by Liam Brown
What I wouldn’t do to be there today, though. To be warming the back of my legs against their antique two-bar electric fire. To choke on a forkful of overcooked turkey. Or to quench my thirst with a glass of under-spiced mulled wine.
Thirst.
With each hour that stutters past, I become ever more aware of the lack of water. My throat is dry, my tongue fat and swollen in my mouth. Twice I’ve stopped to delve back into the damp rucksack, ravaging my meagre supplies in an attempt to find relief. It’s no good though. The dry cereal bars and potato crisps I’ve packed to sustain me prove almost impossible to swallow, instantly turning to sawdust in my mouth. After each one I force down, I’m even thirstier than before.
The sun is fully up now, steam rising from the empty fields as if a fire is burning just below the surface of the world. Even so, it’s bitterly cold. While my coat is thick, I’ve forgotten my gloves, and the tips of my fingers have turned bright red. Unable to put them in my pockets, I lift my stinging digits to my lips and blow steadily on them, dredging up a warm breeze from deep inside my chest.
As I stagger on, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen a single sign of life since I started walking. No cars have passed, and there’s not a hint of traffic on the wind. There are no farms. No houses. No lamp posts or telephone poles. And though the air is filled with the sweet-sour stench of fresh manure, the fields remain resolutely empty of animal life. Again, I wonder where the hell I am, before I’m swamped by exhaustion. My thoughts slow and fuzzy. My legs concrete blocks, each step a painful battle against gravity.
Yet still I press on. Forwards, forwards, forwards. Into this desolate Christmas Day. My muscles screaming. My extremities stinging. My mouth like a desert.
Forwards, until there isn’t a single thought left in my head.
Forwards, until my vision begins to flicker.
Forwards, until eventually I just stop.
I stand there for a moment, alone under the freezing blue sky.
Tottering.
Teetering.
Unable to muster the message to make my legs move. For a while it seems as if I will collapse. As if the slightest breeze will be enough to knock me down.
A falling branch.
Dead timber in an empty forest.
But then I tilt my head.
On the other side of the low stone wall is a huge field, separated by a thorny hedge. There, something catches my eye. A slash of silver, glistening in the light.
With my last reserve of strength, I force myself to start moving again. I scale the wall, one leg then the other, then hobble towards the light.
Forwards.
Forwards.
Forwards.
The cable ties around my wrists make it difficult to negotiate the hedge, a million tiny barbs hooking and tearing at my flesh. At last though, I push my way through.
And then I pause in amazement.
The stream is shallow but fast-moving, coursing its way along a bed of smooth, grey rock. Seconds later, I drop to my knees, burying my face in the water. It’s so cold it steals my breath. I don’t care. It tastes sweet and clean. It tastes like hope. I drink and drink, until my stomach is so full it begins to ache, bulging over my belt like an overinflated tire. At last I lift my face, rolling back onto the grassy bank to rest.
And that’s when I see it.
A little way upstream, in a slight dip that keeps it hidden from the road, is a small house.
The tiny building is a ruin. Four moss covered stone walls propping up a ramshackle slate roof. A single room with no windows or door. There’s something oddly familiar about it. Then it dawns on me. The cottage looks almost exactly like a derelict shepherd’s hut I once discovered as a kid, while walking with my parents in Scotland. Back then, the building had seemed ominous somehow, standing all alone at the bottom of a craggy valley. I still remember Mum’s dire warnings that it could collapse at any moment when I threatened to explore inside.
Today, however, I don’t hesitate.
Stepping through the open doorway, I inhale deeply, sucking in a thick musk of damp and decay. The place must be at least a hundred years old. Perhaps even older. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I see the floor is a mass of grass and brambles, nature having long ago reclaimed this place as its own. Overhead, rotten beams balance precariously, large rectangles of blue visible through the shattered slate. It’s not much warmer in here than outside. And it will no doubt leak when it rains.
