Endure enough dragging crouching solitude, and the spring will return. Sky agitates itself with bright streaks, crocuses brace against onslaught of rain, several freezing but pleasurable drenches, birds busy everywhere, beaks sticky with nest-building. One day find self in late-night park, not out of the ordinary these days, furniture too unmoving, overgrown wet grass and black bulks of cows vastly preferable. Somewhere behind uneven masses of trees, lights of houses, the incomprehensible lives of other people.
Longing for a nightingale, endless invisible voice in the night, on and on bubbling out trills and whistles, a bombardment of ideas, and a single adjective in the bird book, song variable, those stolid ornithologists, implausible is more like it. But no nightingale. Waiting for nightingale like waiting for miracle.
One day in the sun a scratchy song, flicker of bird into bush, dunnock or linnet or whitethroat, disappears, will never know, a fist tightens in the stomach, no more of his instantaneous expertise. But it passes, it passes, the world settles again.
A wave of birds rising from a tree, automatically look round, what are they afraid of, several long inconclusive seconds, head cranes right back, far-off seagull, nothing else in sight. Only me.
As You Follow
GISELLE LEEB
It is a bold entrance. You cannot miss it, booming out its yellow lights and buxom barmaid cartoon, across from the magnificence of soaring glass. It has beer, beer, beer and other things besides, if you have the money.
Down the stairs, out of the soft end-of-October rain and Halloween nearly over. You duck under the low arch, burly bouncers stopping you, pointing out a far bench, changing their minds, pointing out another, squeezing you in beside a quiet couple picking at something green, out of place among the shouting and singing, the plates of left-over Bratwurst and chips, the men standing and cheering on the boys in lederhosen, with their brass instruments, their paid smiles, to keep going and going and the long wooden trays of spirits, red shots lined up in sixes and twelves, and on one end a sparkler to set them going, to light the spirits before dawn, and they go down down down and light up the insides. And the felt hats all new-looking, hired, and the voices on and on, louder.
It is ten o’clock and the jackets are thrown over chairs, over benches, forgotten, and what should hurt the ears is pure music through this veil of spirits. And the beer steins, two pints, the biggest glasses you have ever seen in London Town, all the way from Germany.
It is almost the end of Oktoberfest and it is the thirty-first, the barmaids, white aprons streaked with fake blood, pushing through the cobwebs with more flaming trays as a group of men stand and they are going drink, drink, drink, as one of them holds a glass up to his lips and churns his throat, head back.
And next to him you see a child, blue eyes and blond hair, fashionable short back and sides, and he is pointing his young thumbs, beckoning the band closer, suggesting a song and clapping hard as it starts up. And him, him, him, he points. And he is too young to be here, you say to your friend. But the boy is swaggering, confident, he is dressed like the men, in tight-fitting, dark-blue trousers, a pinstriped shirt, and he is happy, happy, he is pure joy this boy, this very young man.
Perhaps he is with his dad, you say to your friend. But it is ten o’clock on Thursday in London Town and he is the brightest of them all. And when the spirits come again, he is plucking the sparkler from the tray and he is holding it in his teeth and sparks are flying from his mouth as he sweeps his head and they are cheering and laughing, they are ruffling his hair.
And he must have had a few sneaky ones, you say, but the young can get drunk, so drunk, on pure joy, you think, and you remember how your cheeks shone without the help of anything when you too were young.
And the band is beaming, they are all young too, but not as young as the confident boy. And he is pushing the spirits along the table, he is leaping up and changing places and steadying a big man in his seat as he lunges forward and crashes into the table and the spirits jolt and then are still.
And the group stand to dance, swinging their arms to the music. And tonight it is Thursday, tonight they are men and the day is gone and they are held out of time in this place below the street level, held in its swaying lights and merry shouting.
And you cannot keep your eyes off this boy-man, you cannot believe that he can be so bold. You imagine him begging his dad to let him come. And his mother, you think, does she approve? You imagine him remembering this night forever in the future, the night he was one of the boys, the night the world first blazed with glory for him, the night he was a true man.
But he plays his part so flawlessly, you cannot imagine a young boy like this, unless he is very drunk. And you look closer and you see in front of him, in front of the spirits lined up, in front of the biggest glass of beer that you have ever seen, you see a glass of water.
And you long to ask someone how old he is, but you hesitate to break the spell, you hesitate because Christmas has come early, you are in a magic place, you are remembering dancing all night before you ever drank a drop, you are remembering how pure the world is, you are remembering beauty and truth and how it was before you came to this place, to this theme bar for pleasure.
And you are nearly done with your first pint and you find that you are tapping your foot to the oompah music, the corners of your mouth pulling up, and your friend is smiling as you both stare at the boy and it is too loud to speak, and you see the imp gesturing to the bar again, another tray arriving, another sparkler showering sparks from his mouth and you think he looks like an arrogant son of kings. He cannot possibly be a boy.
And you nod at your friend and you point to a two-pint beer stein on the next table and he signals the waiter – whose accent is in fact German – and you order two of the big glasses and you sit and watch the boy-child as they ruffle his hair, as one of them puts his arms around him, another slides him along the bench, for he is small and slender and light as a feather.
