by Ian Skewis
High above in the darkening sky, the crows began to wing home to their nests, over the burning field, the scarecrow at its centre. And in the last dying moments of the day, a pattern could be seen in the rapeseed: a crop circle made by the figure of a woman wandering round and round in an undecided revolution; a concentric line that slowly tightened around the figure at the heart of it all. As Alice soldiered on, she seemed destined to orbit Alfred forever, blithely unaware of where her trajectory was taking her; of the chance encounter; of the reunion that was nearing ever closer – as somewhere in the distance there came the faint, almost imperceptible sound of distant thunder.
‘Alice? Are you okay?’
Alice was startled and turned round to see a woman standing there beside her looking concerned. Her head was tilted to one side and she was smiling, but Alice didn’t know who she was or why she was there. She seemed nice, anyway, with her long, black hair and her generous figure.
‘You haven’t been out here all night again, have you?’ the woman asked.
Alice felt unsure how to react so she just smiled. It seemed the right thing to do somehow. The woman offered her hand and Alice took it, allowing herself to be shepherded from the garden.
‘I was in the field,’ Alice said, desperately trying to remember something, anxious to explain herself.
‘Were you?’ the woman asked politely as she waddled across the paving stones, leading Alice to the front door of a house that she did not recognise.
Alice was struck with an air of urgency. ‘There was a scarecrow,’ she said excitedly.
‘Yes, there was a few days ago,’ replied the woman, opening the door, ‘but that’s all gone now. The farmer burned the field down, remember?’
Alice nodded happily, not remembering at all, but eager to please.
‘It was quaint, that scarecrow. Pity,’ added Helen regretfully.
Alice stopped at the front door, the woman patiently waiting for her. She needed a moment. Something was there, something that needed to be sorted out. A stray thread on her cardigan. A thought. An idea not yet formed. She looked over her shoulder at Hobbs Brae, the sun shining high above the blackened field below. She was filled with a longing and something tugged at her heart. She stood there trying to figure it out, but the ember of her memory winked one last time and was gone, forever.
She was inside a room.
‘Tea?’ she heard a voice say.
Alice smiled uncertainly and nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
‘This way,’ the voice said brightly.
Alice took her first few hesitant steps into another room, another world.
And a door was shut firmly behind her.
‘Nothing ever ends, not really. Everything is a prelude, a prologue, to something else…’
Prologue
September 13th
‘My name is Scott Jennings.
I am nineteen years old.
I am not sure what that means really as I do not think of myself in those terms – years. Only as someone who exists, who is real. Alive. More so now than ever.
I don’t often get the chance to talk given my circumstances – living on a farm in the middle of nowhere with only a dog and a nonentity of a father for company. And everybody at school was so dumb, so I spoke as little as possible to them – and I include the teachers in that clause. So I talk to myself. Not out loud you understand. Inside my head. People think I’m strange. I know what they say about me. But I’m completely normal compared to some of the oddities that live around here. Margaret Crawford? Don’t even get me started on her! Then again, you have to ask yourself, what is normal? Of course, I understand why people say these things about me – I’m a loner who doesn’t talk much. But I see no need to conform to their wishes that we all behave the same way and mould ourselves into a persona that everyone finds acceptable. That’s boring. And I have no desire to be liked – only respected – and therein lies the difference. I do not, and I repeat, do not ever wish to fit into their dull ideas of existence. They might want to move through their lives in safety-first goggles and down the middle of the road but that is a course I do not wish to take. I move off the beaten track and that is far more interesting. They probably all think I’m a bit dumb. My father certainly does. But by the time I’m finished here you will realise that I can express myself most eloquently. All of you.
