A Kestrel for a Knave by Barry Hines Read Free Book Online Page A

turned him on to his back and took his shoes off. He worked his trouser bottoms over his heels, then pulled them over his feet and off.
    ‘I’m fed up o’ this bloody game. It’s every Saturday night alike!’
    Jud was asleep, snoring, mouth open.
    ‘Just like a pig snoring…. A drunken pig…. Jud the drunken pig.’
    He snapped Jud’s mouth shut and held his lips between his finger and thumb. Jud began to grumble in his throat, then he tossed his head free and his eyelids fluttered.
    ‘W’a’s up? W’a’s up?’
    ‘Get back to sleep… you pig… hog… sow… you drunken bastard… Tha don’t like being called a bastard, does tha, you bastard? You PIG ,’ – clawing at Jud with his right hand ‘ HOG ,’ – left hand, ‘sow,’ – right again, ‘ DRUNKEN BASTARD ,’ – one strike per syllable.
    ‘Pig Hog Sow Drun-ken Bas-tard.
    Pig Hog Sow Drun-ken Bas-tard.’
    Slowly, padding round the bed, clawing, chanting with every step.
    Bas-tard, Bas-tard, Drun-ken PIG.
    Bas-tard, Bas-tard, Drun-ken PIG.
    Faster louder round the bed.
    Pig Hog Sow, Drunken Bastard.
    Pig Hog Sow, Drunken Bastard.
    Bastard Bastard Drunken PIG .
    Bastard Bastard Drunken SMACK – Already committed to its strike, Billy’s claw had involuntarily hardened to a fist, and thumped Jud, smack on his ear as he turned over on to his side.
    For a second, a still, catching Billy poised over the bed, fist still clenched above the offended ear. Then the monster began to rumble. Billy snatched his clothes off the chair, flicked off the light as he ran past, and ran downstairs. His fingers almost seized up as they fumbled at the lock on the kitchen door, their ineptitude making him glance round and squeal softly in fear and excitement. With the door opened, he relaxed and paused on the step to listen. Silence. Continuing silence. So he went back inside and fetched his jacket and pumps, and dressed at leisure in the doorway, by the light of the moon.
    The moon was almost complete, its outline well defined, except for the blur on the waxing curve. The sky was cloudless, the air still warm, but when he reached the fields it cooled slightly, taking on a fresher, sharper quality. The moon made it light in the fields, and lent the grass a silver sheen, and the piebald hides of the cows were clearly visible in this silvery light. The wood was a narrow black band beyond the fields, growing taller and taller as Billy approached, until it formed a curtain stretched out before him, and the top of the curtain appeared to touch the stars directly above.
    He climbed on to the stile and looked into the trees. It was dark on both sides of the path, but above the path the foliage was thinner, and the light from the moon penetrated and lit the way. Billy stepped down off the stile and entered the wood. The trunks and branches lining thepath formed pillars and lintels, terraced doorways leading into dark interiors. He hurried by them, glancing in, right and left. A scuffle to his left. He side-stepped to the right and began to run, the pad of his feet and the rasp of his breath filtering far into the trees, WO-HU-WO-HOOOO . WO-HU-WO-HOOOO. He stopped and listened, trying to control his breathing. WO-HU-WO-HOOO. Somewhere ahead; the long falter radiating back through the trees. Billy linked his fingers, placed his thumbs together and blew into the split between them. The only sound he produced was that of rushing air. He licked his lips and tried again, producing a wheeze, which he swiftly worked up into a single hoot and developed into a strident imitation of the tawny owl’s call. He listened. There was no response, so he repeated it, this time working for the softer, more wavering sound, by stuttering his breath into the sound chamber. And out it came, as clear and as clean as a blowing of bubbles. His call was immediately answered. Billy grinned and answered back. He started to walk again, and maintained contact with the owl for the rest of the distance