We took to the steps, waterlogged and soft underfoot but still equal to the weight of a man. The trees had become so unruly that some branches reached in through the viewing points. Mushy grabbed at one and shook it. My walkie-talkie let out two short blips, the sound it makes when the batteries are dying. I leant out of the north opening and looked down. Jennifer was poking the ground with a small knife.
‘I got the beeps!’
She looked up from whatever fungus she was probing, then at the walkie-talkie on her belt.
‘Well I haven’t.’
Down through the trees I could see patterns in the dirt, traces of them. Thin, entwined markings circling trees or heading direct into outcrops of bush. I could also make out three traps, all of their indicators red.
I turned around to see Mushy half leaning out of the south viewing point. He was facing up towards the sky with his back resting on the timber frame. With both hands he grabbed at something out of sight and, with a pull, disappeared through the opening. I walked quickly towards him, looked through the gap to see nothing but blue sky.
‘Proper sunny up here!’ he shouted.
None of us had ever climbed onto the roof of the Hide. I could hear Mushy testing the timber’s strength above me. His body moved and the wood creaked. No one saw to the maintenance of the thing. Its rivets and joists moaned in the damp. One day it would give up.
‘I’m going down, Mushy. Be careful.’
Jennifer stood by a tree, a limp thing, its leaves unseasonably dry. She dragged a scraper along its bark and it came away like paste. She put it to her nose and grimaced. Bykes was sat on a mud mound in the dappled shade, his suit half undone for the heat of the day.
‘All empty here,’ I said, ‘but I couldn’t see Fifty-Eight’s.’
Bykes stood up, stretched his arms overhead.
‘I’ll go check it.’
I sat and leant against a cedar leg. Lots of leaning. Lots of sitting.
‘Is he safe up there?’ asked Jennifer, nodding towards Mushy.
‘Probably not.’
I took the batteries from my walkie-talkie then rubbed them in my hands. I switched their positions, as if tricking the device that they were new. It killed the beeps at least.
From beyond the sound of the leaves, Bykes yelled over.
‘There’s a half in here!’
I pulled myself up from the forest floor using the cedar leg as grip.
‘Mushy! Come down and see this.’
The three of us made our way to Bykes. He was stooped by the trap, prodding it with an extendable baton.
‘Well, it’s half of sumit,’ he said, ‘but not half of what it’s meant to be.’
Some mammal or other had sniffed out the bait. It was hard to tell what it was, now gelatinous and tangled. Bykes poked at its innards; they were moist and reflected the sun. He cleared the mess then I had Mushy reset the trap. He forgot about the bearings but I didn’t correct him, and I didn’t care. We still had the Holes and Bonisall. Damn Bonisall. We moved on from the Hide, the midday sun on top of us.
‘OK, Mushy,’ I said. ‘These are the Holes. If there’s anything caught, it’s likely caught here.’
The foxes had long gone but their holes were still used, so much so that the ground had hollowed out and taken on a spongy honeycomb effect. A run of dips and mounds, dry in open air. Nothing grew at the Holes. Bykes stood at the edge of the area, the forest behind him and the blue sky in front.
‘Shame to waste the sun checking traps,’ he said, then peered into one of the small dark openings. Down there was trap Sixty-Two. Behind him, a great buddleia loomed tall as a house, heavy with cones of white flowers. He squinted and cocked his head left.
‘Gonna need to shift this a little. Can’t see it.’
