Bert kept walking, his head bowed against the wind as he kept the oak tree in sight. Tiny spikes of drizzle jabbed his face as he strode down the damp gravel path. Callum scampered after him, his heavy footsteps kicking up stones in their wake. Dad used to say that Callum had footballer’s legs. They were far removed from Bert’s spindly limbs, which had spent too long resting to build any muscle.
‘Bert, you shouldn’t be out here, if mum …’ Callum panted.
‘If mum nuthin,’ Bert said, scowling at his red-cheeked brother. ‘I’m just getting some air, and she don’t have to know about it.’
Callum’s face screwed up in frustration. He knew better than to argue with his brother. ‘Well, just a few minutes, then you’d better head back in before she comes looking.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Bert said, infuriated by his brother’s attention. He was such a pain, why did he have to be around him all the time? Callum the annoying shadow, who had to be prised away to attend football games and the occasional birthday party. Mother’s ray of sunshine. Well he’d show them. He’d be the one to blot out the sun. Bert stared up at the oak tree, wondering if his scrawny muscles would find the strength to climb it. The branches bowed and shook as the wind whooped around them. Bert kicked off his shoes and began his ascent, clutching the knobbly tree bark as he panted in his efforts to reach the top. He could do it, he knew he could do it.
‘Come down,’ Callum shouted, clenching his fists and stamping his foot against the ground. It was a habit he had picked up from mother when she didn’t get her own way. ‘It’s too windy, come down right now.’
Bert climbed upwards, the howling wind whipping his brother’s words away. His shirt flapped and the hard, cold branches bit into the soles of his feet, but he kept climbing until his muscles trembled and he was too tired to go on.
‘Bert you get down … you hear? Mum’s gonna …’
As Bert clung to the branches and looked at the view across the fields, he didn’t feel free at all. His skinny limbs were frozen like icicles, and just as rigid. ‘I can’t,’ he said feebly, too scared to shake his head. His mother’s calls echoed in the distance as she called for them. He was really going to get it now.
‘It’s OK, I’ll come get you,’ Callum said, wrestling his way up in half the time. Their mother was still looking for them when Callum reached the branch beside him, red-faced and out of breath. ‘I’ve never been this high up before,’ Callum panted, looking down at the fields below. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’
If only you would get yourself killed, Bert thought, wiping his streaming nose on his shirtsleeves. ‘You’re the same age as me, Callum, it don’t give you the right to boss me around.’ The cold was really biting into him now, and his teeth chattered as his body shivered involuntarily.
‘It’s my neck on the line too, if mum finds us up here she’ll go spare,’ Callum said.
‘Not to you she won’t. She won’t say nothing to you,’ Bert said bitterly, knowing his escape would cost him dearly. A raven flew past, its caws slicing through the air. Bert wished he were more like the black-feathered bird, strong, independent, free.
Callum frowned, and spoke through chattering teeth. ‘Follow me down, OK?’
‘I can’t,’ Bert said, his fingers sliding into the moss-lined grooves of the tree.
‘Hold onto me if it makes you feel better.’ Callum glanced down. ‘Oh hell, she’s seen us. We’d better hurry up before she calls dad.’
Fuck it, Bert thought, a familiar anger rising within. It’s all his fault. Mum wouldn’t have come looking if Callum hadn’t followed. Why does he have to get involved in everything? Bert’s heart began to pound, fury boiling his blood and drawing out his darkest thoughts.
Callum shifted position to climb down the tree, and beckoned at him to follow.
Grabbing the back of Callum's shirt, Bert stepped onto another branch. The sudden movement jerked his brother forward, causing him to lose his footing. He could have pulled Callum back, helped him steady himself on the tree. In that split second, he held Callum’s life in his hands. Bertram simply smiled. And released his grip.
A sharp howl rose up between them as Callum slipped off the branch, his arms flapping as if he was trying to fly. He fell like a stone, screaming and grasping for a hold of something, anything which would slow the plummet to the unforgiving ground rising up to meet him. Bert squeezed his eyes shut but could not block out the noise of his brother thudding to the ground below. Reluctantly he opened them to see his mother dropping to her knees beside Callum, patting his face in an effort to bring him back to life.
‘Nooooo,’ she wailed, as the pool of blood spread through the mud, soaking the hem of her long black skirt.
Her head snapped upwards at Bert, who was still embracing the tree. Her face was contorted in fear and rage as she screamed the words ‘What have you done?’
The wind whipped and billowed Bert's clothes as it howled in an angry roar. Bert panted in cold breaths as he edged along. Something warm greased the branch and he looked down to see a small blood trail leaking from the sole of his foot. He was so engrossed, he had not even felt the tree branch slice his skin. Slowly he clambered down, clamping his arms around the branches as they swayed, toes and fingers stiffly bent over and gripping with the conviction that he would do what his brother was unable to do. The thought warmed him. He was better than Callum. He could reach the bottom without falling. By the time his bare feet touched the ground, his mother had driven Callum's body to the hospital. But it was the mortuary she needed.
Bert rested his weary limbs, hugging his knees as he tried to figure out what to do now Callum was gone. It wasn’t at all as he imagined, and he had not counted on having a witness. All the years Bert had prayed to be an only child, fate had decided to give him his wish just as his mother was watching. But he was gone just the same and that was a good thing. Turning his head to the rolling clouds, he watched the black knights of the sky circle overhead. As always, he marvelled at their freedom, wishing he had been granted such power and grace. His eyes crept over to the pool of blood now thickening as it soaked into the soil. It reminded him of mother’s preserves. She had shown him how to test a spoonful, hot from the bubbling pot. First, you cooled it by blowing on the spoon, then you jabbed the thickening liquid with the tip of your finger. If it wrinkled, then the jam was done. He shuffled over to the blood and nudged it with his big toe. Small bubbles were forming as it congealed – as if taking a few final breaths before leaving for good. Fuckarooney, he muttered. Mum and dad were going to be really pissed off at him.