The smell of decaying human flesh.
I wiped my face and put my sleeve over my nose and mouth, which didn’t help one bit. I ran into the kitchen, opened the window, and stuck my head out, sucking in air from outside. A seagull flew down and landed in the back garden. I pulled my head back in, pulled the window to, and breathed through the little gap.
I couldn’t think straight; both my brain and body were screaming that I had to get away from the stench. Yet, at the same time, although it was wrong and twisted and unexplainable, I had to see what was causing the smell. I grabbed a tea towel, took two huge gulps of fresh air, wrapped the tea towel around my mouth and nose, and went into the front room.
The decor and their clothing told me they were old, but I wouldn’t have known that just from looking at them. There wasn’t enough left of them to be able to see. They were sitting together in the middle of the sofa and they were rotten. Their clothes were still pretty much intact, but their faces were covered in maggots and sort of caved in where their cheeks should have been. Their clothing shook and wriggled with the movement of whatever burrowed unseen beneath it. Their scalps and hair writhed with maggots, and thin white slivers of skull were visible in places. Fat lazy flies buzzed about the room, alternatively landing on the bodies and on a bowl of rotting fruit by the window. A veritable smorgasbord.
I threw up again, into the tea towel, smearing sick all over my face. I stumbled out of the room, up the stairs, and locked myself in the bathroom. I opened the window wide, not caring if a seagull flew in and pecked me to death at that point. Lucky scratched and whined at the door and I let him in. I washed my face, threw the tea towel out of the window, sat down on the toilet, picked up Lucky and hugged him to me.
Outside the seagulls cried and swooped at my abandoned tea towel.
I sat on the toilet until it started to get dark outside. After a while Lucky clambered off me and curled up on the floor to sleep. I hugged my knees to my chest as it got colder in the bathroom, reluctant to close the window and let the smell permeate the room again.
I didn’t know what to do. I was desperately thirsty, but the water coming out of the tap was a rusty brown colour so I didn’t think it wise to drink any, and my rucksack with my drinks in it was downstairs. The skin on my scalp was crawling and I became very conscious of my breathing and started to breathe more deeply and struggle to take in all the air I needed. My heart had begun to beat faster. I couldn’t seem to sit still any more, instead twitching every few seconds and having to stretch and un-stretch my legs. All symptoms of an encroaching panic attack that would be manageable for about fifteen minutes before transforming into God knows what; a wild and uncontrollable desire to flee out into the deadly street most probably.
Five minutes later I stood up and forced my brain to come up with a plan before I lost all ability to think rationally.
First, I raided the medicine cabinet and found a pot of Vicks VapoRub, which I administered liberally to my nose.
The seagulls had quietened over the past hour and I looked out of the window hoping against hope that they had moved on. No such luck. Most were back on the rooftops, a few milled about on the road. I thought some of them might be sleeping, so I threw a shampoo bottle through the window to see what would happen. Every single head snapped to attention as the bottle hit the pavement.
With the Vicks smeared on my nose, and a J Cloth wrapped about my face for extra protection, I charged noisily down the stairs, grabbed the rucksack, and ran back upstairs to the toilet.
I wasn’t hungry, but I chugged down two cans of Fanta, resulting in profuse burping from me and many looks of incredulity from Lucky.
By now it was pitch black outside and the seagulls were still and silent.
My heart was racing, I was sweaty, breathless, and had started to hum a tuneless song to myself.
At the bottom of my rucksack was my ‘only in a desperate case of life and death’ emergency Tramadol.
I looked at them for a long time.
And then I took them out and held them in my hand for even longer.
Eventually I put them back in my rucksack.
I reasoned that if Lucky and I were going to make a run for it, then we should do it at night.
I stuck my head out of the window to see which was the best way to run.
Then something caught my eye.
A cat. Dark and sinuous, padding noiselessly down the street, half hidden in the shadows.
My instinct was to yell a warning and my mouth opened, ready to shout. But I snapped it shut again and looked up to the roofs.
Nothing. The birds were still and silent.
Then, achingly slowly, one lone head turned in the direction of the cat.
A moment later, as if by some silent signal, all heads lining the houses opposite swivelled in the same direction. Yellow eyes like the headlights of a car stared down into the night.
I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
They launched as one, a flurry of wings and cacophony of harsh barking cries. The cat was frozen in shock for the briefest of moments, and then they were upon it. It didn’t even have time to try to flee. They surrounded it in a frenzy of crying and ripping and squealing. They pulled the cat apart and then fought over the largest bits, tearing at the carcass and nipping at each other. I realised that this might be why I hadn’t seen more stray cats.
In the melee, one of the birds took a particularly vicious bite to the throat and fell to the ground. They were on it before it had a chance to stand, adding cannibalism to the night’s menu.
I felt bile rising in my throat and ducked back through the bathroom window, slamming it shut behind me.
I sat heavily onto the toilet and Lucky jumped up onto my lap, shaking and whimpering. We both jumped as something thudded onto the closed window behind us. There was a terrifying sound of glass cracking.
I grabbed Lucky and ran into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door and racing to the window to pull the curtains shut. I cowered in the corner of the room and burst into tears.
