Like Rats

by Adam Watts

‘Whatever…’

  Stan hands the gun back over to Wade. ‘Can I fire it when we get back?’ he asks.

  Wade looks to me with a smug little wobble of his head. ‘Yes, mate. If you can find some bullets for me. I probably owe you that for getting us out of Poundland intact.’

  ‘Nice one. I bet there’s some bullets in the village somewhere. Countryside’s full of guns,’ he says, making a gangster-esque ‘sideways gun’ with his fingers and squinting as if taking aim.

  THE PURPOSE OF THE PEGS.

  As far as Wade knows, I’m lingering behind because my aching legs just can’t keep up. But that’s a half-truth. Call me paranoid but there’s something unnerving about walking in of front of somebody who’s carrying a gun, even if it’s not loaded. Stan doesn’t seem so bothered, probably on account of him wanting his turn once we get back to the village. It’s like Wade’s dangled a gleaming carrot in front of a hitherto stubborn donkey. We’re making good time, though, so that’s at least one positive thing the gun’s brought to the table.

  Once we get back to the village I’ll make sure he leaves it somewhere it’ll do no harm. Although it might be interesting to see what Frida would do if she found him packing heat. Or Harry. He’d probably just assume custody of the thing. He is ‘The Sheriff’ after all. Strangely, I’ve found myself almost looking forward to seeing him. The prospect of a scolding doesn’t seem so bad anymore; just a silly old fart blowing off some steam because he’s got little else to do. There’s an odd sense of comfort in that.

  Can’t be far now. Not long. Nearly home. Repeating these words in my head is all I can do to reassure myself since the only thing I understand of our current whereabouts is that we’re surrounded by a lot of nature.

  Stan stops, raises a hand.

  Wade and I both stop too. I nervously watch him, wondering what he could have seen that would bring him to such an abrupt halt. Nothing good, that’s for certain. I wonder how close we are to the village. Is that what he’s seen? The village burning away in the distance, beset by the horde… running, screaming, blood-shed... all our fault.

  Surely we can’t be that close yet. Wade walks slowly towards Stan, pulling his gun from his waistband. His gun that isn’t even loaded. Good work, Wade. Just as shit a soldier as you were an anarchist.

  I too creep forward. ‘What’s up?’ I say as I approach.

  ‘Me and you have some unfinished business,’ Stan says, slipping off his back-pack. After a quick rummage he produces two garden trowels and a couple of clothes pegs. ‘She’s still there. Right where we left her.’

  I squint at him, like it’ll bring the words into a sharp and meaningful focus. ‘What are you talking about, who’s right where we left them?’ Then it dawns on me, and I feel sick. ‘Oh shit… I forgot. I forgot! Oh God I’m such a prick… I’m such a prick.’ I hammer at my head with my fist and screw up my face to drive the frustration out.

  ‘What the hell are you two going on about?’ Wade says, though neither Stan nor I are paying much attention.

  ‘You said you wanted to bury her,’ he says, handing a trowel to me. ‘A quid doesn’t get you much in the way of a spade, but I figured these were better than nothing.’

  ‘And this is why you swiped the clothes pegs. Fuck… I can’t believe I forgot!’

  ‘Less fretting, more digging.’

  ‘Digging? Why digging? Who are we supposed to be burying?’ Wade demands as Stan and I clip the pegs over our noses. We don’t answer him, we just walk forward, trowels in hands, ready to dig. ‘Who are we burying?’ he calls. I imagine him back there stamping his feet like an unfed brat. Or pointing an empty gun at us.

  Digging the hole takes a long time, mainly because trowels aren’t meant for digging graves. Plus, one of them broke, because it’s a pound-shop trowel. Stan’s now digging with his hands and I’m trying to strike the right balance between careful and expedient excavation. We disposed of the pegs and again opted to put our shirts around our faces. Stan’s already made several apologies for the poor equipment (pegs included), but I appreciate his efforts all the same, particularly since I completely forgot about her.

