Ian Mullins
Nameless
after guy fawkes — burnt fingers outside the school gates
David Winter was born to be bonfire king. On the sixth of November he would show where a roman candle freeze-dried a lock of his hair; then a rope burn from a rocket that fell sideways, a promising scar on his leg. Fingers black-blistered from collecting a red sparkler too soon.
Then Edgar with no second name walked into the playground with a thick bandage wrapped around his hand. I was standing too close to the bonfire, he stuttered; someone shoved me from behind. Never saw who; big boy he was. He saw my dad and ran away.
Edgar walked into class like a king with a paper crown. And all morning David watched him as though he was a goldfish leaping from its bowl, mistaking air for water. Unimpressed by the thing that impressed we boys the most: the way Edgar never winced when he wrote with his injured hand.
We were picking teams after lunch when David struck. He’s a faker, he said, seething and righteous. I knocked him on the hand and he didn’t cry out. I want to see what’s under that white. And because he was David Winters and had a second name we hustled Edgar into a corner of the yard away from teachers’ reach. I can’t, I can’t, he cried, finally in pain. His stutter opened his face and turned it red. My mum said my dad said –
We unwound him like a mummy. Tears slimed his face as we stripped his bare white hand, soft and unburnt, like unrisen dough. Then we jeered him and sneered him. We kicked him and slapped him, rejoicing that he was no longer our king. Then left him alone, white bandage finally dirty on the ground. By second bell it was rewrapped, but he was done to us. His name was never heard again.
And bussing past the school today I saw the same spot now cloaked with a cafeteria, and wondered how desperate his shame of being nameless must have been, that he attempted such a pantomime with tough white kids from tough white homes. Tried to imagine him grown up, embracing other varieties of shame. But even back then some kids were so wretched it was impossible to imagine them with kids and fireworks of their own. How could a boy called Edgar pull off such a feat? Nothing but wishful thinking could imagine him as a rocket. He was more like the catherine wheel my father nailed to the fence every bonfire night. It sparked and twitched, splashing sparks on the floor like drops of electric rain. But there was no way that wheel was ever going to turn.
guy's face on the fire — who are we burning tonight?
About the Author
Ian Mullins ships out from Liverpool, England. Laughter In The Shape Of A Guitar (UB) struck a few chords in 2015. Almost Human (Original Plus) was let loose in 2017. Masks and Shadows (Wordcatcher) took off in 2019. Take A Deep Breath (Dempsey and Windle) followed in 2020.