Dust kicky on a path, under a big heat, Mother led Sheila into a field. They pitched the tent. Each familiar with particular tasks. Mother, connecting carbon poles, Sheila, untying guy lines and lining pegs. The sun bossed a sea sky. Sheila sipped from a water bottle.

‘We can top up at the stream,’ said mother.

‘I hear it.’ She tucked her vest into her shorts. ‘How did you know it was there?’

‘We camped here before.’


‘Your third birthday.’

‘That was ages ago.’

‘Four years isn’t so long. Feels like yesterday to me.’

‘Was daddy with us?’

‘It was his idea. He loved the outdoors with you.’

‘He called me sweet bird. Always said it.’

‘He waited a long time for you. Few women have a baby at forty.’

Tent fixed, sleeping bags set inside, Sheila spread a blanket on the grass. Mother uncorked a flask and poured two beakers of tea. They sat on the blanket, glad the pitching was done.

‘Wish I had a cold drink,’ said Sheila.

‘Tea is good. Cools you down.’


‘Something to do with sweating.’

‘I’m sweaty enough.’

Mother bunched her hair. ‘There’s a pool nearby.’

‘Can we go?’

‘Let’s rest a bit,’ she said, and lay on her back and sunbathed.

Sheila watched the woodland. Quiet trees. She scanned leaf furry canopies. Something about there pulled her. A nice belly turn feel.

Deep afternoon, mother cooked them rice and raisins on the gas burner. They ate and drank and changed into bathing suits and followed the stream to the pool.

Mother toe dipped the water. ‘It’s warm.’

‘How warm?’ Sheila lingered on the grass.


‘What’s tepid?’

‘Lovely.’ She held Sheila’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’

They waded into the pond, lime leotards shiny with sun. Sheila bent to sit. Hesitated.

‘Don’t worry, dear. It’s shallow.’

She sat and the wake caressed her chest. ‘It’s like a bath.’

Mother clapped the surface and Sheila laughed and turned away from the spray. She saw an overflow in the rocks. ‘Mum, the waterfall.’

‘You remember.’

‘I was on daddy’s shoulder.’

‘So you were.’

‘He told me to hold my nose. We sat under the fall.’

Mother pointed at a granite shelf. ‘You sat there with me.’

‘We played a game.’

‘The leaping mermaid.’ Mother sank on her knees. ‘You jumped into your father’s arms.’

‘I remember. I do.’

‘I hoped you would. It was a perfect day.’

‘Wish daddy was here now.’

‘Me too, baby.’

After the pool they picked brambles, feeding from the bush. Near dusk, mother filled bottles at the stream and headed to the tent. They settled on the blanket and soaked night’s slow fall.

‘Feel better?’ Mother brushed her hair.

‘Much,’ said Sheila, applying lotion to her leg.

‘Mind and do your face.’

‘Why do I have to use it every hour?’

‘Fry like a pancake if you didn’t.’

‘It’s so stuffy.’

‘Humid,’ said mother. ‘My hair’s sticky.’

‘A breeze would be nice.’

‘It’s the hottest July on record.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Heard on the radio.’

‘Listen, mum. A cukoo.’

‘So it is.’

‘Thought you only heard them in the morning.’

‘It’s a bedtime song.’

‘Is it?’

‘Listen for yourself. It’s been here since April. Flew from Africa.’

‘Why did it leave Africa? It could see elephants all day.’

‘Visiting it’s Scottish cousins.’


‘You went to Cornwall to visit your cousins, didn’t you.’

‘I loved it there,’ said Sheila, her eyes lit.

‘The cuckoo loves Loch Lomond.’

‘Not in winter, I’ll bet.’

‘Oh no. Be long back in Africa by then.’ Mother opened the soup flask. ‘Tribal hunters trap cuckoos there. Keep them in cages. They believe it makes springtime eternal.’

‘That’s stupid. The hunters should be kept in a cage.’

‘I agree.’

‘Can’t hear it now.’

‘Probably sleeping. I love twilight when it’s hot.’

Sheila woke in the tent. Mother’s sleep breath was loud. Nighttime far cast. She lay darkswept thinking over her dream. She had dreamed of hovering above the woods, stepping treetops, leaves licking her feet. She rose from her sleeping bag and crawled to the door and unzipped the mesh and stepped barefoot onto the field. She strode toward the trees, tasting nettle air, her white gown lunar aglow.

Moonlight bronzed the trees. She skipped through the stream, up a moss bank, down over cobs of oak root, fired on intuition. On a grassrise she touched the oak. Beyond the tree an acorn path wound uphill. Hilltop the moon dunked a crest as if fallen from the sky. A silhouette figure came over the hill, longshadow down the slope, moving slither, like a hunter snake.

Sheila climbed the oak and sat on a bough.

He halted an arm stretch under her and reached and scratched her toe. ‘Missy.’ His fingers were lean and bristled. Noduled like twigs.

Sheila pulled her foot. ‘Mum’s in the tent.’

‘Sound as the dead, I’d wage.’ His eyes blinked glinty, black bloat. Like fat leeches. ‘What about father?’

‘Daddy got sick. He’s in heaven.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’


‘Father’s have a spot for their fillies. A protective thingy.’

‘I’m his sweet bird.’

‘WERE his sweet bird.’

Her fingernails strained into the bark. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Depends on the occasion.’ Ham lips pursed and popped. ‘Tonight it’s Mr Swain.’

‘Why are you out late at night?’

‘I was about to ask you that.’

‘Asked first.’

‘I was checking on something.’ He bent and slapped his thigh. ‘Horsey my back. I’ll show you.’

‘I like it up here.’

‘Missy.’ He thin stood and kicked the trunk. Oval toe’d boot hurting the bark. ‘Ol oaky here’ s a cripple. Scabby as a turnip.’

‘It’s a grandfather tree.’

‘Who told you that?’


‘Did he mention gramps is choked in bugs?’

‘No he’s not.’

‘Come on down.’


‘So I can have a closer look.’

Sheila shuffled along the bough. ‘Are you bad?’

‘Why ask that?’

‘You don’t smile. And your eyes are funny.’

‘Trick of the dark.’