And you long for a tray with a sparkler, but there are only two of you.
And one of the men stands and, ‘Are you going, are you going?’ the elf shouts and you both hear his voice and it is a man’s voice and you think, finally, that he must be a man.
And then his eyes catch yours and he is pointing at you and your friend and he comes round the table and he is laughing and he is slamming down two shots and his thumbs are pointing at the band and they strike up a song and you are both laughing, throwing back the red spirits, and when you look up the sparkler is in his mouth again and you feel as if your head is flying along with the sparks and you are standing and dancing, you are standing with the young imp and he is shouting, play a song, play a song, and the music is inside your head and you are young again, you are at your first wedding, you are drunk, and you cannot believe that it has arrived, this life, the life you have waited for all those years while you were growing up.
And the bell rings and the boy takes a sparkler. The men at the table are standing up and he is leading them out the door, shaking hands with the bouncers, and he is beckoning to you and your friend and you get up and follow, laughing and cheering as you stumble across the cobblestones, past Smithfield Market, all shuttered up, past Bart’s, gates locked, past the silent dome of St Paul’s, down to the river, to the mighty Thames.
It is mild for the last day of October and the moon is bright and the tide is high, the waves swelling and full. And beside the river wall, the men light fags and you do too and you feel like you are in your past and you draw deep and the sparks are replaced by the moon flitting off the crests of the waves and you stare out at the stumps of the old bridge, the waves touching it with a kiss before they move under the new bridge next to it, and then on.
And the lamps on the river Thames are burnishing your eyes, burning and burning your spirit-filled eyes. And you have tears in them now as you look at the young elf, laughing, laughing like quicksilver, and
you watch him darting through the chattering men as they smoke fags and throw them into the dirty water. And he leaps onto the wall, laughing, bending over the waves, and they do not see him, they do not see him as they light their cigarettes and the moon swims in their eyes.
And you look at the men and back at the wall and there is only a stone cherub sitting well above the tideline, its expression hidden from you, its chubby arm pointing towards the dark river behind it. And you go closer, you hesitate, but you haul yourself up and you lean on the stone shoulder, catching your breath, lighting another fag.
And you look into the water and you cannot take your eyes off your reflection, a boy in shirtsleeves, young and slender, bursting with pride and with joy, the sparkler in his mouth arching bright flashes over the swelling river.
And you hesitate, you hesitate, but you follow him in, gasping with life at the freezing water, laughing as the bright light stretches, then folds itself below the spirited waves, laughing as you follow him down.
Laughing, until you look up and now the light is dancing far above your head. And you reach for it, desperate, you kick up, but a small hand is dragging you into the dark and as you are pulled down, the waves whispering, the waves whispering and moving on.
Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty
JAY BARNETT
I asked Mushy if he had the waterproofs. He had no idea what I was talking about.
‘Borrow mine.’
I handed him the sleeves. He held them out in front of him and stared at them blankly.
‘Just put your arm in, and clip it to that thing there,’ I said, pointing to the thing.
I was in no mood for traps. My sister had visited the night before, came with a bottle of brandy bought from a man at Hornby Dock. It had been five years since I’d tried the stuff. I must have had half the bottle to myself.
Mushy managed to get the left sleeve on but I had to help him with the right. I had him check the traps by the brook. That way I could sit and do nothing while he learnt something.
‘You done your water training?’ I asked him.
‘This is my water training, isn’t it?’
‘It is now.’ I took a step towards the brook. ‘It’s easy. You know how to check a trap?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, see that marker?’ I gestured to a triangle at the brook’s edge, fluorescent orange in the long grass.
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s a trap in the water just under there. There’s four along here.’
He looked along the bank, at the bright triangles every thirty metres or so.
‘Just see what colour the light is on them traps. You might have to get your arm in to shift whatever shit might be clinging to them.’
He lifted his hands to look at the rubber sleeves.
‘If the light’s red, leave it. Green, give us a shout.’
As I walked to the others sat on the shingle, I looked over my shoulder at Mushy.
‘They won’t be full!’ I shouted. ‘They prefer open water.’
Jennifer sat cross-legged, her arms propped behind her. I lay out flat next to her and looked at the sky.
‘Bright,’ I said.
Bykes paced up and down a few metres away, trying to get a signal on his radio. He always brought it with him; it could pick up communication bands as well as commercial signals. He liked to listen in on the monitoring depots dotted around the coast, hoping to hear of things washed up, discolouration, suspicious water levels. For the most part it was talk of the weather, the tide and the safety of distances. After a while he would tune out to find something with more song about it. He walked towards us and spoke over the music on his radio.
‘St Louis knows about the milk.’
The chill of the morning had faded and the backs of my legs were beginning to sweat against the shingle. I looked around for something to drape over my eyes, a cloth, a bag, anything.
‘You listenin’?’ said Bykes.
‘What?’
‘St Louis knows about you stealing milk.’
‘Bullshit! We all steal milk.’
