Unfamiliar Country - A Short Story

by T. S Sharp

  Unfamiliar Country

  Copyright 2011 by T S Sharp

  Cover by Nick Brown

  Boyd walked the man up the sloping woodland ground to the pre-dug grave. The man’s head was covered with a rough hessian sack, tied tightly around his neck, his arms bound behind his back. Propelled forward by Boyd, the man stumbled on the rotting leaf litter and exposed roots, trudging silently toward his fate. The walk was awkward and Boyd had to keep yanking him in the right direction like a dumb beast, but eventually they arrived at the deep hole cut into the moist earth of a remote wooded hillside.

  He positioned the man where he wanted him alongside the grave, then kicked at the back of his knees to force him into a kneeling position. Mute and defeated he sat there, head bowed, looking like a man at prayer. Boyd pulled at the cords and removed the sacking covering his head. The man blinked in the sudden light, saw the empty grave before him and looked up at Boyd. His face was swollen and bloodied from the beating he’d received to subdue him, his mouth covered with several layers of duct tape. He breathed heavily through his nose, blowing out small bubbles of snot and blood that inflated and burst every few seconds.

  The man’s eyes bulged and widened as he saw Boyd raise his handgun. He flicked the safety catch off and levelled the gun at the man’s head. He could hear his strangulated cries through his gag, see him convulsing with terror. The man looked down at the dark earthy pit of the grave. Boyd pulled the trigger. The sound crashed through the trees and foliage, down the wooded hillside and back again, washing over both of them and then receded to nothingness. The man toppled over to one side and lay there like nothing more than a pile of ragged discarded clothes.

  Boyd breathed out heavily. He smelt the faint whiff of cordite in the air mixed with the sweet smell of oak and ash trees, bracken and holly bushes. He bent and picked up the spent shell casing from amongst the decaying leaves and put it in his pocket. He returned to the man and pulled his body out straight so that it was lying lengthwise alongside the grave. The man’s lifeless face turned to look upward through the gently swaying ceiling of tree cover, looking past Boyd with eyes half closed, glassy and dull. The right side of his head was shot away where Boyd’s bullet had made its exit, leaving a matted gore of blood and hair and bone fragments. He stood there for a moment, alone with his handiwork in the cool stillness of the trees. His work was all but complete now. With his foot he pushed the corpse into the grave where it landed with a dull thud, perhaps the last sound it would ever make.

  He retrieved his spade from the undergrowth and moved alongside the heaped earth, thrust it into the mound and heaved his first spadeful into the hole and its new occupant. In the depths of the grave, perhaps five feet deep, Boyd could make out the man’s face tipped toward the sky, as if taking his last look at the realm above. Again Boyd paused in his work, regarding the dead man in his final indignity, having the cloying soil of a Welsh forest thrown on top of him, devoid of ceremony and ritual. Boyd swallowed hard. His mouth was dry and his lips were cracked and sore. He continued filling in the grave until it was level, then stamped down the earth, making sure to disguise his boot marks by brushing the ground with a leafy branch.

  He patted the gun in his waistband for reassurance, feeling its solid weight against his side, then put the spade over his shoulder and retraced his steps through the tree-crowded pathways to his car. He found the whispering murmur of the trees all around him comforting. The seemingly infinite variations of green and the gnarled and twisted boughs spoke to him of an ancient and all but forgotten landscape, as if he was the first to rediscover it in a millennia. The rich, sweet smelling air helped to clear his head too, for which he was grateful.

  Arriving back at his hire car parked on a lonely Forestry Commission track, Boyd opened the boot and threw in the spade, wiped his hands on some paper towels and climbed behind the wheel. He pulled his mobile from an inside jacket pocket and made a call to his employer.

  “It’s done,” he said as soon as it was answered, then the line went dead.

