by Tom Kavanagh
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Front Cover by Laura Heikkala
Once again, this book is dedicated to my family, whose constant support has allowed me to pursue my dream.
A special mention goes to my good friends Joe and Gabe, whose friendship has pushed me to be better and whose positivity has kept me motivated.
Thank you to Laura Heikkala for her stunning book cover. I adore it, and adore you for having done it.
And as I have always said in each one of my books, to all those in the struggle; it does get better. It really does.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Acknowledgements
Excerpts from Previous Releases
One
Wind & Lighting
Vicious winds surged through the valley that morning.
A downpour of rain late last night had made quagmires in the mud, trapping sheep in the lower field. We could only hear the faintest of bleats as the wind tore through the trees and hedges, slamming into our waterproof coats at breakneck speeds. Our hoods were whipped ferociously, making it nearly impossible to make out the distant cries for help, and tears formed by the relentlessness of the wind obscured our vision. The early morning light was a useless guide, disappearing as each bulging cloud was dragged across the sky.
My Wellington boots squelched with each step as they sank momentarily into the ground, straining to hold on to my foot as I hoisted them free. I could feel my socks absorbing water as thick sludge tried to make its way through a small crack in the bottom of my boot. But there was no time to make the situation any better; there was something more important to deal with than slightly damp socks.
The gate into our main field was slick and covered in a coating of mud and tufts of sheep fur. Bulbous drops of water fell from the bars as my dad swung it open. He grunted in pain, as his arthritic hands fought with the lock and key. Although my Wellington boots were already coated in a thick layer of mud and manure, this didn’t stop further layers being caked on, as I waded through the marsh that had formed on either side of the gate. Dad came over and grabbed me by the waist, hauling me up and over the worst of the ground. He never hesitated to pick me up when I got stuck in the mud, even now that I was older and a lot heavier. Even with the arthritis, he was still a superhero. His arms were strong, with legs like tree trunks. His hands had failed him, but his body was trying to fight on.
We had only walked ten yards into the field before we found a dead ewe.
She had got herself trapped in a swampy patch of field, and she had drowned in a small puddle. Her fur was matted with mud, probably made worse as she tried to struggle against the unforgiving ground.
Pickle, our sheepdog, inspected the ewe, gently nudging her with her nose. The ewe’s head rocked back and forth as if free from her neck.
Pickle didn’t understand, but we did.
Flies zipped closely over her body, occasionally settling for a moment before, once again, launching themselves into the oncoming wind. Her eyes were open but unbearably vacant, as if they’d never once held life. I stared into the blackness of her pupils, hoping to see them twitch into life. Pickle continued to push the ewe, expecting her to jump to attention and run away like she usually did.
Nothing was going to make her jump up now.
“Pickle, go,” Dad grumbled; he hated losing animals.
She followed orders and backed off.
“We’ll come back for her, Isabelle. The other sheep need our help first,”
“Okay,” I replied absent-mindedly as I watched Pickle run farther into the field.
Other ewes had been a lot luckier. They’d huddled together near the back fence of the field, all sheltered under a large, gnarled oak tree, yammering in despair. Their legs and fur were covered in mud; they’d probably been fighting against the ground all night just so that they could stay upright.
Dad crept closer towards them, his finger darting swiftly through the air, pinpointing the location of each sheep, muttering silently to himself. They retreated in fear towards the fence, obviously on edge because of the storm.
While Dad continued to count, I pushed my hands deep inside my pockets, trying desperately to find a patch that hadn’t been dampened by a fresh onslaught of rain. I watched as each drop of water fell from my hood, surviving for a moment before being thrashed by the wind. Occasionally a drop would survive and make it to my nose, tumbling to the tip like a kid spinning down a hill. I shivered involuntarily, causing a cascade of water to shoot away from my body, as if I’d just become a cloud.
“It looks like we only lost one ewe, Isabelle,” Dad called out, his voice strong through the howling wind.
“Yeah, looks that way,” I called back, pretending that I’d been counting as well, instead of watching water droplets fall from my hood.
“Pickle, go,” Dad yelled with conviction, pointing at the sheep as he did.
In a few graceful movements, Pickle began herding the sheep towards the top field. It was more exposed to the wind, but most of the water had collected in the lower field, so it was safer for them to be there. We could also see them from the house, which stopped my dad from worrying about them—although he would likely sit at the window and watch them all night regardless.
I stuffed my hands deeper into my pockets, knowing full well I wouldn’t feel any warmth in them for the rest of the morning. The sheep were more important than my hands; there was no question of that.
Slowly but surely, each sheep made its way into the upper field. Pickle darted around the field with unbelievable precision, keeping low to the ground, skulking back and forth as if the sheep were her prey.
She would never hurt them, though.
