Part 1: the warehouse

It had been raining for three straight days. Maybe four. Ell had been better at measuring time than I. I huddled in a corner of the dark warehouse, the shadows from my small yet necessary fire sending shadows dancing across the recesses. Every moving shadow had made me start and turn, wanting to flee but now - after these days spent foolishly warming my bones instead of running - they frightened me less.

I threw another piece of broken pallet wood onto the fire. Some of the coals I had heaped to one side, and the open can was now bubbling and boiling on it. I used the bunched up rag to remove the can and placed it to one side to cool, then pushed the coals back into the fire. Waste not, want not.

The mutton stew was delicious. They promised peas in it but I only saw two. One of them I dropped while studying it in the prancing fire light. Full of soot and dust, I just pushed it into the fire, nodding my head in a silent apology to Ell for not eating my vegetables.

After washing my bowl and spoon off in a bucket of rain water, I settled by the fire again, lighting one of my last smokes on the coals. The night was not silent. The incessant rain was beating on the warehouse roof, the water thundering through the downpipes. Nothing moved outside that I was aware of. I checked, of course, regularly. I had been here for three days (again, maybe four) and in this situation it does not pay to stay in one place for too long.

I sighed, staring up at the ceiling as I nursed the last of the smoke. This staring into space, the inactivity and the unwillingness to get up and go was another sign of the depression that had been lingering for weeks. I’m frankly surprised the fire was still going, and that I had found the strength and will to heat up something to eat. With another sigh, I threw another piece of wood on the fire, then got up to fill the water bottles from another rain bucket. One to wash in, one for drinking. Such fortitude. Such foresight.

Now, if this were a story the warehouse would have been full of useful things. There would have been crates (or better yet, shelves) of tinned food. There would have been some torches, spare batteries, ground sheets and - perhaps - the odd weapon or two, even if just a decent hatchet or machete. There would have been boxes of matches, packets of candles, maybe a tent and most likely a selection of good clothing, warm jackets and great boots. All the things an adventurer will need to sustain himself over the next phase of his quest.

But this, alas, was not that warehouse. This one looked like it had belonged to a steel company, a manufacturer or reseller. The shelves it did have were full of assorted steel piping, varying sizes and lengths. Racking along the walls contained aluminium sheeting. The space was vast, at least two stories high with a mezzanine floor of offices running down one side. Four large roller doors led out to loading docks, the raised kind that a truck backs up to for loading and unloading. Bathroom facilities took up another section, including showers, and what is now called a “break room” was under the mezzanine. This is where the workers would gather and shoot the shit during their break times. Uniform-sized tables and chairs populated this space but - unluckily - no kitchen facilities beyond a microwave oven.

Of course I had scoured all of these. Of course I had. The bathrooms had no running water, not that I had expected any. Nothing runs anymore, not in here and not out there. Even the forklift neatly parked near one of the loading doors no longer ran. With no power to charge the batteries, it was about as useful as one of toilets. The break room contained nothing much of use, either. Sure, there was the usual cutlery and crockery, but how many plastic knives and forks can one man use?

The offices, now, that was another story. If assorted stationery items could be said to be of any use at all, that is. Whiteboards on stands, pens and pencils, staplers and rulers and erasers and paper and books and long-dead pot plants. Useless. There was a safe in one of the offices but with no clue as to the combination it was as useless as…well…I left that alone and concentrated on the cupboards and drawers instead.

And that’s where I finally found some useful items. In a supply closet I found a few high-powered torches and boxes of spare batteries. I took two of the torches and a box of batteries. Unless I planned on stabbing something in the eye with a 2B, everything else was - again - useless. These supplies had gone into another useful find: a steel trolley. It was big enough to hold a bundle of things and small enough that I could push it along with minimal effort. A small voice (that sounded like Ell, it always sounds like Ell) was telling me that the trolley would only slow me down, that I would be better off taking only what I could carry, but a windfall was a windfall, no matter how idiotic it may turn out to be in retrospect.

The rest of my stuff went into the trolley as well.

I also emptied out two dustbins, which became my wash- and drinking-buckets.

