January — three years ago
‘How far, Ian?’ asked the smaller boy as he swung the rucksack on to the grass, narrowly missing a clump of dried sheep muck.
‘A few hundred yards. See that bend in the river?’ Ian raised an arm to indicate the curve of the water. ‘Just past there.’ He rummaged in a pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Want one?’ he asked as he lit the end of his and inhaled a huge belt of smoke. His friend shook his head. Ian then produced a half-bottle of cheap vodka from his back pocket and spun off the cap. He took a long gulp and grimaced as he swallowed then breathed hard through the fumes. He offered the bottle to his companion who hesitated for a second then took it from him.
‘Why the hell not?’ He took an even longer draught than Ian and pulled an equally pained expression at the taste before handing the bottle back. He felt carefully around the light stubble on his face. ‘How do people drink that stuff? My face is numb.’
‘That’s why.’ Ian grinned.
They walked on, one behind the other, treading carefully along the muddy rabbit path that hugged the river. The water was fast and fierce from winter rains and sounded like the blood in their eardrums. The ground was damp and slippery and the pair lapsed back into silence as they picked their way along.
At the bend, Ian struck away from the path towards a large sturdy tree. Once there, he took out his cigarettes and vodka and tossed them to the smaller boy. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’ With that he set about climbing the tree, keeping his own rucksack on his back while the smaller boy picked up the vodka and took another tentative swig.
A few minutes later, Ian jumped down beside his companion and hauled off his rucksack. ‘All set.’ He took out a camera and pointed it at his friend who posed with the vodka and took another pull. ‘Perfect,’ he said.
‘You got enough pictures?’
‘Plenty. They’ll lap it up.’
The other boy smiled and nodded, then looked back down to the river. ‘Nice day, this.’
‘The best,’ retorted Ian.
The small boy turned and began to climb while Ian lit a cigarette and adjusted the camera for the piercing winter light. He walked away from the tree then turned to wave at his friend, who was nearly in position.
When he was ready, the boy raised an arm to acknowledge. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ shouted Ian from the ground.
The boy steadied his footing on the branch and looked out over the countryside. He had a fantastic view down the river — he could see the bridge and, beyond that, the otter dam. He even fancied he could see the tower of the Town Hall clock. His eyes darted further round to a dog scrabbling at a mole hill on a bank on the other side of the water. It was a Springer Spaniel — lovely dogs. ‘Nice day,’ he repeated, smiling.
He closed his eyes and stepped off the branch, even remembering to have I love you, Mum in his thoughts as he hurtled towards the ground. As he fell, he was sure he could hear the whirring of the camera. Wait till his tormentors saw the pictures. Then they’d know.
A second later, the tree shuddered as the snap of his neck ended his fall.
The rope held. Ian was pleased. Everything had gone well. He put the camera to his eye to take the money shots. ‘Everyone will know you, my friend. Everyone will envy you.’