I let my bag drop to the floor. The sound sends a fat woodpigeon erupting from the rafters, making me jump. The bird beats a panicked circle until it eventually finds a hole in the dilapidated roof and disappears.
I smile. It’s the first animal I’ve seen in days. In months maybe.
I decide to take it as an omen.
For now at least, the hut will do.
For now, this will be my new home.
Once I’ve regained some strength, I begin clearing a space to sleep. With my hands still tied, it’s a difficult task. At first I’m limited to kicking away at the thick tangle of vegetation, a slow and energy-sapping way to work. After a while however I uncover a number of rusting farm tools buried beneath the knot of nettles, including what looks like an ancient scythe. Though the blade is dull, through a mixture of friction and brute force I eventually manage to wrench the cable ties apart. Afterwards, I stare down at my mangled hands. They’re almost unrecognisable. The scar from where I gouged myself with the pen is fringed with an ugly yellow crust. Meanwhile, each wrist is ringed with a dark red bracelet. I rub at the raw skin. Flex my aching fingers. Make a fist. They’ll heal, I tell myself. It’ll take time, but eventually they’ll be even stronger than they were before.
I get back to clearing the floor.
By the time the evening rolls around, my t-shirt is soaked with sweat and my hands and arms are flecked with cuts. Still, it’s a job well done. Leaning against the wall outside, there is now a huge pile of brambles, while the floor inside is raked smooth. Choosing a spot at the far corner of the hut, where the roof is least damaged, I roll out my sleeping bag. Then, very carefully, I take the scythe and use it to gouge a number of lines into the bare earth, dissecting the hut into three imaginary areas. Bedroom. Kitchen. Living room.
Who needs a penthouse?
As the days go by, I gradually begin to adjust to my new life. Every day I remind myself there is much to be thankful for. I have shelter. Fresh air. As much water as I can drink. Every night I use the camping stove to light a small fire in the ‘living room’, having managed to clear decades of detritus from inside the old stone chimney. It’s not just these physical comforts I’m grateful for though. In some ways, I feel calmer than I have in months. Perhaps ever. Not that I’ve bothered with any of Alice’s mindfulness exercises recently. In fact, since leaving the city I haven’t felt the need to meditate at all. Rather, I find the simple day-to-day tasks are enough to occupy me fully. Gathering firewood. Rinsing my clothes in the stream. Sweeping the floor of the hut. By immersing myself in these activities, I find there is little time to be anxious about the life I’ve left behind.
Despite this progress however, there is still one problem that increasingly threatens to drown out everything else. Food. I’ve long since finished the last few mouthfuls of my supplies, and since then the hunger pains have grown steadily worse. Back in the city, I’d regularly undertake day-long fasts as part of various detox diets. However, the bad breath and headaches I’d experienced whilst skipping the odd meal are nothing compared to the hollow cramps that now gnaw into my every waking thought. Yesterday, and again this morning, I set out on a long, circular walk, hoping to find something, anything, I could put in my mouth. Hours later I returned empty handed, having seen nothing but deserted fields.
Lying curled on my sleeping bag, I am forced to admit that I won’t be able to hold out for more than a day or two longer. That unless something changes, I will soon have to leave the hut. Though what will become of me then, I have no id
ea.
Another day passes. Then another. It’s now five days since I last ate anything. I’m increasingly weak. Strange colours and shapes float across my eyes, while my ears ring almost constantly. Though I know I should keep looking for food, I can’t seem to motivate myself to get up from the sleeping bag. These days, the furthest I go from the hut is down to the stream, where I suck up mouthful after mouthful of water in an attempt to appease my aching belly.
Some nights, I dream of tucking into a hot meal, only to wake up anguished, alone on the cold, hard earth. In moments like this, I’m capsized by dark thoughts, as I see with a searing clarity what a mistake it was to come here. To think I could survive all alone, away from the life support machine of society. Everything I had, gone. Squandered. And for what? My principles? My ego? To think of all that I’ve willingly given up. Riches. Fame. Yet what good is any of it out here? Money means nothing when there are no restaurants or shops to spend it in. And having the world’s most recognisable face doesn’t get you very far when there’s no one around to see it. The days of simply imagining a freshly baked pizza only to have it materialise at my doorstep seem a very long time ago.
