Carlo, murmured, ‘But we have to keep trying.’
Both men were sombre. Where was the boy and what would he do? And when would they have a chance to decide on his vision of victory, if ever?
Jago Browne went down the last few yards of the slope with almost excessive caution. The women were gathered in the kitchen, with a television on. The kid had lit a fire in an incinerator and Consolata’s clothes had gone into it, all except the trainers. The kid had poked the fire, then called the dogs to him and now was on the high hillside. Why she had been there he had no idea, but it would have been ungrateful not to thank her – silently, fleetingly – for the diversion she had promised him. He didn’t know whether she was still with the police at the block far down the track. The daughter-in-law was at the house, with the children, and he could hear their shrieks as they played inside. The open coffin was not enough to quieten them. He thought now was a good time. He was certain that the old man, the head of the family, was in his bunker, underground. He went towards the sheets.
He slid the last few feet. The chickens ran to him, but the cockerel was wary. They came near to his legs and pestered him. He kicked dirt at them and they pecked at it, looking for food. He came past the derelict shed and saw where the ground beyond it was sub-soil, with no bed of rock. There was weed and thorn, and he registered that part of the shed’s wall was of newer stone, freshly pointed. He went past a sheet where the motif was roses with wide stems. In front of him, almost under his feet, the earth was scuffed with footprints. He stood still and listened. He heard the sounds from the kitchen and the kid’s whistle from up the hill. He wondered whether his new friends – the providers of food – had watched him come down the last short cliff face. They couldn’t see him now, wouldn’t know where he was and what he was doing. The earth was loose and had been stamped on but had not settled. No excuse. He thought it the supreme moment of his life. No excuse to delay.
He dropped to his knees.
He scraped hard with his hands, tore at the soil and scratched, as a cat would have. The earth came clear and he drove his hands into the soil and found where it was looser. The pile he made grew.
Jago opened the hole.
He had been accurate to a pinpoint. The cable was revealed, and the PVC insulation tape wrapped round the join. He scrabbled with his fingers under the tape and cleared a further section of the cable.
His fingers fastened on it. He had it in two hands and eased himself onto his haunches. The cable strained. He drew a deep breath.
18
He let the breath ease out, threw his bodyweight back and heaved. Jago had no knowledge of electricity, didn’t know what would happen, but thought himself safe. He wrenched.
The cable leaped from the ground a few feet, then stuck fast. He pulled harder and saw the tape come loose. A last drag and it had parted. A flash of light dazzled him.
Jago clung to the cable end. He saw the short folded ends of the copper wire and threw it aside. There was a scorch mark on the grass and a few leaves were singed. He was on his back, and rolled.
The chickens came to him and he was surrounded by a clucking chorus, demanding corn or whatever they ate. He ignored them, his focus on the cable. He assumed it best to get the ends back into the little pit he had gouged and fill it again. He tossed in the dead end of the cable, and handled the live end with what he hoped was care. Each week in the Newham Recorder there were stories of fatalities caused by accidents linked to electricity. He kicked earth over the copper ends, covered them and stamped them down. The chickens had given up on him. He heard the kid and his whistles but they were high and far away from him.
It was done, finished. In the morning it would be clear that the ground had been disturbed, but not now that dusk was coming and the shadows were longer. The sheets hung still, and light from the kitchen doorway reached the grapes on the trellis.