  The drive through the Welsh countryside was slow and meandering. The rented cottage was less than ten miles away, but the journey took him along winding country roads through farm land and up and down steep valleys flanked by glowering mountains and sheep-dotted fields. Boyd knew he was alone in the car, like he’d just dropped off a passenger after a long journey together, even though the other occupant had been tied up in the boot the whole time, but still he felt uneasy. A few days in the holiday cottage should help with that, he thought. He needed to be alone for a while, partly to keep a low profile, but also to gather his senses into some semblance of order.

  The house was a typical Welsh cottage with whitewashed stone walls and small recessed windows. The slate roof displayed a creeping green carpet of moss, but otherwise it looked to be well-maintained and cared for. Boyd pulled alongside and was pleased to see no other houses on the narrow lane. He opened the wooden gate and went through the small garden at the front to the door. There he paused, then remembered the arrangement for the key and pulled back the doormat to find it as promised. Inside, the cottage was dark and silent. Boyd crossed the hallway to the small living room, glanced about him, then moved to the kitchen, checking for any signs of life. He shouted upstairs, but was met with silence.

  From the back seat of the car he pulled the box of provisions he had stowed for the duration of his stay. He planned to be as self- sufficient as possible. He didn’t plan to visit the nearby towns or go walking in the countryside while he was here and hopefully the cottage would have all the utensils and basics he’d need.

  Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. One of the rooms had a double bed, the other a single, both made and comfortable looking. Boyd opted for the room with the single bed, and dumped his sports bag containing his clothes and toiletries in a corner. The bathroom was sparse and outdated. Avocado green with a bath fitted with chrome effect handles and no shower.

  Boyd stared at himself in the small mirror above the sink. He was tall and thin and looked every one of his forty-seven years. What remained of his hair was closely shaved to his head which he did himself with barber’s clippers every month. His forehead was lined with wrinkles and he had almost a week’s worth of greying stubble on his face. He looked tired. He felt tired.

  The main bedroom provided a view from the back of the house down onto a small lawned garden which backed onto some fields. Boyd assumed they were either fallow or used for sheep grazing. The smaller bedroom faced out onto the front of the property, overlooking the small lane and its neat hedges. Apart from a small standing of trees to the left of the property, the house was isolated and commanded good all round visibility. Little details like this would make his short stay here a little more stress free.

  The light outside was beginning to fade. Boyd closed the curtains and began to pack away his provisions in the kitchen. Despite the fact he hadn’t eaten much that day he didn’t feel too hungry. His actions in the woods earlier had given him that strange nervous energy he always experienced after such jobs. Despite his lack of appetite Boyd forced himself to prepare some food. He turned on the radio for background noise and set some soup to heat up on the electric cooker. His stay here would be relaxing, uneventful and hopefully really boring.

  After eating, Boyd watched TV, the volume turned down low and the room illuminated by a small table lamp in the corner. It wasn’t long before he started to nod off. The day’s events and the long drive to Wales had taken their toll on him. He turned the light and TV off, double checked everything was locked and closed downstairs before going upstairs.

  Boyd searched the drawers in the bedroom. They were mostly empty
, lined with faded floral wallpaper, curled at the edges. Other drawers contained spare sheets and bathroom towels. In the airing cupboard he found a couple of pillow cases. He took one, unfolded it and slipped the Browning HiPower pistol into it and folded the excess material back around the gun. It looked a relic wrapped in a shroud. Before getting into bed he scanned the room for a good place to put it. He didn’t want to hide it away, but neither did he want it lying around. He opted for sliding it under his bag at the side of his bed, out of sight but within reach. When he lay back on his bed and switched the bedside lamp off, the room was plunged into total darkness. Boyd lay there amongst the crisp bed linen and stared at the nothingness above him. Complete silence accompanied the darkness. Boyd felt himself being swallowed up by it. He let it carry him away until he was drawn into a deep and restful sleep.

  The morning brought sunlight and birdsong to the room. Boyd blinked and reached for his watch. It was nine forty, which meant he’d had a full ten hours sleep. He was refreshed and rested, which is exactly why he’d chosen to stay here for a few days. Standing in his boxer shorts he pulled the curtains back and glanced up and down the lane. There was nothing to be seen, just the hedgerows and the winding lane twisting out of view.