Lately, I’ve been considering the idea that I’m being punished for something. That someone is watching me, taking active pleasure in my suffering. Like a kid torturing an insect. My wings and legs plucked away. My body crushed, viscera splayed. I’m not talking about God. Or who knows, maybe I am talking about God. Either way, I can’t escape the feeling that all this hardship is payment for something. A twisted sort of revenge. Not just for abandoning MindCast. For running away. No. It goes back further than that. Deeper. In my exhausted mental state, I see now that I was doomed from the very first time I picked up a camera and pointed it at my own face. It was at that moment that something intractable was set in motion. A journey, taking me all the way from my bedroom to this hut. From a buoyant beginning to this starving, miserable end.
And make no mistake, this is the end.
For even if I was to give up now. To throw myself on Xan’s mercy and pray for him to come and rescue me, how would he find me? Even I have no idea where I am.
For the thousandth time since I’ve been here, I wish that I had my phone with me so that I could get online. If only for a minute. For a second.
My kingdom for a search engine.
Because worse than even the loneliness and hunger are these nagging questions I carry around in my head from morning until night. Questions for which there are no easy answers.
Where am I?
What should I do?
How long does it take to starve to death?
The next evening, I’m lying in my hut, trying to keep warm. These last few days, I’ve been too tired to even get up and gather firewood, making do with short blasts of the camping stove whenever the cold becomes too unbearable. Swaddled in my sleeping bag, I suddenly become aware of a noise in the living room. At first, I put it down to delirium. An aural hallucination brought about by lack of food. I’ve had a few of these recently. Phantom ringtones. Email alerts. Fake vibrations in my pocket. I’ve even imagined I can hear my mother’s voice, calling my name. David, she says. Come home. Come back to me.
This is something different though. More insistent. More real. A faint scratch-scratch-scratching, coming from somewhere inside the hut. At last I manage to rouse myself, crawling across the dirt to investigate. With daylight already fading, it’s difficult to make out much. After a while though, I realise the sound is coming from somewhere behind the stone chimney. Cautiously, I poke my head into the small fireplace. Seconds later I leap back in fright as something dives towards me, a thundering blur of green and grey feathers.
Once I get my breath back, I creep forwards again. This time I see clearly the source of the noise. Somehow, a fat woodpigeon has wedged itself into the narrow chimney breast. At the sight of me, the pigeon once again begins to beat its wings. It’s hopeless, though. The bird is completely stuck. For a moment, I consider how I might go about freeing the poor animal. Then I think back to that afternoon with Nadeem, all those months ago. Back before the madness of MindCast. The Chicken Nugget Challenge. Even if we hadn’t actually managed to go through with it in the end, we’d still watched hours of videos on the subject.
I look again at the animal, its yellow eyes staring back at me. Even with its puffed-out breast, there doesn’t look to be much meat on it. Still, it’s better than nothing. Besides, what is it that Nadeem had said?
It’s as simple as wringing its neck.
In the end, the killing is worse than I could have imagined. While I’m able to recall a surprising amount of information from the videos, nothing could have prepared me for the grisly reality of the act. Once I’ve managed to free the flapping bird from the chimney – a traumatic experience in itself – I place the back of its head between the crook of my thumb and forefinger. I take a deep breath. Then, with as much force as I can muster, I pull down sharply, breaking the bird’s neck. To my horror, it continues to thrash for a good minute, even as its head lolls limply to one side, until at last it falls still.