When my mother died it was like the last page of a book I’d been reading had been torn out, and so I never got to know how that particular story was to end. She remains something of a mystery to this day. I am not ashamed to say that I miss her deeply and, yes, I probably am a little fixated on her given how abruptly she was taken from me. Dad didn’t talk about her much. He couldn’t. It only upset him. My mother nicknamed me Moley because of my passion for digging. I was always looking for fossils – a habit I’ve since grown out of – and our dog, Bessie, would nearly always join me on these little expeditions and would often trot proudly back home with a newly-found bone in her mouth. I kept some of these because her teeth marks were embedded in them and I found that fascinating. I collected all sorts of stuff – the bones from our dead sheep, which we occasionally found in the fields, tadpoles, pine cones and sea shells. My father frowned upon all this. He thought I was turning queer. I hasten to add I am not homosexual. I’m just not that interested in girls. They talk too much and are so excitable. All that noise annoys me so. My mother was the exception to the rule and was a prime example of what a woman should be. She was always the calm, quiet one when my father was losing his temper. I remember the one time when mum did lose it though.
I woke up in the middle of the night. I was always a light sleeper. My dad used to say it was because I didn’t do any work but I never listened to him. I knew instinctively that something was wrong, so I crept downstairs and when I got to the kitchen I saw Bessie curled up asleep in her basket. She was only a puppy then and it moved me to hear the little, wet snuffling sounds she made as she snored. The moment I ventured outside I could smell warming timber and I could tell immediately that it was coming from the barn. I knew it must be on fire but I did not panic. Instead, I watched as a bat (Pippistrellus pippistrellus) darted past, disappearing into the darkness. But soon I was overcome with curiosity, and as I stealthily approached there was the smell of something else, like burned hair – and I could hear a commotion going on inside. The wooden walls were hot to the touch but I managed to peer through a crack and caught a glimpse of the flanks of the panicked animals parading past, to and fro, desperately trying to escape from the flames. I hasten to add I could not see the actual fire yet – only its effects. The cows were bellowing and screaming now. I’d never heard cattle make such a din. But soon I wasn’t able to see anything because of the smoke that was now belching out through the gaps in the timber, and I was forced to stand back. I don’t mind saying I was fascinated by this impromptu performance, this theatrical spectacle – so fascinated I decided not to intervene.
Just as the flames were beginning to lick through the seams of the barn my show was interrupted by the sound of voices. I leapt round anxiously and saw my parents hurrying towards me, approaching the scene of the crime. I stood dumbstruck for a moment, unsure how to explain myself. So I did what any innocent little seven-year-old boy would do.
I cried.
Mum took me in her arms and hurried me away from the disaster area and I was left a safe distance away while dad ran back into the house – to fetch a pail of water. Mum ran indoors after him but all their efforts were wasted. From my ringside seat, I could see that the entire barn was now ablaze. It seemed as if the gates of hell had opened up beneath it and the entire structure was about to be swallowed into the very bowels of the earth.
I could have alerted them sooner, I suppose – the barn and at least some of the animals might have been saved – but for reasons unknown at the time I chose not to. And because I had allowed nature to take its course, the responsibility for all this carnage was mine. And mine alone.
It was the first time in my young life that I’d experienced power. And it had been the making of me. I just didn’t know it, yet.
Later that same year my mother died, but not before I overheard her confessing that it was her fault. It seemed that mum had heard a noise earlier that night and had gone out to investigate – but found nothing. She had left an oil lamp still lit inside the barn. It was knocked over by one of the cows and, well, you know the rest. I was a bit put out by that if truth be told because it was really I who destroyed the barn, not my mother – but c’est la vie.
During the following months I had to tolerate my father grieving for her. I say tolerate because even though he was doing it in the privacy of his bedroom the noise was deafening. He had a cheek, to be honest. He never showed any such feelings when she was in life. I spent as much time away from him as possible and so I took Bessie for long walks and I drew in my sketch book and looked for more fossils, and like most young boys I became especially fascinated with dinosaurs. I can still recite the full Latin names – genus and species – of seventy-six of those fantastical creatures. Pretty useless, huh?
