Ross Raisin - Gods Own Country

Bloody hell, they’ve not much of an appetite, the tourists, there’s plenty left in these, some of them are hardly touched. But Hobble-Hop wasn’t listening, he was busy slotching down a chip. I found a couple of boxes that weren’t too bent, and I collected up the remains from six or seven others, shaking them into the good boxes, peeling off the batter where it’d clagged on the sides.

She was awake when I got home. She looked knackered still. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the sand had rubbed a pink patch on her cheek. I untied her from the leashes and put the fish boxes on the sand in front of her. I was something surprised when, after staring at them a moment, she started eating. Not a mighty amount, only a couple of mouthfuls, but enough it’d help get her fettle back up. When we’d done eating, I put the leftovers in a corner, and tied her up again, hands behind her back, and just one leash this time, round her ankle, now I had the rope. It was a gradely job — tighter, firmer, but a longer tether, so she had more room to move about. We sat quiet the rest the day, listening to the waves lash the beach, except for I went out once to fill up the water bottles from a stream, and had a small explore, investigating in rock pools and stalking the limpets.

We lay more snug together that night. I pressed in close against her back and, when I thought she was asleep, I put the arm over, resting my hand on her belly. We stayed like that most the night, warmth breeding between us, the tickle of her hair on my face.

♦

In the morning, before she woke, I took her rucksack outside and opened it up. There wasn’t much in it, just a couple of shirts and no underwear and another pair of jeans. I rooted around a minute until I found the bracelet, then I went back indoors and put the rucksack where it’d been. Her eyes were open. She must’ve seen I’d took it out, but it didn’t seem her brain was switched on yet, she didn’t shift her stare on the wall. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her I was off out again.

It was darker today, a mizzle coming in off the sea, filming my skin with wet. There was a greasing of mud on the cliff path, and I had to mind as I walked along I didn’t slip. For a moment I imagined a crowd of people on the beach, ogling for a sight of my broken body, lying dead on the rocks. A helicopter, blasting a circle of sand as it lowered down, the crowd parting as men in bright-orange jackets jogged out, none of them knowing there was another body not far off, hid in the dark, slowly rotting, the bone beginning to jut through and seagulls squabbling outside the entrance, attracted by the smell. That was enough of them thoughts, though. Today was going to be champion, the best yet.

Whitby wasn’t so busy as the day before, owing to the weather. These tourists here today, walking unsteady along the cobbles, were likely here for the week. They looked bored enough, trudging round in their anoraks. There wasn’t a week’s worth of shops to goggle at, a single afternoon and you were done in, wondering why Dracula ever bothered coming here. Not me, though, not today, I was all attention, marching up and down on the lookout for something better than a fish clock. A jewellery shop, that was what I was after, and it didn’t take much searching until I found one. Abbey Jeweller’s — purveyors of fine Whitby jet . They weren’t glibbing and all. The glishy black stones were set into most the items in the window — rings, earrings, necklaces, they looked proper sightly on the female with no body, her white neck smooth and firm as a birch trunk. How do you fancy a bite of that, Mr Dracula? Oh she’s attractive, there’s no argument, but I prefer something a little fleshier, myself.

I went inside and a bell rung above my head. There was no one in the shop, and I felt sudden I should leave but before I had chance there was a female at the counter. She had a great smile on her, which sagged and wilted as she took me in, looking me up and down.

Can I help you?

I set the bracelet on the counter. She studied it a moment, then she rolled her eyes slow back up to my face, as if I’d just placed a turd before her.

It’s bent, I said. It needs fixing. She was looking at me, the raggy jacket with muck smeared down it, my face black as a miner, clots of cack stuck to my boots that I was likely treading into her carpet.

But when she’d done inspecting me she smiled, proper friendly, and picked up the bracelet.

Who’s it for?

My girlfriend.

Well then, she felt the kink in the metal, I suppose I’d best see what I can do. She put it on a shelf behind her. I stiffened up then, because I knew she was going to tell me a price, and I didn’t want to tell her I’d no money and I’d have to pay her later, she’d been so friendly. She must’ve seen what I was thinking, though, because she smiled again and said, there’s no charge for that, dear. Come back in an hour and I’ll have it ready for you.

I was smiling like a half-brain when I came out that shop. There was a young couple outside, holding hands, looking at the jewellery. See — not all folk are bastards, eh, there’s some of them are proper friendly, if you look hard enough. But they must’ve thought I was one of the bastards, for they sidled away fair sharpish. Not that I gave a stuff. I had an hour, so I went down to the pier — and who was there? My old mate, Hobble-Hop. He had a fat chip sticking out his beak.

Mornin’.

Mornin’.

I told him what’d happened at the jeweller’s, while I pulled boxes out the dustbin, collecting handfuls of wasted food into an unbent one. Do you think that bald sod would’ve said something similar, do you? Don’t worry, Lankenstein, there’s no charge for them beans — they’re on me, they are. I might not’ve thrown it through his window if he’d said that, the glibbing bastard. I tossed a decent piece of fish to Hobble-Hop and he stumbled after, necking it in one. Looks painful, that leg does, feller. He angled a look at me, the gammy leg dangling useless above the ground. It gives me some jip sometimes, you’re right. Any more fish? I fingered through the waste to find him a tasty bite. Someone had thrown away a toy plastic Dracula. He was trying to climb out of a crisp packet. I tell you, the things people will chuck, eh, and I wiped the slutherment off with my sleeve, pocketing him as I threw a bit of battered sausage on to the ground. Anyhow, Hobble-Hop, much as I enjoy our natters, I’ve got to be picking the bracelet up soon, so I’ll see you later. He watched me turn to leave, the head cocked, wondering if I had another piece of fish for him. I laughed. He was certain bone idle, old Hobble-Hop.

She’d done a grand job, the woman in the shop, she hadn’t just straightened out the dent, she’d buffed up the whole thing so it looked better than ever, better than it looked when he got it her. I thanked her, three or four times, and I was about to leave when she said, can I get you something to eat, dear? I’ve some sandwiches left over in the back here. But I told her, no, thank you. She didn’t know I had the box of fish and chips hid under my jacket.

It was a gradely view from the cliff top. All the fishing boats out at sea, small dark clouds following behind them, gull flocks, scavenging after the nets. There were no liners, mind, or cargo ships. Seemed Whitby was all fishing. I wasn’t flowtered, though, because I had a new plan — we’d steal a boat. That way we could go wherever we fancied, we’d sail about and land someplace and move on when we got bored. We could go on day trips, anyplace she wanted, all she had to do was say where. I was coming down the snickleway path from the cliff, shaping my plan, when I heard voices on the beach. I turned round and made back for the cliff top to belly down and peer over the edge at who it was. Ramblers. Four of them, sat lined up with their backs against the cliff, a heap of anoraks piled on the sand aside them as they basked their chops toward the sun. They were close to the house, other side the rock jetty, almost in earshot of her.