And I found a pack of smokes. I had quit a long time ago, but the occasion seemed to call for it. In fact, I was now fighting down to urge to tuck into those dwindling supplies again as I made one last circuit around the outside of the warehouse, cursing the rain and missing the fire. In the black of night and teeming downpour I could see no further than the parking lot, but it made me feel better to just try, anyway.

I woke in the early hours of the morning to a change in the air. It took me a moment to realise that the rain had ceased. I raised an eyebrow and went back to sleep.

Part 2: the road

It took till mid-morning before I finally let the voice in. I kicked the stupid trolley and resisted the urge to push it over. The voice was mocking, saying I-told-you-so in a shitty tone. It wasn’t Ell’s voice this time. She seldom mocked.

“Shut up,” I said, my voice cracked and hoarse. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Shut up,” I said, clearer this time, stronger. I froze and looked around.

Now can we agree that this was idiotic, the voice asked? I nodded.

I stood staring at the trolley for the longest time, then sighed and looked at the road ahead. I turned and looked at the road behind. The roof of the warehouse could be seen behind a series of lower buildings. I looked back at the trolley again and fought down yet another urge, the need to sit down and let whatever happens, happen. I shook my head to silence the voice and then hoisted my backpack out of the trolley. It was lighter by a couple of tins of food and heavier by a couple of torches and some batteries so, hey, balance restored, huh?

I placed the backpack on the floor and then lifted a medium-sized toolbox out of the trolley. It was another useful find from the warehouse. What I expected to be able to accomplish with a full set of sockets and spanners, assorted screwdrivers and nails and rivets, I did not know. But I couldn’t help myself. I hadn’t held a tool in so long that I took the lot. I placed the toolbox alongside my backpack and opened it. I lifted out a 13mm socket, peering through it up the road like a pirate scans the horizon. I rolled it around in my hand, feeling the cold steel and the ridges. I placed it back and lifted out the top tray. Under that, a rivet gun. Alongside that, a hacksaw. Some clamps. I lifted the large hammer and hefted it in my hand, feeling the weight. I gave it two practice swings and then laid it down on the ground. I closed the box and placed it back into the trolley.

I took a deep breath and stood. I slid the hammer handle-first into my belt, then lifted the backpack to my shoulders. Without another glance, I turned from the now-useless trolley. The roads were too littered with debris for it to be any good. And besides, sticking to the roads is something you didn’t do. Which the voice had told me. Which I had ignored. Which I was now forced to acknowledge.

“Shut up,” I said again.

I took ten, maybe fifteen steps, before I turned and ran back to the trolley. I slammed open the lid of the toolbox and lifted that 13mm socket out. I could never keep them, 13mm sockets. And spanners neither. 13mm spanners. Always looking for them. Everyone has one size that always goes missing. Maybe yours is the 10mm. Mine is the 13mm. I had found this one. I was going to keep it. I dropped it into a pocket in my jeans and turned away from the trolley again.

And then I turned back to it and pushed it over. It felt good.

The sun has high in the sky and the clouds all but gone when I stopped again. The warehouse - nay, the entire industrial area - was but a haze in the simmering mirage being kicked off the road by the heat that was now pressing down. The neatly laid out grid of the industrial district had turned to a dual-carriageway, the first houses of a residential area appearing now in the distance. The road ran alongside a series of open plots, perhaps zoned for gentler industry such as chicken farms or roll-on lawn. Whatever it had been or might have been, it wasn’t now and would never be. Nothing would.

I stepped off the road and settled into a culvert a few metres from the edge. Placing my backpack on the ground, I rolled my shoulders against the stiffness and bent at the waist to relieve the dull ache in my lower back. I looked back along the road. There was no movement. I settled down into the culvert and laid my head on the backpack, willing myself not to give into sleep even as I slid my hat down over my face to shield it from the worst of the afternoon sun. I needn’t have bothered trying to marshal that will. The mocking voice started whispering again as my eyes drooped.

I reached the first of the houses just as the sun began to drop behind them. It was a housing estate, walls and electrified fencing. No electricity equals no threat. I stared through the gate into the estate, alert for movement. Barring a tree or five waving in the breeze that had sprung up, there was none. I scaled the gate, cursing myself at having left the side-cutters behind in the toolbox. It would have made getting over the now-dormant electrified fence easier. The voice that made me aware of this was not the mocking voice that had trailed along behind me for most of the day, but Ell’s gentler yet amused one.