I guess my interest in nature was a predictable one, given my habitat, my circumstances. I might as well have lived alone on an island. As I grew up, I started reading about farm animals from a book my father gave me – no doubt trying to harness my interest into some kind of working practice – ever the thoughtful one when it came to such things. Needless to say, the book sat on my shelf gathering dust. But he nevertheless did play an important part in my development when he took me to the abattoir that day. He thought that I hated it, but between you and me, I was rather thrilled by it, so much so that I instinctively knew my response was about to border on the unnatural and I pretended not to like it at all. But in actual fact I have a fondness for the abattoir and have surreptitiously revisited it many times since.
My mother had given me an altogether more interesting book, also about animals – but this one contained chapters on biology and veterinary surgery. I loved to read and memorise all the Latin names of the bones and the vital organs. It proved particularly useful in time because one day I got to put all the things I had learned from it into practice.
I found an injured fox (Vulpes vulpes) in a hedgerow, near our farm. I carefully muzzled her with my old leather belt in case she thought I intended to do her any harm and tried to bite me in self-defence. I then gently picked her up and took her home. I kept her in my room upstairs – a fox in a box – and put a splint and a bandage on her leg, fed and watered her, and two weeks later, her leg as good as new, I let her go.
At least that was the official story – the one my father faithfully gave to the detective that day when he was being interrogated in the interview room.
The truth is far more spectacular.
In actual fact, I had set a snare to catch a rabbit because I had for some time wanted to put a little theory of mine to the test. Imagine my surprise when I discovered I’d caught a fox – and in perfect condition, too. Anyway, I carefully muzzled her as I’ve already said. Then I deliberately broke her leg before taking her back home. It sounds terribly cruel, I know – but I had a very good reason for carrying out this dreadful deed.
I wanted to see if I could put her back together again. I discovered I could. Two weeks later she was as good as new. It gives me the greatest pleasure and pride to be able to say that. I equate myself with the great and the good of the world: a surgeon; a saint; a god. And I’ve carried out this surgery many times since. On animals of all shapes and sizes. I’m an expert now. A shame I can’t repair the detective – lying there all mangled and broken in a snare that I made just for him. Hard to tell where he ends and the car begins really. He tried to interfere with my development, you see, and I cannot allow that to happen. Ever.
Because I am only just getting started.
I love my home, and it will always have a special place in my heart, but there comes a time in one’s life when one has to give up childish things and become a man. So I left. And with the benefit of hindsight it was exactly the right thing to do, even if it wasn’t entirely through choice. My father threatening me with an axe might have had something to do with it. In any case, I require enrichment. And I’ll never find that on a farm. I realise now that all my unnecessary surgery was a kind of training, a prologue, if you like, to what was to come. Which leads me to the night of the storm.
I had been hiding from my axe-wielding father when it reached a crescendo. A blinding storm of a kind I’ve never seen before. The clouds were moving en masse and I could smell the ozone in the air. The wind was howling, the trees creaking and groaning. The thunder cracked and the sky became a vast, moving ceiling, shifting and flickering with lightning. And the rain fell in sheets. It was a terrific spectacle. A piece of total theatre to rival that of the burning barn. And I had a front row seat. It was as if the elements had put on a performance especially for me. I could feel the wind on my face and I could taste the rain on my tongue and I was pulsing with an energy I hadn’t felt before. I was superhuman, godlike. I wanted to fly, to spread my arms out and soar into the air. I couldn’t fly, of course, so I did the next best thing.
I ran.
I ran through the undergrowth, speeding past trees, feeling light as air and my senses wide awake. Something primal had kicked in, on this most magical of nights. I raced under leafy roofs and bounded effortlessly over logs and thickets, and somewhere along the way I became a hunter, a predator hidden by the darkening clouds and the great noise of the oncoming storm.
Poor father. His walking stick taken from him. The detective was right to take it, of course. It was a dangerous weapon with that knife hidden in the handle. Not that my father would ever have used it as such. And, of course, he knew I would never do such a thing either. Poor father. He never did get to know me, not really. If only he knew the truth. Then again it’s probably for the best, because I suspect the truth would kill him – if he were ever to find out that the walking stick that he had relied on for so long had taken a life.