  Stan’s also apologised about the fact that all we had to wrap her in (pre-burial) was a Power Rangers duvet cover. Although I’m pretty sure being loosely swaddled in a kids duvet cover is marginally better than being left to the elements. Plus, it eased Stan’s apparent dislike of the idea of piling dirt directly on her face. As we lifted her body onto the cloth I promised myself that one day I’d find out who she was, although what I’d do with that information I have no idea.

  ‘You ever notice how square the holes in films are?’ Stan says, pulling another armful of damp earth from the ground.

  ‘Never really paid much attention to the shape of Hollywood’s holes.’

  ‘You can have somebody digging their own grave at gun point and they’d still manage to dig a perfect rectangle in the ground.’

  I look down at the unordered pit we’re digging. ‘What shape is ours?’

  ‘Fuck knows. We’d make shit grave diggers.’

  From a distance, Wade glares at us; arms folded, his mouth forming a tight seam across his jaw, waiting impatiently for the inconvenience of this ad-hoc funeral to pass.

  ‘You know, Wade, we’d get this done a lot quicker if you’d lend us a hand or two,’ I call. But he’s not interested.

  ‘I think somebody’s playing his grumpet,’ Stan says. ‘Old mardy bum.’

  We get back to our work. Stan and I swap for a while. He takes the trowel and I shovel with my hands. Even under current circumstances there’s something comforting about the smell of the forest floor being turned over. If there wasn’t a dead body lying next to me I might even permit myself to recall some fond childhood memory; running about between the rising trees, dappled light falling across my arms… laughter, games of hide and seek and finding things to whack with big sticks. But ultimately, the fond memories are soured by the putrid stench of rotting flesh.

  ‘You seem to be handling this a little better than when we found her the first time,’ I say.

  Stan continues digging. ‘It still freaks me out. Seems like a long time ago we found her, though.’

  ‘Yeah…’ I say. And it really does. I watch Stan digging at the ground, using both hand and trowel.

  ‘Stop staring and dig,’ he says, not looking up.

  ‘I’m sorry I strangled you…’

  ‘No worries, Pres. Keep digging.’

  ‘Sorry about the black eye too.’

  ‘You were on MIDS, mate. Makes you do crazy things, right?’

  ‘I know… but it’s no excuse. I’m still sorry.’

  ‘You know, if you want to apologise about anything, apologise about my thinking chair. I’m assuming you weren’t on MIDS when you set it on fire.’

  ‘Oh shit… I’d forgotten about the thinking chair. I’m sorry about that too.’

  Stan stops digging. ‘You don’t have to keep saying sorry. Shit happens. We can trade apologies all day if you like but it won’t make it any different.’

  ‘I know…’ I say, pulling up more earth form the ground. ‘But I’m still sorry.’

  ‘Yeah… well I’m sorry about… you know… that whole thing with Eve. Fucking about with MIDS… was bound to end in tears. But we’ll find her. I’m going to put it all right for you.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Stan stops, lets out a long weary breath. ‘You’re not a coward, Pres.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, a little taken aback.

  ‘I’ve seen you turning it over in your head. If you’d have stayed you’d be dead, and dead’s no good to Eve. I know it wasn’t easy for you to walk away, but sometimes walking away is the bravest thing to do.’

  ‘Thanks, Stan. You’re a prick, but I still love you.’

  Stan pretends to vomit in his own mouth. Who knows, maybe he’s not pretending.

  ‘Reckon this is deep enough yet?’ I say.

 
Stan looks at the body, looks back at the hole. ‘Reckon so,’ he says, brushing his hands briskly against one another. Stan takes the feet, I take the shoulders, and we slowly lower her into the ground. We both stare awkwardly for a while.

  ‘You wanna… say something before we cover her over?’ Stan says. And by that he means say something.

  ‘Errr…’ is all that comes out.

  ‘Fuck sake, Pres. You’re supposed to be clever. Say some fancy words.’

