Wild Life

by Liam Brown

  After that I stood in the shower for what felt like a long time, swaying slightly while all around me the world carried on as if it was just another Monday morning. Somewhere adjacent to me Lydia screamed at Olivia to get out of bed, while downstairs Flynn smashed something and pretended it wasn’t him. And up and down the street and throughout the city, in houses identical to ours, the morning ritual played out in much the same way, people waking, washing, rushing; like sharks, terrified of what would happen if they stopped moving even for a second.

  I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, but even then I didn’t move. Instead I stood there, wondering if maybe Flynn had been right all along.

  Maybe I was dead.

  TWO

  Eight hours. In my old life it was never enough. I would pull sixteen-hour shifts without thinking. I would work Friday night through to Monday morning on two hours’ sleep. My phone was always on, constantly pulsing with calls, text messages, emails, appointments, status updates. I didn’t even consider it overtime because all of my time was simply an extension of work. There was no separation. Picking up the kids, going to the toilet, arguing with Lydia; they were all just bullet points on an infinite to-do list. Just one more thing to be ticked off and filed under ‘Done’. That was how I managed my life.

  Then everything stopped, and eight hours seemed like an impossible stretch of time to fill.

  For the first few weeks I did nothing but drive. The moment I dropped Flynn at nursery and Olivia off at school I’d hit the motorway, slipping into the outside lane, heading for nowhere as fast as possible. It was comforting to zone out behind the wheel, the grey scenery repeating endlessly like the backdrop of an old cartoon. Occasionally I’d pull off and wander aimlessly around a service station, each one a sterile clone of the one before, like a train station or an airport, everyone strangers, everyone just passing through. It was perfect. Other times I’d be driving and I’d forget where I was – who I was – and presume I was off to a meeting or a business lunch. I’d panic then, desperately trying to recall the details of my client, fumbling for my phone only to find my diary clear, my inbox empty. Then I’d remember. The only people who called any more were looking for money.

  One evening I was hurtling down a dual carriageway on my way to collect Flynn when a blue light detonated behind me. I hesitated, my mouth instantly dry as I pictured myself triggering a Hollywood-style car chase, complete with helicopters, shoot-outs, and spike-strips, before I was consumed by the inevitable fiery climax. I hit my indicator and pulled over, the hard shoulder crackling under my tyres like the sound of a record that’s run out of songs. As I killed the engine, I cupped my hand and blew into my palm. A hot wave of vodka echoed back into my face. I vaguely wondered how over the limit I was. Watching the policeman approach in my rear-view mirror, I desperately tried to keep calm, to fashion an excuse that would prevent me from blowing my guilty breath into his tube, before a sharp rap of knuckles at my window cut short my thoughts. This was it.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but one of your back lights appears to be out…’

  After that I was too paranoid to drive. I might have been a drunk but I wasn’t an idiot – I knew my luck wouldn’t hold out indefinitely. Instead I stayed local, parking up as near to home as I dared and then spending the day stumbling around bars and bookies until my money began to run out and I switched to wandering around supermarkets, my empty trolley squeaking down the endless aisles, time slurring to a standstill as I did my best to avoid the suspicious eye of the in-store security guard. Wherever I went I was paranoid, convinced that every woman I passed was Lydia, terrified she was about to leap out from behind a display of low-fat ready meals – though whether I was more scared about her finding out the truth or of the very public scene she’d inevitably create once she did, I’m not sure.

  In the end I abandoned the city centre altogether, sticking to the least populated places I could find – patches of wasteland, canal walkways, the grounds of abandoned buildings – the hours crawling by as I shuffled along, trying my best to keep warm. Once or twice I thought about starting a fire, but decided against it in the end. It was hard enough to explain away the booze on my breath every evening without also having to account for the smell of petrol and smoke on my jacket. Instead I plunged my hands deep into my trouser pockets, bowed my head against the wind and walked. And walked. And walked.

