Young Fegan Meets The Bull

The next morning, Fegan's body ached from the cold and the hard ground. They ate beans and burnt toast around the fire, all of them silent in the morning chill. A brief panic swept through them when a hoarse engine echoed through the woods.

"It's all right," McGinty said as he stood. "I'm expecting someone."

A Land Rover appeared through the trees. Not the armoured kind the cops and soldiers drove, but a muddied farmer's car. It halted behind the Camper and the biggest man Fegan had ever seen got out. He was older than McGinty, late thirties Fegan guessed, and had coarse, red skin. He wore Wellington boots and a flat cap and the low aroma of manure drifted from him.

McGinty and Devlin greeted him with respect. The big man grunted in return. He went to the back of the Land Rover and came back with a long roll of canvas in his arms. He crouched and set it on the mossy ground.

"We got pulled on the way down here," McGinty said. "A cop thought we'd be carrying those. Somebody tipped him off."

The big man looked up from untying the canvas. "A tout? We'll have to watch that."

He unrolled the canvas and the boys inhaled in unison. Three rifles lay in its folds, one larger than the others.

"Two air rifles and a .303," the big man said as he stood up. "No fucking about, Paul. We don't want to send any of these boys home with holes in them, right?"

"Right, Bull," McGinty said. "We'll be careful."

The big man opened the Land Rover's passenger door and took out a metal box and a bundle of paper targets. He put them on the ground beside the rifles. "There's a couple of hundred pellets and a few dozen .303 rounds. Go easy on the rounds, they're not cheap. I'll be back for the rifles this afternoon."

Devlin pinned the targets to trees twenty yards away and the boys took turns with the air rifles. McGinty put the .303 in the van saying only the best shot would get to use it. McKenna and Fegan lay side-by-side, popping the air rifles' breaches, inserting the pellets, cocking them, and taking aim. McKenna put holes around the outer circles of his target while Fegan only managed to scar the tree's bark. Every time he squeezed the trigger the rifle seemed to slither in his grasp, the snap and kick jarring his shoulder, even though they were low-powered guns.

When they'd both fired their allotted twenty pellets, McKenna said, "Jesus, Gerry, you couldn't hit a cow on the arse with a shovel."

The rest laughed while Fegan ground his teeth.

At lunchtime they sat in a circle eating apples the big man had left for them. They were sour and hard, but the boys were hungry. They chewed in silence.

The fourth boy, Mulholland was his name, threw his apple core on the fire to spit and hiss. "You're not much use with a rifle, Gerry," he said.

"I never shot one before," Fegan said.

"Neither have I, but I still did better than you." He grinned and poked at the fire with a stick. "You scared of them?"

"No," Fegan said.

"Not Gerry," McKenna said. "He's scared of nothing."

An engine rumbled in the near distance. The big man's Land Rover approached.

"He was scared of something last night," Mulholland said.

"Shut your mouth," Fegan said. He took a bite of sour apple.

"Something made you piss down your leg," Mulholland giggled. "Were you scared of the dark, Gerry? You were nearly crying for your ma."

The Land Rover pulled up behind the Camper.

Fegan threw his apple core at Mulholland. "Shut up."

Mulholland batted the apple core away. "I don't know why Michael brought you if you're too scared to camp out. Maybe your ma should come and get you. She could --"

Fegan leapt at Mulholland, blind with rage, before McKenna could stop him. Mulholland was heavier, but Fegan was quicker. He hammered at the other boy's face until his knuckles screamed. Hands grabbed at his shoulders, but he shook them off and kept driving his fists into any part of Mulholland he could reach.

A thick arm circled his waist and pulled him away. The smell of manure seeped through Fegan's anger and he writhed in an impossibly strong embrace. He was placed square on his feet and the arms slipped away from him. Fegan spun on his heels, found his target, and launched his fist at the big man's chin.

It connected with a bolt of red-hot pain. The big man took a step back and everyone, the boys and the men, gasped as one.

Fegan cried out and cradled his hand. The big man wiped a red speck from his lip. He slapped Fegan hard across the ear, his palm like a moving wall. Fegan slammed into the ground as a choir screamed in his ear.

He couldn't tell how long he lay there, but it felt like forever. Shadows moved, forms crouched over him, and eventually the choir faded to be replaced by a low, sick throb in his temples. He looked up and the big man held one of the air rifles. The sun haloed around him.

"You've got some balls, son," the big man said. He popped the rifle's breach and loaded it with a pellet. "You're not the first man ever lifted a hand to me, and you won't be the last. But you're going to get off the lightest 'cause you're too young to know better."

McGinty appeared at his side. "Jesus, Bull, he's just a kid. He didn't mean it."

"Just a kid?" The big man smiled. "Takes more than a kid to clout me, Paul. You better watch this young fella. He's got great things ahead of him."

He raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Fegan's thigh shrieked and he screamed until his throat gave out.

The big man bundled up the rifles in their canvas. "Get packed up and fuck off home, lads," he said. "The fun's over."