Best British Short Stories 2016

by Nicholas Royle

  Two trains and a ferry; obligatory car hire, another boat. The cloud stayed low. Missing the second boat was a three-hour wait, inside the car near the water’s edge, the island floating and not floating, hardly any distance away. At the other side, the deer were already waiting. Thirty for every human being on Jura; man, woman, child. The island was named for them and full of them, leaseholders of all they surveyed. The rightness of seeing them that first night called her every night thereafter with no need to find them out: they just arrived, in lines and clusters, family groups; now and then a solitary young male, chased away to make his own arrangements.

  After a few days of simply watching without having to analyse a damn thing, Martha felt no pressing need to watch her step. No one intruded, no one demanded explanations. She spent the time taking pictures, sleeping a lot, identifying flowers and seaweed, shells, droppings. She found things: a broken gate behind which a mob of pheasants gathered every night at dusk; the cemetery just outside Craighouse, its skulls and anchors, its flat-faced stones facing out so the dead might enjoy the view; a warehouse where the distillery stored its ancient casks, reeking of alcohol; a thicket of fat blue-black brambles. The territory was resilient: to be taken as found.

  Her drive explored the single-track road a little longer each day, heading past the Highland cows and sheep that sat squarely, possessively, on the warmth of the tarmac. At night, she went out to whatever stretch of beach took her fancy, leaving the torch behind and picking her way by the low light that seemed to lurk always behind the dark. Now and then, the cry of a solitary raptor sounded from nowhere; a fox cub, keening. Other than that, only the sound of her own footfalls, waves – there were always waves – and wind, whipping at nothing. Her fingertips throbbed with cold and she let them. She inched out of the car near cliff drops, places where the road seemed almost to disappear over a sheer edge to the open sea; she rolled down the window for the pleasure of hearing the unseen blackness of tide beneath. I am perched, she thought, on the edge of the world. It was not frightening.

  On her last evening, a passing-place she had not used before allowed her to leave the car and wade over boggy ground to a sheer fall of quartzite, a place to look out into the lighthouse flares, enjoy the sour hiss of the sea. Since the moon was high, the huge white breakers rising vertically beyond the safety of the strand showed clearly, standing upright before they melted like apparitions. For a second, she thought she saw a seal in the down-rush, but it might have been seaweed. Or nothing at all. Martha waited. She waited till she was too cold to wait any more, looking out at the battering wash, the rocks splintering whatever came, impervious. There was no hidden code, no message, no meaning. What happened out there was random, wholly without blame or favour. In the end, nothing hinged on human decisions, nothing demanded retribution or just deserts: what happened was just what happened. How things fell out. She imagined Orwell in his stupid little boat, imagining he could spite the sea, getting away with it by chance. That boy. That terrified boy.

  A stag made its low, calling bellow on the road behind her as she scrambled back to the car, leashing in the herd. Even this late, gulls were screaming at the tide. Everything seemed violently fresh, and she noticed for the first time a damp fog rolling closer, ready to blanket everything, even the webs in the hedgerows. Her jacket sleeve was already furred with droplets. Mushroom spores.

  Godknew what was watching, its night vision clear, as she fought back to the car through blackness, her soles heavy with peat, but she knew it meant no harm. The night looked more dense when she flicked on the headlights, showing the mosquito net of water on the bonnet. Rather than turn, she chose to drive ahead a little further, find a side-track, then reverse: the single track made a clean turn impossible. There was no rush. Martha wiped her eyes and settled behind the wheel, her feet slipping on the pedals as she clasped the belt. She turned the ignition, acknowledging the fact of it. It was time to go back.

