It all seems pretty crazy now thinking about it, just one of those stories you keep with you, one of those stories that shaped your life. I’m not even sure it happened the way I remember it. We’d seen things like it in films and read it in books, but until that day none of us had come that close to experiencing it first hand.
The day was one of those that sit in your memory clouded by the glare of golden sunshine and the innocence of youth. As we’d done so many times before, Dave and Simon and Martin and I headed off down to the patch of ground at the bottom of our stretch of road, not realising that this time things would be different.
See, there was this small dusty driveway, which, from the road, seemed to go nowhere. It stretched quite a way back behind the houses and led eventually to a large patch of rough ground and a whole load of lock-up garages. The garage part was tarmaced but the road to it and the patch of ground were left just as they always had been, all be it suffering for the tramping of playing kids and the occasional camp fire and dumped item of furniture, set on fire by some older kids who thought it would be cool to muck about with matches and their Dad’s lighter fluid.
Behind this scrappy piece of ground, up a steep bank, was a small patch of woods that served as our personal playground. We’d go up there with sticks we’d found or broom handles we’d cheeked off our Mums and play around, running about pretending to be pirates or soldiers, climbing trees and falling out of them just as quickly, getting the usual assortment of scrapes and bruises that would earn us the tender sympathy’s of our parents and the scornful looks of our older brothers and sisters.
That day it was decided we would play Cavalry and Indians. Much to the jealousy of the others, I got to be a Cavalry officer as I, not only had a sabre (a broom stick handle), but a couple of plastic pistols and a gun belt.
You see my old man was a member of the local bonfire society. They’d get dressed up now and again as “Cowboys and Indians” and parade through the streets holding up these burning torches. When I was little I used to get pushed alongside them in a pram with a wigwam over the top, the air filled with the smell of petrol and the pounding thump of drums from the matching bands.
What really got the others goat was that this gun belt was a proper Cowboy gun belt, not the nasty plastic things you get in toy shops, a real smart one made out of leather with not one, but two holsters and loads of bullet holders, that Dad had filled with empty bullet shells.
So the Sarge (Dave) and I were being chased down the pass by the Indians and into this large clearing at the bottom of the wood. The clearing held our last refuge in the form of a large rock which through a funny mixture of rain beatings and countless kids climbing’s had twisted itself into what looked like a great big elephant lying on its back. We called it The Elephant Rock and it was always getting used as the last stand encampment against the advancing native hordes, or the prized Nazi fortress that needed to be captured and blown up, or the final resting place of a brave and valiant knight.
We managed to make our way up onto the plateau and were ready to fend of the enemy with our rifles (Dave’s granddad’s walking stick) and pistols. Suddenly the war cry went up and the natives swooped down on our position with their tomahawks (piece of card wrapped around a short stick) held high and their hands over their mouths making “woo-woo-woo” noises. The sun was pitching through the trees and making it hard to work out their numbers, we realised too late that it was hopeless, we where outnumbered. Before we knew it they’d encircled us and were charging up the slopes of The Rock, sights set on our scalps as trophies for their tribe. The Sarge took out as many as he could with his rifle but was quickly taken down by the rest, in the end I was forced to surrender to save my own scalp and signed the peace treaty.
Afterwards we sat on The Rock looking up through the trees and over the patch of land to our road, trying to spot people as they walked past. Simon, who was always the most inept at giving his Mum the slip, had been forced to bring along a bag with some juice cartons and crisps, but after an epic battle, we where grateful for it. After a while of shooting the breeze we started trying to come up with things to do. Now this always seemed to end up in a round of dares, and it always seemed to be Martin who would be the most enthusiastic about it. I think his old man was a bit of a bastard to him so he always had something to prove. We did the usual ‘climb that tree’, ‘shout the loudest’, ‘jump off the top of The Rock’ type dares, and then Martin chips in with the most feared of dares, the walk into No-mans Land.
No-mans Land was a huge wheat field at the back of the wood, which had a barbed wire fence around it. In a couple of places the fence was busted and you could just about get through it and into the field. What was scary about the field was this: the farmer who owned the field was said to hate kids, or at least that’s what everyone believed. You know how these stories go around and around and get muddled up and blown out of proportion. Anyway not only was it said that he hated kids but he hated anyone playing in his field and ruining his wheat, so he used to hang around near the far edge of the field with his shotgun and take pot shots at anyone who trampled his wheat. Of course the fact that none of us had ever seen him or been shot at was forgotten, it just seemed to make the dare even more of a challenge. Of course much amusement could be had scaring the absolute crap out of someone who was creeping their way across No-mans Land by popping a crisp packet or shouting “Bang!” really loudly.
As always it was me who had to lead the way, to set the bar for the others to beat. I don’t know why it was always me, I just quickly got fed up with the constant backwards and forwards of the “you go first” “no, you” standoffs.
The wheat was particularly long at that time, it being the height of summer. In a month or so the field would probably be harvested and stripped of cover, but of course by that time the summer would nearly be over and we would be readying ourselves for the return to school life. This was always the best time for the No-mans Land dare, the length of the wheat made visibility bad for both us and the field’s would-be guardian. Of course starting out across the field you could see your buddies behind you and a reasonably good view across the rest of the field but as you moved further and further in you started to loose sight of both.
So, fresh with the need to prove myself after the defeat at The Elephant Rock, I headed out, cocksure and defiant in the face of fear. I moved quickly through the wheat sheaf until before too long I was a good eighth of the way across No-mans Land. This was the first waypoint, and so I turned to signal to one of the others to start across whilst I moved ever onwards. I could hear them arguing in the background as to who would be next. As usual, Martin, who started the dare, was now the first to try and back down. Simon was always the most scared and would try his hardest to be the last one to go, so that left Dave. It was only fitting, however, that he should be next, having shared the defeat at The Rock as well as being my second in command. He had less to prove having been taken down in a fight, rather than have the humiliation of surrender, so his progress was somewhat slower than mine.