‘But it’s bright here.’ She waved at the celestial splatter surrounding the oak.

‘Is that why you chose this tree?’ His eyes shrunk to worm slits. ‘Because of the light.’

‘Not just that.’

‘What else?’

She pointed to the base of the trunk. He crouched and read an engraved scrawl – Daddys sweet bird.

‘Daddy’s rot rotten,’ he muttered.


He skinny straightened, scuffing his hands. ‘Daddy’s not forgotten.’

‘We had a picnic under the tree. I remembered in the tent.’

‘Marvellous.’ He squatted and thigh spanked. ‘Daddy hop here. Tell me about it.’

‘I can say from here.’

‘Hmm,’ he groaned, rising more skinny. ‘I tasted you.’

‘You mean a smell.’

‘Yerp. Ate it on the moor. Got my nose wet.’

‘What do I smell like then?’


‘I know what that means.’

‘You do.’

‘It’s a way of saying clean.’

‘Rosy clean.’

‘I still don’t want to come down.’

‘Then I’ll come up to you.’

A man in a shirt, fresh with youth, stepped barefoot from behind a beech. ‘Mr Swain,’ he said and lifted an acorn. ‘You’re grounded. Mind.’

‘Missy is stuck.’ He thumbprod his chest. ‘I gave a hand.’

The man opened a lock knife. Peeled the acorn like it was an apple. ‘She has my hand.’

‘I know that stench. You’re a long way from base.’

‘Not so far.’ His bare heel stamped the soil. ‘Consecrated.’

Mr Swain hissed and sucked and blew, uprooting grass and shrubs, scattering leaves. ‘Druid pits,’ he shouted.

‘Ours.’ The man wagged a blessing.

Sheila cuddled a branch. ‘Who are you?’ she said to the man.

‘He’s smoke,’ said Mr Swain. ‘Bog fog.’

‘There are laws,’ said the man.

‘Laws are for barristers and monks.’

‘And tyrants.’

‘Preach your puke to the gullible.’

‘She’s a child. Not for you.’

‘Who says? You with your beatified toy.’

‘She’s not your type. You know that.’

‘Turd gob.’ A rodent scurried in the undergrowth. ‘You stink of nepotism.’

The man stepped sure closer. ‘A friend once told me, better to run humble than to battle and tumble.’

‘A savant rant. Pally was an oaf. Like you, fog.’

‘Better the mist in your pit, SWAIN. Easy you there than here.’

Mr Swain took a backward step. Black eyes vacant. Void of courage or fear. Corpse emotion.

The man walked nearer. ‘Aren’t you tired of malice?’

‘I have berthed in your lodge. All that lint.’

‘Your pew remains empty. A token of your spite.’

‘I’m here by choice.’

The man sliced the acorn in half. ‘You have a choice now.’

Sheila shook the leafy branch. ‘Mr Swain.’

He spun to face her, fingers stretched on his hip, spine arched like a supple vine. ‘What grates you, missy?’

‘I don’t think you’re bad.’


‘You’re sad. That’s why you don’t smile.’

‘Ha,’ he said and faced the man. ‘Fruity, isn’t she.’

The man knew him a thinker. Scholar of deception. Impartial to chance unless a back was turned. He asserted his advantage. ‘You’ll be down the road then.’

‘Maybe this time.’ He glanced at Sheila. Inhaled her candour and confronted the man. ‘You’re fortunate we’re in your gang stink hollow.’


He whirled and bowed to Sheila. ‘Your homage is a tickle.’ He rose and flexed his fingers and bubbled his chest and swanked up the hill and creep melted into the low moon.

The man locked and pocketed the blade. ‘What a scamp.’

‘You sure he went away.’

‘Sure as a stoat.’ He reached up to her. ‘Let go. I’ll catch you.’

A fast breath, she dropped into his arms. Her hands joined around his neck. Her mouth at his ear. ‘Carry me.’

‘Bet your chin on it.’

He clasped her cheek to his shoulder and strolled among the trees, stepping over old piped oak roots, through the stream and across the field. At the tent she was bundled against his chest. Safe in sleep.

He entered the tent on his knees. Laid her in the sleeping bag. He stayed a short time. Watched Sheila and mother. The rise and fall of breath in moon lent light. He leaned over mother and shut his eyes and breathed. Then he went to Sheila and touched her hair and whispered, ‘I will always carry you, sweet bird.’

In July 2015, I was commissioned to write a story for an art project. An exciting anthology on the theme The End. The artist, Nicolas Ruston, painted fifteen The End images. Fifteen authors have written stories for the images. Each author’s own interpretation of their choice painting.

Nicolas Ruston is gifted. I feel fortunate to be part of the project. Fine authors are in the anthology. The book launch and art exhibition is in April 2016.

Mid September I submitted my story. Two weekes later the editor said he liked it. Only edit needed was a title change. I was relieved and glad. The editor suggested a title. His title was story-match right.

It’s a unique project.

Here is the project website…http://www.fifteen-endings.co.uk/

Morning sat damp on the field. Bigman Boyle sunk kneesore. Breathed his will on sick dirt. Dug his fingers into it. Soil he’d nursed and turned. Olden time tilled by old fathers.

Lord, I beg your might, he said, his hands earthed far.

He rose and watched the hills. Peaks scarfed with mist. He cast a prayer there. From the cottage his wife called. He waved at her. The child beside her waved back. Bone kin on the doorstep.

Come in, she shouted.

They’d raze here, he knew. Black hearters. The bread bellied.

But not today arrive, he asked.

In the forest deep, leaf sweet darkness, a woman shouted.

‘Jesus,’ she cried. Then quiet.

Against instinct, Aiden headed to the silence, afraid and alert. Old mute woods, thick night, oak and ash chromed with moon. Mint spiced his nose. Soothed his dusty throat. He tasted the scent and scouted on, sleek and slow in the scrub.

On a dell bank the woman lay torn. Down the dell, in the damper dark, a girl curled in the brackenfern. He crept there, twig breaking steps, and her arm rose. ‘No more,’ she said.

‘It’s all right.’ He knelt and lifted her head onto his thigh. He thought her there blind, her eyes buried under baggy burst skin. ‘I’m here,’ he said.

