Nicola Barker - Wide Open

“Who is that? Will he be OK to drive me back there?”

Lily nodded. “He’s Nathan. He’s very obliging.”

“Hi. I’m Sara,” she said, sliding into the front passenger seat.

“Hello,” Nathan nodded, bemusedly.

Lily clambered into the back, settling the box on to her lap again. “She’s my mother,” Lily observed darkly, “and her gun’s loaded.”

Nathan merely smiled.

“She wants you to drive us back to where we saw the fat man before.”

Sara’s head turned. “Which fat man?”

Nathan set the car into reverse.

“Which fat man, Lily?”

Lily groaned. “That fat slug from the prefabs. Mr Fish.”

“Luke?”

“He was after some cigarettes. We offered him a lift but he said he’d just as soon walk.”

“And this was before or after you saw the boar?”

“Uh…” Lily focused on the ceiling, “I forget which.”

Nathan glanced nervously at Sara and then at Lily in the rear-view mirror. She didn’t make eye contact. He put the car into first gear and moved off. After a few seconds he said, “I’ll need directions.”

“Of course,” Sara reached out her hand and turned down the radio, “head straight on.”

Before long the car’s lights picked out the Volvo and Connie, crouched on all fours next to it, searching the ground for something.

“Stop for a second.”

Sara wound down her window. As they approached Connie straightened up, like a weasel. But she didn’t stand. She remained on her knees.

“What’s going on?” Sara asked, as they drew level. “Did something happen here?”

Connie was soaked and her face looked scratched and haggard. “No,” she said, “nothing happened.”

She seemed dazed. She was holding the car keys. They were covered in mud. She inspected her hands with a slight look of distaste.

“Then get back into the Volvo and return to the farm. Lily saw the boar near the main road. We’re just going back there.”

Connie’s expression remained vague. Her eyes slid past Sara and glanced deeper into the car. In the darkness she saw Nathan. Her eyes widened. “Nathan?”

Before anything else could be said, Nathan pulled off with a small skid. The car kangarooed. Sara jerked forward. Lily grunted, enraged, from the back seat. He quickly readjusted his foot over the clutch and then drove on.

Sara wound up her window. “Do take care,” she said tersely, “I’m holding a firearm.”

“Yes. Of course. Sorry. It’s just that…it’s just…” Nathan took a deep breath. “I’m Ronny’s brother,” he said softly, all in a rush, feeling like this was a truly incredible admission. “I’m his brother.”

“Really?” Sara spoke. She was simply filling in conversational spaces. Her eyes were ransacking the darkness.

Nathan switched the windscreen wipers from slow to fast. He checked his rear-view mirror. Lily’s eyes met his in the glass. And they were tight eyes. They were mean old monkey eyes.

Jim approached the prefabs on numb, heavily sodden feet, wearing the dark like a big, black wrap around him. Everything here conspired to keep him a secret. The weather — it was windy and raining harder again — the sound of the waves, the sheets of heavy grey cloud in the sky which expunged the moon and all but the most steely and persistent of the stars.

The other buildings were, without exception, in total darkness. Only his prefab’s sharp angles were defined by the bleak glow of an electric bulb. Jim saw that Ronny had constructed a system of lighting to accompany his creative project by pulling an anglepoise lamp through the bedroom window and dangling it upside down from the sill. Its weight was supported only by its wire and the plug, which, by every indication, seemed to be pulling loose, because the light generated was of such a feeble quality; like a bad stutter or a fast blink.

But nothing deterred Ronny. He worked instinctively, slapping on the plaster with his small, silver-handled trowel, thinning it out, smoothing it down, dipping his hands, first into one bag, then another. He was applying the shells in tightly choreographed circles. On the wall in front of him, a crazy lichen was growing and adhering and enveloping.

Jim drew gradually closer until eventually he was sheltered from the worst of the elements in the lee of the building. He was so near to Ronny now that he could hear the rattle and pant of his breathing.

Every so often, Ronny would pause, stop what he was doing and rub at his eyes. But his fingers were coated in plaster, in sand and in salt from the shells. After a while he yanked up his T-shirt and rubbed hard at his whole face with it.

Jim saw Ronny’s ribs, all clearly articulated and distinct, protruding like half a dozen slim book spines. He struggled against the impulse to reach out his fingers to grasp and withdraw one of these small pale volumes. Ronny released the fabric of his T-shirt, bent down to pick up the trowel and then paused. “So where did you get to?”

He didn’t turn as he spoke.

Jim was taken aback. He’d supposed himself invisible.

“A walk.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“You sounded…uh…” Ronny couldn’t summon up the word.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just didn’t want to disturb you.”

“The trowel. See the tip? I saw your head reflected in it. At first I thought you were the moon.”

Ronny chuckled at this idea, and the light punctuated his amusement by turning off and then on again.

Jim frowned. “I think the light’s…”

It went.

“Even in the dark,” Ronny muttered, “I still have this red glow in the centre of my eyes.”

Jim saw the grey outline of Ronny’s head and arm. He was vigorously rubbing his eyes again.

“A red glow?”

Jim grabbed hold of the lamp and yanked at its wire. The plug came free and he felt the fitment’s full weight in his hand.

“I was staring into the sun this afternoon and now I have this red glow.”

“In both eyes?”

“I don’t know. How would I tell?”

“Close one eye at a time.”

“But the light’s still there when I close them.”

While Ronny spoke, Jim turned and peered out into the darkness.

“Did you hear something?” he asked softly. “Can you see anything?”

Ronny turned. “I see splotches. Red ones.”

“For quite a while now I’ve just had this feeling…” Jim was almost whispering, “my hackles…”

Ronny dusted the sand off his hands on to the front of his trousers.

“I thought only dogs had those. And wolves.”

“Yes…” Jim was vague and prickly.

“And cats…”

Before Ronny could complete what he was saying, a distant rumble of thunder precipitated a wild, honking squeal, higher in pitch than the thunder’s low grumble, but much closer by and infinitely more affecting.

Jim swore, threw the lamp randomly out into the darkness — another grunt followed, more confused, less alarmed — then yanked Ronny up and dragged him at full pelt down between the prefabs. They turned sharply and rushed straight in through the front door. Jim slammed it shut behind them and reached out his hand for the light switch, but Ronny stopped him, panting. “Leave it off…”

As he spoke, he felt his way to the window, pulled back the nets and peered out. Jim stayed where he was. “Did something follow us?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t see it then?”

“No. But…”

Ronny’s voice was suddenly hushed and awestruck. Jim could see his hand waving in the darkness, beckoning him over. Jim pulled off his wet shoes and then joined him by the window. It was a small window, dirtied by salt and ocean spray. The tide had gone out a little but the wind played with the waves like a rough hand tousling a child’s curls. Just their white tips were visible; rushing, mounting, toppling, crashing.