The Bones of Summer (26 page)

“What's this?” His father bent down slowly and picked up the broken animal. “What's happened here? What are you hiding, Anna? Let me see.”

For a long moment there was a terrible silence. Daniel's mother gazed at his father, jaw lifted, before shrugging and stepping to one side. His father reached for the remains of the holy family, weighed them in his hands and placed them reverently back on the carpet.

Then, without any other warning, he grabbed Daniel and shoved him back against the wall. Daniel gasped for breath and his mother shouted, scrabbling at Daniel's father with her hands. But it did no good. All the time, his father was talking, the sound of his voice rising ever higher, his breath pushing the strong smell of coffee over Daniel's senses.

“You're an evil little boy,” his father said. “I try so hard to teach you the right way but always you defy me. You're a sinner and I'm going to beat the sin out of you. I'm going to make you good if it's the last thing I do on God's earth. I swear it to you. Why did you want to break this?
Why?
”

“I-I d-didn't mean to...” Daniel sobbed, his words all but swallowed up in the gulps of tears shaking his whole body now. “P-please d-don't—”

“James, for goodness
sake
, it was only an accident.
Stop it.
It wasn't—”

“There's no such thing as an accident.
You know that.
I know my son. The boy meant it to happen.”

While his father was distracted, Daniel saw his chance. Slipping out from underneath his arm, he fled. He would have headed for the door and into the relative safety of the farm but, partly due to his terror and partly because his father stood in his way, he raced for the stairs instead. He could have tried the back door, but instinct told him it would be locked. His heart was pounding furiously and he was still sobbing. Behind him, he heard his mother's sharp cry and the sound of his father's pursuit.

At the top of the stairs, he turned right into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Gasping for breath, he held the meager sum of his full six-year-old weight against it and at the same time tried to drag the bedside table across to help him.

The attempt was doomed to failure. His father forced his way in within seconds. His face was as hard as the concrete in the tractor shed. And as unforgiving.

Outside he heard the sound of his mother's footsteps clattering on the stairs. Without a second thought, his father dragged the bed across the door, barring her entry as Daniel had tried to bar his. Then he grabbed Daniel, picked him up as if he weighed nothing, and pushed him until he was kneeling against the bed, face first.

“I'll teach you a lesson,” he said.

His father then proceeded to drag Daniel's trousers and pants down, pulled both his arms backward so he was unable to fight—should there have been any fight in him—and imprisoned them both in one of his hands. With the other, he began to spank his son hard, over and over again, so the stinging pain and humiliation of it tore its way through Daniel's skin. His arms too ached where his father was pulling them at an almost impossible angle. And, all the time, his mother's furious cries, her pounding on the door, drifted in.

His punishment seemed to go on forever until finally, mercifully, his father let go and Daniel collapsed across the bed, his shoulders singing with pain and his face hot with tears.

“That'll teach you to be more careful with holy matters,” his father hissed in his ear. “Next time, give more respect to what comes from the Lord.”

Thankfully no reply was expected. When his mother finally fought her way in, spitting anger at his father before he left, Daniel was sitting slumped against the wall. All tears were gone. His right shoulder was, however, dislocated. When the two of them arrived at the Accident and Emergency department in Exeter, his mother said it was a farming accident. Daniel simply nodded. It took weeks to heal and during that time he tried to avoid his father as much as possible. He replaced the broken statue with his own money. A couple of months later, his mother left. This was the first time he understood how dangerous his father could be. But not the last.

* * * *

Now, listening to his father's wild mumblings, he knew that the danger was still as real and as pressing as it had always been. Not only that but the pain in his arms was ripping through him. He'd black out again if his father didn't release him soon.

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

The sound of Craig's voice stopped his father and for a moment or two there was silence. Craig tried to take a deep breath but the pain hit him again and he couldn't do anything more than pant.

“Please. Please, I'm sorry. I know I'm a sinner. You have to help me. I can't learn how to ... to become good again. I can't learn how to be saved. Not like this. I-I need to repent.”