‘My teeth hurt.’

‘You’re a brave lady.’

‘Still hurts.’

‘Tooth fairy will fix it.’

‘Funny,’ she said, and her breath died on his wrist.

A far ridge, a man loped black against the moon, a curved utensil in his hand, swinging with his stride. ‘Beast,’ Aiden said. He parted congealed hair from the girl’s cheek. Laid her down. Slack and stained and warm in the dirt.

Back at the tent he retched in his sleeping bag. Sacrilege scenarios breaking his rest. Daybreak, the rain clawed, breezeless on the door mesh. Birdsong and ripe June smells. Aiden rose naked. Peed on a shrub. Squatted at a brook and shaved in the humid downpour. He towel pat his face and lit the single burner. Brewed up coffee. Poured a cupful and filled a flask. Spread jam on a raisin scone and ate it with his brew. He had planned to list his provisions but decided against an inventory in the wet. There was plenty, he was sure. Maybe a week’s worth. He dressed and topped a water flask and packed his rucksack and continued up country.

Midday the rain died and the sun hurt and birds piped high on summer.

Near dusk he picked up on a trail. Rut of trodden stems bending off through dense woods. He dropped the rucksack and studied his map and compass. The ordinance showed forestry and rivers and hills. The odd farm. Nearest town was nineteen miles west. He knelt and unclipped the rucksack. Frisked out a can of pilchards and a tin opener and fork.

Dusk cast. Sun sunk and moon thin in a lilac sky. He fastened up and followed the track. Fatigue hurting. He had been thinking of pitching for the night but felt exposed now in open plain. The path seemed recently flattened and he thought it prudent to trail it for a bit, see where it led, if anywhere.

In woodland dark he parted hickory and scanned the log cabin. Moonlight varnished the rooftop. Solar panels glint glacial. Smoke wicked from a brick chimney. Three chairs sat on the porch. A low fence squared a garden. Aiden lay under the bush and watched. The cabin looked serene, lamplit and curtain drawn. A home. A shadow passed on the window, rising giant and then fading small away. He hoped the person a well one.

He glanced at his watch, the luminous dials at eleven. Normally he’d be camped now. He fetched a flask from his khaki trousers side pocket and uncorked it and swigged a nod of whisky. Resumed his surveillance. Another swig, the alcohol hit. A wolf called out. Aiden thinked it silver, on a bluff, lonely crooner to the lonely moon. Cries rose afar. Canine brethren. Ancient chorus of the ages.

He sank in cushion leaves. Wished his wife’s presence. Regrets came and weighed and drained and his eyes closed and the flask spilled.

The shotgun nozzle bunt his chest. Torchlight on his face. ‘Fart and you’re weed feed.’ The old man wagged the single barrel and held up a rope. ‘On your belly.’

‘I was passing.’ Aiden snatched his rucksack. ‘I’m heading for Vinton.’

The gun cocked. ‘My twelve gauge says belly.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Your diseased ass is on my land.’

‘No.’ Aiden slapped his chest. ‘I’m a negative.’

The old man sniggered and stooped over him, torchface shaking. ‘You’re a snake, son. Sneaking and peeping on my home. Waiting for bedtime.’

‘I’m immune. I swear.’

‘Sure you are. One in fifty thousand. Don’t insult me, son.’

‘There’s maybe six hundred negatives in Ohio. My brother told me. He was a doctor.’

‘And you happen to be one of them.’

‘I am.’

‘That would make two on my doorstep.’

‘You’re immune.’

‘What are the chances? Two here in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Slim.’ Aiden dusted nettles from his elbow. ‘Say I was a virant. Doesn’t make me a snake. Most are decent people.’

‘Who rots decent, son?’

‘Folks that pass in their homes.’

‘Hmm. It’s the creepers I hate. Crawlers like you. Gutting anything that moves.’

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘Spite, that’s what it is. Thrill kills before they reek.’

‘I tried to help.’

‘Truth is I can’t tell a snake from a saint in this light.’ The old man aimed the torchbeam and the barrel at Aiden’s crotch and shook the rope. ‘On your guts and hands behind your back.’

‘My eyes are clear.’

‘Belly or buckshot.’

Aiden rolled onto his stomach, his face in the dirt. ‘I’m a damned negative.’

Shotgun tucked under his arm, the old man crouched, a knee on the spine. He bound Aiden’s wrists. ‘We’ll see in the morning. Spit of pus and you’re in the grave.’

The old man roped Aiden’s ankles. Switched off the lamp and sat on the cane sofa. Gun on his lap.

Fireside, Aiden fidgeted on the floor. Charred logs puffed tired in the hearth. ‘A girl died in my arms.’

‘She’s on your shirt, son.’

‘I didn’t ask her name.’

‘Cutters never do.’

Small hours, the old man left the room. Aiden heard floorboards strain upstairs. He wrestled tight binding. Within minutes the old man returned to the sofa.

First light, he untied Aiden’s ankles and walked him to a field at gunpoint. Ordered him to kneel. Aiden knelt and the nozzle probed his shoulder and he slumped face down in the weeds. The old man gripped his elbow and hauled him round on his back. Hunkered, he stared seriously, breath wheezing, eyebrows shifting, scrutinising. There was no pus. No yellow worm threads.

‘Lord, punch me,’ the old man said. He roughed Aiden’s hair and turned him over and cut the rope with a knife. ‘Sorry for the hassle, son.’

Up on his feet, Aiden clenched and flexed his fingers and rubbed his wrists.

The old man lowered the shotgun and pouched the blade on his belt and offered his shaky palm. ‘Kyle Taylor,’ he said, and Aiden took a weak handshake.

‘Aiden Cairn.’

‘Good for you, son.’

‘I thought you were going to shoot me.’

‘I’m all talk.’

‘You had me fooled.’

‘I was more crapped than you.’

‘What if I had been a virant?’

‘I’d have blown your skull.’

Headed back to the cabin, Kyle nodded at an iron corrugated outhouse. ‘That’s stacked with logs. Enough for a winter. Birch. A rare heat.’ They walked beat and solemn, fresh sunshine on their backs, the truth blatant between them.

