by Tom Cox
It were always ones who was older, like Sean, who made up nicknames. No bastard calls me Matthew or Matt no more, cept for teachers an me mum. Tractor an other kids at school call me Jammo or Jameson, but most everyone else in t’village calls me Patty now. Sean was t’one who started calling Tractor Tractor too, ’cause once a hay bale fell off t’back of one when Tractor was working at Sean’s dad’s farm an hit Tractor an Tractor dint even fall over or move much; he just stood there. Sean dint have a nickname himsen, but maybe that were because he dint have any friends who was older than him. My mum said I shunt hang out with him ’cause he was a bad influence, an Mrs Gainsborough at number 13 said she saw him sniffin glue behind t’church.
Anyroad, we all started walkin, up past Stubby End, an Sean’s still got his hand down the back of Lisa from Il’son’s jeans an Wayne’s tellin Sean bout Red Eyes an our ball, an Sean says that she’s well fuckin weird an tapped, an that this one time his mum said she saw her out in back field talking to a rabbit like it was her friend, an that this other time she turned up on Sean’s mum’s doorstep, carrying this box wi’ fruit in it, an tried to sell her it, an the fruit was fucking rank, all with grubs comin out of it an shit. Sean calls her Red Eyes too but he says it different to us, I can’t do it, the way he does it, but he says it like the Eyes bit is bigger than the rest. He says it a few times as we walk, an Wayne laughs, like just sayin someone’s name in a stupid way is funny if Sean does it. It were nearly getting dark now an I thought we might play dobby in t’churchyard, but I don’t think Sean wanted to do that ’cause of Lisa. Last time we played dobby, Sean lifted up this board at back of church leading to a cellar an dared me to go down an said there were fresh bodies in there that had just died but I chickened out. Church were right spooky at this time of night but I liked it. A few times I been up there with Tractor an Wayne an Nogger from Awsworth an told them some ghost stories, but I never done it when Sean been around as I know he’d say it was gay. The stories were from this book I got from Il’son library called Tales for the Midnight Hour, which had a skull an blood on the front. After I first got it an the night got to t’Midnight Hour I coulnt never sleep ’cause I were thinkin about how that’s the time when all the bad stuff happens, but then I thought that I wasn’t sure what the Midnight Hour was, if it were the hour that started at midnight or the hour before that, an after that I started going to sleep way better again.
After we was past Stubby End, Sean turns left down in direction of canal an climbs over the fence an says his dad an his uncle are shooting in the field down there an we should go an watch. He takes his hand out from fucking miles inside Lisa’s jeans so he can climb the fence but he dunt give her a leg up over it. Fence were quite high an Lisa’s legs wasn’t, so Tractor stepped in an gave her a hand o’er it. Sean giz Tractor this look then, like a look what’d normally make Tractor go, ‘What you fuckin gormin at?’ if it weren’t Sean who’d gi’n it to him. ’Bout three minutes later we’re passing this bit of hedge which is really wet ’cause it rained in t’morning an Sean elbows Tractor into it but Tractor doesn’t go right into it an get that wet, he stays pretty solid, like when that hay bale hit him. We can hear gunshots now, coming from t’fields other side of canal.
‘I don’t want to see them hurt the bunnies,’ goes Lisa. ‘Sean, can we go an do summat else?’
But Sean says to her not to be such a wet weekend an we cross t’bridge an walk up field an we can see Sean’s dad an his uncle now, an Sean tells us to get down, in t’wet grass under t’hedge. I wanted to go back home an read or watch telly ’cause Back to the Future were on, but I dint dare ’cause I knew Sean and Wayne would call me gay or posh, like they did when we was playin footie an my mum brought me a sandwich out on thick brown bread with lettuce in it. My mum would be well fucked off if she knew I was here. She hates it when she hears guns an dint even want me to have a toy one when I was little, even though my dad said it was OK. She dunt even really like the village at all an says we only live here because it was affordable an she wanted to be close to my nan an my aunt Jean after she broke up with my dad.
