Unfamiliar Country - A Short Story

by T. S Sharp

  “Hello, Boyd,” said a voice.

  Boyd looked up to see the man, now sitting next to him. He flinched when he saw him close up, recognising him as the man he had shot dead in the woods.

  “Don’t you recognise me, Boyd?” his voice was flat and neutral, without accent.

  Boyd was transfixed by the man. His head had the same injury he had inflicted upon him earlier in the week, injuries that had surely killed him. In the light of the room, Boyd could see that almost the entire right side of his head was missing. His hair was matted together with congealed blood. Brilliant white flashes of skull shone through the dark red mess where Boyd’s bullet had exited his head. He couldn’t see an ear on that side at all. On the left side, he could even make out the scorch marks where the muzzle had been really close to the man’s hair when he had fired the shot.

  “I killed you...” Boyd said, his voice faltering and uncertain.

  “That’s right. You did.”

  Boyd looked back to the bar, where the woman was still working, seemingly unconcerned by Boyd’s surreal encounter.

  “She can’t see me. No one else can,” said the man.

  “What?”

  “You killed me, so only you can see me.”

  “This isn’t happening,” Boyd said, more to himself than to the man in front of him.

  “Oh, it is happening.”

  “How do you know my name?” Boyd asked him.

  “You’re my killer. I know everything about you, Boyd.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You didn’t seem concerned by that when you pulled the trigger, why would you be bothered now?”

  “You’re a fucking ghost,” Boyd said.

  “I suppose,” the man said, shrugging. “A spectre. An apparition. I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to get to know you, Boyd.”

  “Why?”

  “You killed me, Boyd. You owe me a few answers.”

  “I owe you nothing.”

  “I want answers. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “No we don’t. Fuck off,” Boyd said.

  The man turned his head and looked away from Boyd for the first time. He could see the man’s head wound more directly now. He could see the violence his bullet had wrought on his body. There was a cavity the size of an apple, and within it lay a tangled mess of brains and dark visceral material. His skin was sickly white and lifeless, and Boyd now noticed he was covered in dirt, probably the same earth he had thrown down on him with the spade.

  “Very well. But be aware that I am not going for good. I’ll be your companion forever now.”

  His words were clear and precise. Then he simply vanished, leaving Boyd alone with his newspaper in the corner of the empty pub.

  Boyd ordered several more pints over the course of the evening. He sat in the same seats and drank alone, but the man did not reappear. Drinkers came and went, a steady stream of customers which never made the pub too busy, so Boyd was never disturbed. He stumbled home several hours later down the darkened lanes to the cottage where he locked all the doors and went to bed. He lay there in the darkness for a long time while his mind played back the strange encounter from earlier in the day.

  The next morning he woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. The room was light and all was quiet apart from the constant twitter of birdsong outside. He thought back to the vision of the man in the pub and their conversation. It could only have been his conscience talking to him. No one else could see the man. Spending a few days in a rural bolthole was the best way to deal with such matters, Boyd told himself.

  When he pulled himself from the bed and stood upright, Boyd could feel the affect of the beer he’d drunk the night before. His mouth was dry and bitter tasting, acidic almost. His head hurt and was throbbing so much Boyd thought his brain would work itself loose. He went to the bathroom and took a long piss, then splashed cold water on his face. He looked drawn and tired, like a soldier who’d spent too long at the front. Back in the bedroom, he slowly dressed, his actions robbed of any urgency by his lingering hangover. He turned on the radio in the kitchen while he made a cup of tea. The news talked of political wrangling and reports of an overseas emergency relief effort, but Boyd was not really listening. He took his drink and a couple of slices of toast into the living room and looked out at the garden at the rear of the house. There wasn’t much to see, just a small lawn and flower beds with a tool shed in the corner. He stood there looking out of the window, silently chewing his toast, wondering what to do with the rest of the day. Waking up early had given him an even longer day to fill. Maybe he should go home earlier than planned, at least there he had more distractions and a sense of routine.

  “You can go home Boyd, but you won’t be able to leave me behind.”

  Boyd swung round at the sudden voice behind him. The man was sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed, looking casual and relaxed. One side of his head was still a destroyed mess.

  “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me. In fact you’re not even here.”

  “If I’m not here, then who are you talking to?”

  “You’re only here because I keep thinking about you. Once I leave and go back home and all this becomes a fading memory, you’ll be gone with it,” Boyd told the man.

  “Are you sure? I’ll keep cropping up wherever you go, you’ll never be rid of me, Boyd.”

  Boyd closed his eyes and willed the man to disappear. He didn’t care about the man he had killed in the woods, he was just someone who had to die. He was dead and that was the end of that. When he opened his eyes the man was still there, smiling across the room at Boyd.

  “I told you. I’m like your new shadow, Boyd.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want answers, first. And then I want the score to be settled.”

  “What score?” Boyd asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  “The answers first. Why did you kill me?”

  “Because I was told to. I was paid to do it. That’s what I do.”

  “But you don’t know why I had to be killed?”

  “No, and I don’t want to know, it keeps it simple that way.”

