Free Lamb by Bernard Maclaverty Page A

case of kidnapping.

Eight
    That night they were so tired with the walking they had done that they sat in the lounge and watched television. There was something wrong with the set and the people looked squashed and dwarfish. When they turned sideways they had green haloes down their spines. Michael suggested that they go to their room and begin building the plane. Owen shrugged, more in agreement than anything else.
    Because of their lack of preparation it was some time before they got started. They had nothing to cut the light balsa wood, so Michael devised a tool from his shaving kit. A razor blade with one edge rendered safe with a double layer of sticking plaster. Owen laid out the kit on the desk but still they could not get started. Michael wanted to get something to stop them cutting through and ruining the desk top.
    The girl at reception was removing the blue and silver speckled nail polish she had put on the night before. She raised one pencilled eyebrow when Michael asked her for the loan of a bread board from the kitchen, and the other when he asked for a ruler.
    When Michael arrived back with the bread board and ruler Owen was sitting vacantly stroking his cheek with a small sheet of balsa wood.
    â€˜It’s like a feather, not like wood. Here, feel,’ and he stroked the white light wood across Michael’s cheek.
    â€˜I can’t feel it with three days’ growth.’
    â€˜Are you growing a beard?’
    â€˜I think I might,’ he said, kneading the stubble of his chin. ‘It might be safer.’
    Owen let the balsa sheet fall and it zigzagged to the floor soundlessly. He stared at it fixedly against the gold of the carpet.
    â€˜Come on. Snap out of it. I’ll help you with the plans.’
    Being with the boy continuously, he noticed these little trances more and more. After a moment’s staring silence the boy would do a double-take.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Let’s get to work.’
    They pored over the unfolded sheet of instructions and Michael set Owen various things to do. He did not want to make the glider himself and yet he felt that if he didn’t give him a guiding hand the boy would make a mess of it.
    â€˜Can you read what it says?’ asked Michael.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Liar,’ said Michael and began to read the words and point to the diagrams. The exploded view simplified things. The boy began to measure and cut. A slight pressure on the blade and it just sank through the wood with a creaking sound, leaving a clean cut. The delicate skeleton of one of the wings began to build up. The glue left wisps, cobwebs hanging from it and stuck to their fingers. Every so often it had to be pulled away like a second skin.
    Owen was good with his hands, working neatly and with precision. Michael began the second wing. They became absorbed in their work so that Michael noticed neither the silence between them nor the time. It was almost one o’clock when they decided to go to bed. The two wings, almost completed, stood propped in a V on the desk as if plummeting.
    The room was saturated with the tangy smell of glue and they slept heavily that night and through the morning until almost lunchtime.
    After what was a mixture of lunch and breakfast they sat alone in the chintz-covered armchairs in the lounge. The chairs were old-fashioned, with high sides which came up to Owen’s shoulders. He sat looking boxed in, with just the tips of his toes touching the ground.
    In the next room a children’s party had started. The guests had been arriving throughout lunchtime in their tweedy coats and good clothes. Cars had pulled up outside and left them off. There were both boys and girls, and each one carried a parcel. The game that was being played now was noisy. The music, a pop record turned up to full volume, drummed so that they could hear the bass notes and the rhythm from where they sat. Every so often it would stop in the middle of the tune and be