Gavin Turner

Content Warning

mental decline, assault/ stabbing

I gather the woolly blankets around my stiffening shoulders and poke at the chars in the grate. Not even an ember left till morning. The howls outside keep me indoors, in my chair, and besides, I haven’t the strength to manipulate those door bolts again. There is something out there in the darkness, I forget what you call it. The howling thing, in the yard. The small radio tells me of occasional roadblocks and impasses. Yesterday it was all gloom and doom as well. I suppose it will be tomorrow. Blocks and impasses, doom and gloom. I don’t know why I don’t switch the damn thing off. I will write it down soon, when I find my pencil and the paper, turn off the radio, make the fire.

Making the fire is a bad idea. The smoke will curl into the air from the chimney and draw attention. They would know I was here then. Never return to a lit fire. Work, work, work hard all my life to be stuck in this place on my own. I can never get warm from the fire. It’s out you see, in the grate if you look at it properly. It’s not in, it’s out. Someone stole my matches, or they are about here somewhere. 

I light the gas on the stove and start the fire that way, with a piece of paper I found. An old shopping list, I think. I fold it up,  light it and put the frogs on the liar and sit down. The logs on the fire I mean.  I chewed on the bony end of the cold beef joint for breakfast. Still, the fire is warm, but I never get warmed by the fire. There will be smoke that will draw attention, white smoke, the coming of the new Pope, the howling thing. But maybe, it won’t come. Maybe they won’t know I am here. I set two places at the table like always. I remember the names of some of them, the people who would come and help and light the fire and make the beef. I wrote them down on a piece of paper I have here somewhere. There are always empty places at the table. I put the paper next to the pencil on the nest of tables. My eyeballs ache and the lids sting when I close them. I must sit and rest just for a few seconds; maybe a few seconds longer. 

I have been watching at the window for so long now. I feel as if the day must break soon. I don’t always seem to know my place here. I know it and then I don’t. I can see the outline of the moon. I see the abandoned nests in the tables, swaying in the breeze. Trees, write that down, trees, not tables. Find the paper first, and the pencil. Wait for them to come. Wait for the people to come.

I cannot stand thievery. If I took something from the land, I found a way to repay it. If someone wanted something from me, I expected they would exchange for it. Not that I have so much now, a few sheep and cattle, some chickens. I keep them out there in the place with the swinging creak, with the bolts and the locks. When my things went missing, from the barn, it’s a barn out there, write that down, I was determined to catch them. Don’t betray the hunter, you may end up in his pot, he whispered to himself. Part of a song you see – Pa had taught me sat on his knee, we used to kneel, by the grate, his name was Neil. I had asked around, last time I was down in the village, but it was no use, they didn’t know him. They didn’t know me anymore. They just told their old wives’ tales to each other and hid in their houses at night. 

I have an old wife; she plays hide and seek in the dark. I don’t know where she is hiding right now, but it is not here, I looked. My father hunted these lands for years. If there was anything up here, he would have seen it by now, my Pa. I want my Pa back. I remember they were taking my things, moving them around, hiding them.  They hid my Pa from me, in the ground, in the box in the ground. After that day at Cowpers cave.

Solitude has a way of mulling over your thoughts, painting them into your dreams, till sometimes, at night, you might just start to wonder how natural the world really is. I think something is happening to me. My thoughts don’t feel like they belong to me. They feel scattered. Nothing makes sense today, or maybe that was yesterday when it didn’t make sense. I must light the fire once I find my pencil. I remember the doctor came and said something about this, blocks and impasses reached, doom and gloom. I remember Sarah’s face; she showed me her scared face. I remember.