He didn't know where that had come from, only that the phrases from his childhood and early youth were suddenly there on his tongue in a way they hadn't been for years. Fighting against the pain, he knew he had no other ideas. No Plan B.

“You're a sinner,” his father mumbled, but this time he sounded less forceful. “A sodomite.”

Craig bit his lip. The pinpoint of pain helped him to concentrate. “Yes. I know. Forgive me.”

Another long silence. He closed his eyes. He was about to give up, maybe even slip into unconsciousness again when he felt the ropes on his arms begin to slacken. When he opened his eyes, he saw his father, unshaven cheek close to his own, sawing on the rope with a hunting knife. He smelled of stale sweat. Craig tried to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, to avoid becoming the subject of the frantic movements. When his right arm was free, he hung down, one foot making tentative contact with the barn floor, as his father turned his attention to the remaining rope.

At last he dropped to the ground. Any plans of escape vanished as his legs buckled under him and he fell, groaning. The barn walls, the machinery moved hazily across his vision and he tried to get up. Instinct told him he couldn't afford to be any more vulnerable than he was right now.

A sharp slap in the face knocked him down again.

“Kneel,” his father snapped. “The Lord demands your repentance.”

Craig did as he was told. It seemed the best thing to do. Underneath his knees, the floor was rough and hard. He wondered how long he could hold the position. Even now, he was shaking, partly with cold, partly with shock.

“Wh-what do y-you want me to do?” He wished his voice sounded stronger, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Pray.”

He blinked. All the words he might say escaped him and he simply stared at his father.

"Pray, you sinner."
This time, he felt the cold barrel of the gun against his cheek. As if from nowhere the words finally came.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name....”

As he continued to chant the ancient prayer, he felt the rifle ease away from his cheek and his breathing became calmer. When he got to the end, whispered the
amen,
he paused and felt the rifle pressing his face once more. In truth, he knew no other prayers. Not anymore. Clenching his fists, he started for a second time on the Lord's Prayer and the rifle was pulled back again. Thank goodness.

He spoke the prayer over and over, until his knees ached and his tongue felt useless in his mouth. He spoke it until the words, already worn thin by familiarity, lost all their meaning and became just sounds that pierced the air around them both. He could almost imagine that it was the words themselves that were making the darkness clear away, bringing in the slow dawn light. Every time he paused for breath, tried to moisten his mouth, the rifle jabbed him in the cheek and every time he took up the prayer again, the threat receded a little. His whole body continued to shake and he wondered how long he could keep this madness up. What did his father want anyway? When would he be allowed to stop?

He thought too of Paul. In the gaps between speaking, Craig thought of the way he'd looked, that mysterious smile, full of pain and hope. He remembered his boyfriend's eyes. It kept him going. Somehow.

Finally, when he was near to collapse, his father barked, “
Enough.
”

Craig stopped at once. The
your will be done
vanished into silence. The only sound was his own panting and his father's steady breath. He swallowed, in spite of his dryness. Glancing up, he saw his father's frown and felt his pulse begin to race again. Whatever he'd done, whatever he'd tried to do to please him, it wasn't enough. No matter what his father said. It had never been enough. Not when he was a child. Why should he think it would be so now?

He had to do something to break the deadlock. And soon.

He coughed. His father looked down at him, brought the gun up again.

“It-it's not right,” Craig said, the words slipping off his tongue as if they'd been stored there for a long while. “God—God isn't pleased. I need to do something else to repent. Something serious. That way—that way I won't f-fall back into sin again.”

The gun stopped its upward movement toward Craig's face. Something cleared in his father's expression and he almost smiled.

“Yes,” his father muttered, as if talking only to himself. “Yes, that's it. A full repentance. That is what the Lord will want.
Out of the mouths of babes and children....
Yes, it shall be done.
Get up.
”

On his feet, Craig's vision blurred and he staggered and almost fell again. At once, his father pushed the rifle against his neck. “Don't try to run, don't try to escape the Lord's judgment.”