  *

  One afternoon I found myself on a narrow dirt track alongside a fenced-off railway embankment. It was late February by this point, and though not yet spring, the first strangle of nettles had already begun to push their way up through the black earth, hooking themselves around the yellow warning signs that stuck out at intervals along the track. Danger of Death. Private Property. Keep Out. On the other side there was a tall wooden fence, a canopy of deciduous trees blocking out the light overhead, creating a sort of natural tunnel. A secret furrow carved into the flesh of the world. I ploughed deeper into the darkness, too cold to question the stacks of crushed beer cans littering the floor or the slashes of graffiti adorning the fence, the paint having run in rivulets before it dried, like melted candle wax, or blood seeping from a fresh wound.

  I paused for a moment to take a drink. The tips of my fingers were almost completely numb, and it took a couple of second to unscrew the cap of my hip flask, the engraved inscription on the side glinting in the dim light. Ultimate Sales Jedi 2008 – The force is strong with this one. I grimaced and took a deep slug, the burning liquid chasing away the memories of monthly targets and office banter. I raised the flask to take another hit.

  And then I froze.

  Somewhere behind me I heard a noise. The wind agitating the trees. Or else someone fumbling in the folds of their oversized hoodie for a flick-knife. I started walking again, more briskly this time, my Oxford brogues struggling to find purchase in the mud. I was being paranoid, I knew it. Yet all the same, something felt very, very wrong.

  The tunnel seemed to be narrowing by the second, the trees bearing down on me. There was another noise then, closer this time. Footsteps. I began to run, powering forward blindly, my heart threatening to unravel in my chest and choke me. Somewhere nearby a dog began to bark. I pictured myself punctured to death, a feral youngster making off with my terminally empty wallet. The police would come, the journalists and, eventually, Lydia. And then the horrible, heartbreaking truth of why I’d been down some scum-infested alley, rather than sat behind my office desk, would be out for the whole world to see.

  I ran on, slipping and sliding in the muck until the alley tilted at an odd angle and I fell, sprawling to the floor. I lay there, winded, the sound of imminent assault ringing in my ears.

  And that’s when I saw it. A loose fence panel, right beside me.

  I scrambled to my knees and hurled myself at it.

  The wood gave without resistance, and I found myself tumbling down a steep bank on a tide of loose soil, rocks tearing at my skin and suit, the world a tombola of black and brown and green, until I was spewed abruptly into the light. It was over. I was alive.

  I lay there for a moment, my eyes closed, listening to make sure I hadn’t been followed. When I was quite sure I was alone I sat up and looked around. To my surprise I appeared to be lying in a large, open field, fringed by the dense woodland I had just fallen through, completely masking the alley above me. I climbed to my feet and brushed myself down. My coat had absorbed much of the damage to my torso, but my suit trousers were shredded. Still, aside from a few grazes and a gashed knuckle, I seemed to have escaped relatively unharmed. Instinctively I tapped at my breast and noticed the cold, damp patch spreading out from my inside pocket. Extracting the badly dented flask, I saw the lid was missing – lost in the chase. I held it up and drained the last few drops into my mouth before taking a step backwards and pitching the damn thing into the bushes. Then I started walking.

  It took me about twenty minutes to realise that it was not a patch of wasteland, but a park. Or at
least, it had been at one time, for it looked like it hadn’t been properly maintained for decades. Gradually my eyes began to adjust. Here and there I spotted a rotting wooden bench or a rusting metal bin jutting out from behind an overgrown thicket, as if partially swallowed by some creeping, multi-tentacled monster. Further on I found an algae-choked pond that looked like it might have once been a boating lake; an old football pitch, the crossbars of the goalposts twisted and bent; as well as the skeletal remains of a children’s play area, a length of chain dangling from the frame of a seatless swing, a perilous-looking slide leading to nothing but a sheer drop.

