pale blue marbles set deep in inflamed circles of pink skin, pink swollen skin, and Ronnie thinks that they look sore, those eyes, very sore, scorched and sunken as they are, and he feel his own eyes begin to water in sympathy. Those eyes have been burnt by the sun and had their moisture stolen by drifting dust and heat and are plaqued by what they have seen, scored through by what they have witnessed. The tank approaches Jack and halts with a terse gnash of gears mere inches from that banner and its two sit-ters, the Ned and the grinner, still clutching their handsets but both now looking up at this new rider.

– Mah troop, he says. – Mah entire fuckin comp’nih. Wiped oot. Alla them. Deid. Fuckin roadside bomb, bang, body parts ivriwhir. Snipers picked the survivoors oaf. Me, Ah wis luckih; knocked oot, flung oot the jeep, thih thoat Ah wis already deid. An see mah troop? Some ay thim the finest fuckin soojirs these islands ivir hud. Tellin ye, man. Best fuckin soojirs yiv ivir seen, bar nun. What will ye do noo, man? Yir fuckin armih’s dyin. An yeer sendin mair young men intae yon fuckin meat-grinder? Ye havnae fuckin clue, man, tellin ye. Call it oaf. Call the whole fuckin thing oaf. See in ten years’ time? We’ll be comin haim and nuthin’ll be any fuckin different. Sept the bloodied patches ay sand whair the boays of these islands got blewn a-fuckin-pert.

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