by David Haynes
She turned the engine off and listened to the steady patter of rain on the roof. As far as she knew the road finished at the car park and there were no other access roads but someone was clearly in the cottage. She reached into the glove box and found the little Maglite. Without any street lighting and in the passage of only a few minutes it had become totally and utterly black outside.
The torch was small but powerful and was more than sufficient to guide her footsteps across the car park. After a few moments she stood at the very top and leaned against the wooden hut which served as a payment kiosk in the summer. She could hear the steady drum of the rain beating on the roof of the hut and was instantly irritated by her foolishness.
May had long ago come to terms with the part of her personality which wouldn’t take no for an answer. The part which wanted, ‘just one more question please?’ It was the same part which had given her the desire to become a journalist because asking questions had always seemed so natural. After all, how could you find out the answers if you didn’t ask the questions? However, leaning against a small shed in the pouring rain, in a dark, deserted car park, that part of her brain was about to get a severe telling off. She tapped her forehead twice with the Maglite as if to punish that stubborn part of her personality. “Get a life, you clown,” she whispered into the rain.
Slowly and methodically she walked back uphill, shining the torch beam along the stone wall which edged the road. Just as the shadow of the ruined oratory was coming into view, the torchlight flashed across a notice. “KEEP OUT – PRIVATE LAND.” The notice had been handwritten inside a clear plastic document folder and then tied to a small wooden gate. The lettering was streaked from water ingress. The gate was completely unremarkable and she realised, without the notice attached to it, she would have missed it completely. She gripped the Maglite between her teeth, and with her cold, wet hands hauled herself over.
4
“So, how’s that splendid isolation thing working out for you? Is it making you write any quicker?” The booming voice of Joe’s agent, Gwen Hulland barked down the phone.
Joe adjusted the volume on his mobile. “It’s wonderful Gwen. I’ve not seen another human being since…” He trailed off; in his mind’s eye he could see the swimmer being hauled from the water.
“In all honesty I’m not sure how I finished anything that wasn’t bollocks before coming down here. There’s nothing to do except write, oh and smoke of course and since I don’t do that anymore, I’m left with just the writing.”
“Really?” Gwen sounded doubtful and a little disappointed. Joe knew she wanted him to move back to so called civilisation.
“Are you really, really sure Joe? Living on the edge of a cliff like that and talking to seagulls everyday isn’t likely to bring out the conflict is it? ‘Desire and Decay’ was all about humans, about how their nasty little lives create both of those things and that’s what you write about best; better than anyone else. I give you 6 months and you’ll be back in the city. Back swimming in shit with the rest of us.”
Joe shook his head. “Gwen, I’ve seen and dealt with more nasty little lives than I ever wanted to. Getting all messed up with that again is not on the agenda. Besides, you said you liked the new stuff?”
It was Gwen’s turn to sigh. “Oh I do Joe, I really do and the publishers love it, but it’s just not Desire and Decay is it?”
“Maybe not, but if I write anything else like that I’ll turn into a gibbering wreck inside a week. ‘Joseph George – The End,’ that’d sell millions. I’ve had enough Gwen, we’re all a bunch of vile little shits and I couldn’t care less if I never saw another human again.”
“So talented, so young and so, so damaged.” Gwen chuckled.
“You can take the piss all you like but I’m the one sitting on the edge of a cliff sipping champagne and looking out on to a beautiful sunset.” Joe took a gulp from his Cornish Rattler and looked through the rain-splashed window into the unending abyss beyond.
“Bollocks you are, I’ve seen the weather forecast. It’s pissing it down and I guarantee you’re drinking some shitty cider. You can take the boy out the place but not the place out the boy. Just send me some more chapters and I’ll stop giving you grief.”
Joe laughed. “I’ll stick my dongle in tomorrow and send you what I’ve got.”
“Don’t get me thinking about your dongle Joe.”
Joe pushed the red end call button. Gwen was just about all the human company he could stand, but even she had her limits.
He placed the mobile and half-drunk bottle of cider on the wooden floor and collapsed backwards onto the enormous, spongy old settee. The wind whistled through the empty void above his head. He’d tried to keep the original beams when the modifications started but some were just too far-gone to avoid being replaced entirely. The new oak beams had been expensive but worth the cost. Their beautiful strength was reassuring during the first storms and all the subsequent ones he’d experienced in the cottage.
The cottage had been a one-room building when he bought it, little more than a hovel; but it wasn’t the building he wanted, it was the location. The isolation he felt on that first occasion he entered was something he still savoured each time he came inside. He soon fell in love with the building too though, because of its location and it now boasted three rooms downstairs and a mezzanine bedroom upstairs, which he seldom used. He preferred the luxurious comfort of a ten year old sofa.
Joe checked his watch, it was approaching half past five and with a grunt he raised himself to a sitting position. He had missed lunch, which wasn’t unusual but the bottle of cider had given him the munchies. He drained the bottle and walked down the narrow corridor and into the kitchen at the back of the house. He wanted isolation but he also wanted comforts. The cost of getting electricity into the cottage had been sky high but living without power was a step too far.
