by Matt Shaw
I reached across to a nearby tree where I had hung the sports bag from one of the thickest branches I could reach. I had put it in the tree so the leaves above would help keep it dry on the off-chance it rained. Thankfully it hadn’t and both the bag and I are dry as a bone. I pulled it down and dropped it to the floor before sitting next to it. A quick tug on the zip opened it up and instantly revealed some of the food I had taken from Jen’s house.
I should be starving by now but I’m still not even remotely hungry. None of what I stole looks appealing to me. If anything it is making me feel a little nauseous. I reached in and pulled out a packet of plain crisps. I could be feeling sick just because I’m hungry. Need to eat something - even if I have to force it down. I opened the packet up and took a handful of crisps out before putting them in my mouth. I closed my eyes and imagined it to be a steak. Normally I like it well done. Not a hint of blood or redness. Now though in my mind...It’s bloody as hell. I crunch down on the crisp and imagine the blood spurting from the meat right into the back of my throat drowning my tongue in the juices as it does so. My taste buds dancing and tingling as the juice flows freely over them. I breathe in deeply. I can’t smell the salt of the crisps anymore. Instead I can only smell the sweetness of the bloody meat. Ecstasy hits as I take another mouthful of the crisps. My mind working overtime to hide their true taste. For the first time in ages I’m starting to feel as though my hunger is being satisfied. Even my stomach rumbled in such a way it sounded as though it was thanking me as opposed to warning me to run to the toilet again. I went to grab another handful to stuff into my mouth but realised the packet was empty. Disappointment. I feel as though I could eat another packet immediately but I know I can’t. I have to be sensible with my food all the time I’m at a loss as to where to go. I dropped the empty packet onto the floor. Finding a bin to dispose of it properly is the last thing on my mind right now and quite frankly I don’t really care about the environment right now. Perhaps I should though. If I am to be an immortal - it would probably be nicer to walk through an unspoiled world than one destroyed by careless people such as myself.
I stood up and tried to shake some life back into my aching limbs. Still feel as though a bus has hit me. When will this feeling pass? Soon, I hope.
As I looked around at the surrounding woodlands part of me wished I had never woken up in the first place. It would have been so much easier, and probably better, had I just drifted off to sleep never to wake again. At least I wouldn’t be standing here now with no idea of who to turn to or where to go.
I bent down and lifted my bag off the floor. I hung it over my shoulder and started to walk in the direction I was facing. No end goal in sight, or mind. I just started walking.
“Do you know where you’re going?” a familiar voice from behind me. I twisted my head, tearing open my neck’s healing wound in the process, and saw Jen standing in a small clearing.
I stopped walking and shrugged, “I don’t.”
“This is silly. Come back to the house. At least it’s warm there. And no one will find you.”
“Just a matter of time,” I said. I didn’t walk over to her, no matter how great the temptation was. I knew she wasn’t real. Just a figment of my guilty imagination. “Someone will come round to see if you’re okay when no one can get hold of you.”
“Not for a while they won’t. Come on, it’s warm. It’s safe...It’s better than this!”
“I don’t dispute the fact it’s better than being out here but I can’t go back. You just want me to go back so the police find me...” I said. My own imagination trying to trap me so I serve my time. As if I don’t have enough enemies out there, now I have to worry about my own subconscious thoughts trying to trap me.
“I want you to go back because I know there’s nothing out here for you.”
I looked back in the direction I had been walking - trees as far as the eye could see. I know they won’t stretch on forever and I have no idea where they will eventually end but - even so - it’s better than sitting in a home with a dead body. If they find me with Jen’s rotting corpse it will be even harder to protest my innocence in the alleged assaults.
“Come on. Comfortable bed. Cosy sheets. More food than you can carry in that sports bag. Even if you do only stay for one more day - it might be long enough to get a plan together to decide where you want to go next. I mean where are you going to go from here? You can’t go home. Your other friends, not that there were many, will have seen the news too. You really think any of them would keep you safe from the law? Your mum and dad are dead. You really think your wife will keep you hidden? The state your relationship was in - she’s probably already in talks with the police on what to do if you show up. You’re out of options. You have no one. And the path you’re about to tread? You may as well turn yourself in. At least there’s a roof over your head when you’re in prison...”
“I’m not going to prison!”
“You will. Maybe not now but you will be going to prison.”
“You aren’t even real.”
“I am.”
“You’re dead.”
“You killed me.”
“An accident.”
“Was it really though? Can you say how that scenario would have played out had I not fallen and banged my head on that table? I would have called the police...”
“I would have left.”