Edward Munnery (schoolmaster): ‘I’ll probably die here now. I don’t see much point in me moving. I’m past the age when I go to another village or another town and I think life will be better there. It will have the same problems or, if it doesn’t, it will have others to replace it. This isn’t a bad place, in the grand scheme of things, and it has lots of happy memories for me. I still feel proud when I walk past the old schoolhouse, even though they’ve turned it into the village hall now. I had a good set of kids. Mind you, some could be cruel – as they can in all places, I suppose. I remember that business with the Critchleys – so sad. First the mum, then the dad, all in six months – TB it was – and the oldest girl, Margaret, bringing her sisters and brothers up alone. No social services in those days. The clothes got old and dirty and other children can sniff out that kind of sadness. It’s a bit animalistic. A very bright family, though. The others moved away, two to Australia I believe, but Margaret is still here. Well into her sixties now. I don’t see her often.’
We could see Sean’s dad an uncle now but they coulnt see us. Sean’s uncle had three dead rabbits strung over his back an Sean’s dad had a sack an that probably had more in. Sean’s uncle and dad both look same, like their faces been chiselled out o’ stone, but Sean’s uncle is taller an looks like t’stone were harder to chisel. Last year one of t’swans on t’canal got shot an it was in the local paper an everything, an Tractor told me it were Sean’s uncle that done it an also that he sold Wayne’s mum stolen central heating for her house. My mum could only afford one car, an that kept breaking down, but Sean’s uncle had two, an a Land Rover too. One time he was driving t’Land Rover down near Notts in Meadows an a bloke’s body got shot an fell out a window into back of it. That was in t’local paper too, but everyone knew that Sean’s uncle dint shoot the bloke an the police got the bloke who did.
There were some rabbits running about down near where we was sitting an I was worried that Sean’s dad an uncle would shoot them, an that if they missed the bullets might hit us ’cause they couldn’t see us, but Sean’s dad and uncle was pointing at summat down in the far end of field, down near Miner’s Brook. I dint want to see a rabbit get shot ’cause I knew if I did I’d probably think about it for yonks afterwards, probably in t’Midnight Hour, knowin me. I was already even thinkin about what it’d be like thinkin about it when I saw this rabbit run through the grass really fast, over where Sean’s dad an Sean’s uncle were pointing their guns, an then I cottoned that it weren’t a rabbit, it were a hare, because they’re bigger an way faster. Sean’s dad an Sean’s uncle both took two shots at it but they missed an it kept weaving from side to side, like it were trying to confuse them, like when Maradona scored the goal against us in the World Cup an he was confusing our defence – not t’goal where he used his hand an cheated, t’other goal. Sean’s dad took another shot an missed but then when hare were weaving quite near to where I was sat, Sean’s uncle did another shot an it caught the hare on its back leg, on the side nearest me, the left one. It weaved again then, but as it did it slipped a bit, like it had only realised the bullet had hit it quite a while after it had, an it made this fuck-off scary noise that went right through me. But it didn’t quite go down, it got back on its feet, an ran off towards the bottom hedge – slower, not all zigzaggy like earlier, but still way faster than a rabbit.
It were really quiet in t’field after that. Sean’s dad an Sean’s uncle had run off down the ridge after t’hare an when I looked around to the side of me, Sean, Wayne, Lisa and Tractor weren’t there any more. Weather had gone really weird, too, like it were trying dead hard to rain again, but couldn’t. It felt like when you want to chuck up but there’s nowt in your stomach any more an like the sky was a stomach. But I think as well as that an Sean an the others not being there any more why it seemed so quiet was a bit ’cause of that noise that the hare made. I’d heard t’
noise rabbits made when they were hurt an I didn’t like it, but it weren’t like the noise the hare made. I can’t do it ’cause, like I told you, I’m rubbish at impressions, but it were kind of like the hare weren’t just saying it were hurt, it was like it were explaining why.