  Boyd turned the taps on in the bathroom and let the sickly green tub fill with spluttering hot water. While it filled he went downstairs and made a cup of tea, yawning to himself while the kettle boiled. Once the bath had filled, Boyd lowered himself into the water and lay back, watching the steamy vapour swirl above him, condensing on the 1970s tiles and trickling downwards in free-running rivulets. He lay there until the water began to go cold. He dried himself and dressed in the slow and casual manner of a man at leisure, knowing he didn’t need to be anywhere nor was anyone waiting for him.

  From the bedroom Boyd heard the rumble of a diesel engine close to the house. It got louder and louder until the engine was cut and he heard the unmistakeable sound of a handbrake being ratcheted up. Being careful not to be seen looking down on the vehicle, Boyd moved to the window. Parked outside the cottage was a dark blue four wheel drive pick-up truck with an open bed at the back. Its flanks were splattered with mud. No one got out. Boyd ran to his bag and pulled the handgun from its linen wrappings then darted back to the window. Just as he was easing the slider back to chamber a round, the driver’s door opened and a man got out. Boyd’s level of threat perception dropped as he saw what looked like a typical farmer. He slid the action back, re-applied the safety catch and slipped the gun into his waistband at the small of his back and went down stairs to answer the knocking on the door.

  “Hello there,” said the man, a wide friendly grin creasing his face.

  “Hi.” Boyd stepped aside and let the man in through the front door.

  “I’m Griff Hughes, the cottage owner. I live at the farm at the top of the road here.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “You must be Mr Mitchell?”

  “That’s right, Jimmy Mitchell. Call me Jimmy,” Boyd replied, giving the false name the cottage was booked under. They shook hands. Hughes’ hand was warm and rough, strong from years of lifting hay bales and shifting grain sacks, Boyd thought.

  The farmer was like a children’s book depiction of a farmer. He was short and stout, in his late fifties and wore green wellington boots with dark corduroy trousers tucked into them. He had a beer belly beneath a moth-eaten jumper and wore a battered Barbour jacket. His face was broad and weather beaten, his cheeks red and healthy looking. Wiry snow-white hair escaped from beneath his flat cap which looked like it was permanently attached to his head.

  “You find everything OK?” the farmer asked. His accent was broad Welsh, friendly but loud.

  “Yeah, fine. Got here yesterday, just settling in really.”

  “Just you, is it?”

  “Yeah, just me. Need to relax for a bit.”

  “I see. What brings you out to the valleys?”

  The farmer’s questions were friendly enough, but Boyd was finding the sudden intrusion slightly unsettling. He had to think on his feet to answer the man’s questions.

  “Just to relax for a few days, somewhere quiet. I’ve been signed off work with stress for a couple of weeks, so I thought I’d get myself sorted in the countryside for a few days.”

  “I see,” said Hughes, nodding his head.

  “I work in the City. For a bank.” Boyd felt compelled to continue with his hastily created back story, even though he knew not where it might end.

  “Oh well then, I’ll leave you to it. I expect you’ll be enjoying the peace and quiet around here at this time of year. The farm’s just up the road if you need anything and there’s a pub in the village that does food. It’s walking distance if you fancy a few ales one night.”

  “That sounds good. I might check it out.”

  “Right then. I’ll be off. Nice to meet you, Jimmy.”

  “You too, Griff. Bye now.”

  The farmer waved goodbye, then left. Boyd heard his vehicle start up and drive away, leaving him alone in the silent cottage once again.

  For the rest of the day Boyd pottered around the cottage, looking in cupboards and flicking through the odd assortment of books he found on shelves in the living room and back bedroom. There were several nature books, a guide to Wales which was a few years out of date, some Reader’s Digest collections and various dog-eared paperbacks that looked like they’d been bought from charity shops simply to populate the shelves. Despite his growing boredom he didn’t fancy reading any of them.

