by Steven Dunne
Prologue
January 2005 – Stourbridge/Mid Wales
‘How far Ian?’ asked the smaller of the two lads, as he swung the rucksack onto the grass, narrowly missing a clump of dried sheep muck.
‘A few hundred yards. See that bend in the river?’ The other boy, Ian, raised an arm to indicate the curve of the water and nodded. ‘Just past there.’ He rummaged in a pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Want one?’ he asked as he lit the end and pulled in a huge belt of smoke. His friend shook his head. Then he pulled out a half bottle of cheap vodka from his back pocket and span off the cap. He took a long gulp and grimaced as he swallowed then breathed hard through the fumes. He offered the bottle to his companion who hesitated for a second then took the bottle from him.
‘Why the hell not?’ He took an even longer draught than his friend and pulled an equally pained expression at the taste before handing the bottle back. He felt carefully around his lightly stubbled face. ‘How do people drink that stuff? My face is numb.’
‘That’s why,’ grinned Ian.
They walked on, one behind the other, treading carefully along the muddy rabbit path that hugged the river. The water was fast and fierce from winter rains and sounded like the blood in their eardrums, the ground damp and slippery and the pair lapsed back into silence as they picked their way along.
At the bend, Ian struck away from the path towards a large sturdy tree. Once there, he took out his cigarettes and vodka and tossed them to the smaller boy. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’ With that he set about climbing the tree with his own rucksack and the smaller boy, picked up the vodka and took another tentative swig.
A few minutes later, Ian jumped down beside his companion and hauled off his rucksack. ‘All set.’ He pulled out a camera and pointed it at his friend who posed with the vodka and took another pull. ‘Perfect. Your turn,’ he said.
‘You got enough pictures?’
‘Plenty. They’ll lap it up.’
The other boy smiled and nodded, then looked back down to the river. ‘Nice day, this.’
‘The best,’ retorted Ian.
The boy turned and began to climb while Ian lit a cigarette and adjusted the camera for the piercing winter light. He walked away from the tree then turned to wave at his friend, nearly in position.
When he was ready, the boy raised an arm to acknowledge Ian. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ shouted Ian from the ground.
The boy steadied his footing on the branch and looked out over the countryside. He had a fantastic view down the river, he could see the bridge and, beyond that, the otter dam. He even fancied he could see the tower of the town hall clock. His eyes darted further round to a dog scrabbling at a mole hill on a bank on the other side of the water. It was a Springer Spaniel - lovely dogs. ‘Nice day, this,’ he smiled.
He closed his eyes and stepped off the branch, even remembering to have I love you mum in his thoughts as he hurtled towards the ground. As he fell, he fancied he could hear the whirring of the camera. Wait till his tormentors saw the pictures. Then they’d know.
A second later the snap of his neck ended his fall, and the tree shook under the combined stress of the boy’s weight and velocity.
The rope held. Ian was pleased. Everything had gone well. He put the camera to his eye to take the money shots. ‘Everyone will know you my friend. Everyone will envy you.’
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