  I shrug my shoulders awkwardly as I stare at the bundle in the ground. ‘You probably deserved much better… you probably had a life planned out, things you wanted to do, places you wanted to see, and I’m sure there were people in your life who loved you and miss you and still think of you. So… I’m just sorry that this all had to happen to you. I’m sorry you didn’t make it just a bit further, because maybe you could’ve found peace in the village, and Stan and I could’ve helped protect you. I’m sorry that things went this way…. I hope there’s some peace for you now… even though that’s probably a dumb thing to say…’

  Preston slaps me across the shoulder. ‘Amen,’ he says, quietly.

  As we gently push the earth in over her, we say nothing. Stan can’t bring himself to put any of the earth across her face. I close my eyes and do it for him.

  As we walk back down to Wade, he puts an arm across my shoulders. ‘You ok?’ he says. Not so much a question as an instruction.

  ‘Yes, mate. I just wanna go home.’

  THE RETURNED.

  ‘We’re lost.’ This is the first thing Wade has said in two hours.

  ‘We’re not lost,’ says Stan. ‘We’re running a bit late, but we’re definitely not lost.’

  ‘I don’t recognise any of this.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t have my immaculate sense of direction. And everything looks different in the dark anyway.’

  ‘I guess that’s what happens when you take a whole hour to bury some anonymous corpse in the woods.’

  ‘No need to be a prick about it,’ I tell him. ‘We couldn’t just leave her to rot out there.’

  Wade snorts it off. ‘You didn’t even know her.’

  ‘We didn’t know you when you turned up at the fences all caked in blood and with your nut-sac spilling out from some girl’s knickers, but we still took you in,’ I say. ‘We could’ve sent you back to duck island and thought no more of it, but we didn’t, because when the shit hits the wall, you do the right thing by people. Dead or alive.’

  Wade’s always been like a pointed stone in my sock, but right now he’s particularly tiresome. It’s like being on one of those endless car journeys with a grumpy kid in the back who won’t accept that space and time cannot be manipulated at will.

  ‘Not far now,’ Stan says, in an uncharacteristically thin tone.

  But somehow a safe return in good time doesn’t seem possible. The idea that we can walk up to the fences, clamber through that same hole we came out of and pick up our old lives like nothing has happened seems too good to be true. It’s just too easy; a naive work of fiction. Every now and then I could swear I smell something on the breeze. Like something is burning. It’s only feint, and it’s probably just my imagination, but it refuses to shift, and the more I picture the village ablaze in the distance, the harder it is to dismiss the acrid taste at the back of my throat as the anxious ruse it surely is. I daren’t ask Wade or Stan if they smell it too.

  And then, from nowhere, a clearing; a field. And in between us and it, is our fence.

  ‘Told you we weren’t far away,’ Stan says, his voice all at once refreshed. He gives the fence a hearty whack. ‘Bit further along than I intended. Pigeon brain must be on the blink.’

  I look beyond the fence at my peaceful village. Nothing appears to be on fire. No smoke rising, no burning red, no screams, no shouting. It’s exactly as I left it, and it barely seems real.

  ‘How do we get in?’ Wade says.

  ‘If we walk for about two minutes up that way we should find the hole.’

  And sure enough, two minutes is all it takes to find it. I can see mine and Stan’s look-out post picked out against the darkening sky behind it. I think about sitting up there with Stan tomorrow, talking shit and taking pot-shots. My throat aches and tears start to prick the backs of my eyes. I hold them back as best I can.

  Stan ducks down and sets about cutting through the plastic ties that Harry’s used to bodge the fence back together. Stan even brought some new ties to do it back up when we’re safely on the other side.

  ‘You know what, Pres?’ Stan says as he works. ‘If there was ever a time to start living in the moment, this’d be a pretty good moment to live in.’

  And he’s right. This is a good moment. I think about all we’ve survived to get back here. But it seems distant now; almost dreamlike. Even my legs have stopped aching. Any moment now I could wake up in my bed, realise it was a vivid nightmare and nothing more. And then I’ll go out and find Eve working in the fields and she’ll be happy to see me, and telling her everything I need to tell her won’t be so hard. It’ll be easy this time. For a moment, I let myself believe that she’s really here, in the village, waiting. I dismiss all notions to the contrary. She has to be here… surely she is. I notice the first stars appearing in the sky, and I’m happy to see them. I don’t dwell on the fact that they might be dead, because even if they are, maybe there’s some brand new ones hanging around in the darkness, new born, whose light has yet to reach us.

