by Peter Ackers
"…THAT FEELING OF INCONVENIENCE…"
Didn't care which direction I travelled? Twat.
Clouds came in and covered the moon and the stars. Then the land slipped downhill, barely noticeably, but noticeably enough when you were using farmer Kenner's living room light to plot your course. When the black horizon behind me erased that tiny square of light into nothingness, I stopped and sat down. I don't know why. Perhaps I was afraid of getting lost. As things stood, I could have turned, walked back ten feet and found Kenner's light again. With that as a reference, I could return to Tattoo-guy, apologise, go kick that horse to death, get him to give me a lift to the nearest village (as long as it wasn't the one I'd just escaped from). Then I could get a train timetable, buy a ride home, and be in time to confront my girl before breakfast.
Confront? Confront with what? And that was it - logic abandoned me and I was again brimming with anger and jealousy and, worst feeling of all, indecision. I imagined this must be how judges felt when they alone had to determine a defendant's guilt or innocence. When next I came face to face with my girl, I had a choice to make, and it needed to be the right choice. My own sanity probably depended on it. How would I ever face my parents or friends again if I killed my girl and I shouldn't have? I needed to be certain that death was her punishment, because if it wasn't, then forgiveness was. On the flip side, however, I would die of a broken heart and shattered pride if I gave her forgiveness when death was her Fate.
My head was starting to throb again. I got up. The throb became a whine, then a roar, and I sighed. I was reminded of the time I had chased summer flies out of the house and shut the window, only to later discover that one of the pesky little bleeders had remained. That feeling of inconvenience you get, knowing you have another task to do, when you'd already considered that task finished. Know that feeling? I had it now, as the sound of my throbbing head transformed into the chugging beat of Tattoo-guy's backhoe Loader rumbling my way. Last thing I needed was this distraction when time was a-pressing.
I turned to the noise, waiting. Soon there was a white glow from over the hill, and then that glow became a beam of light that waved back and forth as the backhoe loader rose over the crest like a giant black insect rising out of a swamp.