‘And soap. And sweetener. And toilet roll,’ said Jennifer. ‘But it’s you an’ milk that got the mention.’
This was rich coming from her.
‘Where’ve you heard this?’ I asked.
‘Depot. Last night,’ said Bykes. ‘Steve told me. Said he heard from horse’s mouth.’
‘Fuckin’ Steve.’
At the bottom of my pack I found a clean entry-rag. I draped it across my eyes and lay back down on the shingle. I arranged myself on the stones with tiny shimmies, trying to mould a small dip to rest in. Once I was comfortable, I stilled myself and listened to the brook.
‘You’ll be all right,’ said Jennifer. ‘Just lie your way out of it.’
‘Fuckin’ Steve,’ I said.
‘You’re not gonna drag us down if they fire you, are you?’ asked Bykes.
I didn’t answer, just listened to his radio. An advert about giving blood, an advert about land insurance, something about food. A song came on that reminded me of school days and of the Fenton Recreation Ground on winter nights. We used to drink cider there, and smoke, and scratch our names in the see-saw. It was fun until the older boys started bringing airguns along. They fired in the dark, aiming at the sound of laughter by the swings. A well-placed shot would break the skin.
I struggled up from my recline in search of something to drink. Over by the brook I saw Mushy starting back, his rubber arms held out by his sides.
‘All empty!’
We gathered our things up from the shingle. Mushy unclipped the waterproofs and passed them to me.
‘Keep them till they’re dry,’ I said. ‘Don’t want them wettin’ my bag up.’
‘Where’m I supposed to put them?’
‘Stuff them through your belt.’
With no great urgency we walked towards the overgrowth. Somewhere in there were traps Forty-Nine to Seventy-Two. Our boots had trodden the path more days than not for the past fifteen years and now a dark arch welcomed us where weeds and wildflowers should flourish. We passed through and edged down into the path. ‘This is Dog Holloway,’ I said to Mushy.
The holloway was a quarter-mile long on a slight gradient; to walk it west, as we did, meant downhill. It was an ancient, dank place no wider than three metres across. Either side, mud walls reared above our shoulders, while trees formed shelter overhead.
‘Why’s it called Dog Holloway?’ asked Mushy.
‘Don’t know.’
He looked to the others for answers. Jennifer shrugged. Bykes wasn’t paying attention.
We walked down the holloway towards the first trap. It was burrowed into the bank so that it was flush with the earth. The indicator showed empty so we moved on to the next. There were six altogether, laid and set in the mud walls. Bykes was between stations on the radio, filling the narrow space with white noise. He settled on something old and tried to whistle to it. He didn’t know the song.
The second trap was in darkest shade, nestled in the roots of a stump. We couldn’t see the indicator for a thick web that had formed over it. Jennifer put her gloves on to pull it away.
‘Wasn’t here Tuesday,’ she said.
Her hand knocked a root and some loose soil fell away. Beneath it the very earth seemed to move with millipedes and woodlice. The creeping things were in good number. She removed the web. Underneath it the light was red.
‘Are they mostly empty, the traps?’ asked Mushy.
‘Pretty much. They don’t like our bait,’ said Jennifer. ‘The only thing they like is . . . well, you know. And nutmeg, of course.’
Jennifer bought nutmeg a few years ago from a pop-up in Camber. It cost her a month’s rent. ‘Christmas isn’t the same without it,’ she’d said, then managed to sel
l some at a premium back at the depot. A sprinkle goes nice in the traps.
We walked the rest of the holloway without fuss, glancing at the indicators as we passed. All lights red.
We came out into the opening by Kingsley Bank, where the Hide is. The sun hit us flush, quite something from the cool dark of the holloway. Jennifer unzipped the top half of her suit, down to the vest, to let her arms warm in the glow. Somewhere a few miles away we heard three intermittent bursts. Probably the guys over in Heathfields, messing with charges. They’re meant to blow holes in the ground for new traps, but they wouldn’t have been laying new traps. Who’d waste time laying new traps?
‘Fucked up,’ I said. ‘They’re gonna try me for milk, while that lot steal explosives?’
It was easy to steal from the store. Tell one of the old boys you need a form then go in and take a bomb. We once strapped six charges to the base of a young beech tree. When it blew it left the ground and near flipped three hundred and sixty degrees.
‘Milk?’ asked Mushy.
‘You’ll not need to pay for milk again,’ said Jennifer. ‘Just take it from fridges at the depot.’
‘None of you’ll be taking anything if they do me,’ I said.
The Hide sat twenty feet above the forest floor, built on eight great legs of cedar pine. It was a place humans could hide from nature, built for the days when people watched birds. It was closed to the public years ago, then used by our company for research by night. It’s used for nothing these days. Night work was cancelled indefinitely after Longden Lane. The Hide had become unfit for purpose, left to the elements. We weren’t meant to go near the thing but would always use it to sit out the rain, or the wind, or the job. Wasn’t much point in heading up that day, the weather was too nice for the shade of the Hide. I decided to show Mushy anyway.
Best British Short Stories 2017 Page 3