A moss path led to the back door. Scrapped with seeds and leaves and bark chip. The path was string tapered from vegetable patches on either side. ‘Carrot and beets,’ said Kyle.

Indoors he stood the shotgun in a corner near the washing machine. Filled the kettle from a water pail and placed it on the wood burner stove. Struck a match and lit a crunch of paper. Placed it inside the oven. He bunched tinder shavings on the paper. Plotted four logs on the caught tinder. Shut the iron door. He took two mugs from a wall rack and put them on the table. Spooned coffee into the mugs. They sat at the round pine table and Kyle stared at the hearth fire in the adjecant living room. Aiden watched the fire too. Weak aflame. Through the silence the kettle boiled and Kyle put on a padded glove and poured the coffee. He raised his steaming mug and watched the fire.

‘Lordy,’ he said, and swigged a hissy taste.

Aiden took a sip and looked down at his boots. ‘Two on the doorstep,’ he said, his eyes fixed on catnip twined in a lace.

‘What’s that?’ Kyle jerked as if shocked from sleep.

‘Two on the doorstep.’ Aiden looked at him, keeping his eye. ‘You said it.’

‘I did.’

‘You’re advanced.’

‘Yellow as bile.’ Kyle gazed back at the flame and his bottom lip trembled. He sucked a sorting breath. ‘My Julia is in the dirt. I buried her two days ago. Right beside her husband, Roy, my son in law. I laid him the day before that. They’re out back under a maple. My place is done next to theirs.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I believe you. Now believe me, there are two here on my doorstep.’ Kyle took another drink and smacked his mug on the table and rose, his body a constant tremor. ‘Fate’s a queer master, son. Time you and Shell were acquainted.’

(Chapter Two)

The cot sat under the window in a lemon room. The infant was asleep. A blanket lifting with gentle breath. ‘Shell Blue,’ whispered Kyle.

‘A baby.’

‘My granddaughter. Never wakes before eight.’

Aiden squeezed the cot bars and his breath switched rhythmic with Shell’s. He felt worn and elated and his face flushed with a crimson rush. Then he took a discreet step back. Rigid and guarded. He was no warden, he thought. Cold with logic, he regretted tracking the broken stem path.

Kyle’s hand crimped Aiden’s shoulder. ‘Did you have children?’


‘A wife.’


‘Me too.’ He patted Aiden. ‘Come on. I’ll show you how to make Shell’s feed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Her breakfast.’


‘There’s no wet nurse here, son.’

In the kitchen, Kyle prepared Shell’s meal. He fetched a glass canister from the wall cupboard and sat it on the worktop. It was half full of fluid and five Pyrex bottles were sunk in the bottom. Kyle tapped the container. ‘Stream water. A minute from here. Plumbing’s gunked.’ He rolled up a checked shirt sleeve and dipped a hand and pulled and emptied a bottle. ‘Always put a sterilising tablet in the tank.’

He opened a plastic tub and counted nine spoonfuls of powdered milk into the bottle and poured boiled water to the nine ounce line and screwed on the teat and shook.

‘Now for the cooling.’ Kyle placed the sealed bottle in a pot of cold water. ‘You want it lukewarm. Tepid. Test it on the back of your hand.’

‘Back of your hand.’

‘Like this.’ He lifted the bottle and tipped it and milk spurt onto his fist. He offered a shot to Aiden. ‘Try a squirt.’

Aiden tilted the bottle, a spray on his knuckles. ‘It’s roasting,’ he said, shaking his hand.

‘Imagine the injury to a baby’s mouth.’ Kyle put the bottle back in the cold pot, a puckish glint in his mucus eyes, a wily grin. ‘Three minutes is just right.’

‘How old is Shell?’

‘Three months next Tuesday.’

‘Does she eat anything apart from milk?’

‘Good question.’ Kyle scratched a floss of gray above his left ear. ‘Shell’s on four nine ounce feeds a day. Every three hours. Try feeding her half a rusk in a week or two.’

‘Me.’ That harsh logic again. A rusty thirst. The urge to flee.

‘You, son.’ After a short quiet, Kyle said, ‘Mix the rusk into her bottle. Before the cooling. Only her morning feed for the first few days.’

‘What’s rusk?’

‘Cereal biscuit. Melts in hot milk.’

‘You’re claiming my life.’

‘I’m begging Shell’s.’

Kyle lifted the kettle and eased the spout into the water pail. Glugged half full, he put it on the stove. ‘Shell’s colicky so don’t rush it,’ he said, and sleeved sweat from his forehead. ‘When she keeps down her breakfast add rusk to her night feed. Gradually introduce more solids and cut down on the milk. Soft cereal, mushy carrot and potato, creamed rice, that type of thing.’

‘We need to discuss this.’

‘Time’s a mugger, son. And I’m jumped.’ Kyle arched breathy and touched his back. Pinched his kidney. ‘Shell’s room is stacked with everything she needs. Clothes, nappies, toiletries. There’s a ton of stuff in the basement.’

‘I’ve never held a baby.’

‘Shell’s tame as a foal. She ain’t crabby. And every provision is here. Years of stock. Salt, sugar, flour, pasta, cereal, rice, tins. Most type of vegetable seed. We have dried meats, dried fruits, jams, honey, marmalade, powdered milk and powdered egg. Powdered egg is best scrambled. The basement’s a larder. And there are plenty boxes of matches and candles. Solar panels are mighty reliable, mind.’

‘I’m going southwest.’


‘There’s a commune in Vinton.’

‘Ah. The Green Brigade.’

‘Something like that. There are maybe forty of them.’

Wheezy and frail, Kyle sat in the fireside chair. ‘Living off the prairie,’ he said, and kicked a log into the flame with his boot heel. ‘God country.’

‘They grow crops. Some hunt. There are a few anglers. I’m an archaeologist. I worked on a dig in the Hill Country last summer. Spent a month camping with them.’

‘A bone digger. You don’t look like one.’

‘How’s that? What does an archaeologist look like?’

‘Old. Decrepit like me. You’re hardly twenty.’

‘Twenty eight.’

‘You’d never know it.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Bone digger camper, eh.’