“No, I won't,” he replied, knowing that was a lie. He'd take his chance when he saw it. He just had to find a way to get beyond the rifle. Without doubt, he knew his father was crazed enough to kill him. And call it mercy. Was this what had happened to Michael after all? And his mother. His mother....
Was it?
No, he couldn't think of that now.

“Then walk out into the yard,” his father said. “We'll see what the Lord demands.”

“Can I have some water first? Please. I'm very dry.”

The only answer was a shake of the head and another jab with the rifle, right against his Adam's apple.
Okay,
thought Craig.
No drink then.
He started to walk toward the barn door. It breathed freedom into his skin. Maybe if he could open the door, kick it back into his father's face, he might escape the bullet. There'd be the chance to run. Get help. He discounted attempting to tackle his captor, not while he held all the power. If he could just distract him for a moment, knock the gun down, then maybe, maybe....

He opened the door. The shaft of dawn light made him blink. He'd grown accustomed to the dark. The cold too made him shiver. He stood for a moment on the threshold, orientating himself.

“Where to then?” he asked.

“Home,” his father barked. “We need to go home. Everything will be made well again there.”

Somehow Craig doubted that, but he had little choice but to obey. As he stepped out onto the concrete, he could smell wet grass, the aftermath of rain, and a hint of manure on the wind. The neighboring farms must already have started the milking; he could hear the cattle. Even so close, it seemed a universe away.

Exiting the outbuildings and heading across the mud path for what had once been home, he glanced across at Andrea's house just at the corner where it came into view. He hoped to the God he no longer believed in that she would be deeply asleep. The consequences of her involvement didn't bear thought.

Without warning, he stumbled and fell, his attention distracted by the worries about his father's old neighbor. Behind him, his father gave an angry shout, the sound of it full of words Craig didn't recognize.

“It's okay,” he gabbled, mouth full of dirt. “I slipped. I—”

“
Get up, get up now,
” he screamed. “The Lord will have his revenge. There is nowhere you can run.”

Before Craig could stop him and even before he knew that was what he was going to do, his father pointed the rifle at his legs and pulled the trigger. The shot deafened him, but it missed, instead tearing up the ground and mud at his feet.

“I'm not running, I'm not running!” he yelled, hands in the air. “
Don't shoot.
”

As the words tumbled out, a flash of yellow caught at the edge of his vision. When he turned his head, he saw that Andrea's bedroom light had come on and he groaned, heart beating double-time. “Please, Dad, please, for God's sake we have to go.”

The blasphemy was spoken before he could bring it back and Craig cursed again, but this time silently. His father began to shout, waving the gun. At the same time, another light in Andrea's house split the darkness. The landing light.

He scrabbled to his knees, the fear of the rifle battling with the need to get away where Andrea couldn't see them and be foolish enough to come out. “Please, Dad. I'm sorry. Forgive me, please.”

“
No.
Stay where you are. You are a sinner, not worthy of forgiveness. You take the Lord's name in vain and you only pretend to repent. You must be taught that
the Lord will not be mocked.
”

“James? Is that you?”

Andrea's voice, thin, hesitant, pierced the standoff between Craig and his father. She was standing at her front door, the thick blue dressing gown only serving to make her seem more vulnerable.

“Andrea, no. Get back in the house!” Craig yelled.
"Now."

“Craig? Are you here? What's wrong? Are you all right?” Instead of heading to safety, his neighbor took a few paces forward, waving the torch she carried at them, even though the sky was light enough now to see by.

He realized the gun must have woken her but she hadn't made the connection with what was happening now. Worse than this realization was the fact she was continuing to walk toward them.

“
No,
” Craig yelled again. “Stay where you are. My father, he's—”

A sharp explosion from next to him and something small and round appeared in Andrea's forehead. At the same time, blood spattered backward. Her eyes widened and she fell. Craig's heart missed a beat. Then he shouted one word and one word only. It echoed around the yard and inside his head, over and over again. Until finally it vanished away.