He picked up a stick from the forest behind him, then shoved it from sight, down into the hole of trap Sixty-Two. He appeared to be exerting some degree of force down there; at times it looked a struggle. Jennifer, Mushy and I looked on. Tired. Not bothered. Hot. We’d all unzipped the top halves of our suits. Bykes wedged the stick to a satisfactory point then planted his feet either side of the hole and pulled. And pulled. And we watched. Mushy spat on the floor and Jennifer wiped her brow. Then Bykes pulled some more, pulled until the stick broke free and he fell straight back, right into the buddleia. The whole thing wavered, shaking loose from its flowers a swarm of butterflies we hadn’t known were there. Maybe a thousand, the colour of milk. They fluttered into our group and bounced around our packs, some stopping on the damp of our skin to taste the salt then move off. As they flew in and about us we held our arms out from our sides, as if swimming in phosphorescence. Most returned to the buddleia, others to the forest behind; some took to the sky above the dry, open Holes. They had dispersed to less than a quarter when Mushy reached out and grabbed a straggler in his fist. He held tight then opened his palm to look at it.
‘Dust,’ he said.
Bykes was still by the hole in the shadow of the buddleia, looking down at trap Sixty-Two. The stick must have worked because he looked up and said: ‘Empty.’
There were three more at the Holes. Trap Sixty-Three was empty. Trap Sixty-Four was empty. Trap Sixty-Five was empty.
‘Fucking Bonisall,’ I said.
I looked at the others.
‘Let’s sit here a while.’
Jennifer lay burning her face in the heat. Mushy walked about, testing the strange terrain underfoot. He stopped by every hole to spit down into dark. Bykes sat on his knees, his legs tucked under his bum. He tuned into a monitoring depot over on the coast, the faint sibilant voices of people at work. We lay in the sun picking up fragments of conversation. Some fault in an engine room near the Hanagan Channel. It was solved, apparently, by the push of a button.
There were two ways to Bonisall. Through the Mess, or up Chorley Way. The Mess took fifteen minutes, maybe less. An overgrown place rank with dangerous weeds, the sort that weep and hurt the skin. We had our suits for such things but it was so nice in the sun. Chorley Way was the longer path. A flat track of mostly dirt. There were no traps on either route. The Mess was considered too poisonous. Chorley Way, too flat and open either side. Most days we took the Mess, quickest option preferred. Bykes began to zip up. He looked at Mushy.
‘You got goggles?’
‘Think so.’
I stared at the tangled entrance to the Mess, considered the relative dramas in there. Then I looked east towards Chorley Way. As plain a track as I’d known.
‘Let’s go Chorley Way,’ I said.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Bykes.
I grabbed my things up and moved east.
‘I’m going Chorley Way.’
Jennifer rubbed her goggles with a rag. She frowned at me.
‘You’ll hold us up.’
‘That’s the idea. If we get back to the depot a bit later, maybe St Louis will have gone home already.’
‘I got no problem with St Louis,’ she said. ‘It’s not me he wants.’
‘Let it be known. If this St Louis bollocks is true and I’m dragged over the coals, I’m naming names.’
The three of them looked at me. Jennifer put her goggles back in her pack.
‘You’re a bastard.’
‘True,’ added Bykes.
Mushy said nothing.
I’d forgotten the charm of Chorley Way. Just some fields with a path running through them. Sometimes dirt, sometimes tarmac. So flat and open is the route, that its skies are big. They are empty, but they are big. If we were to see a bird on the job, it would be there. I walked purposely slow, turned twenty minutes into thirty. The others walked ahead, eventually out of sight. I thought about what I might say if confronted by St Louis: Shit job anyway. I walked on, burnt my skin a little along the way. I saw no birds.
By the time I go
t to Bonisall they had checked all traps. Empty, of course. The three of them, perched by the truck, waiting. Seph sat with his leg out the driver’s side door. He was the depot’s oldest driver; a fat man, more gum than teeth.
‘Milky, milky,’ he said, as I walked from behind the silo.
The Heathfields lot were on the truck.
‘Hey up, Mushy!’ one of them said. ‘Was Jenny good to you?’
He must have trained with them earlier in the week. After us, he was likely on to Canton. Poor bastard. At the start of it all.
I sat alone at the seat without windows. As we moved off there was nothing to look at but the inner wall of the truck. It was covered in coarse polyester lining, warmer than glass to rest against for sleep during transit.