  I explored for an hour or so before it began to get dark. I checked my phone – it was almost time to pick up Flynn. Realising I’d be unable to clamber back up to the alley, I instead began to make my way towards a gate I’d spotted earlier, hoping to find an alternate exit. Picking my way around the lake, I paused as two elegant swans emerged from the reeds and propelled themselves silently along the far shore, a dazzle of white in the gloom. As I watched them shrink into the distance, a slither of silver stirred beneath the surface of the water. I leant forward, struggling to make out anything in the murk beyond a skitter of pond skaters among the rushes. I turned to leave but then stopped, suddenly struck by the sensation I was being watched. I slowly straightened up, and scanned the nearby trees for signs of life, the earlier panic instantly reigniting in my chest. Though not yet five o’clock, the evening was folding in fast, the woods in the distance as dark and impenetrable as the surface of the lake. It occurred to me that somebody could be watching me from the trees and I wouldn’t know. I’d never be able to see them. It was time to leave.

  By the time I reached the gate I’d convinced myself I was being silly. I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that humans were hardwired to feel as if they were being watched, even if no one is paying them the slightest bit of attention. It’s a sort of evolutionary reflex to keep us on our toes for predators, back before we were smart enough to shoot, poison or cage anything bigger or deadlier than us – the same prehistoric hangover that causes us to see snakes where there’s only rope. Caveman thinking.

  Easing back the bolt on the gate, I was faced with yet another alley, this time running between two low brick buildings. Seconds later I found myself standing in front of a row of dilapidated garages leading on to a small housing estate. It was unbelievable; from the patch of gravel where I stood, the park was completely invisible. Unless you knew it was there, you couldn’t tell it existed at all. I peered back down the alley and noticed for the first time an ancient signpost staked into the ground near the entrance. I reached up and scraped away the layer of moss and dirt until at last a few faded words gradually appeared:

  Welcome to Adenbury Community Gardens.

  *

  It was completely dark when I finally pulled up outside the house. Glancing in the rear-view mirror I saw that Flynn had jabbered himself to sleep in his car seat, his neck twisted at a wince-inducing angle. He stirred slightly as I lifted him but he didn’t wake. I stood on the doorstep and took a moment to compose myself. I’d managed to wash away most of the dried blood from my hands with a bottle of mineral water, but my appearance had nonetheless provoked a look of panic from Flynn’s teenage nursery teacher. ‘Heavy lunch,’ I’d mumbled, bundling the child into the car and driving off as fast as I could.

  Lydia would be more difficult to convince. My trousers were shredded, my shoes caked in mud and I smelled like a distillery. Even with my well-honed powers of deception, this was going to be difficult to explain. My plan was to try and sneak in and bundle myself into the shower before I could be interrogated, but it was no good. Lydia was waiting for me by the front door.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ I said, avoiding eye contact, I stooped forward to place Flynn down on the couch, keeping a tactical distance between us.

  To my surprise, Lydia didn’t comment on the way I looked. Or smelled. Or on the fact I was over an hour late.

  ‘Adam, a man called today,’ was all she said.

  I looked up, noticing for the first time the pained look on her face, her furrowed brow, her pinched mouth. Then I saw the red letters printed on the envelope she was holding in her hand.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. About an hour ago. He wanted money. He said there’s a problem with the car. Apparently we don’t own it anymore.’

  THREE

  It wasn’t just me. The whole world was at it. Politicians, bankers, brokers, all the way down to the little old lady scrabbling to find the three quid a week to pay the interest on her hire-purchase sofa. Everyone. Speculating, investing – gambling. Each of us blessed with the self-deluding arrogance of a drug addict that we could ride our luck until the end of time. That gravity had been permanently suspended just for us, history’s golden generation; that things would just keep on going up, up, up forever. And why shouldn’t they? After all, for seven straight years we’d all been partying in the greatest casino on Earth. Spin the wheel and win a prize every time! Buy high and watch it rise higher – you couldn’t lose. And if you weren’t quite in the position to bet, then no problem-o, Joe. Simply borrow your stake. Don’t put it off, put it on, screamed the billboards. Spend like there’s no tomorrow.

  Which, as it turned out, was a pretty accurate summary of the whole sorry situation.