Shane Worthington (mechanic and hare enthusiast): ‘The lips start to split when they get older, and you see their teeth more. They’re only about three when they die. I used to think they lived longer. I don’t know why – maybe because they look wise. “Woodcat” me dad used to call them. “There’s old woodcat, going home,” he’d say, if we saw one in t’field. Did you know they can get pregnant when they are already pregnant? Right freaky, int it? I still don’t get how it can happen, even though I’ve read how. There were a lot more here a few year back. They’d run around together, in threes and fours. If you got near one, it wouldn’t always run away, not like a rabbit. Sometimes it’d stay to watch you for a while.’
There didn’t seem much point in hangin around after that, specially because if t’sky did finally get around to puking up I dint have me jacket with me. I walked back over t’canal where there was always torn-up bits of razmag in t’reeds an went the way home that went down by Stone End Farm ’cause it were almost proper dark now an that got me to t’road quicker, an Sean’s dad an Sean’s uncle probably wunt be goin back that way. To tell truth, I weren’t thinking about much, just about what me mum might be makin for tea, and I’d forgot about my ball altogether, but when I got to Red Eyes’ house I remembered it.
I don’t know what made me walk up her path really, but there were no lights on in the house an I just had a feeling when you know somebody isn’t there, so I thought I might as well go an get the ball, if it were still there, ’cause me mum had paid quite a bit for it. The house weren’t that spooky really; it were just different to the other houses on the street. It didn’t have any plastic or white bits, an nobody mowed the grass, but I dint know why people were always on about how important it were to mow grass anyroad. One day when me mum got me to mow ours I saw a black beetle run away from where I was mowing an I started thinking about all t’other insects that probably han’t got away from the mower, an all the other lawns in Derbyshire and the world, an all the other insects, being mowed every day, an I couldn’t stop thinking about it for yonks. I don’t remember ever stopping thinking about it really – it just happened, without me realising, like when you stop hiccuping when you been hiccuping for ages but you can’t say exact moment it happened, you just aren’t hiccuping any more. There must have been loads of insects in Red Eyes’ garden, an they were probably much happier than in Dennis an Rita’s next door, where they were always spraying stuff on their lawn an it looked like a golf green.
Joanne Jameson (single mother and post office worker): ‘Some people in the village like to stand about and chat, and some don’t. I don’t think that just because someone is quiet and keeps to themselves it’s any reason to think there’s anything wrong with them – sometimes the opposite. I know the children say stuff about Miss Critchley because of the way her house looks, and I didn’t get to know her well, but she once brought me a basket of delicious fruit. There were sloes, and blackberries, raspberries too, and the most delicious russet apples. I can still taste those apples now and remember biting through the rough skin into the flesh. So pure white and flawless.’
I suppose someone must have cut or mowed some bit of Red Eyes’ garden one time, or it would be a massive jungle an not even a garden at all, but it must not’ve happened since ages before I were born, an that made it harder to find my ball, but it still only took me a coupla minutes. It were trapped in some brambles behind the greenhouse, which wasn’t a greenhouse any more, more of a greyhouse, but I got into t’gap without getting cut an got it, an I was thinking how Sean an Tractor probably wouldn’t ave been as brave as I was being, but when I was going down t’jitty between t’hedge an garage I heard a click which sounded like someone going into t’house an I froze totally still. I knew I should have left back way ’cause all it would have meant was that I’d ’ave had to climb back fence then walk along back field an go in the back way to my house, but now if I went back that way I’d be goin right in front of Red Eyes’ back window, but if I carried on an walked out front I’d be going right ’bout four foot past the side door, which I think were what had made t’click.
