Unzip and Other Compact Stories

by Tommy Dakar

  The cottage was a few miles out of town on the edge of the moor and he had rented it for a long weekend break. It was a chance to be alone for a few days, to reassess, to put everything into perspective. I need time, time and distance, he had claimed. Now, faced with the long trek back to the cottage, he smiled as his words came back to him.

  He set off along the dark lane into the countryside under a constant drizzle. The last lights of the village faded and disappeared as he walked, and all he could see was the low hedgerow which ran beside the road, or the silhouettes of trees picked out against the horizon. Occasionally the clouds would tear revealing the dimmest of stars for an instant, the suggestion of a moon, only to quickly merge once more as if it had been a mistake.

  He was tired, having travelled most of the day to get there, and it was now later than he had planned. The cottage was at least another three miles off, no cars were to be seen on the deserted lane, and the rain was beginning to edge its way into his body. A cold wind had picked up and buffeted him from all sides as if unable to make up its mind in which direction to blow.

  He stopped, and tried to get his bearings. To the right he could see nothing at all, but to his left, on the very edge of sight, he was sure he could make out the tall trees of the copse next to the rented cottage. The country road ran into the dark bordering the moor, swinging around in a large arc, but if he took a short cut straight across it he should reach the cottage in no time. Of course it was uneven ground, full of tufts of long grass and muddy puddles, but it would be so much quicker. He imagined the cosy front room, the warm hearth, dry clothes and a nightcap, and stepped onto the moor.

  It was hard work, harder than he had imagined. The city had weakened him and his breathing was noisy and laboured. The mud clung to his shoes like a desperate lover, the mounds tried to trip him up, and he was starting to sweat in his heavy raincoat. As he walked he strained to keep his eyes focused on the small copse. It was important not to lose sight of this point of reference - the moor was an inhospitable place and had no mercy on stray travellers. At intervals the rain eased off, and though the wind still tugged and tousled at his hair and clothes, he made steady progress towards his home.

  Then he heard it. Above the sound of his laboured breathing and the splashing of his shoes in the sodden soil. A rushing sound hurtling towards him from behind, like the threat of an approaching underground train, coming closer and closer, chasing him, hunting him down. What could it be? He stopped and strained to hear more, hoping to recognise and localise the sound. Whatever it was it was headed his way. He broke into a trot, stumbling as he ran, clumsy in his slick city shoes and soggy overcoat. Nearer it came, ever nearer. He panicked, and ran as fast as he could across the treacherous terrain, not daring to look behind him for fear of what he may discover. On he thrashed, on towards the copse, the safety of the cottage, cursing his rashness as he almost fell to his knees, managing to stagger on, like a fool, over the windswept barren wastes of the moor, as it was almost upon him, as he screamed and held his arms above his head as if by doing so he would be able to protect himself from the menace which was about to pounce, as the wall of torrential rain eventually engulfed him, sweeping across the plain towards the copse.

  Rain. He stopped, exhausted. It had been no more than a downpour of rain advancing across the moor. He started to laugh, a nervous, embarrassed laugh, while the rain pounded the earth without compassion. What had he imagined it could have been, running from his own shadow like that? He shook his head in disbelief, unsure whether to be angry or amused, then began to walk again towards the edge of the moor, towards the small cottage that awaited his arrival like a pet dog.

  At last he could make out the chimney, the garden fence, his car parked under a tree. Here everything was as it had always been, comfortable and secure, without fear, because there was no mystery.

  He stopped once more and listened, listened to the sound of rain on earth, then slowly turned around and ventured back onto the moor.

  YOU AND I ARE EARTH

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