I didn’t want to find out. So I kept busy with other things.
I was nesting.
The Hobbit House gleamed. I had washed everything inside it, swept the floor a hundred times, cleaned the windows and kitchen, scrubbed the toilet, tidied and ordered all my baby items, bottled, canned, salted and stacked enough food to last for months.
The polytunnel and fruit and vegetable patch had been picked and pruned and weeded and seeded. I had stockpiled wood and tinder for the fire. I made extra fishing nets and refined my fishing system. I had salted and stored over two hundred fish. The chickens shone with health and happiness. All their feathers had grown back and they were fat and happy in their new home. They each laid an egg a day and rushed to greet me morning and night. Simon had settled into following me around for most of the day, chuntering at me and occasionally stopping to peck at and chase Lucky.
Everything and everyone was ready for the baby’s arrival.
Except me.
It was a Sunday.
Sundays are my official days of rest.
I do, eat, watch, and read what I want on Sundays.
We were having what the BBC would once have termed a heatwave. It had been hot since the beginning of June and hadn’t rained for twenty-six days. I had to water the polytunnel and vegetable patch with a bucket from the river, which was hard work and boring. The water level in the river had dropped considerably, and I was only catching fish every third or fourth day (although I was not too worried about this as, in addition to my salted fish, I had 106 cans of tuna, 67 cans of sardines, and 24 cans of salmon in the storage hut).
The worst thing about the heatwave was that the Hobbit House got unbearably hot within a couple of hours of waking up. I stopped using the wood burner to boil the kettle and used the firepit outside instead, but I was still forced out of the house mid-morning until late afternoon by the heat.
On this Sunday I had got out of bed to feed the chickens, got tea and biscuits, and then climbed back on to the bed to watch Gilmore Girls on DVD until the Hobbit House got so hot that I was lying in a slick of my own sweat.
I moved outside and lay in the shade on an ancient sunlounger, which just about managed my weight, and devoured one of the trashy magazines that I now limited myself to only reading on a Sunday. Lucky splashed in the river, came over to shake water all over me, and then charged into the woods to crash about in the shade for the rest of the day. Simon strutted around outside of the chicken run to show the girls just what they were missing. They ignored him.
I was very, very horny. All the time. Another by-product of late-stage pregnancy I have discovered, which is annoying, because masturbating is not that easy when you can barely reach your clitoris because of your enormous belly. I had already masturbated that morning, but was ready to go again. I am perfectly happy to wander around naked now, but am still not comfortable with wanking in the open air where the animals can see. So, I dragged myself back into the Hobbit House for a sweaty ten minutes of self-love. I am desperate for some porn or a vibrator to liven my frequent masturbatory sessions, but the garden centre didn’t stock such items (they should have – I bet they would have made a fortune.)
Itch scratched, I was then hungry. Hungry but lazy. So lunch was crisps, more biscuits, raspberries in syrup, and some chocolate that had gone white at the edges but still tasted okay.
I ate on my sunlounger, threw my rubbish on the ground, and then settled down for a well-earned nap.
I thought it was Lucky, back from the woods, and waking me up to play with him.
He snuffled at my face and growled slightly.
I swatted him away and shifted position.
Lucky didn’t smell right.
Lucky has stinky dog breath but otherwise he smells of grass and woodsmoke and sunshine.
Whatever had sniffed me smelt of blood and river water and pain.
The wood didn’t sound right.
The wood was quiet. I couldn’t hear Lucky crashing about, I couldn’t hear the constant birdsong that came from the trees. The girls in the chicken run were quiet, no clucking, no chuntering at Simon’s egomaniac display.
Simon wasn’t chattering.
Simon was squealing. High-pitched, distressed screeches of pain or fear or anger.
I opened my eyes.
I couldn’t move. I just stared at it.
I don’t know what it was.
I’m not a dog expert.
It was big, the size of a Shetland pony. It had a huge head with massive, teeth-filled jaws, but its body was sinewy, sleek, and run with muscle.
It didn’t look like any dog that I recognised. It might have been a dog once, someone’s family pet or warehouse guard dog. That past life was now long gone.
It was panting. I didn’t know whether from exertion or excitement or both.
It loomed over me, surrounding me in a fog of foul, wet breath.
Half of me thought that maybe I was stuck inside one of my all-too-realistic dreams. That this beast had to be a figment of my imagination.
Almost in slow motion a fat globule of spit fell from one of its fangs onto my cheek.
This snapped me from my shock.
I lurched awkwardly to the other side of the sunlounger and rolled onto the grass, landing on all fours.
I snapped up to look at it again.
It crouched, tensing, ready to pounce.
One of its eyes was missing. Not sealed shut, just … missing. A deep blood- and pus-filled cavity that seemed to watch me more than its functioning eye.
I was stuck.
The river was behind me, and my path to the safety of the Hobbit House was blocked by the beast.
