John shrugged and shook the tin. It made no sound. “The ashes of the last poor fucker to piss him off?”
Taz shook his head. “His finger.”
“No, an eyeball. We’ll open it and it’ll be looking at us—”
“Both of ’em—he wouldn’t take one and leave the other.”
John shook it again, and it didn’t feel like eyeballs. He glanced over at Taz.
“We don’t need to,” said Taz. “We could just say we did.”
For a moment John was tempted, but the thought of going home with no food strengthened his resolve, and he shook his head. “You must be joking.”
He edged to the cliff face. From here, it was like being king of Belfast. He cast his eyes over the lough. What was left? He knew Glasgow had been wiped out—it had gone early—and it would be years before London would be rebuilt. New York, too—everywhere. He shivered, and bile rose up in him. It wasn’t their planet; what right had the shit-eaters to destroy it?
He opened the box—it took a bit of work, the lid was on tight—half-closing his eyes, sure it would be gruesome. Instead, all it contained was dust, fine like ash, sparkling very slightly in the moonlight. He touched it with his finger, tracing a pattern in it, and it felt like fine sand.
“It’s drugs,” he said, a little disappointed. “It must be a bad shipment.”
Taz leaned over and put his finger in the sand. “Weird—why not tip it down a drain and have done with it? Why here?”
“Who cares? It’ll get us food, and I’m starving. You’re so skinny, you’ll slip through a crack in the road soon.” John reached the tin out. "Want some?"
Taz shook his head. "Go fuck yourself."
"Chickenshit."
"Bollocks I am." Taz traced a line in the dust and put his finger to his mouth. He licked it. “That’s not drugs; it tastes like sand or something.”
“You could be eating someone’s body,” said John.
Taz rubbed his hand over his mouth, and paled a little. “It’s not a body, you arse.”
John reached out his hand, holding the tin tightly. If McDowell wanted it sprinkled over Belfast, that’s what he’d do. Hell, if the big man wanted him to piss off the side of the cliff, he’d do it. He shook the box into the wind, watching the dust lift into the breeze. He put the tin in his pocket and clapped his hands to get rid of the sand. “Let’s go.”
They hurried down, skidding on the scree, half on their feet, half on their arses. They’d got partway down when Taz doubled over with a grunt. His face curled into a grimace. Sweat beaded his forehead.
"Jesus,” said John, reaching for him. “What—?”
Taz screamed.
“What is it?” John shook Taz.
“It hurts!” yelled Taz. He slumped to the ground. “It fucking hurts everywhere!”
Waves of panic thudded across John’s head. Taz rolled onto his side, shaking. John knelt and put his hand on him, not knowing what to do. There was no one to get help from, not this deep into the curfew. He stood and pulled Taz up, fumbling in the dark, almost dropping him, until Taz was draped over his shoulders. He had to get the pair of them back to Taz’s house and let his ma see to him. He took a first step, grimacing at the dead weight on his shoulders, but forced another step, and then another. There was nothing else for it. Taz needed help, and Josey and the kids were waiting for him.
CHAPTER TWO
John staggered to the garden wall, Taz draped over his shoulders. Christ, for a skinny guy he was heavy. John took a breath and his chest burned; he had to stop, just for a minute. He propped Taz against the wall, but his friend slid down and curled up on the ground. He rocked back and forth, moaning. At least he’d stopped yelling.
John leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and took gulps of air. A year ago, he’d have managed Taz’s weight easily, but that was when he was getting ready to try out for the trials, not when he was half-starved. He straightened, looking down the length of the Ballysillan Road, and saw streaks of light in the sky. It had taken them all night to get this far. Josey would be worried, and Taz’s mum.
Maybe he should hide Taz? Shove him under a bush and go for help? He’d be in the Oldpark in about fifteen minutes if he did…A long groan from his friend convinced him not to. He took another deep breath and tapped Taz’s shoulder.
“Come on, mate,” he said, trying to haul Taz upright. His friend fought against him, but John managed to hoist him up, using his belt for leverage. He managed to get Taz draped over one shoulder. John gritted his teeth and headed down the road. “Taz, try to walk a bit.”
Taz nodded against him, and his weight lessened a little. Not enough, though they’d never make it. There was a rumble in the distance, coming nearer. John cocked his head. An engine, somewhere to his left, probably a patrol; no one else would be out before curfew ended. Taz had slumped again, his full weight across John’s shoulders, making them ache. The noise came closer, really close now—it must be in the next street. John kicked open a garden gate to his right, cursing as he tried to manoeuvre both of them through. He tripped and they went down in a heap, Taz screaming as he fell on him. John clapped his hand over his friend’s mouth. “Shhh—patrol.”
Taz groaned and nodded. John held his breath. Fuck. He looked around; there was nothing in the garden other than a kid’s slide, purple and shaped like a bear. Totally crap.
“In the corner,” he said. At least they’d be shielded from the road by the hedge. He glanced at the house; it looked empty, its windows dirty with thin curtains drawn. The engine stopped.
Taz crawled, John behind him. A door slammed. He pushed Taz into the corner of the garden and ducked down, pulling the slide in front of them. Voices came from the street: Belfast accents, not Zelo translators. John pulled out his knife, flicking it open, and put his head against the grass, watching through an arch beneath the slide as the tip of a rifle touched the gate, pushing it open. Beside him Taz had collapsed and was breathing too heavily, half moaning.
“Shhhh,” he said, but Taz didn’t respond. He looked terrible, pale and sweating, his eyelids fluttering.
The gate opened fully and someone stepped into the garden, their cargo trousers tucked into a pair of heavy boots. Shit. The feet stopped. John huddled beside Taz, holding his head, and his friend was hot, really hot.
The slide moved. John held his breath. Could he run? He tightened his grip on the knife.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He looked up into the barrel of a machine gun. He followed the line of the gun, up past a burly chest, to see a soldier of about forty, his face stern.
“The knife. Hand it over.”
“Right.”
John got to his knees and handed the knife to the soldier, who snapped it closed and put it in his pocket.
“Captain!” the soldier yelled. He gestured to the boys. “Stand up, hands in the air.”
John got to his feet, slowly, keeping his hands high.
“And your mate.”
“He’s hurt.”
Taz moaned, a long moan, and the trooper frowned. He really was big, like a rugby player or something. His cheeks were flushed; John bet his hair was red under his helmet. “How did he get hurt?”
“I dunno. Maybe he ate something.”
The captain came into the garden. “Bring them in, Peters; they’re out after curfew.” He cursed and turned away. “They’re the last thing we need on top of what’s happening to the Zelo.”