  Like all the best disaster movies, it was born in America. However, what began with a monkey-bite of dodgy mortgage defaulters quickly spread with the ferocity of an apocalyptic virus, infecting an ever-widening circle of terrified consumers and replicating itself so that within mere months, half the planet was transformed into a horde of dead-eyed, slack-walleted zombies, each of us clutching our heads and groaning as we attempted to grapple with a brand-new vocabulary of horror: Speculative bubbles… Sub-prime loans… Quantitative easing…

  Meanwhile the pyrotechnics department really began to crank up the special effects. Institutions that had stood for a century and a half padlocked their gates overnight. Generations of savings were wiped out in the time it took for a webpage to refresh. Whole high streets were razed to the ground, while a tsunami of debt and unemployment crashed into Europe, sweeping away with it the hopes and aspirations of an entire continent. It was a living, breathing, ever-mutating nightmare.

  And for me, it had only just begun.

  *

  In the end I managed to convince Lydia that it was all just a silly mistake. A computer error. A clerical mix-up. I even went through the pantomime of pretending to call the repossession company, pacing up and down the hall and yelling at the dialling tone about how unacceptable everything was. After that I took the payment demand and tore it up in front of her, before scurrying up the stairs to change, brushing off her questions about my shredded suit with a dark ‘don’t ask’.

  Thankfully she didn’t.

  That night I lay in bed until I heard Lydia’s breath drop to a purr. I slipped out from under the duvet and quickly got dressed before tiptoeing downstairs. I let myself out and parked the car around the block. When I got back I went to the kitchen and poured myself a drink, pulling up a stool at the breakfast bar. I knew this was the end. Maybe not that night, or the next one. But soon. There were only so many buckets of water I could scoop up and throw overboard before I had to admit the ship was sinking.

  I rattled the ice in my glass and sloshed in another slug of vodka, a familiar warm glow of self-pity already diffusing through my cheeks. It was a nice kitchen. A nice life. But it wasn’t mine. None of it was. I was simply borrowing it for a while. And now the fuckers were coming to claim it back with interest.

  I slammed my drink and poured another, my sorrow rapidly evolving into anger as I fumbled in my pocket for a tightly wrapped ball of film. Well, they could have it as far I was concerned. The car, the kitchen – the whole house. They were welcome to it all.

  I chopped out a dual carriageway, two fat white lines running almost a third of the length of the counter. The same counter Flynn wou
ld sit at in eight hours’ time and demand breakfast.

  But I wasn’t thinking about Flynn. I was only thinking about myself.

  I bent my head forward and closed my eyes. Inhaled. There was a flash of green light followed by a constellation of stars, as if someone was attacking my eyelids with a pin. I tipped back my head, a bitter plastic taste dribbling down the back of my throat. Plastic and blood. I kept my eyes scrunched tight, trying to block out the light, before stooping forward again.

  Whoosh.

  This time I felt myself taking off, bursting through the ceiling, then the roof, my hair matted with splintered tiles and plaster dust and moss and bird shit, rising so quickly that within seconds the house was nothing but a vague rectangle of grey among a thousand other similar patches, higher and higher, until I could just about make out the bright silhouette of Britain, then Europe, the street lights of the cities and settlements glowing like a rash of orange liver spots; the motorways like infected wounds. Still I kept going, looking up just in time to see the faint blue glow of the ozone layer as I punctured it, sailing through the troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere, and finally out into the endless, black void of space, the stars smearing as I sped ever faster towards oblivion.

  A sharp coldness gripped me then, starting in my nose and spreading quickly down my spine, my limbs frozen by my sides as I slowly pirouetted through the nothingness all around me. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a small blue and green tennis ball. I tried to focus, to spot something I recognised, but it was too far away, and within seconds it had shrunk to a marble, and then I lost sight of it altogether, just one more speck among a billion points of light.

  I kept going, deeper and deeper, leaving our solar system and the Milky Way far behind as I hurtled past a thousand other galaxies, some not even born yet – the pink-and-purple swirling clouds of nebulas rising up before me like the pillars of creation – until finally I saw it.