Alistair’s.
I killed him.
There. It’s the very first time I’ve said it out loud.
You should feel privileged.
Remember when I said that people think I’m odd because I’m a loner who doesn’t talk much? Well, let this be a warning to you all never to mistake my silence for weakness. After all, no one plans a murder out loud. It was easier than I thought, though – perhaps because everything seemed so unreal that night, that wonderful night. The storm blasting its way through. The driving wind. The driven rain. I saw Alistair in the woods, by the river, next to the humpbacked bridge. He looked lost. I watched, fascinated, as he blindly ran this way and that, crying out for his girlfriend. He did not see or hear me approach under cover of the storm. I have to admit at this point that I was a little apprehensive about what I knew I had to do, but I also knew that if I did not pursue this act of destiny when the chance had shown itself so fortuitously, then I never would. I repeat, what surprised me was how easy it was. His body was soft, accepting the blade with near resignation. I wasn’t prepared for his cry of pain though and I quickly placed my hand over his mouth. And as I pushed the knife up to the hilt I tried not to see my mother’s face as I remembered the way she used to say: ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’.
Alistair fell to the ground, heavily, surprisingly so; just flopped right there on the spot. And, with the storm raging all around me and my hands soaked in another man’s blood, I suddenly felt as if I had broken a sacred covenant and reneged against every rule in the cosmos. All nature abominated. All creation condemned. In my mind’s eye, bells pealed and pandemonium ensued. I was the fallen angel.
And it felt good. It was my baptism. My metamorphosis was now complete. A new beginning was in the offing.
I had killed Alistair with kindness. It was an act of mercy. He was suffering, so I put him down. It was a momentous act that required great courage. A bat
tle was going on inside me, you see. Moley the child was going to have to make way for Scott the adult. But Moley wasn’t going to give up without a fight. He was crying, but I had to blink his tears away and get to work fast in case the girlfriend arrived on the scene. She never did. I never saw her that night, not that anyone believed me, but that’s all academic now. Sometimes you tell the truth and you are treated like a boy who cries wolf. Under the bridge I observed with some degree of fascination Alistair’s final few moments in this world, while the part of me that was still Moley could only look on helplessly, for this act of mine far surpassed anything that he had done up to this point and Moley knew that he would never achieve that level of greatness in his lifetime. Moley’s last memory was of seeing me cackling quietly to myself as I watched Alistair’s blood trail into the water. As Alistair died, so did Moley. Two birds killed with one stone.
The storm subsided very quickly after that and when I looked up to the heavens and saw the strange star traverse the night sky it was with the eyes of a man. The star no longer held any wonder or mystery for me because it was suddenly obvious that it was only a television satellite. But I held on to those naïve thoughts of Moley’s because I knew their innocence would come in handy. And they did – but more of that later. In the meantime, I revelled in my own power, for I had committed a noble act.
Now all I had to do was to dispose of the body.
It wasn’t an easy task. He was surprisingly heavy – a lead weight that needed to be shifted fast. I happened upon the idea of hoisting him over my back – a fireman’s lift, I believe it’s called – but it was easier said than done because, as you can appreciate, the ground was slippery and uneven. And his clothes were soaked through, which added extra weight. But my training on the farm meant that I could manage it. After all, I am young and strong – and stronger now that I have done away with Moley. I cursed each time I stumbled or slipped, but I made it to the top of the slope eventually, panting from the exertion. I arrived at the edge of our old, disused field. The one where Alistair and I once played. I searched his pockets and found his wallet, some loose change and his phone. I kept what little money he had and I later dumped the wallet and the phone into the fire. As for my weapon of choice, well, I cleaned all of my fingerprints from it and some of the blood off the blade, not all of it, as I needed to incriminate daddy. Then I slid it back into the handle and put the walking stick back where I found it in time for my father using it the next day. Then I went off to my hidey hole in the forest just as the proverbial cock began to crow.