Preparing the animal is not much more fun, especially as without a knife I’m forced to improvise with a sharp stone I’d retrieved from the river. As I make the first clumsy incision in the bird’s chest, working my fingers inside its ribcage to remove the slippery mass of entrails and organs, I think back again to the afternoon in Nadeem’s flat. What a relief it is not to have the pressure of staring into a camera, I think. Not to have to explain every step out loud. To worry about lighting, or sound, or having something funny to say. To not care about the state of my hair.
Instinctively, I reach up and touch the tender patch at the back of my head. It’s been less sore lately – so much so that I’d almost totally forgotten about it. Tracing my finger across the shiny crescent of the scar, I think about the people who are still watching. At home. At work. In their cars. I realise I’ve barely given a thought to them either. After months of anxiety, I’m no longer consciously attempting to be entertaining, or censor things I might previously have considered inappropriate or controversial. I could be losing a million viewers a minute and it wouldn’t matter. I simply don’t care what they think of me anymore.
At last the job is done and I use the little camping stove to cook the few slivers of meat as best I can. Fearful of poisoning myself, and without oil or seasoning, the finished product is by turns burnt and bland. Even so, it tastes of victory. Reclining back on my sleeping bag, already feeling a little stoned from the first food in days, my mind drifts towards my immediate problems. The gas bottle on the stove is beginning to feel dangerously light. Even used sparingly, it probably has a couple of days left in it at most. There is also the ever-looming issue of food. Realistically, how many more woodpigeons can I expect to land in my lap? And then there’s …
I force myself to stop. There will be plenty of time later to worry. For now, I will just lie back in the afterglow of this small meal. For now I will just be thankful for this reprieve in the unending misery, no matter how brief it may be.
The next morning, I awake to find I have a little more energy than usual, the light-headedness that has plagued me for days having temporarily receded. Leaving the hut to wash and drink, I find that it’s also slightly warmer outside than it has been lately. The sun is shining, and the sky is the exact shade of blue that used to represent ‘astonishment’ when MindCast first started. I take it as a sign.
Once dressed, I pack my scant few possessions into my bag. I can’t stay here any longer. Glancing around the hut one last time, I can’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the dirt floor and stone walls and broken roof. As basic as it is, this place has kept me safe and dry. In many ways, it has felt more like home than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. Still, it’s time to go. Either I leave today, or I don’t leave at all.
It isn’t until after I’ve set off that I realise I still have no real idea where I’m going. In the end, I decide to f
ollow the gently sloping hedge that lies directly behind the hut, figuring if I can get to higher ground, perhaps I’ll be able to get a better lay of the land.
Hours pass, the sun tracking slowly east to west across the astonished sky. By now I have stripped down to my t-shirt, which clings damply to my chest. My early morning enthusiasm has long since waned, replaced by a familiar hollowness. My limbs aching, my mouth dry, my vision shaky. Despite climbing continually upwards since leaving the hut, I am yet to spot anything but deserted farmland. No cars. No buildings. No planes in the sky. Again I wonder where on Earth I am. Was it possible that I’d slept for longer than a few hours in the back of the van? Could they have dumped me in a different country altogether? None of it seems to make any sense.
I decide to break for lunch. Not that I have any food to eat. I don’t even have any water with me, having nothing to carry it in. Still, I have the feeling that if I don’t sit down soon, I may fall. Spying a large, flat rock jutting out ahead, I let my bag drop to the grass and collapse onto my back, my hands cushioning my head.
Staring up at the sky, anxiety swarms my mind as I try to figure out what I’m going to do next. I’ve already walked too far to make it back to the hut before nightfall. Besides, even if I had the energy, I’m not convinced I’d be able to find it again. And if I can’t, what then? Where will I sleep? What will I do about food and drink?
Gradually, my thoughts begin to slow, the spiralling panic draining away, as if someone has pulled a plug in the back of my head. For the first time, I notice a small, fleecy cloud trailing slowly across the otherwise unblemished sky. I smile. The more I stare at it, the more it begins to resemble the imaginary cloud I used to picture while meditating. More out of habit than anything else, I take a couple of slow, deep breaths:
In … Out …