“And gone where?”
“Same place as I’m headed now.”
“Which is?”
“Leave me alone,” I urged. I turned back to the clearing where she had been standing. There was no one there. Of course there wasn’t. There had never been anyone standing there. Only me and my treacherous imagination. I turned back in the direction my feet were facing and pressed on - unsure of where I was going to come out.
Just keep walking, I told myself. Something will come up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I opened my eyes at the sound of a low growling; a noise which instantly made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A dog was a few feet away from where I was slumped with my back against a tree. It was staring at me baring its teeth and growling. A look of hate in its eyes. Or is that fear? I can’t tell and I don’t wish to get closer to investigate further.
The dog didn’t come any closer but that didn’t stop me from scrabbling back against the tree in an effort to increase the distance between the two of us - not that my maneuvering was making any difference to the situation, other than making me realize that there was very little room between the two of us.
“What you found, boy? a male voice said from somewhere behind the dog. I couldn’t see where it came from initially but was thankful to see an elderly man step out from behind some bushes. Just as I spotted the man - he spotted me too. “Oh, I see...” he said. “Heel!” he ordered the dog to his side, not that the dog moved. It just continued to stand there, facing me off and barking as though I were a danger to him and his master.
A fleeting guess hinted the dog could smell what was becoming of me and what I had done to my friend.
“Can you call your dog away please?” I asked nicely and tried my best not to sound too panicked but knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. I had always hated dogs, right from a young age when I had a job as a newspaper boy; aged about twelve, I was chased up a tree by a particularly aggressive sounding dog. I sat up that damned tree for near on two hours before the dog’s owner spotted me up there, crying.
“He’s okay,” said the old man. “He’s all bark. No bite. Unless you’re a rabbit.” The man walked over to the dog and dragged him away. Thankfully the dog backed down as soon as it felt his master’s hands upon his fur. When the dog was far enough away from me to feel safe I stood up. “Not a fan of dogs then?” the old man asked.
“Could say that. They don’t seem to like me.”
The old man laughed, “Like I said - he’s all bark. Just likes to shout at people, let them know he’s there...Let them know who is in charge...”<
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“Well I know he’s there and he is definitely in charge,” I said.
“I should hope so,” the old man pointed out, “you are on his property after all...”
“I am?”
“Private property. You’re on our land. Are you lost?” Despite claiming that I was on his private property, the old man seemed friendly enough. Lady Luck smiling down on me again I guess? I could have stumbled onto the land of an angry farmer and his trusty shotgun.
I nodded, “You could say that. One minute I was in my friend’s back garden and the next I’ve somehow managed to get turned around and I have no idea where I am...”
“Easy mistake to make, here - walk with me...” the old man started to walk in the direction he had come from. Without hesitation I picked up my bag and followed - all the time being watched carefully by his dog. “What’s your name?” the old man asked.
“John,” I lied. He didn’t need to know my real name. If he heard it - something may have twigged from a newspaper report he may have read or seen and I really didn’t need that.
“Frank. I’ll take you back to my farmhouse. It’s not too far from here and, once you’re there, it’s easy to follow the road back to the village or, if need be, you can call a cab from mine and get taken directly into town. Where were you headed?”
My mind raced between the options. Should I say I was headed towards the village where there were fewer people and less chance of getting noticed or should I head into the town where there were more people and more chance of getting noticed but also more opportunities to get lost amongst the bustling faces of the people? Can’t decide and he’s looking at me waiting for an answer.
“Not sure to be honest,” I said. Not a lie. “I was just walking. Clearing my head.”
“Fair enough,” said Frank. “Nothing beats a good walk to clear your head. Did it work?” he asked - more out of conversation, I think, rather than actually caring.
“Not yet,” I sighed.
“Ah, one of those days,” he said as he stared off into the distance whilst we walked. “I’ve had days like that...”
“One of those weeks,” I pointed out.
Frank laughed, “Sounds like you need a drink - not a walk! Walks clear your head but drinks numb the memories.” He scooped a stick up, as he walked, and threw it for his dog who dutifully bounded after it as though he had accepted my presence just as his master had.
“Do you live out here alone?” I asked in an effort to make conversation which wasn’t directly about me. “I mean, other than your dog?”
“No. I live with my wife. Which is why I’m out walking...Get some peace and quiet. You know - people often make a big thing about being retired when it comes up in conversations. They say they can’t wait until the day they finally get to retire. Well let me tell you...It’s not as great as it sounds. As least when you work you have an opportunity to get away from your partner. When you’re retired you are constantly under each others’ feet. You want peace and quiet? Can’t. They’re there nagging at you for something you’ve forgotten to do. Let me tell you - it’s no picnic. More fool me, hey, I took early retirement. Been like this for years now...”