Chorley Way hadn’t helped, St Louis was still at the depot. All I could do was avoid eye contact. There were thirteen minutes left on the clock and he wanted to make sure no one left early. I filled in my day’s report form. Nothing to report. I moved my pen across the sheet, circling the same marks I’d already made just to eat up the time. I looked across at the others doing the same.
‘Can I have a word?’
It was St Louis. I pretended not to hear. Kept my eyes on the sheet. Circling. Circling again.
‘Yeah, no worries,’ said Mushy, and went into his office.
Jennifer, Bykes and I looked at one another.
‘What’s that about?’ asked Jennifer.
‘Maybe our Mushy’s a spy,’ said Bykes.
I tossed my report form in the pigeonhole; it was still attached to the clipboard.
‘Now’s as good a time as any to get out of here.’ I hurried to the changing rooms.
I was down to civvies in record time. I looked at my watch. Two minutes past finish. My hands were filthy. I’d wash them at home. I grabbed my bag and went to leave through the fire exit.
‘There you are!’
St Louis, the bastard. He’d appeared like a ninja; sly. He walked up close, my back against the steel of the locker. His tie tangled with a lanyard proudly displaying name and title: Daren Bell. Enickford Department Supervisor. Can’t remember why we called him St Louis. Bell-end would have been better.
‘Can I have a quick word?’
He had me enter his office first. A stuffy little place; tiny high windows. A pile of boxes stacked in the corner concertinaed under their own weight.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
The chair was surprisingly comfy; static, without wheels. I scanned his desk. He was the only person in the company to bring a briefcase to work. It sat with his keys on top. Next to that was a carton of milk.
‘You’re in the frame,’ he said.
My trapping days were up. The land of milk and sunshine crumbled all about me.
‘You know Don’s leaving at the end of the year?’
‘What?’
‘Don. He’s off in November. It’s likely they’ll be shifting up top. I’m looking at his position, which leaves this desk free.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re in the frame.’
‘The frame?’
‘For my position. This position. I put your name forward.’
I stared at the milk carton. Judging by its moisture it’d not long been taken from the fridge.
‘Just had John in here. Said he liked training with you the best.’
‘John?’
‘The lad. Said your team’s the best.’
’Cause we do nothing.
‘Well, what do you think?’
My elbows were on the armrest, hands interlocked across my belly.
‘About what?’
‘About this, sitting here.’ He tapped the desk. ‘You’ll not be getting out in the sun as much, but you’ll not be getting out in the rain, either.’
I couldn’t take my eyes off the milk, fresh out the fridge and sat by his briefcase at home time. The bastard was stealing the stuff.
‘I’ll give it some thought,’ I said.
‘Better pay, too.’ He opened his briefcase, threw his keys in, then looked at me across the desk. ‘You can go now.’
The depot was silent. Everyone had cleared out, off home for teas and beds. I stood washing my hands in the boot sink. St Louis. St Louis. What nickname would they give me, should I become supervisor? I watched the day’s mud swirl the porcelain. Quite the gyre. Funny, really, all that dirt for so little work.
While the Nightjar Sleeps
Andrew Michael Hurley
After the rain, the last of the daylight came riding over Mynydd Mawr with the crows. The mountain choked on torrents of white water and the bracken smelled of its colour. From the shadows of the sycamore tree, the old horse emerged and nibbled at the edges of the puddles. The world had awakened again just in time for dusk.
‘We’d better go now,’ said Mr Davidson. ‘Before it goes too dark. Do you think the boy’s up to it?’
He was joking, of course, and everyone laughed. It had already been decided that this year he would be allowed to go with Mr Davidson to the woods and then stay up late. He was twelve years old now. He wasn’t a child any more.
They crossed the field to the trees and the horse looked up at them, its head and the darkening clouds and the racing crows reflected in the water.
Autumn had passed through the valley like a sickness, turning the bramble fruit into wizened pellets, wilting the hogweed. Everywhere there was a smell of rot and deadfall.