  ‘Last one,’ Stan says as he clips through the final tie. ‘Get yourself in.’

  I duck down and crawl back through the fence. Stan follows.

  I’ve moved all of a meter, but it feels much further than that. It feels like I’ve traversed a great plain in a few scuttling steps. ‘Fuck me, that feels good,’ I say, treating myself to a good stretch. I stand, hands on hips, unable to do anything but grin.

  Once Wade is through, Stan sets about securing the section of fence back in place.

  ‘Please tell me we’re gonna come back tomorrow and weld a sheet of plate metal over that bloody hole,’ I say.

  ‘What’s up, you don’t fancy another trip into town?’ Stan says back.

  I gaze over the fields at the houses. That curious burning smell is gone. Replaced by the welcoming aroma of Frida’s cooking as it wafts gently across the field. Or at least the memory of it.

  ‘Just how you left it,’ Wade says from behind. ‘I guess some things never change.’

  ‘And very thankful I am too.’

  ‘You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually pleased to see this place. I really thought we were lost out there.’

  ‘We’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you. Sorry if I was a bit harsh at times, it was just the stress talking. I’m actually really glad you showed up,’ I say.

  ‘Glad I finally managed to win you two over.’

  ‘Come on, ladies,’ Stan says, sweeping past us towards the village, ‘no time for chit-chat. I’m starving!’

  I follow on. ‘Oh shit! Wade… your gun.’

  ‘Oh yeah… sorry,’ he says, reaching behind him.

  ‘You still going to let me shoot it?’ Stan says.

  Wade digs in his pocket for a moment. Pulls something out and slides it into the handle of the gun with a solid click.

  ‘I didn’t mean now… Jesus!’

  ‘You had bullets all along?’ I say, stepping back a little.

  ‘Preston… why would I have a gun but no bullets? What use would that be?’ He points the gun towards us.

  ‘That’s funny, Wade…’ Stan says, holding his hands up a little.

  Wade pulls something out of the other pocket, brings it to his mouth and speaks into it. ‘We’re back,’ he says, still pointing the gun at us. There’s a crackle from the walkie-talkie.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘What do you expect when I’m charged with shepherding these two clowns,’ Wade says.

  There’s a
few second of silence, then the voice instructs Wade to get us to the village hall.

  ‘Time to go,’ Wade says, motioning with the gun.

  ‘The hall? Why are we going to the hall?’ I ask.

  ‘For your homecoming, Preston. Now move. You’ve held us up long enough as it is.’

  WORSE THAN JESUS.

  The village is dark and quiet. It often is, since we don’t have electricity and most of the people who used to live here have left. But tonight the silence seems to smother the place like a coarse hand over the mouth of a child, stifling any cry for help. As the sun sets beyond the tree line, the only point of light is the dim glow behind the windows of the village hall.

  The function of our hall hasn’t changed much since the fences went up; the occasional party, celebration or get-together (most of which I managed to avoid), but mostly it’s used for storage and distribution. Right now my gut’s telling me that Wade isn’t frog-marching us at gunpoint towards an evening of thin stew and a general knowledge quiz. Whatever it is, he seems to be in a giant hurry.

  ‘In,’ he says as we reach the hall entrance.

  I push the door open and brace myself, briefly (and naively) allowing for the possibility that this might all be a silly prank. It’ll be dark and they’ll all jump out and yell SURPRISE! and everyone will double over with laughter because Stan and I will look like we’re on the verge of soiling ourselves. Eve will be there, and as the candles are lit we’ll see each other from across the room and I’ll take her into my arms, press her body to mine and tell her I’m sorry… and we’ll stay like that, in our bubble, for as long as we please. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s a homecoming, like Wade said.

  But that’s not what it is. Not by a long way.

  As we enter the hall a dark figure rises from his seat at the other end.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, spreading his arms in congenial welcome. ‘You’re a little late, but I understand you’ve been engaged in some important business in town.’