She loved them in an animal kind of way.
A few summers ago, a feral dog was terrorizing the sheep. It had killed two lambs and looked as if it wasn’t going to stop until they were all dead. One night my dad sat outside with a gun and torch, watching over the sheep, waiting for the dog to come back. It was brutally cold, but Pickle stayed next to my dad, waiting just as patiently.
It was close to two in the morning before the dog came out of its hiding place. A rustling far off in the hedge line alerted Pickle to the dog’s presence; my dad wouldn’t have been able to hear something that subtle.
But he did hear the next sound.
Blood-curdling screams echoed through the valley, alerting my dad of the imminent danger the sheep were in. He rose out of his seat and shot a beam of light towards the sheep, trying feverishly to find the dog within the darkness of the field.
Pickle sprang into action a split second after the first bleat. She hurtled into the darkness without trepidation, unencumbered by fear. Dad tried to illuminate the scene with his flashlight, not out of curiosity but out of concern for Pickle. She was already in full conflict with the dog, growling and snarling with furious intensity. Their tense standoff cul
minated in a brutal collision, full of sharp teeth and yelps of pain. But Pickle was too much for the other dog, sending it fleeing into the forest nearby.
No more lambs died after that.
Eventually, every sheep was in the upper field and accounted for. Dad slammed the gate shut, petted Pickle for a job well done, and then started to make his way back down the field to where we’d found the dead ewe; I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again.
“Isabelle, you wait near the ewe while I go and get the car. We need to load her into the back.”
“Okay,” I replied bluntly, not happy with the job I’d been given.
Pickle plopped herself down next to me and looked up, panting and slobbering on my hand as I stroked her chin.
I loved Pickle.
She never asked me questions. She never got angry with me. She was never exasperated when I was having my bad days. She accepted my flaws without thought. There was something wonderful about the way she looked at me, as if I were the only person who existed.
A few minutes later, I heard the spluttering exhaust of my dad’s 4x4. It had broken down more times than I can remember, but my dad hated losing cars. He hated losing anything. So every time it broke down, he would fix it, even if the cost of repairs had totalled more than the price of a new car.
It sliced through the puddles of mud with ease and then came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the ewe. Dad patted the door just like he had done with Pickle, impressed that it hadn’t broken down in the last hour, and then skirted around to the back of the car, throwing the boot open, rummaging through the hoard of stuff he kept there. He produced two pairs of gloves and then pushed the rest of the stuff to either side of the boot.
“Put these on.”
“Why?”
“Do you really want to touch a dead ewe?”
“No, I guess not.”
I didn’t want to touch the ewe with or without gloves on, but it seemed that I didn’t have a choice in the matter. We needed to load the ewe, and my dad wasn’t going to do it alone.
“Then put them on.”
We both stood over the ewe, fumbling with our gloves, drawing out the inevitable.
“You grab the back legs, and I’ll grab the front. Okay?” he asked, his voice full of regret. He didn’t want to get me involved in this side of farming, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to get the ewe into the car without my help.
“Okay,” I answered with a slight smile. I didn’t want him to feel bad.
* * * * *
“What are you going to do with her?” I questioned, looking down at the limp body of the ewe, wondering what her life had been for.
We had loaded her into the back of the car and then driven her back to the main farm buildings. After unloading her, we half-carried, half-dragged her over to one of the small outhouses where my dad kept broken-down farming equipment. Engines were littered in random spots throughout the outhouse, like discarded limbs. Patches of oil stained the floor, leaking like blood from the engines. I had grabbed an old broom hung up behind the door, and I brushed at the floor to make a clear spot for the ewe’s body.
“There isn’t much I can do. Can’t use her for meat. Can’t use the wool. It’s a real shame,” he said dejectedly, running his hand through his thinning hair. It was as if the years of wind had slowly ripped it off. All I could hope was that it wouldn’t do the same to my hair. It wasn’t particularly long; I had grown it to around shoulder length, and didn’t want it any longer or shorter.
He stopped grooming his hair and began to walk away from the lamb, probably already working out what he’d lost out on in his head. He was obviously more distraught about the loss of meat and fur than the loss of the lamb’s life. He’d switched on his farmer’s brain, looking at the dead ewe with the cold logic of a veteran farmer. She didn’t serve any purpose, so she was now just a nuisance to him.
“Yeah. It is,” I replied, trying to be just as calm, but unable to look away from the ewe’s vacant eyes. I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that she was watching me, pleading with me from beyond the grave.
“Come on; we still have a lot to do.”
I broke myself away from the ewe’s cold stare. It was going to be a long and gruelling day.
By the time we got back to the house, my fingers were practically blue. I was forever underestimating how cold the wind would be.