  The turn-off wasn’t far. She backed into a clump of heather, its hard roots scraping at the tail lights, made the circle in three reverses. The way back was exactly that which she had come. One road. It was still something to come to terms with: this island had one road. Behind her, if she had kept going, was Barnhill, the remotest place on earth: after that, a petering out into broken scree, rock and sweet FA. Ahead now were the settlements, the new build, more fertile land, the tumble into Craighouse. Then burned fenland, the road down to the sea. For company, she pressed the radio button and found Mozart. It wasn’t a choice, just what came. Sometimes there was nothing but white noise. It was a kind of miracle, finding Mozart first time, some gorgeous voice at the top of its range bring Queen of the Night. Too beautifully. Her singing held no anger: it was sheer, edgeless – a glass tower into the sky. The car dipped, bouncing off a pot-hole and the firs closed ranks into the downward slope. The world reduced to the headlamp path, veils of drizzle on either side. A branch scraped the window, making her flinch. She was driving too fast. This road was poor in the best of weathers and here she was, not behaving. She braked, cranked into second, felt the exhaust scrape. It would help to turn the radio off. As she reached for the dial to remove all distraction, the stag was already turning. She caught a glimpse of his eye, his hooves, rising. Then the thud. Sudden. Grinding. Loud.

  Instinctively, she pressed the brake, heard the sound of the engine dip. The car was ignoring her, making an inexorable, slow-motion skid as if the bitumen beneath her tyres had turned to water. Aquaplaning. The word occurred as she tilted toward the passenger side, saw branches and distant lights panning past the window, vaguely aware she should release the brake. You were supposed to release the break. Then, without apparent cause, without her doing the right thing at all, the car lurched to a stop. It took a moment for her to realise: it was facing the wrong direction. The Queen of the Night, shocking against the stillness, was still singing.

  For a moment, Martha thought she saw something moving in the rear-view mirror, but it was just the near-side indicator, sending a signal, an absence, with no one to warn. Her neck hurt. But she wasn’t dizzy. She was, to all intents and purposes, fine. Shaky, she sprang the seat belt and opened the door, scanned the horizon. She had hit something, but what did not show. Not a rock fallen from one of the crags, it had absorbed too much impact for that. But something big. The stag. It had to be the stag. Able or not, it would have run. It would at least have tried. Carefully, tripping against the thick clumps of grass that forced their way through the road surface, she walked to the rear of the car to check immediate damage, work out what to do.

  The whole nearside wing was crushed, bent on itself like a worn slipper; one headlight pointing drunkenly into the trees. The radiator grille was squint. But no smell of petrol, nothing, apparently, leaking. At the bottom of the valley, a glowing window showed what was most likely a farm building, but it was too far to walk, too dangerous to leave the car like this. Someone else might come round the corner without warning, find the damn thing straight ahead. They might be on their way even now. A crow flapped from behind an open gate, the field beyond it thick as pitch. Then, by the steady, orange beats of the indicator light, she saw something move. Into the field and churned earth beyond the fencing, a beast struggling in a ditch. He was huge. He was desperate. He groaned, rose, fell back again.

  Martha stepped over the ditch and onto the sodden peat, her stomach tightening. The beast, aware she was coming, kicked and tried to stand again, crashed heavily back down. She saw him rocking in the hollow, knees buckled, tilting his head and lowing. The shape of his antlers, small and new, flashed in outline against the fringe of rushes. There was no one else here. No one to help, no one to advise. It was her dilemma. Hers alone.

  Trying for calm, she reached one hand, repeating what came into her mouth unbidden. I’m here. I’m here. Toughing his flank made him shudder; he twisted his head to see what she might be, eyes rolling white as he struggled, failed. A deep gash showed bri
efly under one of his back legs, and under his belly, something solid unfurling, glistening like oily rope. The iron smell of blood was unmistakeable. This needed a gun. It needed a gamekeeper. She was too clueless to kill a living thing, could not imagine how. There would be a jack in the car maybe, but dear god. Not now. Not, she suspected, ever. She fought the sudden, awful desire to embrace him, wrap her arms around his neck and weep, but didn’t. It would only make things worse, frighten him more if it was possible. And there, on the road behind her, was the car, a more-than-threatening hazard slant-wise on the single-track road while she looked on, spineless and stupid and out of place. Something slithered over the gate beside her, a hard black outline, claws scraping. All the time, the stag was shivering, heaving terrible, rancid breaths. She could not abandon him now.

