THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND
Chapter Eleven - Brotherly Love

My brother, Mike, always seemed to be two and a half years older than I. No matter what I did, or how much I ate, I never seemed to be able to catch up with him. Now, when you are a young boy, the runt of the litter, this can be a most disturbing fact of life. This, together with the fact that Mike seemed to be the favoured one with Dad, was a constant thorn in my side. We were forever fighting about something or other.

Many's the time we went after each other with pots and pans, or knives; I even lunged at him with an axe on one occasion. Fortunately, we were never accurate enough to do any serious damage. A limb chopped off here, a head there, but nothing really drastic. Perhaps I exaggerate a little. However, we did, from time to time, manage to land one or two palpable hits.

The attacks we made on each other inside the house were usually with the assistance of some utensil or other, whatever was handy at the time. But when we were outside the house we restricted ourselves exclusively to bricks and stones. It was accepted between us, a point of honour no less, to stay within the guidelines set down by the international rules of war; a kids' Geneva Convention indeed. It is this kind of warfare to which this chapter is dedicated.

When the battle-lines were drawn, usually some area agreed to on the promontory, we would withdraw temporarily to fill our pockets with stones. And being experienced soldiers, we would build mounds of bricks and pebbles in strategic places in order to be able to re-load quickly when the battle was in full swing. At last, when all preparations had been made, the conflict would begin. One of us would call out: "Yer ready?", and on receiving the correct response, the first salvos would be launched.

The battles were not so much a stand-and-fight affair, no, we were much more canny than that. A short burst here, and then a quick dash to another firing point to confuse the enemy, hence the need for those strategic stockpiles.

Sometimes the hostilities would last for hours. Another short skirmish, a hurried departure to safe ground, another quick salvo; all the tactics of modern warfare. All the buildings on the promontory, derelict or otherwise, were considered to be part of the battleground, even our house - but not inside. It was around these, through them, and over them, we scrambled as each tried to gain an advantage over the other. There was only one way to end the battle, and that was to draw blood. A hit on any clothed area usually did not count, as that would only cause bruising, at least in most cases, although there were a few exceptions. Whenever a bloody hit had been scored, all hostilities ceased. An armistice would immediately be arranged and that would be it until the next time.

There were two battles which stand out in my mind above all the ones we fought. One resulted in a victory for me, and the other in a most spectacular coup de grace for Mike.

The first of these took place on a weekend, probably a Sunday, since we had both received holy blessing at St. Patrick's and were in a state of grace if either one of us should perish. The deadline for war had been reached and the bombardment was about to begin. Dad, as usual, was at the local inn having a Sunday convivial with his mates and the battlefield was clear.

The first range-finding shots were hurled across no-man's land. No hits, as yet, had been recorded. Mike took off around the pump-house. I went around the back of it intending to surprise him, but he was waiting for me and let fly with a few missiles. They came awfully close - too close. I high-tailed it across the railway line and re-grouped behind the storage-shed. He came after me, but I was ready for him and counter-attacked as he came round the corner. Time to withdraw and re-arm.

The next sortie began with Mike trying to encircle my defences. I made a tactical retreat to the abandoned office building located at the tip of the main promontory. Having reached my objective without serious loss of life, I forced my way inside and looked around for a suitable vantage point from which to launch my attack. To go upstairs could be dangerous - I might be cut off from any chance of escape. To stay here on the ground could also place me in jeopardy. What to do? Quick, Frank, think of something! As I was deliberating I saw, through a crack in the door, the back of Mike's head as he passed by looking for me.

Noiselessly, I inched open the door. Mike had his back to me. I had him dead in my sights. I couldn't miss. I let fly - and missed! The missile whistled past his right ear and went sailing through the air until it landed in the river. He turned round in a fury. One look from me was enough. I turned and ran like a hare to our house where, near the doorstep, I had placed my reserves of ammunition.

Mike, when he saw that I had managed to reach my arsenal in time, came to a halt at the corner of the storage-shed to re-assess the situation. I immediately let loose a barrage with all the urgency for which the situation called. Mike ducked behind the shed out of harm's way. What would he do next? Which side would he emerge from? I had a few well-chosen stones at the ready as I waited to see what his next move would be.

There next came a moment, all too rare in life, when, no matter what you did, you knew you were going to succeed. I had guessed correctly that Mike would come from the left side of the building as he resumed his attack. Almost before I saw him I let fly with a good-sized rock and watched its trajectory, seemingly in slow-motion, as it closed on the target. It struck him fair and square on the forehead, almost between the eyes, and he went down like a sack of spuds.

This war was now officially over. I rushed over to Mike and administered first-aid in the field. He had a nasty gash which bled manfully, and with all the solicitous care of the victor, I now took care of him. It was an honourable battle-scar. He wears it proudly to this day.

The second most memorable battle took place one Saturday afternoon where once again Dad had conveniently absented himself in order to ensure that his friends were being looked after properly at the local pub. But before I can relate the events of this day it is necessary to go back a week or two to set the scene.

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, (every major event seemed to take place on a weekend), and having nothing in particular to do I wandered over the canal bank to muck about till tea-time. Along the bank, from the beginning of the canal to about fifty yards up, there were bollards, around which the barges used to tie their mooring-ropes. They were made of cast-iron, and moulded in the shape of mushrooms.