I couldn’t help but smile at what he was saying. When I worked in the office - I lost count of the number of conversations I had with colleagues where one of us had wished we were already out of the rat race. To hear it from the other side of the age bracket...Puts things in perspective. Not that it mattered for me now.
Before I had a chance to think of anything else to say, to keep the topic of conversation from turning back to me, Frank asked, “So you needing to clear your head because of a woman?”
I didn’t know what to say, “Something like that.”
“Trust me,” he said - not reading too much into my answer, “take it from an old fool who knows...They aren’t worth it. Can’t live with them. Can’t kill them...” he said, a wry smile on his face. If only he knew. Not only can you kill them but it’s also particularly easy to accomplish.
I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said out of politeness.
“Sometimes I think about taking on a little part-time job just to get out of her hair. I figured it would be less stressful dealing with irate customers in some little shop than dealing with her constant nagging. I’m not entirely sure she understands the term ‘retirement’. It’s supposed to be about relaxing. Putting your feet up after a life time of hard work. It’s not supposed to be about doing odd jobs around the house, gardening and re-painting the interior of the house. She even wants me to clear out the cellar to convert it into...Well I don’t know what. Does that sound like an easy retirement?” he continued. For an older man, I’d say late sixties or possibly even early seventies, his speaking rate was pretty fluid when irate. Certainly more fluid, when ranting, compared to how he sounded in general conversation - from the short time I’ve spent with him at least. I like him though. In a weird way he kind of reminds me of my old man. “I don’t know - maybe a heart attack would be a welcome break,” he went on. “They tell me I need to change my diet and do this and do that but...Maybe I should increase my cholesterol? More bacon please, with extra fat on the side. Least it would be quicker than this slow, torturous death.”
I laughed at the darkness of his humour. Considering we had only just met - I couldn’t believe some of the stuff he was saying. It was as though he had let it build and build within him so it was ready to unleash on the first person he stumbled across during his woodland walks. And his timing couldn’t have been better for it was the first time I’d felt normal since my run in with Helen of Troy.
“I’m just over this ridge,” he said as we started to climb a small muddy embankment, “with any luck the wife has had a stroke, or something, whilst I was out...”
Again, I couldn’t help but laugh despite his wishful thinking being on the sick side.
At the top of the ridge I saw his home; a nice farmhouse. At least - it was nice on first impressions. At a more detailed look, as we walked across the field to where it was situated, you could clearly see that it was in need of some general D.I.Y.
To the side of the house was a large barn which was also in a poor state of repair with its front doors hanging on a single hinge and broken wood panels running the length of the building. Looking at the roof I could even see there were some missing tiles. Next to the barn was an old tractor which looked only to be in one piece thanks to years of rust holding the panels in place. At one touch the whole machine would probably crumble into nothing.
“You’re a farmer?” I asked.
“Used to be. Worked these lands for many, many years. Cattle, some crops here and there...Nothing major but it was enough for me to handle and made us some money to live. What else do you need?” he replied. “Of course now we have no cattle and we don’t plant any crops. Was offered some money for the land by some company but...Well we like it here. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. No trouble.”
“It’s nice,” I said - ignoring the flaws in the two buildings and the comment about no trouble. If only he knew who he was walking with. If only he knew what he was walking with.
We got to the back of the farmhouse and the old man turned to me, “Okay,” he said, “if you follow the road, at the front of the house, to the left - that will take you to the village. If you want to go to town - well - you really have walked a long way off the beaten track and you’d be best off calling for a taxi. Might set you back a bit from here but if that’s what you want to do you’re more than welcome to step inside and use the telephone.”
I thought for a moment and decided it was probably best to head back to the town. With fewer people in the village it would probably be too hard for me to disappear. At least there are more nooks and crannies to hide in - in a busy town. Not that I should be having to hide.
“May I use your telephone?” I asked.
“Certainly, step inside...And I apologise now for my wife.” Frank opened the back door. The dog d
idn’t wait for its master to step inside first and pushed his way between us to get to his waiting food bowl. Frank stepped in and I followed.
He closed the door behind us.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The kitchen was as you’d expect from the outside of the house. On first impressions it was a good size with all the necessary equipment you’d want in a kitchen. At a closer look you’d notice the equipment was dated, possibly unsafe, the paint was peeling and there were cracks in the wooden floor large enough to suggest it was only a matter of time before someone fell through to the cellar.