I didn’t think I would sleep, but I did, waking as the sun was rising, with the sour taste of fear in my mouth.
Lucky and I spent the day in the bedroom, where I alternated between trying to focus on a plan to get us out of the house and wallowing in misery that I was going to die in a 1950s terrace in a suburb, at the mercy of murderous seagulls.
Late in the afternoon as the sun was setting I finally made up my mind and made a promise to myself. I was better than this. I hadn’t survived this long just to die of hunger in a room with a chintz bedspread.
I was going to live.
I was going to live and have my baby and make a life for myself.
I crept back into the bathroom with my heart racing and Lucky whimpering softly behind me. The window was cracked, but still intact. My rucksack was where I had left it.
I took my emergency Tramadol out of my rucksack and flushed each tablet down the toilet.
I forced myself to think. There must be something I could do, some way out of the house, some way to get away, something they would be scared of …
I reapplied my Vicks, silently left the bathroom, and raided the bedrooms for something I could use to distract the birds. I was looking for anything noisy, a gun (long shot, I know), a flare gun, a wind-up radio, a tambourine; anything that could make sound.
There was nothing.
Reluctantly I resigned myself to the fact I would have to go back downstairs, so I applied more Vicks and made my heart-pounding way back down. I was just about to give up when, at the very back of the cupboard under the stairs, I hit the jackpot. An old box of fireworks.
I took the fireworks upstairs, along with the car keys I had found hanging by the back door.
I went into the bathroom, carefully opened the window, leant out as quietly as I could, and pressed the door open button on the car key.
Nothing.
I leant out further and press
ed again. This time there was a joyful clunk-click and a flash of lights from a car down the street on the right. The seagulls snapped to attention once more. Bastards.
I studied the fireworks. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t let them off from the window and I couldn’t go outside to put them properly in the garden. I decided the best thing to do was throw the box the opposite way to the car and then throw a lit firework into the box to light the rest. It is what you are always cautioned never to do when you are younger, so it was bound to work.
I waited until it was fully dark, the seagulls were silent and the night perfectly still, and then I leaned precariously out of the bedroom window and threw the box of fireworks into the neighbour’s garden. It landed upright, which was good, but some of the fireworks bounced out of it, which was bad.
I had chosen two ‘fountain’ fireworks to light and throw into the box, so I loosened the fuses and got them ready. I decided I would have a better chance if I was downstairs already when I threw them, so I put on my rucksack and coaxed Lucky back downstairs.
I opened the front door gently and slowly, freezing stock still when it emitted a troubled squeak. I peeked out. The birds were still and quiet, completely unaware of the great plan afoot. I took the matches from my pocket and struck one to light the first firework. It wouldn’t light. I tried again and once more, nothing. The birds were starting to move, behind me Lucky whined softly. I dropped the first firework and grabbed the second. Again, nothing happened. Panic rising, I tried once again, and this time the wick sparked and flared to life. At the same time, I felt one hundred beady seagull eyes swivel in my direction; I chucked the firework at the box and slammed the door shut.
A cacophony of cawing and crying began outside as the seagulls registered my movement. I waited for the bang and hiss of the fireworks. Nothing. Sweat dripped down my back. Still nothing. Suddenly, there was a noise like a bomb going off, followed by the familiar whhhheeeeeeeee of a rocket.
I flung open the door and was running down the path in an instant.
But Lucky was not with me.
In my joy at forming a viable plan I had forgotten to factor in what Lucky’s reaction would be to the fireworks. He raced back through the house and cowered in the kitchen. I yelled to him from the path, but my voice couldn’t be heard and he wouldn’t have listened even if it could.
The fireworks were going crazy now and a rocket whizzed past, a foot from my face.
I couldn’t leave him, not here.
I stormed back into the house, the smell of sulphur now replacing that of flesh, and ran into the kitchen. Lucky was shaking with fear and struggled like crazy when I tried to pick him up. I was in no mood to coax, so grabbed him in a bear hug and ran, dragging him out of the front door.
A fountain of sparks exploded just as we were jogging down the garden path, showering us both, causing Lucky to literally shit himself in fear and setting my hair on fire. I didn’t stop. I stumbled off the path and onto the street with my hair smouldering.
I couldn’t remember which car it was. In the dark I couldn’t see the colour or make and I hadn’t thought to count how many away it was. The keys were, stupidly, in my pocket and I struggled to shift a wriggling Lucky and get them out. Behind us the fireworks had started to ebb off and I became acutely aware of all the seagulls circling above.
I had just managed to get the keys out and was searching for the unlocking button when something swooped down at us. I dropped the keys and nearly dropped Lucky. I bent for the keys and it swooped again. This time I got the keys but did drop Lucky, who charged off up the road. I pressed the right button and saw a flash two cars down. I stood up and raced to the car, yanking the door open as another seagull swooped at me. As the seagull tried to peck at my still flaming hair, a rocket came out of nowhere and hit it full force, flinging it to the ground. I jumped into the car and slammed the door shut as the rocket exploded, firing sparks and seagull all over the windows.