‘I like camping. At least I used to.’

‘Dump a turd and bury it,’ said Kyle. ‘Your gear is quality. I’ll hand you that.’

‘Good equipment lasts a lifetime.’

‘It’s packed under the basement stair, by the way.’


‘I know quality when I see it.’

‘Can’t cheat on winter.’

‘You camped in those rembote places in winter?’

‘I liked the solitude. Me and the elements and the bones.’

‘And you think because the greenies lived outside the herd they survived.’

‘It’s possible.’


‘You don’t think it’s feasible.’

‘Unlikely is all.’

‘They’re cut off. Miles from anyone.’

Sat up straight, Kyle’s arm carved an arc in the air. ‘This cabin was a hunting lodge. My father built it. Six summers of muscle and sweat. Access is from the river. Trees cram the banks. You can’t see the cabin from there. Doubt anyone knows this place exists.’

‘There’s another route. I found it, remember.’

‘Lordy knows how. Out back, sycamores hide us. And our front is red oak and hills. Thousands of acres.’ Kyle coughed and dredged and spat into the flames. He settled in the chair. ‘God’s own must often stumble into God Country.’

‘Hardly I’m God’s own. There was a path through the woods.’

‘That would be the kids. I warned them about leaving tell trails. Julia and Roy were hikers. Fresh air addicts. Trust me, son. Few have trampled the grass here.’

‘How did you transport the supplies?’

‘Roy’s boat. Thirty two footer.’ Kyle bent and speared logs with the poker. ‘Sailed nine, ten weeks ago. During the outbreak in Mexico.’

‘Big boat.’

‘Big enough. We got everything up in one trip.’

‘Where did you get the fuel? Pumps were dead long before Mexico.’

‘Julia sniffed global during Korea’s quarantine. Biblical. She drove town to town in the jeep. Topped a wagon load of jerry cans and stored them in her cellar.’

‘Smart lady.’

‘Sharp as a spike. Boat’s moored, hidden out there, a kinda cove.’

‘What’s your grouch with Vinton?’

‘No grouch. I wish your greenies nothing but mercy. But you don’t get more remote than here.’ Kyle put on the padded glove and lifted the steaming kettle and poured the coffee. ‘Damn virus came from the sky, son. The roof fell on everyone.’

After his coffee, Kyle checked on Shell. She was sound. Safe in sleep. He idled at the cot. ‘Child,’ he whispered. ‘You have a life.’

He slouched back to his chair. ‘I’m bagged, son.’

Aiden stood quiet at the window watching the sky. Ocean of blue. His empathy hurt. Veins spate with emotion. The old man felt like kin.

‘Shell is yours now. Your own.’

‘I don’t know.’

Bunked in the chair, Kyle closed his eyes and blew. Clatter breath. ‘Lordy, son.’

Aiden went into the kitchen and scooped water from the pail with a pot and rinsed out the mugs at the sink. He tried the taps. A dry judder, like a truck braking, not a drip. He turned off the taps and checked on Kyle over his shoulder. The old man was snoring, chin on chest, hands spread on his flat belly. Sunrays forked through the window. Lit his gouged face. Aiden thought he resembled a prime man.

‘Lord, punch me,’ he said in tribute, and he went out the back door.

Rope burns welt his wrists. He loosened the watchstrap a notch and checked the time. Near ten past six. Guessed he had been up since five. He wolfed fruit air. Face lifted at the sky. Sore sun. Sleepless nights on his back he felt worn to the marrow and strolled through the sycamores to the river. He saw the boat in a rocky inlet. On a reed bank he sat on a log and looked out over the sun starry calm. Birdsong all to himself.

Walking up the back path, he smelt the rot. Early sweet decay. He knew it would sour rancid in the heat. Same odour as the streets and malls. Hospitals and churches. Town halls and city halls. The same vile ferment of his wife.

Squatted, he linked hands around Kyle’s waist and rose with him belly down over his right shoulder. Weight of a boy. He carried him out the back door, past a broccoli crop toward two grass mounds and a slope of earth with a spade stumped like a mast. Under the maple he stood in the grave and laid the old man on his back. He took off his shirt, spread it over the thin face, filled in the grave, and stood head bowed quiet.

‘Lordy, Kyle,’ he said, and saluted the dirt.

After a wash at the stream he went back to the cabin and sat in the fireside chair. Kyle’s shape was in the seat. He shifted and fitted and watched the smoky logs. A green flame danced and he thought about Shell, on whether Kyle could have taken her, and of her horror if he couldn’t. As he mused over this, the child began to cry.

‘Hello, miss.’ Aiden leaned over the cot and Shell stopped crying. ‘You smell.’

Treacle brown eyes shone and sussed him. He touched her cheek. Tiny fingers wrapped his pinkie. ‘Shit,’ he cried, snapping his hand away.

Shell jumped and squashed her face and squealed.

‘Shit.’ He circled her cot, hands messing his hair. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

She tensed and shivered and bawled.

‘You got lungs like a whale.’ He bent into the cot and fondled her ear. ‘Moby Dame,’ he said, nervy.

His touch and voice calmed her. The contact lightened him too. Her trust response. ‘You’re stuck with me,’ he said. ‘Let’s sort you.’

It was a task undressing her. She kicked and slapped and wailed. The babygro was damp and warm. Unclipped and removed, he peeled the diaper tabs. He tugged the nappy, swabbing her soiled bottom with dry folds of the padding. Twice he turned away for a clean breath. Glad the procedure was obvious, he wrapped and binned the spongy lump in a under the cot bucket.

He held her in a crooked arm and lifted a gown from the dresser and wriggled it onto her as he skirted the stairway to the living room. He had no clue to the order of things, but the way she gnawed her hand he thought it wise to prioritise her food. He kept her in one arm, her back against his bare chest, and fetched the prepared bottle from the pot. Shell seemed to elongate. Her eyes widened, mouth gaped, her arms and legs stretched starfish. She booted and reached and vibrated at her feed.

‘Tame as a foal, Kyle.’ He sat on the couch and offered the teat.

Her eyes scrunched into teary slits and her head turned from side to side. When the teat was here, her mouth was there, and she yelled trembling feral.