They had come for the animals again; I was sure of it. Two chickens lost in the last three days, and one of the yard cats no longer seemed to be around. It was old though, and they meandered off to die I am told. Perhaps it was cattle and not a cat that went missing. I don’t remember having a cat, so I must be wrong there. I took the pocketknife from my jacket, to check it was still there. My fingers hurt. They are too numb with cold to work the rusty blade. I check it is fully closed again and grip it in my fist. Wipe the wet rust off my hands, warm them on the fire. Must make a fire. I just wanted to scare those thieves away, that was all. Just a little scare. The door is bolted shut; time for blood, time for bed. Maybe it wasn’t rust on the knife; it was blood. Write that down, I need to find my paper and the pencil. But I burned the paper on the fire, didn’t I? Oh, I need my Pa, paper.

I awoke alone this morning, I am not sure where Sarah is, my wife. She must have gone out to feed the animals at some point as that is one of her chores in the morning. There was no breakfast on the table and the fire was out. I will just wait for her to return. I must not fall asleep; I must try and remember to wait for Sarah. My name is Bryn, and I am sitting here waiting for my wife Sarah to return.

The bell chimes just once and l saw a shadow slip back into the dark recesses of the wall. Lungs ready to burst with brackish breath, waiting for a signal from me inside the cottage. I have been watching with my eyes shut for three days now. Nothing but the rub of cold stone against greenish toad skins. They reach into the mortar between the stones, rub the moss between long fingers to bring them good luck and continue along their way. 

In the distance I could hear the howls of the thieves. The same howl I heard at Cowpers cave when the tide came in and Pa showed me his scared face for the first time. Now the howling is outside the door, but I’ve bolted it and I don’t have the strength to open it again. The chair by the fire was empty. Not my chair, the other chair. There was something I had to do. It was important. 

A single clock chime was enough to wake me from this half slumber. I slide open the window and climb through. I keep close to the wall alongside the cottage till I can see around the corner. Just near the spot where I had placed the fishing wire trap. Then it chimes again, and I hear another howl. I wipe my eyes with the paper, trying to stay fully awake. I wasn’t sure if this was real or not. The darkness surrounds me in lost thoughts. Some nights I feel as if I am a single page in the middle of a long-closed book.

I just wanted to scare those thieves away, just a little scare, show them my pocketknife. I will write their names down and show it to a policeman. But I left my pencil in the nest, under the table trees. I will just have to scare them a little, I will follow them into the barn.

Peering through the crack in the barn doorway I could see the animal stalls and all the animals in them. By rough count all seemed to be there. As I opened the door I saw where the howling had been coming from. It was Sarah in the barn. I was so surprised to see her, lying on the cold smooth cobble. She was howling and she was bleeding. I could not understand her words. She was just howling and howling. I asked what had happened. 

She just said, “You Bryn, you Bryn”. 

That was me, I am Bryn. “Yes, it’s me,” I said, “your Bryn, I’m here, did you fall? What happened?”

“No Bryn,” she said, “you did this. I’ve been here for hours, get an ambulance”. She was covered in wet rust, like on my pocketknife. She was breathing strangely; her breath was brackish and the skin on her hands was green from the moss on the cobbles. I knew what I must do, go to the house, write it down, ambulance, find my pencil, write it down.

It is quieter now. I listened again to see if I could hear the bells attached to the fishing wire. Despite the breeze I could not hear anything. Thank goodness the howling has stopped now. The fire was out. No light to be found inside. I checked the door was bolted. I found some paper on the nest, the table, next to the pencil. Light a fire with the paper. I think it was a shopping list, it said, matches, pencils, ambulance. I think Sarah must have written it out, or maybe Pa. But that can’t be right. Pa is in the box, showing his scared face and Sarah, well Sarah must be outside, playing hide and seek again. I will set places at the table, light the fire. I am sure she will be in soon. I gather the blankets round my stiffening shoulders and poke at the chars in the grate.

Gavin Turner is a writer from Wigan. His short stories and poems are published with Punk Noir, Dark Horses, Roi Faineant and JAKE. He has published two poetry collections, The Round Journey (2022) and A mouthful of space dust (2023).

Connect with Gavin

• X
• Bluesky