“Now then, what’s it to be tonight?” He opened the freezer and slid open one of the drawers inside. “Beef cannelloni, or maybe a tasty lamb stew and dumplings in rich gravy?” He pushed both aside and took out half a loaf of frozen bread. “Cheese on toast with HP sauce. The food of the gods and the idle.”
The whirring of the grill fan was almost masked by the sound of the wind and rain battering on the windows. He knew he would have to pile the wood up high inside the burner before he fell asleep tonight. The kitchen was a little more protected from the rain than the other end of the cottage but even so, it was loud. Raindrops smeared against the glass by the squall created random zigzags against the darkness beyond.
Joe altered his focus from the pattern and narrowed his eyes. Was that a figure coming across the field? He leaned closer across the windowsill and cupped his hands around his face. “My God” he whispered.
A solitary figure was attempting to walk across the field towards the cottage. Mesmerised, Joe watched as the figure was blown sideways, and then straightened before being blown off course again. He was impressed by the determined strength they possessed; each step sideways was coupled with three steps forward. He’d walked the track enough times to know it was about one hundred metres to the gate at the top of the field. In normal circumstances the walk was a windswept and breathtaking experience. In these conditions it was just incredibly stupid. He knew it was a futile gesture but he banged on the window with his fist. “Go away!” He yelled.
May kept her head down and repeated the mantra “Best foot forward.” As the wind threatened to whip her legs from under her, she realised she wasn’t just wet, tired and fed up, she was actually scared. Not just of being blown into the Atlantic like an empty carrier bag, but of reaching the cottage and finding it empty. She had long given up the ghost of trying to keep her hood on and her hair whipped across her eyes in soggy strands. She tried to focus on the cottage but had to look away quickly; the rain stung her eyes and face. In the fleeting glimpse she was sure a figure had been standing in the small window and he was beckoning her to come in. She allowed herself a feeling o
f relief and even if the figure turned out to be a murderer or rapist she had to go inside. A warm welcome, a nice cup of coffee or something stronger and a chat, that’s all she wanted.
Joe ignored the first series of bangs on the heavy oak door, but when the second sequence was accompanied with a piteous “Pleeeeease!” he opened up.
The bright red duffel coat was the first thing he saw. “You?” was all he could manage as he looked at the bedraggled, forlorn figure standing in front of him. “You were in the cove earlier.”
May brushed her hair away from her eyes. “What? Err… yes I was. You saw me?”
Even in the extremely tousled state, Joe could see she was an attractive woman. “What do you want?” He was buffeted by a strong gust blown through the open door, but he wasn’t about to ask her in, pretty or not.
May could feel the warmth on her face and the orange glow coming from beyond the doorway was enticing. “I’m sorry, but I’m really cold and wet. Can I come in for a moment? I’m not a weirdo or anything, I promise.” She tried to smile but the cold wind had paralysed her face muscles and she knew her attempted smile looked like a creepy grimace.
Joe didn’t budge. “Are you lost?”
She was becoming frustrated but she tried to keep her voice light. “No, I’m not lost; I just wanted to ask…”
Joe interrupted. “I think you must be because the sign up there,” He gestured towards the top of the field, “Says, keep out, private land.”
“I’m sorry I must’ve missed the sign in all this. I only want to ask you about the man who died down there, just a few minutes. I’m a journalist you see.” May added the last few words hoping it would gain her some credibility.
The word ‘journalist’ was the final straw for Joe. “Listen, I’m not sure how you found me or what the real reason you came out is, but I strongly suggest you start walking back.” He closed the door.
May stood still for a moment; she was in stunned disbelief about what had just happened. Then her frustration got the better of her and she kicked door. “Thanks for nothing, you ignorant twat!”
She turned away and looked back across the field. Her eyes took a few seconds before she could see anything other than complete and utter blackness. She clicked the little torch and shone it across the field; there was no way out of it, she had to walk back. As she walked she replayed the exchange in her head. ‘Who behaves like that?’
Joe watched from the kitchen window as the little torch light wobbled across the field. He would have to speak to Gwen in the morning and ask if any journalists had been sniffing about recently. He remembered a conversation with her just before he left.
“If you go underground they’ll want you even more; you’ll just make them even more curious about you. Just give them what they want for a year or so or until someone more interesting comes along then you can go to your little hideaway. If you don’t they’ll find you, trust me. You can’t simply opt out of the human race.”
He knew Gwen was right, she nearly always was. When he walked out of the office that day he knew it too, but she was wrong about one thing. He didn’t want to leave humanity behind entirely; he just wanted the human race on his terms. The only way to do that was to put as much distance between him and them as he could.
The torchlight continued to weave across the field as he watched from the relative warmth of the kitchen. He could hear the wind and rain and knew being outside in this weather was a bad idea, not to mention dangerous. Suddenly the little light sprang upwards into the blackness and somersaulted in the air before it landed. Joe held his breath as he waited for the light to continue its route across the field.