‘Take it, lady,’ he said, trying to catch her. Milk leaked and ran with her tears. Elbows paddling, he persevered and her mouth claimed the elusive prize.

‘Bravo.’ He wiped her chin with a fingertip. ‘What a performance.’

Quick tremors shook her small frame. She gulped loud and fast and her wet eyes focused on him. Instinctively, he kissed her forehead. A gush of bubbles rushed in the bottle. She had stopped feeding. He winked and she smiled. A fleeting favour.

Serious again on her breakfast, Shell watched him, her palm folded on his thumb, and Aiden was at once her keeper.

(Chapter Three)

Bum scratchy in the rage heat, Rees entered a field and kicked through the weedwild. A butterfly rose and dipped and rose. He swiped and caught and crushed it. Watched it powdery fall. He saw the lump on his boot. ‘Ass mutts,’ he said.

Dung mucked his heel. Coyote scat. He roughed the sole through grass and stamped and scraped, rucksack scuffing his hip, rifle pointed groundward. Noon sunflare cooked him. Bruised and peeled his bald scalp and crust middle age lines on his neck. He squinted over the plain. Fit lime grassland. Hills blistered pink. Far trees embraced and waltzed, heat haze trickery. ‘Pop a berry,’ he said, kicking a shrub airborne. He crossed the field and vaulted a fence and headed into town. Swore on his balls to find a hat.

At a main junction, near a derelict bus, he unstrapped his gear and dropped his dungarees and crouched. Along the road, past shut shops and tomb apartment blocks, dogs barked. No sight of them. Sounded like a pack in flight. Masterless. Orderless.

‘Bow fucky wow,’ he said.

He shat and blew his nose. Snot into red bikini pants, done with them, sniffed out. His abuse on the fabric. He remembered the woman who had worn them. ‘Cockle doll,’ he said, and wiped his anus with the silk crotch. He dumped them on the shit and rose hoisting his denim shoulder straps. A vehicle’s engine turned over. Chattered up littered streets. The starter stammered, coughing and choking, deader with each ignition turn. Stutter died.

Rifle raised, Rees ripped six rounds, aimed at a cloud, a solitary pearl in the lagoon sky. ‘Pickle yir cockles,’ he shouted, and jigged around his mess hysterical.

Outside a gun store he sat his rucksack on the sidewalk and unclipped a pouch and drew a crowbar. He knelt and jemmied the shutter base, grunting and jabbing and bending. Locks sprang broken. He lifted the cage and easy burst the entrance door and pouched the crowbar. Shelves were heavy stocked. He tinkered with rifles and shotguns. Loaded a pistol big as his fourteen size boots and posed at a full length mirror. Pistol holstered in his thigh pocket he pulled and fired. ‘Howdy, pilgrim,’ he roared, grinning to his eyebrows, his reflect other felled to glints. Felt like the floor cracked.

He snatched his crotch and cat about the shop. Fiddled his erection. Liked it jumpy against the zip. He pillaged under-counter drawers. Opened boxes of bullets and cases of gun cleaning kit. Dropped them soon as he’d sniffed and seen. He sat on a swirl chair and twirled. Imagined the gunsmith proprietor everyday loving the joyride. Knew him surely dead.

Metal tastes stuck his mouth. Dried his tongue clothy. He spat and hoisted his heels and slammed the proofed counter glass. Helled on smashing it. The casing shook unbreakable. He hammered harder. Cramp flood and sogged his calves. He stood and hopped and bawled, ‘Stick my hole,’ and muscles worked true and he hobble sat and sneezed and his ears popped and he heard his presence louder about. Tight on the chair he unzipped and bat thinking a vagrant strangling a nun. He seen her hogtied, pants split, death dizzy gurgling a psalm. His spell seized and ran and hit and he wore grinning to sleep.

A creature chewed him. His popped eye saw the torso him sinewy between serpent teeth. Saliva mud washed his eye him down the gullet into a urine pond. Buoyant in the piss he saw his pale heart sink beating bleeding.

Stewed awake he yelled, ‘Maw,’ and leapt and grabbed his rifle and blasted the shop window, an erratic salvo, maybe ten shots. Smoke sheets rose. Glass fangs rooted from the timber framework. He supposed the space a demon mouth. Jittered sober he burped and farted and peed on the chair and zipped up.

He stashed away bullets. Four fat boxes tucked into his rucksack. He yanked the till and swiped a sponge of bills. On his way out, shoulder ramming the door, he tossed the notes overhead and not a glance back shouted, ‘Ought’n that cover it.’

Fast up the freeway he reached the turret bridge. Half a mile concrete expanse. Midway over, at a rest crescent, he leaned on the railing and watched the river. Black syrup waters. A rowboat strayed oarless. He bawled, ‘Carp bite’n, skipper,’ and gobbed phlegm and walked on, middle of the road, barren asphalt slapback echoing his laughter madder.

Through the dip townside, cobbled sidewalks narrowed. He took a short lane into a suburb. Willow tree paths. Warren avenues, laced cul-de-sacs, cars and vans and trucks in driveways empty. Ghost street show lots. Home windows blind strung. A bereaved place. Neighbours entire dying and dead, he knew.

Dogs came out from behind an RV. A fur line. Four broad breeds on the gable slab. A mastiff led onto the lawn and raised a hind leg and sprayed on a kiddie tractor. A steam splash. Rees guessed alpha, the dog eyeballing him, fanged growling. He tugged his rifle strap off-shoulder and cocked the weapon and scoped the head and tapped the trigger and nodded at the watcher pack and said, ‘Bet’s yir bitches. Balls like his.’

He hit the liver nose. Skull broke and caved and tongue and brain and jaw fell meat chunk. The pack scattered bawling, ears to tail tips hackled, ripping shrubbery, leaping fences, the terror dimmer the further they bolt. ‘Balloons them balls,’ Rees said to the carnage bleed.

He strapped on his rifle, slung shouldered, and strode over the lawn and sleeve-wiped the bay window. Him and hound bits and houses across the street reflected back. He dunked his nose against the glass and saw inside. A woman lay on the couch. Quilt on her. He knocked, but she didn’t move. Her head on the cushion, facing the ceiling, eyes open. Like she was thinking colours to paint it.

