Philomena.
“And soon we’re off to California,” says Phil.
“California?”
says Mum.
“Aye. It’s what we’ve always wanted: San Francisco, San Diego, Sacrawhatdeyecallit.”
“Sacramento,” says Philomena.
“Aye. Not yet, they say. But we’ll be gone soon. Straight to San Fran. Then the Chevy all the way down Highway One.”
At dusk I go down the garden with Max and Oliver and Crystal. The tent’s there, by the fire pit.
“We sleep out in it,” I say.
Crystal runs her fingers across the canvas. She says it’s beautiful. She laughs.
“You’re a dreamer, aren’t you,” she says. “You’re a wild boy, Liam.”
We light a fire in the fire pit and sit by it on logs and stones. Soon there’s a gap of darkness between the party and us.
Oliver’s in a new foster home now. So’s Crystal. They see each other at weekends. They sit together, lean against each other. Oliver puts his arm around her.
“This is a strange land,” says Oliver. “When I thought of England, the pictures in my head were of Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, Bath, the fields of Kent. Not this space, not all these empty places.”
An owl screeches somewhere close by. A few bats are out, flickering through the limits of the firelight—late flights before they go back into hibernation. Crystal hums a tune as she leans against him. She leans forward to stir the fire with a stick.
“They’ve said they think he’ll be safe,” she says.
“In Liberia?” I say.
“Aye, in Liberia.”
“I will die,” says Oliver. “I will be slaughtered.”
“Slaughtered?”
says Max.
“Like a beast. Like my mother, my father, like my sisters, my brothers.”
Crystal stirs the fire again. The sparks rise and dance. The fire simmers, crackles, creaks.
“Some stories are beyond belief,” she says. “But they’re the truest and oldest stories of them all. Tell them, Ollie.”
He pauses. He collects his thoughts.
“They came one morning,” says Oliver. “A troupe of them with rifles and axes and clubs.” He waves away the sparks that rise. He sighs. “Some of them were children, just like me, children with weapons in their fists, children with murder in their eyes. Can you believe that?”
He pauses. He waits.
“
Can
you?” says Crystal.
Her eyes glitter in the firelight and her hair and her face glow.
“You
have to
believe it,” she says. “Any one of us could be a murderer if they got us early enough. The murderer in all of us is just below the skin.”
Max sighs.
“Who’s
they
?” he says.
“They,”
says Crystal, “are the beasts of the world.
They
are the ones that were turned into beasts by the beasts that went before.”
Max shrugs. Maybe he doesn’t want to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to think these things.
“You,” says Crystal, “might think you are an angel, but you’re
not.
What you got is food and money and safety andparents that love you. But what if you
didn’t
have them things? What if your parents were—”
Oliver hushes her. He puts his finger to her lips.
“Tell them more,” she says.
“Imagine this,” he says to us. “Imagine Liberia. Imagine me, not as I am now, but as a child, a little boy. Indeed, I have food, I have parents that love me, and I am happy, until this day. I am lying in the long grass close to my family home. The earth is warm, the sun is beating down on me. I am lying there to hide, because the soldiers have come to our village. For a long time we have feared that they will come. We have been certain that they will come. We have heard all the tales of what happens when they come. We have even played games about this, my friends and I. We have lain in the long grass and we have held sticks as if they were guns. We have imagined fighting for our village, driving the soldiers away. But now the soldiers are here and I am very frightened and there is no way that they can be driven away. I lie trembling in the long grass as the soldiers take my family, and
“And soon we’re off to California,” says Phil.
“California?”
says Mum.
“Aye. It’s what we’ve always wanted: San Francisco, San Diego, Sacrawhatdeyecallit.”
“Sacramento,” says Philomena.
“Aye. Not yet, they say. But we’ll be gone soon. Straight to San Fran. Then the Chevy all the way down Highway One.”
At dusk I go down the garden with Max and Oliver and Crystal. The tent’s there, by the fire pit.
“We sleep out in it,” I say.
Crystal runs her fingers across the canvas. She says it’s beautiful. She laughs.
“You’re a dreamer, aren’t you,” she says. “You’re a wild boy, Liam.”
We light a fire in the fire pit and sit by it on logs and stones. Soon there’s a gap of darkness between the party and us.
Oliver’s in a new foster home now. So’s Crystal. They see each other at weekends. They sit together, lean against each other. Oliver puts his arm around her.
“This is a strange land,” says Oliver. “When I thought of England, the pictures in my head were of Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, Bath, the fields of Kent. Not this space, not all these empty places.”
An owl screeches somewhere close by. A few bats are out, flickering through the limits of the firelight—late flights before they go back into hibernation. Crystal hums a tune as she leans against him. She leans forward to stir the fire with a stick.
“They’ve said they think he’ll be safe,” she says.
“In Liberia?” I say.
“Aye, in Liberia.”
“I will die,” says Oliver. “I will be slaughtered.”
“Slaughtered?”
says Max.
“Like a beast. Like my mother, my father, like my sisters, my brothers.”
Crystal stirs the fire again. The sparks rise and dance. The fire simmers, crackles, creaks.
“Some stories are beyond belief,” she says. “But they’re the truest and oldest stories of them all. Tell them, Ollie.”
He pauses. He collects his thoughts.
“They came one morning,” says Oliver. “A troupe of them with rifles and axes and clubs.” He waves away the sparks that rise. He sighs. “Some of them were children, just like me, children with weapons in their fists, children with murder in their eyes. Can you believe that?”
He pauses. He waits.
“
Can
you?” says Crystal.
Her eyes glitter in the firelight and her hair and her face glow.
“You
have to
believe it,” she says. “Any one of us could be a murderer if they got us early enough. The murderer in all of us is just below the skin.”
Max sighs.
“Who’s
they
?” he says.
“They,”
says Crystal, “are the beasts of the world.
They
are the ones that were turned into beasts by the beasts that went before.”
Max shrugs. Maybe he doesn’t want to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to think these things.
“You,” says Crystal, “might think you are an angel, but you’re
not.
What you got is food and money and safety andparents that love you. But what if you
didn’t
have them things? What if your parents were—”
Oliver hushes her. He puts his finger to her lips.
“Tell them more,” she says.
“Imagine this,” he says to us. “Imagine Liberia. Imagine me, not as I am now, but as a child, a little boy. Indeed, I have food, I have parents that love me, and I am happy, until this day. I am lying in the long grass close to my family home. The earth is warm, the sun is beating down on me. I am lying there to hide, because the soldiers have come to our village. For a long time we have feared that they will come. We have been certain that they will come. We have heard all the tales of what happens when they come. We have even played games about this, my friends and I. We have lain in the long grass and we have held sticks as if they were guns. We have imagined fighting for our village, driving the soldiers away. But now the soldiers are here and I am very frightened and there is no way that they can be driven away. I lie trembling in the long grass as the soldiers take my family, and