  “So I died for a transaction? A few measly pounds that you’ll no doubt spend on booze and a cheap holiday...”

  “You know what you did to deserve to die for. It must have been something pretty big that meant you ended up with your brains blown out and buried in an unmarked grave in the forest.”

  “I know what I did and why I did it, but that’s not important right now. You didn’t care about any of that when you killed me.”

  “I don’t care now either.”

  “So now you need to make up for it,” the man said. Silence filled the room. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.

  “How?”

  “Take that gun, and kill yourself.”

  “Fuck off,” Boyd snapped, and jerked his head at the man that spoke only of growing aggression.

  “It would put you at ease, Boyd.”

  “No way am I going to kill myself because you tell me to, you fucking dick.” Boyd was pointing at the man now, but he continued to sit there impassively, seemingly uninterested in Boyd’s irritation.

  “Just put the gun to your head, and pull the trigger, like you did to me.”

  “I’m not going to do it.”

  “You’ve found a beautiful spot for your death, here. Nice and quiet. No one knows you. The farmer thinks you’re someone else. The police would just put it down to a troubled loner who killed himself because he couldn’t take it anymore. And that would be right, wouldn’t it?”

  “How do you know about the farmer?”

  “I know everything about you after the moment you killed me. Oh, and about the farmer – he knows what you did in those woods.”

  “What? That’s impossible.”

  “He’s a local. A man of the land. He knows what goes on arou
nd here, especially when people from outside spend time in their area. Why do you think he came to visit you?”

  “It’s his cottage, he wanted to meet the tenant and tell me where everything was.”

  “More like he was curious. He knew something was strange, so he came to find out. He came to find you.”

  “If he knew, I doubt he’d want to meet me. Why not call the police?”

  “He hasn’t worked it out yet. But he will. He’ll go looking in the woods, find the disturbed earth, ask himself questions about his out-of-season holiday cottage guest. And then you’ll have to pay for what you did. Or you could just kill yourself. It would be easier, and you could at least atone for your crime against me.”

  “This is all bullshit. My mind is all fucked up from the last couple of days. This place is driving me crazy.”

  “You can think what you like, Boyd. But you still murdered me. I’m still dead. My body is still rotting in the woods on a Welsh hillside. You deserve to be locked up and never let out, where you can spend your days talking to me in a prison cell, forever. Or you could kill yourself. Use the same gun you used on me and end it all now.”

  “Shut up. I’m not doing that.”

  “Oh, look who’s here,” the man said, then vanished.

  Boyd was confused for a moment. He was alone in the room again. He spun round and looked out onto the garden, but it was empty. Then there was a knock at the front door. He ran to the front window and looked outside to see Hughes the farmer standing on the doorstep, a panting sheepdog sitting patiently at his side. Boyd could feel his heart pounding as he went to the door, pausing with his hand on the door handle before he opened it.

  “Hullo Jimmy. I’ve come to read the meter. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Boyd stepped aside and Hughes came past him into the hallway, the dog trotting alongside. The two men stood opposite each other for just long enough for an awkward pause to develop.

  “So, how are you finding the place?”

  “It’s great. Really quiet, just what I wanted.”

  “That’s good, I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”

  The silence returned.

  “Right,” said Hughes. He knelt down to open a small wooden cupboard in the corner of the hallway.

  Boyd watched him peer at the electricity meter, then scrawl some numbers on a piece of paper. Hughes rose awkwardly to his feet, groaning as he did so.

  “I’ll leave you to it then, Jimmy.”

  “OK, cheers Griff.”

  “No doubt I’ll see you before you go.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Hughes opened the front door, ushered the dog out, then waved and left, leaving Boyd alone in the hallway.

  “Came to read the meter, eh?”

  Boyd spun round and looked up the stairs to see the man standing on the landing looking down at him. Boyd’s spirit drained from him. The man was appearing more frequently now, and he was being more persistent. He ran up the stairs toward him, feeling the anger rising inside, propelling him forward. When he got to where the man stood he passed straight through him, as if he were a holographic projection.

  “Do you think he really needed to read the meter, Boyd?” The man was at the bottom of the stairs now, looking up at Boyd.

  Boyd went to the bedroom and grabbed the gun from under his pillow and returned to the landing. The man was still at the foot of the stairs, staring blankly back at Boyd. He chambered a round and levelled the gun at him.

  “You can’t shoot me, Boyd. I’m not real. Plus, I’m already dead.”

  The gun was trembling in Boyd’s hands. His breathing was rasping and ragged. He wanted to pull the trigger and fire repeatedly at the man, if only to relieve the tension, but he knew it was pointless. He let the gun drop to his side and exhaled heavily.

  “You could always shoot yourself though, Boyd. That would work. That would end the torment.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Hughes didn’t come to the read the meter. We both know that. He came to check up on you. He knows something’s wrong, he just hasn’t worked it out yet. He’ll find that body in the woods. My body. He’ll connect the body to the strange loner renting his cottage, he’ll call the police.”

  “He won’t find the body. It was buried miles away. He’s not going to go digging randomly in the woods on just a hunch.”

  “Maybe not. But someone will find the body, they always do. They’ll date the time of death and Hughes will link it to his mysterious tenant. Then what?”