  I’m here, she said, reaching. Shhhh.

  His back was thick, viscid; the bloody heat of him warm as soup. Kneeling on the grass, she felt rain seep through her jeans, spreading like shock. Gently, she placed her cheek against his flank, felt him flinch. His legs kicked instinctively, but their power was gone. Beneath her skin, however, his lungs pounded, ricocheting against her. He had no option but to fight.

  Martha closed her eyes, leaned into him. This was all she had. She was Martha. A rock. She was forty-one years old. And despite herself, still here. Incapable of letting go.

  Dislocated bars of Mozart were gusting like feathers in the night air, ceding to an announcer who didn’t belong here. Who had no idea what listened.

  I’m here, she said, her words bouncing off the surrounding rocks and rising, furious, into the solid dark. I’m here.

  I’m here.

  Contributors’ Biographies

  Claire-Louise Bennett is the author of Pond, published by Fitzcarraldo Editions. She was born in Wiltshire and currently resides in the west of Ireland.

  Neil Campbell is from Manchester. He has two collections of short stories, Broken Doll and Pictures From Hopper, published by Salt, and two poetry collections, Birds and Bugsworth Diary, published by Knives Forks and Spoons Press, who have also published his short fiction chapbook, Ekphrasis. Recent stories have appeared in Unthology 6, The Lonely Crowd and Best British Short Stories 2015. His first novel, Sky Hooks, is due for publication from Salt in 2016. @neilcambers.

  Crista Ermiya was born in London to a Filipino mother and Turkish-Cypriot father. Her stories have been published widely in magazines and anthologies and her story in the present volume comes from her debut collection The Weather in Kansas published by Red Squirrel Press. Crista Ermiya is a winner of the Decibel Penguin Short Story Prize. She lives in Newcastle upon Tyne with her husband and son.

  Stuart Evers is the author of two short story collections, Ten Stories About Smoking and Your Father Sends His Love, and a novel, If This is Home. He lives in London with his family.

  Trevor Fevin worked for a number of years as a counsellor in the National Health Service. He was awarded a distinction for his MA in creative writing at Edge Hill University. His stories have been shortlisted in competitions with Chroma and Synaesthesia magazines.

  David Gaffney lives in Manchester. He is the author of several books including Sawn-Off Tales (2006), Aromabingo (2007), Never Never (2008), The Half-Life of Songs (2010) and More Sawn-Off Tales (2013). He has written articles for the Guardian, Sunday Times, Financial Times and Prospect, and his new novel, All The Places I’ve Ever Lived, is due out in spring 2017. See www.davidgaffney.org.

  Janice Galloway is the author of three novels and four collections of short stories. She studied at Glasgow University and has worked as a teacher. Her awards include: the MIND/Allan Lane Award for The Trick is to Keep Breathing, the McVitie’s Prize for Foreign Parts, the EM Forster Award (presented by the American Academy of Arts and Letters), the Creative Scotland Award, Saltire Scottish Book of the Year for Clara and the SMIT non-fiction Book of the Year for This is Not About Me. She has written and presented three radio series for BBC Scotland (Life as a Man, Imagined Lives and Chopin’s Scottish Swansong) and works extensively with musicians and visual artists.

  Jessie Greengrass was born in 1982. She studied philosophy in Cambridge and London, where she now lives with her partner and child. Her debut short story collection, An Account of the Decline of the Great Auk, According to One Who Saw It, is published by JM Originals, an imprint of John Murray.

  Kate Hendry is a writer, editor and teacher living in Edinburgh. Her short stories have been published in Harpers, Mslexia and New Writing Scotland. She was a runner up in the 2009 Bridport Prize and has been a recipient of a Scottish Book Trust New Writer’s Bursary. Her first collection of poems will be published by HappenStance Press in 2016.