  Later in the day he opened a can of lager and started to prepare a meal from the shopping he had brought with him. He turned the radio up loud and let whatever music happened to be playing fill the room as he cut vegetables and prepared beef to make a stew with. While the food bubbled away in a big pot on the stove, he drank more cans of lager and watched TV. Boyd realised that the rest of his days here would follow pretty much the same pattern. He wasn’t so sure this was necessarily a good thing.

  The next day brought overcast skies and a dull pallid light to the cottage, making Boyd ever more restless. He found himself going to bed earlier and lying in later. The days of the week had ceased to be important. It was a Tuesday, or possibly a Wednesday, but ultimately it didn’t matter. He was somewhere in Wales, in fact if someone appeared at the door right now and asked where they were, Boyd was unsure he could provide an accurate answer.

  The TV was not providing Boyd with any escape from the tedium of his mini vacation in his countryside bolthole. After eating the last of the leftover stew and tiring of the same brand of lager every night, Boyd decided to visit the pub the farmer had mentioned the other day. He grabbed his jacket, pulled on his boots and went to the front door. There he paused, contemplating whether or not to take his gun. He decided against it and stepped out into the front garden.

  A light rain had begun to fall. Boyd pulled the collar of his jacket up and thrust his hands into his pockets and walked slowly up the green-sided lane. The only sounds were those of his footsteps and the soft patter of water falling on leaves. At the top of the lane a track opened up on the left behind a closed gate. A sign read Hillside Farm. Boyd assumed this must be Hughes’ farm. In the distance he could make out some storage buildings and walls. He carried on walking, unconcerned by the steady rain.

  The village the farmer had mentioned was nothing more than a crossroads with a few cottages and a pub. Boyd headed straight for the Butcher’s Arms, glancing across to the car park. He saw it was almost totally empty and then stepped through the heavy front door into the lounge.

  The room was empty, not even any bar staff. He walked to one end of the bar and glanced down the side of the room. All the tables were vacant. He heard footsteps coming from somewhere behind the bar and out came a woman in her thirties, casually dressed and slightly overweight. She smiled at Boyd and placed her hands on the counter top.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, her accent thick and friendly like Hugh
es’ had been.

  Boyd glanced at the pumps and opted for a beer from a local brewery.

  “A pint of one of those please, and some ready salted crisps.”

  “Certainly.”

  Boyd noticed a rack on the bar which held a selection of newspapers. He pulled out a broadsheet, mostly because it offered more reading material than the tabloids.

  “Three pounds and thirty pence. I’ll just go and get your crisps,” the woman said, placing the still-settling pint in front of Boyd, then moved to the other end of the bar.

  Boyd pulled a selection of loose change from his pocket. Amongst the coins was the brass shell casing he had picked up from the forest floor a couple of days earlier. Boyd plucked it out and shoved it back in his pocket as the woman returned with the crisps. He handed her the correct amount and smiled. She smiled back and then started wiping the moisture from the bar where his freshly pulled pint had left its mark.

  He picked up his beer and crisps and turned to cross the room and sit in the corner. As he looked up from his purchases he saw that the seat he was about to take was occupied. Boyd stopped in his tracks. Sitting in the corner of the room was a man staring straight at him. His clothes were dirty and he was totally motionless. Boyd was rooted to the spot, staring back at the man.

  “Are you all right, love?” the barmaid asked him, obviously confused by his sudden inertia.

  “Er, yeah, fine,” Boyd stammered. Still the man sat there, staring at him. The woman didn’t seem to react to the strange figure.

  Boyd opted for another table at the other end of the room, one which was definitely empty. When he sat down and looked back to the other table, the man was gone. He glanced back at the barmaid, now the only other person in the room, but she was busy stacking glasses. He took a long deep drink of his pint, gulping down the treacly brown fluid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and exhaled heavily, then turned to his newspaper, holding it up to open the front pages.