I threw myself down on to the rug nearest to the radiator and sent my hands hurtling towards it. My grip tightened as the feeling rushed back into my fingers. I could almost feel them cooking as the heat surged back, reigniting each fingertip. And then the tingling sensation spread through them, popping and fizzling like a log on a fire.
In the background, I could hear the weather forecast coming from the TV in the kitchen.
Now it’s over to the weather where you are—
Hello and good morning. For most of the UK, it’s been extremely blustery this morning, combined with outbreaks of heavy rain and lightning. We’ll be getting a short break from this, as it’ll be mostly sunny and dry for the next day or two, but then we’ll be seeing another weather system moving in that will bring heavy rain and even some thundery showers. People in these affected areas are warned to stay off the roads, as flooding could be an issue in low-lying areas. These showers will stick around for the rest of the week, before finally lifting at the weekend. Now back to the news.
Thank you, Karen. The Prime Minister is expected to speak over allegations of . . .
Summer was definitely over.
I pulled my hands away from the radiator, realising that if they had been steaks, they would have been medium rare by now.
“Isabelle, you’re dripping on the carpet! Go and take your wet clothes off.”
I went to the wet room and pulled at my waterproofs, which seemed intent on staying stuck to my body. As I pulled them off, my nostrils were filled with the familiar smell of damp that came with working on a farm. I hadn’t washed them since the last storm, and so they were covered with blotches of dried mud where the rain hadn’t reached. Small patches fell off like parched skin, dropping to the floor and soaking up small drips of water. They turned from a light beige to a deep dark brown, like the colour of my hair. My socks were soaked through, heavy with rainwater. I pulled them off and threw them into the corner of the room, where they fell with a damp thud, like two slugs falling from a tree.
My T-shirt had been saved by the waterproofs, so I went over to the dryer and stuck my hand in to find a pair of trousers. It was like a lucky dip; I never quite knew what I was going to produce from it. A pair of trousers came out first, followed by one of my dad’s old jumpers. They were too small for him now, so I had adopted them from him.
I popped my arms through the sleeves and then partially dragged it over my head. I stopped and took a deep breath, smelling the freshness of the fabric, enjoying the murky darkness created by the jumper over my eyes. I would do it a lot when I was little, especially when Mum got sick. I’d sit in the laundry room with the jumper over my head and make up stories; I was always in far-off places. It felt like I was inside my own private tent—a safe place that was only for me.
But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stay in there. I pulled the jumper down over my head and made my way to the kitchen. Dad was hunched over the sink, fumbling with a potato peeler. He couldn’t grasp it tightly, and so instead of peeling, he was attacking it, hoping that chunks of skin would come off.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Lamb and potatoes.”
It was pretty much the same every night. Ever since my mum passed away, there hadn’t been a lot of variety in my diet. Our meals were mostly meat and two veg.
“Need any help?”
He begrudgingly passed over the potato and peeler, knowing full well that his arthritic hands were making a mess of it.
“I’ll get the lamb started.”
“Okay.”
* * * * *
An hour later, Dad plonked a plate down in front of me, the meat glistening in the glow of the kitchen light. I looked down at my dinner, for the first time wondering which ewe this had been cut from. And then I realised something. I realised that it felt new and strange, as if I were looking at it with fresh eyes, like it was the first time I’d ever seen meat.
And then I heard it.
It was far off, but the sound of a screeching animal was suddenly audible in the kitchen. Whatever it was, it sounded like it was in pain, like the times of the feral dog attacks. A few seconds of silence succeeded, ushering in an ominous feeling.
And then it came again, louder this time. It sounded helpless, as if it feared for its life.
“Can you hear that?” I whispered, my voice harsh in the calmness of the kitchen.
“Hear what?” my dad questioned in a confused tone, having been engrossed in his dinner.
“Shhh!”
“Isabelle—”
“There! That! Can’t you hear it? It sounds like the sheep screaming!” I yelled as the sound reached an excruciating level.
“You can hear the sheep?”
Barely a second had passed before he jumped up from his seat. It was like watching a fireman who’d just smelt smoke.
“Stay here; I’ll go and check up on them.”
He rushed outside as quickly as he could, making sure to grab his gun, which was kept near the back door. A few minutes later, he lumbered back into the kitchen, dragging the gun behind him. There was a concerned look painted across his face, which only seemed to grow worse as he looked over at me as I frantically looked around, trying to find the source of the sheep’s scream.
“Isabelle, the sheep are fine. They’re all out there, safe and sound.”
“Oh . . . Maybe something spooked them?” I asked, hoping to seem less crazy than I looked.
“Maybe . . . Get eating; you don’t want your food to go cold.”
“Okay.”
Minutes passed in an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of wind rattling the back door. I started to relax, passing off the sounds as a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. It had been a long and emotional day, especially because of the death of the ewe.