Simon was going crazy by the chicken run, and the beast snapped its head around and barked at him. It was a horrific, rough, throaty roar that ripped through our peaceful sanctuary and silenced Simon instantly.
The beast turned back to me, the growl still rippling through its throat. I couldn’t help the whimper that escaped me.
I looked for a weapon, a refuge, anything.
The baby was doing somersaults in my tummy, alerted to the danger by the adrenaline that now raced through my body.
The beast pounced on top of the sunlounger and roared once more.
Lunch was served.
I staggered back towards the river. I would have to take my chances splashing through and hope that by some miracle I could outrun it.
The beast crouched again. I could see the muscles that rippled along its entire body as it readied itself to pounce.
I wrapped my arms around my belly. I was crying. Not like this. Not like this.
It leapt. I stumbled backwards and fell over with a yell.
I was bringing my arms up to shield my face when a golden streak hurled itself through the air, slamming into the side of the beast and knocking it off course.
Dark and golden fur tumbled across the grass and the air was filled with a cacophony of barks and snarls and shrieks and my sobbing.
I ran.
I didn’t know what else to do and, even now, I don’t think there was anything else I could have done.
So, I ran.
I charged into the Hobbit House, slamming the door behind me.
I raced into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find, ready to defend myself and my baby to the death.
I stood panting and weeping for ten minutes before I calmed down enough to realise that there were no longer sounds of fighting from outside.
In fact, the fighting had moved on almost as soon as I had raced into the Hobbit House. The beast had chased Lucky into the woods. The beast was gone.
The beast was gone.
And so was Lucky.
I didn’t go out to look for him until dark.
I should have.
But I didn’t.
There is no excuse.
I was just scared.
The night was hot and sweaty, but I still dressed in the toughest clothes I could find �
�� thick waterproof trousers, a heavy wax jacket that I couldn’t zip up, thick gardening gloves, and a bicycle helmet that I didn’t remember getting.
I attached a head torch to my bicycle helmet, armed myself with my knife, a dustbin lid and a mallet, and went into the woods.
It was pitch black and silent.
The silence scared me.
By now, I was used to the natural noises of my new Hobbit House world.
During the day, thousands of bugs crawling through the grass or buzzing in the air, a chorus of birdsong, the occasional crashing of something big in the woods, the chattering and scampering of cheeky squirrels that were now bold enough to run into my kitchen to see what they could steal. At night the hooting of owls, constant rustling of small things moving in bushes, bats swooshing and swooping in and out of the trees, rutting foxes and hedgehogs squealing, deer that often stepped delicately out of the woods to nibble on chicken feed that had spilled on the grass.
There was none of that.
There was only me panting and crashing about.
‘Lucky!’
My voice was cacophonous. A huge, booming noise in the vast, dark silence.
I tried again, quieter.
‘Lucky …’
Nothing.
I didn’t want to go further into the woods. I was scared I’d get lost. It was too dark to see further than my light and I was already disorientated even though I was only about ten feet in.
But, Lucky had saved my life. Again.
I plunged further in, whispering his name.
Forty paces in, my foot sank into something soft, slightly warm, squelching and horrific.
I opened my mouth to scream, and threw up.
I didn’t want to look down, but had to, my foot was still inside whatever I had stumbled onto.
Please don’t be Lucky.
It was the beast.
It was dead, and something bigger than the beast itself had already eaten most of one side of it.
This time I screamed.
And then started to hyperventilate.
There was something living in the woods, next to my home, that was big enough to sit down and eat half of this hulking monster.
I felt bile rising in my throat once more.
I completely forgot about Lucky, I just knew I had to get out of the woods as fast as possible.
I didn’t know where I was. My sense of direction had got mixed up in the horror of what I had found, and now I didn’t know where I was.
I spun around in circles trying to see the way out, light from my head torch dancing crazily on the tree trunks.
Then I heard a whimper.
I knew immediately it was Lucky.
He was about ten feet further in. His golden fur had been turned to dark rust by the dried blood that matted it together. One of his ears was torn in half. His beautiful face had deep scratches down it. The beast, or something worse, had ripped a series of deep welts in his side that were oozing dark black blood onto the forest floor.
His breathing was shallow and his eyes glazed with approaching death.
I burst into tears, fell to my knees, and awkwardly hugged him to me.
There was nothing I could do.
We were lost.
Lucky was going to die there in my arms as we waited for the sun to come up.
Then I heard the rustling.
Something was coming. Fast.
I reached for my knife and shifted Lucky so that I had some chance of defending us.
Simon came charging out of the bushes chuntering and chattering, livid at having been left behind while I went on my adventure.
Obviously, he didn’t show us the way home – this isn’t the Famous fucking Five. But he did show me which direction I had come from, and, after ten minutes of staggering that way with Lucky in my arms, I saw the familiar glow of the Hobbit House just peeking through the trees.