‘Cut yir grass for a popsicle.’ He tried the slide door. Firm locked. He breathed on the glass and finger sketched a cupid arrow and heart. A man entered the room holding a basin and flannel.

‘Cain’t find yir doorbell,’ Rees said, hands up surrender. The man ignored him and sat on the floor and wet the flannel in the basin and rung it and petted the woman’s face with the damp part.

Ducked away and up the gable, Rees shouted, ‘I’ll roun back git in. Fore she cops.’

The back door too was locked. He backtrod onto the turf then ran and onekick rammed the door in. Beadwood split and shot sharpsplint. Momentum charged him into the kitchen and his rucksack shoulderskiff shifted and the riflebutt scraped his spine and he fell belly onto a laundry pile. A stink bundle. ‘Cunters,’ he bawled, rising shakehead, hoisting up the rucksack straps and feeling his chin.

Couchside the man touched her hair. His mouth near hers. ‘Don’t keep here. Get from it. Quit keeping here. Don’t matter where’s hereafter. If nowhere’s there, nowhere’s better than here. Anyhow you’re my wife anywhere.’

‘Wis pretty, weren’t she.’ Rees put his rucksack and rifle messy on the dining table. ‘Bets she wis.’

‘Touch her mister and I swear.’ He cuddle held her. ‘I swear.’

‘Blow, pal. Say yersel chief. A don’t give a dump.’ He unbuttoned and downdragged his dungarees and yanked and tossed the quilt and mounted the couch and parted her feet and lifted her gown hipwound and rushed kneeshuffle and grabbed and snapped her knickserstring and tough went into her. ‘Am jumpin.’

‘Christsake she’s dying,’ the man shouted, and he climbed on Rees backmount, his arms neckrope strangling, his knees jammed against Rees’s back-knees. Rees felt the man rise and sink and row with him. Felt him bite neckbloat veins. Felt the armfrail choke. He small minded him. Sweat dripballs fed the woman’s open mouth. He liked seeing her roof stare. He thinked her stare a surprise need glare for him. ‘See,’ he overshoulder shouted at the clamped man. ‘She needs it.’

The man slackened and floorsunk hands and knees. He crawled and lifted her hanging arm and held her hand and slipped between her and Rees and again his mouth was near hers. A breath apart, he said, ‘Get on gone.’

Rees slammed and stiffened and blew, a guts cry. Like a bear killing.

Stood at the lounge door, rucksacked and rifled up, he said, ‘Bets ye think when ye see me why him. Why him immune, Lordy. Why no us. Bets ye say it. Bets ye say yer a right man. Bets ye say she’s a star lady. Bets ye say yers two deserve the life. Mens like me are muckers bets ye say. Right is shit is.’ He spanked the table and said, ‘Bets ye her wishes a wis stayin over,’ and he earlift grinned and turned and left the house doorslam.



Top 25, December 2012 Fiction Open: Top 25 http://t.co/IyYiEgFf — Glimmer Train (@glimmertrain)

Twitter: @michelcrossan
Email: michaelcrossann@gmail.com

Black sea mirrored the moon. Liquid will-o’-the-wisp. A slow tide caressed the sand. Footprints a step apart.

‘We’re one,’ she said.

‘One us.’

‘Would you die for me?’

‘A million times.’

‘Only a million.’

‘A billion times.’

‘That’s not infinite.’

‘I would forever die for you.’

‘I dreamed this.’

‘Our honeymoon.’

‘Our trust.’

Dawn cast pink on the hill. He carried her. Her breath on his neck. Citrus hair on his face. Her pearl hemline trailing damp.

He inhaled, devoured, kept her.

Hilltop, the cottage shone. Yellow brick. A saffron nest.

‘I’ll make coffee,’ he whispered.

She folded into him. ‘Husband.’


Midmorning she slept. Bedsheet cast on the floor.

He sipped wine at the balcony table. Tasted oyster air. Rain tapped the wind chimes and cooled his bare torso. A foghorn blew, tanker on the horizon, shiny red. Seagulls cried, a pair, pearl in the blue.

Bedside he sat and touched her hand. Knew her safe asleep. He blew out the candle and shut the blinds and lifted the sheet and put it over her and headed to the beach.

Past the sand dunes he hiked a trail. Crunchy pebbles and slate and shell. Along the path he reached a gate. It opened to a churchyard.

A woman walked a lane and knelt and laid flowers against a stone heart. Yellow petals on neat grass. A child grave. She bowed and stroked engraved script.

He watched her from the gateway. Her hair stuck on her cheek. Auburn wet-glint. She looked serene. Pious. A grace.

He sensed he would keep her, see her in his elder time, clean as the now.

Back on the path he wished his wife’s presence and hurried to tell of the pure lady.

I am a writer. I live on Scotland’s west coast.

Summertime, I like open water swimming. I’m a member of a team who swim in lochs and rivers and the sea.

I like cycling. I have a tourer bicycle. There are mornings I load the panniers and tail the coastline. Pass the day on the bike. Fat miles. I’ve done my share of 100 milers. Cycling is a favourite spring/summer passtime.

Wintertime I write and read and play chess and swim at a health club.

My parents and grandparents were readers. They read the big novels.

Mother read the Russian and Asian and North American and South American authors. She read Scots and English and Welsh and Irish authors. And the poets. She cherished James Joyce and Joan Didion and Carol Shields and Dorothy Parker and Leo Tolstoy.

Grandpa championed Joseph Conrad and Samuel Beckett and Ernest Hemingway and Saul Bellow.

Gran loved Katherine Mansfield.

They liked many authors, but special liked these ones.

Grandpa was my pal. I grew up close to him. Not ‘living near him’ close. Spirit close. He took me places. Up the town walks. Museum visits. Library trips to swap gran’s novels. We walked a lot. He was funny and chatty and warm. A storyteller. And a joketeller. Here’s a typical him and me day…

Grandpa and me out for a walk. I’m seven…

Me: ‘Wow. See that bee?’

Grandpa: ‘Big buzzer. See the warrior on its back? Waving his axe.’

