World War Moo by Michael Logan Read Free Book Online Page A

anything to do that: to say good-bye, to say sorry.”
    He fell silent, the full stop firmly placed on his tale of woe.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Jelena said. “I have to go.”
    She slipped away, leaving him marooned in an island of stillness as those who’d once surrounded him danced to Gogol Bordello, a crazed gypsy punk band the kids of the village seemed to adore. He watched her join in the dance, which seemed all the more frenetic as they exorcised the unhappiness with which he’d contaminated them.
    â€œYou wanted a cheery little adventure story, didn’t you?” Geldof whispered.
    He drained the rest of his beer and rose unsteadily, intent on making it to bed before he barfed. His gaze fell on the pig, now dripping crackling juices into the roaring flames. Again, it seemed to be staring at him as it revolved; grinning as it mocked his pain and taunted him for his loss.
    â€œYou killed my mum, you malodorous swine,” he said.
    Without any conscious decision to do so, he broke into a weaving run and launched himself through the air to catch the pig square with a thumping tackle. The supports of the spit gave way. He landed on top of the evening’s dinner and began to dish out flailing punches. The pig’s crisped skin split under his blows and scalding fluid spattered his forearms. He was faintly aware that the dancing had halted and every youth in the party was gaping at him as his fists pistoned in time to the beat. He only stopped when he became aware of heat around his ankles. He looked down to see his feet were still in the fire and his trouser legs were beginning to smoulder. He leapt up, leaving his vanquished foe on the ground, and grabbed a half-full glass. As he was about to throw it on his trousers, a strong hand grasped his wrist. The old man shook his head and pointed at the glass. Geldof had been about to toss hard liquor onto the fledgling fire. The old man poured a bottle of beer over Geldof’s feet and put an arm around his waist.
    â€œTime for you to go home,” he said.
    â€œI can’t go home,” Geldof said, his words barely audible, and let the man half carry, half drag him back up to the villa.

 
    5
    Despite his throbbing head and the burns clamoring for attention on his limbs, Geldof felt surprisingly untroubled as he sat on the steps of the villa the next morning, waiting for his grandfather to arrive. He wasn’t upset that he hadn’t copped off with Jelena. Deep down he’d known it would end that way, and he’d pretty much accepted he would remain a virgin for life. In many ways, it was a blessing. Virginity was only a burden if you entertained serious notions of the relief you would feel upon getting the three-hundred-pound gorilla off your back. Once you acknowledged you would be carrying it around for the rest of your life, you stopped noticing your spine was concertinaed under the weight. Yes, he still thought about sex, and released the pink pressure valve as and when required, but he could go weeks without feeling the urge to masturbate—which must have been some kind of Guinness Record for a boy of his years.
    He should have felt worse about making such a fool of himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Perhaps it was down to finally being able to express how he felt, albeit to an unwilling audience, or the catharsis brought by punching twelve bells of shit out of a roasted pig. Or maybe it was the freedom brought by the understanding that now, with his reputation as a weirdo cemented, he would never be accepted by the local kids. After the way they’d reacted, he no longer wanted their approval. They were children housed in adult bodies, unable to relate to what he’d been through and far too quick to turn their faces away from his pain. He didn’t want to build friendships that would rely on his pretending to be happy all of the time.
    Whatever the reason, he was able to close his