By this point I was reaching the quarter way mark, which meant it was almost time for Martin to start out. None of us had ever got anywhere near to the halfway mark, so Simon had always managed to get out of going in. I don’t think it bothered him really, he was happy to be the underdog, and the constant teasing of the others for his failure never really affected him. Passing the quarter way waypoint I could now barely see Simon back at the fence and the way forward was getting hazy through the tops of the wheat. For some reason when you get deep in the thick of wheat sheaf sound starts to distort. I could hear Dave making his progress behind me and the distant, echoing mutterings from Martin, who talked to himself to cover his cowardice, but everything else was masked by the eerie rustle of the sheaf and the constant muffled roar of the wind over the top of it.
Now this situation had been played through many times before. The others would slowly by degrees make less and less progress through No-mans Land until the dare was called off and I was declared the winner. This time was different. This time I was going to make sure I went past halfway. I had something to prove. This time I wanted to make sure everyone knew that I was the undisputed king of No-mans Land. Sure enough before I knew it the halfway mark was in sight. I heard a bit of a commotion behind me, which I naturally assumed was the others slowly bottling out of the dare, so I ignored it and carried on. Suddenly I stopped. I was at the halfway mark. I had gone further than anyone had ever before. One more step and I would be beyond it. The dare would be shattered, no one would ever get as far as me, and I would put an end to it, forever. I took a deep breath and prepared to take the step forward.
I never made it. From behind me I could hear the others screaming my name, and running through the sheaf away from me. Something had happened. It could only be one thing, the unthinkable… the farmer.
I craned my head up over the top of the sheaf in trepidation, fearful that it might be shot off by a blast from the farmer’s shotgun. Sure enough there was a figure making its way across the field from the other side. I found myself frozen to the spot, unable to move, my breath caught in terror. The others had made it back to the fence and had turned to see me not moving. They were screaming: “Run!” but all I could do was keep staring at the approaching figure. Something wasn’t right. The figure had something in its hand, which gleamed in the sunlight, but it was big and flat and not like a shotgun at all. They were too tall to be a girl so it was clearly a guy. There was something else as well; the guy didn’t look like you’d expect a farmer to look. I don’t mean the stereotypical idea of a farmer, you know a big hat and dungarees, just that this guy wasn’t wearing the kind of clothes you’d expect someone who did manual work to wear. I had a couple of friends whose parents had farms, so I knew what clothes they wore for work. This guy was dressed like he was scruffy and poor. Time seemed to slow down and all I could do was stand frozen to the spot getting dizzy through lack of oxygen as the guy came closer and closer. Soon he was about a eighth of the way in, the first waypoint on the opposite side, and I could just about make out his face. It wasn’t the farmer. It was Carl.
Carl was the older brother of a kid we went to school with called Sean. Sean was what used to be called a “remedial”, he wasn’t disabled or mental or anything, he just wasn’t very bright, and his family where very poor. He had one older brother, Carl and two younger brothers and a sister. They all lived in a tiny council flat on the estate at the very top of our end of town, which also happened to be at the top of No-mans Land. But Carl wasn’t coming from there he was coming from the next side round, what must have been the top end of the farm. Obviously I couldn’t be sure because none of us had ever gotten halfway across the field before let alone go near to the farm. I’d never actually spoken to Carl, but I’d seen him and knew what he looked like. Striding across that field he looked mean, really mean, and as it turns out psychopathic.
I could now see what Carl had in his hand. It clearly wasn’t a shotgun. It was an axe. A huge wooden axe, the kind you use to chop down trees. In an instant I found my feet and I turned and ran. I ran hard. The sheaf was whipping my face and trying to trip me up on every stride. I stumbled a few times, but nothing could have stopped me. I was running so hard, I was almost flying. As I got near to the edge of No-mans Land I caught sight of the others and sound caught up with me again. They where still shouting at me, “Come on!” “Run”. I reached the edge and headed for the fence, the others were over it and off running down the slope towards The Elephant Rock. I vaulted it, catching my leg on the way through, and slid down towards The Rock. None of us stopped to catch our breath, we just ran as hard as we could, across the clearing and up the path through the wood, out and down the slope and across the waste ground towards the driveway. My leg hurt like hell and I could feel blood running down it, but I just kept running. We didn’t stop until we were back on our street, in safe sight of my house just up the road. We all collapsed in a heap on the floor, out of breath and doubled over with stitches. None of us spoke for a while whilst we got our breath back Finally I spoke, “It was… Carl!” “What?” Dave asked looking confused. “It wasn’t the farmer, it was Carl…” “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Martin. “He had an axe!” I told them.
We sat in silence again for a while, until Simon piped up and said, “Erm… I should be getting back, I’ve got the longest to go and I want to get back in time for tea.” With that we all got up and prepared to go our separate ways. We all gave each other “Skin” and walked away, Martin and Simon down the road and Dave and I up it. When I got home my Mum cleaned up my leg and told me off for going near to the barbed wire, I kept my mouth shut and told her nothing of No-mans Land and Carl.
About a week later we heard what had happened. Earlier that day, Carl had gone nuts whilst arguing with his girlfriend and split her head open with the blunt side of an axe. He’d headed off across the farm and through the wheat field where he just collapsed right in the middle whilst his girlfriend lay bleeding until someone found her. She wasn’t badly injured but had to have her head sown up. The police found Carl catatonic in the middle of No-mans Land and took him away to a mental hospital.
