Ross Raisin - Gods Own Country

I could see the outline of her now. She’d come to a fork in the path and stopped, hmm, which one was it, someone’s moved the sweet papers. I slowed up, ready to duck to the floor, but she didn’t look round, she was on the move again, thinking to herself, now, what am I going to tell them? Thought I’d go on a little holiday for a few days, get away from it all, see the countryside — really, you shouldn’t have worried. Chickenhead lifts an eyebrow. Did you now? And what were you thinking, bringing him with you? You don’t know what that boy’s capable of. But I didn’t know any of that, I’d not heard about Katie Carmichael. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known that. Well, anyway, it’s all over now, there’ll be nothing to worry about once you’re back in London, thank God.

I stalked half a mile behind, chewing on a sarnie. She’d not ate or drank anything since the day before, far as I knew, I was capped she had the strength for it, the speed she was keeping. Most folk would be done for by now, not an inch of wick left in them, lagged out on the heather with the worms gathering round waiting for the end. Not far now, she was thinking. She’d be home by night at this crack, the banners fluttering above the gate — welcome home! now let’s get that bastard, lankenstein! — Lionel barking himself daft, Chickenhead crying buckets. We’ve been so worried about you, darling, we were expecting the worst, she says, the eyes gleaming with tears, watching as the wriggling head of a maggot pokes its way out the mushroom. Ey up, lads, I’m through! Follow me. Chickenhead bluthering away. Butch up, would you, what do you think it’s going to do — bite you? It’s a mention of protein, is all, you daft trull, you’re lucky I didn’t do anything worse, injected them with blowfly vaccine, then you’d be crying, right enough. There was a droning noise far off, a fighter jet, taken off from the base at Leeming Bar, out on a practice flight. A grey plume showed its path as it began a circuit of the Moors, waking all the idlebacks still slumbering in bed. She’d stopped to watch it too, and I started into a jog. The jet was tearing across the sky — there’s the Dales look, glossy green hillocks rolling to the west, and the farm down there, Sal working the flock glancing up to check if Father’s about to belt her. She was running, I had to laugh at that. Did she think she could outleg me? No food since yesterday and she thought she could outleg me. The rucksack was bobbing up, down, she kept looking round every while, glegged me gaining on her, but she kept straight on, like an animal running in front of a vehicle, fixed on its course. It wasn’t long until she started flagging, and I clasped an arm round her, pulling her toward me with the rucksack buffering against my front. It’s all right now, it’s all right, but she was flailing her arms behind her, scratching at my face, the hot scorch of a nail dragging across my cheek. Hush up, I told her, hush up. She wouldn’t listen, though, they could hear her in Whitby, she was beldering that loud, hush up, I had to clout her round the jaw to make her stop. She lay on the ground a time, curled in a ball with the lip wibbling. I looked about, making sure no one had seen us, then I rooted in my bag for a decent-looking sarnie. She’d feel better when she’d ate something, I told her.

She’d finished struggling, so we sat on us bags nice and peaceable with a prawn sarnie and a pork pie on the ground between us. She looked tired. All the dander had gone out of her — I told her she should have a kip, get her strength up. She wasn’t listening, mind. She sat, sluffened, not touching the food I’d gave her. Now, I said, lively as I could, you can’t goat around any more, things are serious now. Then I learnt her the sightlier parts of the newspaper article, and she lifted her head up, seemed I’d snared her attention at last. They know about us robbing the shop in Garside, I explained, there’s police all over looking for us, so we have to tread careful, you can’t go taking off like that any more. Do you understand me? It was like chiding a puppy for being naughty — she looked up at me with big eyes brimful with guilt and nodded. I smiled at her. Don’t worry, I’m not angry at you, I’m glad I found you, is all, we can get back on track now. Thinking caps on, eh — we need a plan. She smiled back, and I thought she’d forgave me for hitting her, but it was all a show, I found out then. I turned round to scan the land, and next I knew she was fetching me a sharp kick in the knackers and legging it away. I watched, crumpled on the floor, pain firing through my nethers, as she bolted off.

She only got a couple hundred yards before I caught her up and tackled her to the ground. I held her down, our faces close together, as she hissed and floundered like a bust tyre. What’d I told you? What’d I told you, eh? I had to be firm with her, it was the only way, she had to stop behaving daft. I kept her pinned, waiting to see if she’d say anything, but she had her head turned sideways, she wouldn’t look on me.

I knelt up, letting go, and she quieted, lying with her eyes open staring out across the heather. Come on, then, I said, and after a moment she got up and walked over to the bags with me, at heel, I didn’t have to hold on to her. Course, she couldn’t be trusted yet, though, not while she was in this mood. I was right, being firm with her. That was why I had to keep her penned secure. I unfastened one of the longer straps from my rucksack and tied her hands together behind her back, careful not to hurt her wrist in case it was still sore. Then we set off walking, and I was glad she’d learnt she was best keeping peaceful, she didn’t try bolting or anything stupid, though I could mark her fidgeting at the strap whenever I glegged away, and the waterworks came on a couple times, no matter she pretended otherwise when I turned to look on her.

She wanted to know where we were going. Best hiding place on the Moors, I said — the Hole of Horcum. She asked me what the fuck was that. Likely she thought I was taking her to some giant well, the way the name sounded, we were going to hide out with the frogs, bats flackering about us faces in the dark. The Hole of Horcum, I told her, is a dip in the land — a crater a mile wide full of ditches and crags and patches of forest. She kept quiet. I tried making talk a couple of times afterward — looks like we’re in for a champion summer, and the like — but she was on conversation strike, she didn’t speak a word the next hour as we traipsed south, over Rosedale and Wheeldale Moors, past Cropton Forest, toward the Hole. The only thing she spoke was that she wasn’t hungry, when I asked her if she’d have a bite to eat. Course not, I said, joking with her, you only ate recent, didn’t you, what was it, a day ago? She didn’t answer. She’d have to eat soon, I knew, else she’d pass out, but I wasn’t going to argue with her, because it’d just make her worse.

We’d both have a proper feed soon anyhow, when we got to Whitby. Fish and chips on the seafront, claggy with vinegar, and a mighty dollop of steaming mushy peas. That’d sort the job. And just as I was thinking it, she started talking again. It was the queerest yet, it all came out in a rush so fast I could hardly mark what she was saying, she was like a tree branch snagged on a riverbank, sudden broke free into the current. Yes, the lambs would be all born by now, I answered her, no, they had a while yet before they were ready for selling. She quickened her pace as we nattered on.

I thought, this is what it’ll be like, us pair chattering away like budgerigars, not bothering about anybody but usselves. I felt so bruff, thinking about it, I could’ve leapt a drystone wall.