I still thought front way were probably best, so when I’d waited about three minutes an hant heard nothing else, I walked forward, not too quick an not too slow, an all the time keeping my eye on the front gate that were my target. I were tryin to be really determined about it but when I walked past door I coulnt help it, I looked to the side through it, like summat else made me do it. It were open an Red Eyes were sitting just inside it on this chair, cryin, an clutching on to her leg, the left one, holding this bandage on it, an it were bleeding all over the floor. She were looking right at me but it weren’t like she were angry, just sad, like she were asking me stuff, but not asking for anything from me, an like she’d known I’d been there all along. Listen, right, I’m not bullshitting, but I don’t reckon as long as I fuckin live I’ll forget that look. I went home then an it were summat about that look that made me not tell me mum anything about it, I mean, it were more of a reason than her bollocking me for going in Red Eyes’ garden or going about down near canal with Sean an that lot. We heard t’ambulance about ten minutes later an me mum rushed to the front door but the reason its siren were on were ’cause it were goin, not comin.
Anyroad, this were more than two months ago now. Me an my mum moved in with my nan a bit after that. I know Red Eyes were all right ’cause I heard me mum talking to Dennis an Rita at number 14, which int called number 14 any more ’cause they took the number off the door an changed it to ‘Brookview’, just before we moved, an they was saying that Margaret had had a fall an had to go to hospital but that she were already ‘back on her feet’. Me nan said that about me mum when she were talking to me about us moving into my nan’s, too: that it were only for a while, until me mum were ‘back on her feet’. But me mum hadn’t hurt herself. I’m nearer school now an there int no churchyard nearby an Tractor’s been moved into another class in t’new block so I don’t see him much, but I still tell scary stories sometimes an some of me mates like ’em. Nights are darker now an it seems to make people want to hear ’em more, like t’other week when I got detention an I told a few when Mr Copley fucked off to do summat or other. Most of them come from that book, to be honest, they’re not mine, but I add my own bits sometimes. Sometimes I forget a bit an make a bit up an then the new bit sticks an is still there the next time. But I dint add any bits to this one. It’s just how it happened. I dint change one thing.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to all the readers who pledged towards this unusual, not very commercial book, believed in it and helped make it exist. Thank you to my mum, Jo, for providing artwork for the inside, and to Joe McLaren for the jacket image, which was inspired by a photograph I took of two sycamore trees on the way down from the top of Kinder Scout in January 2018. Thank you to Jecca and Cathy Light for telling the story that inspired ‘Just Good Friends’ on a chilly night in Norwich just after Samhain. Thank you to my agent Ed Wilson, my editors Simon Spanton and Imogen Denny, Kate Quarry for copy editing, and the rest of the team at Unbound for all their hard work. Finally, thank you to ghosts, for maybe being real.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Tom Cox lives in Devon. A one-time music journalist, he is the author of the Sunday Times bestselling The Good, The Bad and The Furry and the William Hill Sports Book of the Year longlisted Bring Me the Head of Sergio Garcia. His most recent book, 21st-Century Yokel, was longlisted for the Wainwright Prize 2018.
Unbound is the world’s first crowdfunding publisher, established in 2011.
We believe that wonderful things can happen when you clear a path for people who share a passion. That’s why we’ve built a platform that brings togeth
er readers and authors to crowdfund books they believe in – and give fresh ideas that don’t fit the traditional mould the chance they deserve.
This book is in your hands because readers made it possible. Everyone who pledged their support is listed below. Join them by visiting unbound.com and supporting a book today.
Kathryn Abbott
Ludovic Abrassart
Natasha Aburrow-Jones
Agnes Adams
Julie Adams
Sarah Adams
Adrian Ainsworth
Jenny Al-Timimi
Christina Alexander
Kathleen Alexander
Sheila Algeo
Catherine Allen
Chris Allen
Judy Allen
Nicola Allen
Kathy Allso
Amanda
Elisabeth Amnegård
Mairead Anderson
Sara Anderson
Tamsin Andrews
Emma Anger
Misha Anker
Stevi Apel
Nancy Apple
Julie Archibald
Sandra Armor
Rick Arneson
Diana Arseneau-Powell and Alun Wyburn-Powell
Kay Arthur
Sue Arthur
Dawn Ashford