After a few seconds of watching the erratic torchlight ballet, he realised it was being caused by the torch rolling on the grass and not by her hand. The journalist was either lying on the ground unconscious, or had dropped the torch and walked away without it. He doubted she’d dropped it.
“Damn it.” He hissed through his teeth. He quickly threw on his jacket, opened the heavy door and ventured into the stormy void beyond. Without his own torch Joe kept his eyes on the tumbling light where the journalist had fallen. Within seconds, rainwater dripped steadily from the tip of his nose and whatever protection ‘shower proof’ entailed in a jacket, was clearly not enough. He could feel the cold dampness seeping through the ineffective seams. “Bloody stupid, pissing woman” He shouted into the night.
Joe found the torch, which had managed to wriggle a few metres away from the journalist’s supine figure. She lay motionless on the slick grass; the hood of her duffle coat bunched up under her neck forming an unlikely pillow. He couldn’t see any obvious signs of injury or blood, but with the minimal light the torch gave, it was impossible to say for definite. Cursing again, Joe knelt and carefully scooped her body into his arms. She was light, but Joe hadn’t worked with any muscles except his typing finger for a very long time, and straightening his legs caused him to grunt with the effort. He was glad she was unconscious; grunting like that was not heroic.
He steadied himself and raised her body higher in his arms. Her hair blew briefly across his face then was snatched away again by the wind. The clean smell of shampoo filled his senses; it was fleeting but intoxicating.
‘Stay focused Joseph. One sniff of an unconscious girl’s wet hair does not an evening make’
His first strides made him feel like a hero but by the fifth, Joe felt like his back had broken as he grunted with each agonising step. He focused on the little light coming from his kitchen window and tried not to think about the fact that he was touching another human being.
Joe used his foot to lower the handle on the front door. The latch clicked open and the wind did the rest. It blew the heavy oak door back against its hinges like it was nothing more than flimsy cardboard. The twitches in his arm muscles signalled their intention to become cramp at any moment so with a loud grunt he rolled her onto the sofa before the threat became a reality. He collapsed back onto the floorboards allowing his arms to straighten and inhaled deeply. The deep breath caused a spasm of coughing to erupt from his chest. “Not as fit as you used to be Joe.” He spluttered into the shadowy roof space.
5
The sound of the door pounding repeatedly against its frame was the only reason Joe forced himself to stand again. There was no way of knowing how long he had been lying on the floor but his muscles were starting to moan about the rescue mission. He pushed the door shut against the raging elements outside and pushed some logs into the burner. His jacket and trainers were completely soaked and with each step, water squelched through the eyelets. He dropped them all in an untidy pile beside the burner.
Joe looked down at the dishevelled figure; the cushions were already showing signs of absorbing water from her duffle coat. She lay on her back with her mouth slightly ajar and he suddenly realised that at no point had he actually checked whether she was still alive. He knelt and lowered his ear to her mouth; the deep and steady breath tickled his ear and he shivered against the sensation.
May felt herself slowly coming out of a deep, empty sleep. She could smell the wonderful aroma of wood smoke, and for one moment thought she might be with her grandma again, watching the sparks jump around in her fireplace when she was a little girl. The burning pain which drilled into the back of her head told her she was definitely not with her grandma. She opened her eyes and a dark tangle of seaweed swam across her blurred vision.
She lifted her head quickly and felt a painful thud between her eyes as she clashed with something hard. “Fuck!” She screeched. Whoever it was she had just butted stood up and rubbed its head. “Shit.” She heard a male voice hiss.
May felt frightened. She realised she didn’t know where she was, or who this man rubbing his face was. She tried to think quickly, to kick start her brain out of whatever inertia it had been in, but the sickening pain in the back of her head wouldn’t let go.
“Who are you?” She blinked her eyes rapidly trying to organise her t
houghts.
“Who am I?” The man turned to face her, his hand still touching his forehead. “Who the hell are you is more the question?” May heard the beginnings of anger in his voice but she realised with a growing sense of calm that she recognised his face, although she couldn’t quite place it for the moment.
She gingerly touched the source of the pain. A large egg shaped lump was bulging out of her skull. ‘At least there’s no blood. Come on brain, how did you get here? I don’t remember drinking vodka.’
The man continued; he was almost shouting. “You turn up in the middle of a storm asking stupid questions, and then force me to go outside and carry you back here. Christ, what were you thinking?” He shook his head.
‘Can’t help you there mate, not sure myself just yet.’ “Just give me a moment, please?” She could see he was angry, but the anger was in his voice and not in his eyes.
She carefully sat up and placed her feet onto the floor. Her clothes felt damp and clingy but her brain was returning to some sort of normality. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know who you are. I remember walking across the field to speak to you about that stupid dead swimmer.” She paused, and then continued voicing what her brain was rapidly putting back together.
