On The Yankee Station [antikvár]

ft Killing Lizards ft Gavin squatted beside Israël, the cook's teenage son, on the narrow verandah of the servants' quarters. Israël was making Gavin a new catapult. He bound the thick rubber thongs to the wooden Y with string, tying the final knot tight and nipping off the loose ends with his teeth. Gavin took the proffered catapult and tried a practice shot. He fired at a small grove of banana trees by the kitchen garden. The pebble thunked into a fibrous bole with reassuring force. . 'Great!' Gavin said admiringly, then 'hey!' as Israël snatched the catapult back. He dangled the weapon allur-ingly out of Gavin's reach and grinned as the small twelve-year-old boy leapt angrily for it. 'Cig'rette. Give me cig'rette,' Israël demanded, laughing in his high wheezy way. 'Oh all right,' Gavin grudgingly replied, handing over the packet he had-stolen from his mother's handbag the day before. Israël promptly lit one up and confidently puffed smoke up into the washed-out blue of the African sky. Gavin walked back up the garden to the house. He was a thin dark boy with a slightly pinched face and unusually thick eyebrows that made his face seem older than it was. He went through the kitchen and into the cool spacious living room with its rugs and tiled floor, where two roof fans energetically beat the hot afternóon air into motion.