Fiction |
PASSENGERSIt’s when I look back at the house I see him. The curtains in the annex wide open, him standing centred in the window. Alabaster hair. Pale-ash skin. Fat purpled lips. Staring. Staring. Staring. Without thinking I start running, running away from the house into the dark, flat fields as fast as my work brogues will take me. A hazy plan forms to reach the river, follow it down as far as I can, back to bright lights: a new housing estate, a road, a petrol station, the bridge itself. At the edge of the fields I reach an old cycle path, glance back for the first time as I scale a fence. My stomach drops when I see he’s following me—running too, perhaps half a field away. Just aim for the bridge, the red strips upon the water.
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GIVE A DOG A BONEI wanted the sun to come out, to dry up all the rain so I could go out and play on the hillside, instead of being stuck indoors. That side of the hill was always green and welcoming. Familiar. This side is cold and black, burnt by a forest fire that marched its way to the top before the firefighters smothered it. The sun is disappearing behind it now, turning late afternoon into evening. The drizzle has turned heavy.
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