  “Nothing. It won’t happen.”

  “It will. There are two options, Boyd. The first is to kill yourself. That’s the easiest way out.”

  “And the second?”

  “Kill Hughes.”

  Boyd shook his head.

  “The whole point of staying in the cottage was so that you could lay low without anyone seeing you or asking awkward questions, right?”

  Boyd didn’t respond, but he knew the man was right.

  “So Hughes has trampled all over those plans. He’s suspicious of you. He’ll be the first person to contact the police when they find my body. What’s another body to you, anyway? You don’t care about life.”

  “I’m not gonna kill the farmer.” Boyd’s words were slow and pained, as if spoken by a man under interrogation.

  “Kill yourself then. It’s the only way out. If you kill Hughes, you might put off the inevitable for a while, but you won’t be rid of me. I’ll always be here, Boyd, wherever you go. You can’t outrun your shadow, and I’m your new shadow. The only way to be rid of me is to kill yourself.”

  Boyd walked down the stairs, gun in hand. As he got closer to the man he disappeared, as if he’d never been there in the first place. He went into the living room and sat down in an armchair, suddenly exhausted. He looked at the gun in his hand. It was heavy and solid, the metal was dark and cold against his skin. The moulded handgrip felt like it belonged in his hand. There was still a round in the chamber. Boyd’s thumb rested on the safety catch. He clicked it to fire mode. The sound was tiny, but in the silent room it was almost deafening. He flicked it to safe, then back to fire and put it to his head. His breathing was steadier now, slow and controlled. He was calm and collected. He took in the silence of the cottage and the surrounding countryside. Then he slipped the safety back on and let the gun drop to his lap.

  Boyd’s appetite totally deserted him and his nights were long and sleepless. He didn’t see the man again, as if he had said all he needed to say. But Boyd knew he’d be back. He spent his days sitting in the living room turning the spent shell casing over and over in his hand while trying to decide what to do next. Leaving before he had planned to would be like admitting defeat to the dead man, as if his decisions were being influenced beyond his control. But the cottage was beginning to feel like a prison. Besides the pub, there were no distractions and he didn’t want too many people to see him around or start asking questions.

  He busied himself by tidying up the house. During his short stay he had made quite a mess, despite the small amount of baggage he had brought with him. He stuffed all the crumpled and worn clothes in his sports bag and gathered up his toiletries. He did the washing up and filled a bin bag with empty beer cans and food wrappers. At least now he was in a better position to leave if he decided to. This made him feel slightly better, if only to take his mind off things for a bit.

  He grabbed the bin bag and opened the front door. Outside, the air was cool and moist feeling, much fresher than the confines of the cottage. As he opened the lid of the bin and dropped the bag inside, Hughes’ four wheel drive pick-up trundled slowly past. The farmer had the window down, his elbow resting on the open frame. Boyd could see his big red face turned toward him, smiling from within the cab at him. The sheepdog sat beside him in the passenger seat, panting. Hughes waved slowly as he floated past, the rumbling diesel noise of the engine receding down the lane as he went. Boyd belatedly waved back, suddenly unsure of himself once
again.

  Back in the house, Boyd went to the bedroom and grabbed the Browning handgun. Out of habit he removed the magazine, checked the contents and slid it back in place with the heel of his hand. He could feel the gun pressing against the small of his back as he wedged it into the waistband of his jeans. On the way out of the cottage he grabbed his jacket from the end of the banister and pulled it on as he walked up the lane.

  The gate to the farm was closed as it had been the other day, so Boyd opted to clamber over it rather than struggle to open it. The track leading from the road was unpaved and muddy in places, flanked on one side by a thick hedge and a tilled field on the other. As Boyd got closer to the farm buildings he could see Hughes’ vehicle parked outside a large storage shed. He decided to head for the truck rather than the farmhouse he could see toward the back of the plot.

  The dark blue pick-up was parked on an apron of concrete, backed up to the open doors of the barn. Boyd could hear movement from inside the building, along with the barking of the dog from the front seats of the truck. The air smelt of manure and wet straw. Hughes appeared from inside the barn carrying a heavy looking sack of grain or feed, which he dumped in the open back of his pick-up truck and then disappeared back inside. He hadn’t seen Boyd approaching the farm down the long lane from the road.

  Boyd stopped and stood still, about ten metres from the vehicle. Hughes came out again, hefting another bag, and this time he noticed Boyd standing in the farmyard.

  “Hullo there, Jimmy. I didn’t hear you coming.” He dropped the sack on the truck bed.

  Boyd didn’t respond.

  “What can I do for you?” Hughes said, walking out from the back of the truck.

  Sensing an unusual atmosphere the farmer stopped and stood level with the front of his vehicle.

  “Jimmy?”

  Boyd reached behind him and pulled the gun from his waistband. He thumbed the safety catch off and let it hang in his hand at his side. Hughes glanced down at the weapon and his face changed from confusion to dread in a split second. The farmer took a step backwards, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation. Boyd raised the gun and levelled it at Hughes, who stopped walking backwards, his mouth open, eyes wide.