In the manner of a gymnast I was attempting to balance on top of this mushroom-shaped bollard, hands on each side and my legs stuck out horizontally. Because of its unusual shape this feat was not at all easy to accomplish. It was difficult to maintain the pose for more than a second or two. I had set myself a goal of twenty seconds in which to hold this position, and, in the manner of all children, this time-limit was inviolable.

My endurance times were improving slowly, but it was getting hot and my hands were beginning to sweat. I had chosen the one day of the year when summer came to visit England. Still I persisted. A last attempt was made: five seconds, ...ten seconds...twelve...and...ouch! and ouch! and ugh! and then much pain.

I had been stung on my exposed thigh by a bumble-bee the size of a cat! Instinctively, I reacted by reaching behind me to the spot where the bee had harpooned me. As this happened my other hand slipped off the bollard. Now, it just so happens that the law of gravity had been passed a few days before, and this law was now put into effect. I crashed down on the cast-iron bollard face-first and discovered at that moment that iron is slightly harder than human bone and tissue. The result of this discovery was that my face now sported a crescent-shaped welt on the right side of my face which reached from my forehead to my chin. The pain in my face was such that the bee sting hardly seemed to matter. But the pain of embarrassment for my stupidity came a close second, even though there was no-one around to witness this fiasco.

A few days later the welt on my face turned to a scabrous, brown sickle-moon; like a right parenthesis, or left parenthesis if you were looking directly at me. Strangely, though the circumstances under which I had received this injury were rather ignominious, I now wore it with pride as I went to school. My chums were ever so curious as to how I had received this mighty blow. The stories I invented to explain it varied with each inquirer, but none was to know the real cause.

Well, now, back to the second battle. As I mentioned earlier, it was a Saturday and Dad had thoughtfully vacated the war-zone. The area of conflict we had chosen this time was at the back of the house, appropriately among the bombed ruins which stretched for several hundred yards along the canal bank. We took up our positions, Mike in one rectangular hole, and I in another. Today it was to be trench-warfare.

I had my stockpiles of ammunition: on my left a mound of large bricks, on my right a mound of small-calibre stones. I assume that Mike had similar weapons at hand. The hostilities began with a barrage of half house-bricks from each of us. No hits were recorded. However, it was a common ploy to pretend to be hit by screaming out as though in pain in order to tempt the enemy into exposing himself. Several times we tried this ruse, but no successes, as yet, could be had. The bombs rained over. I shifted positions many times to avoid the impacts. Mike probably did the same.

I tried the ruse one more time; maybe this time he would be convinced. I began to scream in feigned agony as I climbed to the top of the trench in readiness to throw the smaller missiles. Mike, unfortunately, had anticipated this action and as soon as my head had popped up over the trench rim he let fly with a fairly large brick. I didn't even see it coming. It struck me right on the scab and tore it off my face in one deft movement, like a heartless nurse at the clinic removing a sticking-plaster.

The shock of the blow caused me to fall backwards into the trench and for a moment the breath was knocked out of me. When I regained my senses, for want of a more accurate expression, I noticed that my shirt was covered in blood. It was magnificent! The blow hadn't hurt much at all, or even the fall, but it was glorious to see all that blood. I was a war-hero! I had stood firm in the face of battle. I had done my duty.

I shouted to Mike that I had been hit, but he was not convinced. "Hey, Mike, I'm hit!" I shouted. "I'm bleeding all over the place!" It took an age to persuade him that I really was wounded. Eventually, he came over the ridge, and when he saw me he could hardly believe his eyes. He jumped down and knelt by my side to see what he could do for me. There was so much blood by now he was beginning to fret. He pulled me to my feet and helped me out of the trench and led me off in the direction of our house.

As we moved along the canal bank, leaving a trail of blood as we walked, Mike, to his horror, spotted Dad coming over the first bridge. He was on his way home from the pub and this was not the best time to incur his wrath. Mike was terrified that I would inform on him. The consequences of that were too awful to contemplate. Dad would have killed him many times over if he found out that it was he who had split my face open.

In something of a panic we madly tried to invent stories to explain my injury. Dad had spotted us and he was getting closer. "Quick, think of something!" Mike said. At first, nothing would come. Dad would see through us in an instant.

Then, a brainwave hit me. It just so happened that near our island there was an old broken-down district which enjoyed the improbable name of Newtown and in which resided the meanest, toughest, most bloody-minded ruffians ever to walk the earth. Their reputation for mischief and mayhem was legendary. Their infamy was the talk of the country, or at least some parts of Widnes.

It was these pathetic specimens who, at the eleventh-hour, came to our rescue, albeit without their knowledge. Dad came up to us and as he turned his glassy eyes to me and saw the blood, anger began show on his face. He was about to question us. Mike blanched in fear.

Before Dad could say anything I piped up and announced proudly that we had just had a tremendous battle with the toughs of Newtown. We had suffered one or two blows, I enlarged, but in the end we had got the better of them. This was an inspired explanation. We were talking his language. He not only believed us, but, in his own way, actually congratulated us. "Better get yerself cleaned up, then," he said, and walked away with a smile on his face. Mike looked at me with gratitude. His skin had been preserved for another time. Well, what else could I do? He was my brother!

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