‘Ha ha ha. No there wasn’t.’

‘Knock knock, Mike.’

‘Who’s there?’


‘Beezer who?’

‘Beezer black and yellow.’

That’s my grandpa. One day he quiet left me. I carried his coffin. He is my ever friend.

My mother. A steel honest woman. Witty and kind and sillyish and smart. A crossword solver. Cryptic specialist. My infanthhood I felt safe with her. Small hour nighttime, when I woke feary, her lamplight came in my open door. I heard her breathe. Heard her page turn. I liked hearing her read when the house was groany and dark. I easy fell asleep to her breath.

I see her at the stove, open book in hand, pot stirring, away with the words.

Boyhood, I liked folklore stories. The dark ones. Black deeds of connivers, pot stirrers, forest peddlers and child-hater witches.

I also liked Science Fiction stories. And ghost stories.

Memorable childhood books –

The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken.

The Death of Grass by John Christopher.

Ghost Stories by M. R. James.

The Witches of Worm by Zilpha Keatley Snyder.

The Egypt Game by Zilpha Keatley Snyder.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K. Dick.

The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guen.

Flashman by George MacDonald Fraser.

Danny The Champion of the World by Roald Dahl.

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

Child of God by Cormac McCarthy. (Early me read it).

The Brothers Grimm Tales.

On my tenth birthday, grandpa’s gift was a Jack London anthology.

Jack London WOWED me. That raw world.

Bedtime, I lived Alaska. I heard midnight wolves sing to the moon lonely. The moon silver as the wolves. I loved and feared the gold prospectors, the good and blackhearted, men grizzly as the bears. I saw many beaten gibbery in the white wild.

Reading Jack London my want to write happened. Within a month of reading him I had written a notebook of stories.

Aged 14 I wrote a short novel. Schoolpals and teachers passed it around. They were in it.

I have since written many stories. Enough to fill a dozen books. And perhaps a dozen stories that would make one good book.

Up the lane I joined a writers group. I read more books. Past and contemporary authors. After a learny time I left the group.

I read and read and reread.

In 2011, I was shortlisted for the Bridport Short Story Prize. And The Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award.

December 2012, my short story – Bone Dirt – was a Top 25 Finalist in Glimmer Train’s Fiction Open Prize.

I was happy.

Glimmer Train is a world regal literary journal .

The Fiction Open is Glimmer Train’s top prize. Unpublished writers take on established published authors.

My short story ‘Gomorrah Shade’ was a winner in the Fish Short Story Prize. The story is in the Fish Anthology 2014. I’m delighted and honoured. The Fish Anthology is worldwide revered.

And I was Cormac McCarthy on Twitter. I meant it to be a tribute-tweet thing. But it overnight famoused me. Or infamyed me. I was interviewed by The Atlantic.

My novel EDEN DUST is written. Four years work.

My story combines naturalism – the way people talk and behave – and big unnatural, dehumanising situations.

How I describe my novel – Think esoteric Twin Peaks. But adulter.

There is grief and lies and cowardice and perversion and spite. There is pure love. And grey humour. And death. There are five characters. One is the earthscape.

I have posted the first three chapters of Eden Dust on this site. Please consider leaving a comment. Liked or not.

An extract from my novel is published in Unthology 4 by Unthank Books. A prestigious short story collection. It was an exciting day for me when the piece was selected by the editors in Cambridge. I share pages with some of Britain’s finest authors. I read at the book launch in November 2013.

Two reviews of Unthology 4 are posted on my blog.

I’m near done with editing the novel.

As things stand, my MS will sail to four agents and two editors. London and New York.

Unthank Books editor, Ashley Stokes, is a fine author of literary fiction. I recommend his short story collection The Syllabus of Errors.

In July 2015, I was commissioned to write a story for an art project. An exciting anthology on the theme The End. The artist, Nicolas Ruston, painted fifteen The End images. Fifteen authors have written stories for the images. Each author’s own interpretation of their choice painting.

Mid September I submitted my story. Two weeks later the editor said he liked it. Only edit needed was a title change. I was relieved and glad. The editor suggested a title. His title was story-match right.

Nicolas Ruston is gifted. I feel fortunate to be part of the project. Fine authors are in the anthology. The book launch and art exhibition is in April 2016. It’s a unique project. Here is the project website: http://www.fifteen-endings.co.uk

There’s a direct click-on-link in a The End post.

There are authors I return to. Rereading them I remember the first time I read them. My age and place and feelings when I found them.

I like many authors, from many countries, past and contemporary authors. Recently I read the African authors. I have a sunshine spot for Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi.

My lucky number is 13.

My top thirteen novelists in random order are…

Flannery O’Connor; Carson McCullers; Franz Kafka; John McGahern; Charles Frazier; Saul Bellow; Christina Stead; Carol Shields; Larry McMurtry; William Gay; Marilynne Robinson; Kent Haruf; Cormac McCarthy.

My top thirteen short story authors in random order are…

Katherine Mansfield; Jack London; Flannery O’Connor; J. G. Borges; Edna O’Brien; Shirley Jackson; Franz Kafka; Sherwood Anderson; Frank O’Connor; Ernest Hemingway; John Cheever; Agnes Owens; Denis Johnson.

Hemingway was a bull novelist. But I think his master work is his Nick Adams short stories. And I’d say The Old Man and the Sea is a fat short story.

A cosy-thinky fireside treat is J. G. Ballard short stories.

Poets I reread: Emily Dickinson; Elizabeth Bishop; Robert Frost; Robert Tannahill; Robert Burns; Sorley MacLean; Alastair Mackie; Seamus Heaney; Galway Kinnell; Bryant Voigt; Betty Adcock; Mark Strand; Claudia Emerson.

My hallowed most writer is Cormac McCarthy. I think his novel Suttree is a masterpiece.

Claudia Emerson’s poetry collection Late Wife is a precious read. A bedside stay. I reread pages every other day.

Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio is glory work.

Oftentime books I dip into…

Kilvert’s Diary.


Selected Letters of William Styron.


James Ellroy’s memoir, My Dark Places.

I like John Fante. I recommend his book, Ask the Dust.

Presently discovering William Faulkner.