  Thomas McMullan is a London-based writer. His work has been published by Lighthouse, Minor Literature[s], 3:AM Magazine, The Stockholm Review and The Literateur. He regularly contributes to the Guardian and is currently seeking representation. www.thomasmcmullan.com @thomas_mac.

  Graham Mort, poet and short fiction writer, is Professor of Creative Writing and Transcultural Literature at Lancaster University. He specialises in literature development work and recent projects have taken him to South Africa, Kurdistan, Vietnam and China. His first book of stories, Touch (Seren), won the Edge Hill Prize in 2011 and his latest book of stories, Terroir (Seren), is currently long-listed for the same prize. A new book of poems, Black Shiver Moss, will appear from Seren in 2017.

  Ian Parkinson was born in Lancashire in 1978 and studied philosophy at university before working as a civil servant and insurance clerk. His first novel, The Beginning of the End, was published in 2015.

  Tony Peake has contributed to numerous anthologies including Winter’s Tales, The Penguin Book of Contemporary South African Short Stories, The Mammoth Book of Gay Short Stories, The Gay Times Book of Short Stories: New Century New Writing, New Writing 13, Yes, I Am! Writing by South African Gay Men and Seduction, a themed anthology which he also edited. He is the author of two novels, A Summer Tide (1993) and Son to the Father (1995), and a biography, Derek Jarman (1999). Further details on www.tonypeake.com.

  Alex Preston was born in 1979. He is the award-winning author of three novels and appears regularly on BBC television and radio. He writes for GQ, Harper’s Bazaar and Town & Country Magazine as well as for the Observer’s New Review. He teaches Creative Writing at the University of Kent and regular Guardian Masterclasses. He is @ahmpreston on Twitter.

  Leone Ross is a Jamaican/British award-winning writer, editor and lecturer. She is the author of two novels, All the Blood is Red (Angela Royal Publishing) and Orange Laughter (Anchor), and numerous short stories. She won an Arts Council award in 2001. Her short story collection, Come Let Us Sing Anyway, will be published by Peepal Tree Press in spring 2017. She works as a senior lecturer at the University of Roehampton in London and her third novel, This One Sky Day, is forthcoming. Her website is at www.leoneross.com.

  John Saul had work shortlisted for the international 2015 Seán Ó Faoláin prize for fiction. Appearing widely in magazine form, in and outside the UK, his short fiction has been published in four collections. He lives and writes in Suffolk. A website with more information is at www.johnsaul.co.uk.

  Colette Sensier is a prose writer and poet born in Brighton in 1988. She studied English at King’s College, Cambridge, and Creative Writing at UEA. Her debut poetry collection, Skinless, is published by Eyewear, and her poetry is also anthologised in The Salt Book of Younger Poets. She has completed a historical novel (with the help of mentoring from Bernardine Evaristo during a Spread the Word mentoring scheme) and a dramatic adaptation of a Shirley Jackson novel, and is working on new contemporary prose.

  Robert Sheppard is mainly a poet, whose selected poems, History or Sleep, appears from Shearsman Books, and who has poetry anthologised in Anthology of Twentieth Century British and Irish Poetry (OUP) and Reality Street Book of Sonnets, among others. His short fiction is p
ublished as The Only Life (Knives Forks and Spoons Press), and is found amidst his 2015 autobiographical work, Words Out of Time, and in several places in his 2016 publication Unfinish (Veer Publications). He is Professor of Poetry and Poetics at Edge Hill University, where in 2016 they celebrate ten years of the Edge Hill Prize.

  DJ Taylor’s most recent work is The Prose Factory: Literary Life in England Since 1918 (2016). His other books include the Man Booker-longlisted novels Trespass (1998) and Derby Day (2011) and Orwell: The Life which won the 2003 Whitbread Biography Prize. ‘Some Versions of Pastoral’ appeared in the short story collection Wrote for Luck (2015) and has been broadcast on Radio 3.