‘Keep your eyes peeled now,’ said Mr Davidson. ‘He’ll be here somewhere.’
‘Who will?’ said the boy.
‘You’ll know when you find him.’
They set off along the fringe of the trees, where he’d watched Mr Davidson earlier in the day scattering red dust into the air. Working methodically, they lifted up the bracken and rooted under fallen branches.
By now, at the Davidsons’ request, the boy would normally have been sent to his bedroom to play with his toys. He had only ever been able to watch from his window and guess what the red dust was for or what Mr Davidson found at the tangled hem of the wood. His mother would never tell him.
‘When you’re old enough you’ll understand,’ she said.
Well, now he was.
They searched for several minutes, Mr Davidson singing to himself, until the boy found a dead nightjar under a thicket of ferns.
‘No, not dead,’ said Mr Davidson. ‘He’s only sleeping. Go on. Don’t let him get cold now.’
The boy wiped his hands on his jeans and crouched to pick up the bird. It was still warm. Its head dangled.
Mr Davidson handed him a tea towel and the boy swaddled the bird and carried it back to the cottage at arm’s length. They all laughed at him when he brought it into the kitchen. There was always laughter when Mr and Mrs Davidson came with their friends. Laughter was good, they said. Laughter was the key. A beacon.
‘Don’t listen to them,’ said his mother, holding him to her chest in a charade of protection.
She kissed him on the forehead and the others ruffled his hair and patted his shoulder. The boy found himself smiling at the congratulations.
‘Perhaps that means it’ll be your turn this year,’ said Mrs Davidson as she took the bird from him and laid it in an enamel basin next to the woodstove.
‘Who was it last time?’ said Mr Davidson. ‘You know my memory.’
A rheumy-eyed mole of a man coughed and put up his hand.
‘And before that it was Ruth,’ said Mrs Davidson.
‘It was Ruth two years on the trot,’ another voice said.
‘Well, that’s how it is sometimes,’ said Mr Davidson. ‘Everyone will get a turn eventually.’
‘Here now,’ said the mole man, touching the boy on the arm. ‘I’ll tell you the story of the nightjar,’ he said and the others
moaned like cattle.
‘Now, come on,’ said Mr Davidson, pretending to scold them. ‘He has to tell it, you know that. Tradition is tradition.’
The others laughed and someone poured the mole man a glass of beer.
‘Now see, the nightjar,’ said the old man, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve, ‘he was once a great hunter, better than the hawks and the eagles. He didn’t live in the woods like he does now; he went out over the mountains looking for the hare and the wild cat.’
One day, the mole went on, there was a thunderstorm and the nightjar flew down to the woods for shelter and found every creature asleep. The King of the Wood had fallen in love with a beautiful dryad and had dusted the trees with a potent pollen. Then he could dance with her without the Queen finding out. But when he saw that the nightjar was awake and watching, he took away his sharp beak and his talons and forced him to chase after moths in the dusk.
‘But while the nightjar sleeps,’ said the mole, ‘it dreams of what it used to be and still sees beyond what isn’t true. And so can we, if we choose to look.’
He grinned at the boy and lit a cigarette and drank some of his beer. In his younger days he had been in the navy and had tattoos on his hands.
‘Life doesn’t end,’ someone else said, and the rest of the table murmured their agreement in words to that effect, including the boy’s mother, which surprised him. She had never believed in God. Perhaps that was what she’d been keeping from him. Perhaps these people had turned her.
There were a dozen of them around the table. All from the village that sat in the valley below, its roofs like wet coal, the chimneys linked by brown smoke. It was where the Davidsons now lived, the cottage having proven too much for his lungs and her hip.
They were all dressed in their best clothes. The men were clean-shaven and wearing ties, the women clownish with rouge and lipstick that the boy didn’t think they wore very often.
Best British Short Stories 2017 Page 4