I laid Lucky on the kitchen table and wept continuously as I tried in vain to clean him up. The blood on his face and ear had already crusted over and the wounds were pink and neat. But the deep welts in his side were still oozing and were an angry dark red colour. They smelt bad. I cleaned them as best I could using disinfectant like my mum used to do for me when I grazed my knee. I didn’t know if I should put anything else onto the welts, so I just kept wiping the fresh blood away as it oozed through.
I was covered in blood and mud and had the guts of the Beast still clinging to one of my feet, but I didn’t even notice.
Lucky, my true love and trusted best friend, was dying.
By morning the blood coming from Lucky’s wounds was mixed with pus, and he no longer opened his eyes when I petted him and crooned his name. His breathing was short and shallow and coming in fits and starts.
I had stopped crying. Now I just felt sick and tired and I wanted to crawl into bed and stay there for ever.
It had never even crossed my mind that something might happen to Lucky. But, now that it looked inevitable, I realised I might not be able to go on. I literally wouldn’t be able to function. I would simply crawl into bed and let nature take its course. Baby or no baby.
My bed looked so inviting.
I could move Lucky over to lie next to me in comfort as he slipped away and then I could wait to join him.
Like I almost had with James.
No.
James was inevitable. Lucky wasn’t.
The Defender was very low on diesel, so I went to the storage cupboard to get more.
There was none.
I had wasted all my diesel on trips to the garden centre. Many, many trips to the garden centre.
There was less than a quarter of a tank. Maybe enough for one trip into town.
Not enough to go to the vets to get stuff for Lucky and then go back to the hospital for me.
INSERT: ITEM #6294/1
Dictaphone Recording (Tape 1 / Recording 3)
(Transcribed)
I am at the hospital. In the car park. I don’t have enough diesel to go to the vets as well so I’m going to get things for Lucky here.
I don’t even know if he is still alive.
(Sound of crying and sniffling.)
I don’t know what I can do to help him.
I need to be quick but I’m too scared to go in.
I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to do it alone so, so … I have the Dictaphone around my neck.
(Sobs.)
So that I have someone to talk to.
(Half laughs, half sobs.)
I’m a fucking idiot.
(Sobbing, deep breathing, rustling and movement. Voice comes back but is muffled)
I’m wearing the hazmat suit. It’s so tight, the baby is very unhappy.
(Half laughs, half sobs.)
I don’t know why. Maybe it will help with the smell. Maybe I am scared of catching something. Honestly, it feels like armour and it feels like protection and maybe it will make me feel a bit less scared.
I have to do this. I have to do this …
(Two-minute time gap in which there is heavy breathing and rustling.)
I’m at the main doors to the reception area. It’s dark inside, there’re no lights on so I can’t see in. The doors aren’t automatic any more so I am going to … have to … force them …
(Loud grunts of exertion.)
Jesus Christ.
Oh God.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
(Heavy breathing, retching, incoherent muttering.)
Don’t throw up in the hood, don’t throw up in the hood …
(Heavy breathing, groaning.)
There’s …
Oh God …
(Groaning.)
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
(Deep, slow breathing.)
There are … bodies everywhere.
They’re …(clears throat)… moving.
They’re moving because there’s, I don’t know what they are … beetles? Bugs? Something. There’
s something all over them. And in them. They are, well, they are living in them.
There’s thousands of them. The bugs, not the bodies.
The bodies don’t look human any more. They are puddles of brown goo or brown husks or vague mounds on the floor.
Except for the ones that are still on the chairs. The ones on the chairs still have …
(coughs and voice becomes higher pitched)
… they still have faces. Some of them still have faces. And hair. And bugs free-flowing in and out of their rib cages.
(Hysterical laughter which turns into sobs.)
I have to get out of here.
(Four-minute time gap in which there is heavy breathing and rustling.)
Why don’t hospitals ever have maps that are easy to fucking read?
(Three-minute time gap in which there is heavy breathing and rustling.)
I’m at the maternity ward.
I don’t want to go in.
I don’t want to see this. It isn’t fair. Why? Why do I have to do this? I don’t want to.
(Sobs. Deep breath. Sobs again.)
For fuck’s sake just get it over and done with.
(Door creaks open.)
Oh.
(Deep breath. Voice breaks as she speaks.)
They are all in bed.
There are no bugs here. I don’t know if that’s because it is sealed off or because they just haven’t bothered coming up here yet.
The covers and blankets are still intact. They look like mummies.
There are … there are no babies in the cribs.
They all have their babies with them.
They held them at the end.
(Pause.)
I really want to hold my baby.
(Crying and movement. Doors open and shut. Rustling and banging.)
Shit.
I don’t know what I need. I am just grabbing everything. Scalpel, gauze, plasters, tape, what I think are needles and threads. I don’t know if there’s anything else I need for the baby. I’ve got … blankets … are these forceps? I won’t be able to use them so what’s the point … nasal aspirator, I’ll take that …
(More rustling and banging.)
Shit, there’s no medicine. I’m going to have to find the pharmacy.
(Something heavy clangs onto the floor.)
Last One at the Party Page 29