For a brief moment I sat in absolute shock, staring at the remains of the exploded gull, then I realised my hair was still smoking, so I frantically patted at it until I was sure it was out.
Next moment something heavy hit the car door causing the entire vehicle to shake.
‘What now?!’ I thought.
Then I heard frantic barking and pushed the door open without even looking. Lucky scrambled into the car, smearing mud and dog shit all over me and the seats. I yanked the door shut and then he was on my lap covering me in more shit and licking my face.
Despite the smell and the spit and the shit, I let him.
Something thumped the car again and we looked through the front windscreen. A seagull sat on the bonnet staring in at us.
Lucky and I looked at each other, then I put the key in the ignition and started the engine.
Some of the seagulls were still on the road as we drove away; I tried to hit each and every one of them.
The car, Lucky, and I were all covered in mud and shit, but compared to the stink and mess of the house it was weirdly bearable, so I didn’t stop to change cars.
Dawn was breaking as we left the residential area and drove through an industrial estate nearby. There was a waste dump on the estate, one of those huge landfill sites where everything that can’t be recycled goes. I stopped the car beside it and gawped. The entire site was covered in seagulls, there must have been thousands. The ground undulated with them and the sky was filled with their cries. Even inside the car with the windows shut, the noise was deafening.
I realised that I might not be at the top of the food chain any more.
I didn’t go back to get the Defender straight away. I found a hotel and took eleven cold showers before I was sure both Lucky and I were shit-free. Then I sat in another hotel room with the door firmly locked, and panicked for the next two days.
But I had made a promise to myself – I was going to live and have my baby and make a life for us – and to fulfil that promise we needed the Defender, and we needed a home.
Luckily, in a different lifetime, James had already found one for us.
Two weeks after the NHS scan, when all the leftover baby was out of my body, James made me take a shower and then forced me to eat chicken soup while he went to borrow a car from a friend.
I didn’t want to go anywhere, but he said we needed to get out of town for a bit.
James was incredibly busy at work, still trying to re-build the business after the mess that lockdown had left. I should have recognised the sacrifice he was making to try to help me, to try to help us.
I should have seen the week away for what it was – a desperate attempt to reconnect us as a couple – to give us an opportunity to come together in grief rather than have it drive us apart.
I didn’t see that. I couldn’t see anything beyond my own pain.
James had rented an ‘eco-home’.
It was more like a fancy hut.
On the edge of a small woodland in the middle of a nature reserve, with a rushing stream running past, yards from the front door, and a well-tended fruit and vegetable patch and fancy polytunnel filled with huge tomato plants, berries and beans to the side from which we were allowed to eat anything we liked.
Made from dried mud bricks, with a thatched roof, solar panels, a reed-bed sanitation system, water that somehow came directly from an ancient well – I don’t know how it worked, I’m not a plumber. The hut had a wood burner that heated the whole place and boiled the giant tin kettle, well, I say ‘the whole place’, but it was only one room. A large square room with a kitchen in one corner, a sitting area, and then a ‘bedroom’ on the mezzanine level at the back of the cabin.
The guest book said that the solar panels would generate about five hours of electricity a day so please do remember to switch things off when not in use. What things? There was no TV, no phone signal, no Wi-Fi, an ancient radio, and an outside shower.
It was a modern-day Hobbit House.
I was appalled.
&
nbsp; I wanted warm, soft luxury to wrap myself in, not hemp and hardship.
It was cold and dark and smelt of wet wood when we arrived. I wrapped myself in a thick, scratchy blanket and lay silently on the bed. James got straight to work making things homely and quickly lit the wood burner, put the kettle on, christened the composting toilet, and almost burst with delight when he discovered the clay oven for cooking just outside the door.
I’d never known him to be the ‘back to nature’ type, but it seemed that he had found his happy place. He smiled for the first time since the scan, and hummed happily to himself as he bustled about.
On the third morning I left the Hobbit House for the first time. It was early, James was still asleep, and the sun was just peeking through the woodland. I’d spent another sleepless night staring at the ceiling and couldn’t take watching James slumber contentedly for one more minute, so I pulled a coat on over my nightie and went outside barefoot.
It was freezing. And breathtaking. One of those mornings that is filled with promise of the beauty that is to come. Everything sparkled, the trees were filled with buds bursting with new leaves, the birds sang, the forest floor rustled, it smelt fresh and green and healthy.
I was alone. For the first time since the scan I was truly alone, and I just wanted to get rid of the pain inside me.
I took a deep breath in, filled my lungs with the morning air, opened my mouth and screamed.
No, not screamed, yelled. A primeval, guttural display of the pain and anger that I felt. My first display of emotion that wasn’t crying, right up from my now empty belly, vomiting out of me and into the world.
It felt amazing. How often do you get to yell at the top of your lungs? Really let rip and channel all your pain and anger into noise? I highly recommend it.
The forest fell silent. In wonder? In fear? Who knew?
James came running from the Hobbit House, still half asleep, petrified of finding his wife ripped in two by some forest monster.
I continued yelling until he grabbed and shook me, terrified that I had finally lost it.
‘What?! What are you doing?!’ he yelled.
Last One at the Party Page 24