I didn’t tell Ell to shut up. It was nice having her along again.

Part 3: the housing estate

I stood in the road of the estate, backpack on the ground, scanning left and right with just my eyes. It looked like a nice place. The houses were identical, face-brick and large windows

(bay windows)

and little front gardens, each one unique. There were bays of visitors’ parking to my immediate left and an open space - a common area or park - to my immediate right. In times gone by it would have been very pretty - very neat - and it screamed of a Homeowners Association peopled by PLBs (Prissy Little Bastards). But these are times that had already gone by and if the PLBs could see it now they’d be turning, nay spinning, in their Prissy Little Graves.

(go in)

I should probably go in. It was getting late and the sun would soon be down. I looked back at the gate, scanning for movement outside, then hoisted my backpack and turned right. Experience had taught me the value of exploring the perimeter of a housing estate first - get a lie of the land, as it were - and picking a house to sleep in that was further to the back. I moved slowly along the border wall, skirting bushes, electrical boxes and the occasional drain.

Nothing stirred. Nothing ever did. I hadn’t seen so much as a bird in so long. The last house number was 32.

(pick one)

I should probably pick one, I thought. The best are always near the back. I turned and walked back along the road, aiming for safe middle-ground. I picked number 21. A single white car was in the drive, largish, speaking of a family. I tried the front door. Locked. I wasn’t going to bother climbing the wall to check on the back door but did try the windows that I could get to. Again, securely closed. I picked the largest in the front and, taking the hammer from my belt, smashed the glass on the first swing. I continued hitting until the majority of the glass at the lower edges were cleared, then tossed my backpack in and followed it.

The sun was lower now and the house was full of shadows. I took out one of the torches and opened a pack of batteries with my teeth. The battery compartment was secured with one of those little screws. Another tool I had left behind.

The mocking voice making itself known again, I found my way to the kitchen and started opening drawers, finding the finest knife I could and working the screw loose. I inserted the batteries - incorrectly the first time as I struggled to see the little polarity markings on the inside in the failing light - then turned the torch on and had my first proper look-around. The house was a single level, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, nice kitchen. Dusty but not cobwebby, it looked like every house I had been in in the last few weeks. Neat. Tidy. Looking like a house that had been tidied regularly and left suddenly. Which it was. Like every other house.

(candles)

I took my stash of candles out of my backpack and laid them on the kitchen counter. Finding a couple of saucers, I set two of them up at either end of the counter, dripping wax into the saucers and securing the candles. As this house had not been broken into prior to my visit, I stood a good chance of finding food, and I was not wrong. A lower cupboard contained a treasure trove of cereals and other assorted boxes and packets, including rice and noodles. Because there were no rats

(dead, gone, like you will be)

the packaging and contents where intact. A little old, perhaps, but serviceable. A tall grocery cupboard contained some tins - peas, beans, asparagus (yuck) and varying other things. I didn’t bother with the fridge. Anything still in there was going to be no use. No use at all. The stove, though, was electric and not gas. So this was another wood evening. I turned on the torch again and found the back door. The key, thankfully, was still in it. I opened the door and stepped out into a small garden, now overrun with tall grass and weeds. The patio area was bricked, thank goodness, so no need to clear a small area of garden to make a fire on.

There was no firewood to be seen. Not those kinds of people. I smashed up a wooden garden chair instead. Packing the wood in a neat pile on the bricks, above a small pyramid of kindling, I took out my matches and got a fire going.

If there was one thing that went well for me that night, it was that I ate well. After ferrying back buckets of water from the housing estate pond and boiling it

(no point in getting sick)

I made a large plate of rice, a bowl of peas and some beans. These people, like most people, also had those tins of food like viennas in tomato sauce, mutton curry, that sort of thing, the type that fills you up while leaving you as malnourished and weak as an East End prostitute. Minus the scurvy, which perhaps the boiled pond water would provide, har har har.

But good goddamn! What a feast! I ate on proper plates for the first time in ages, keeping my own bowl and spoon packed away. I turned the torch off and ate by the light of the candles - Ell had loved candlelight - and sat on a proper chair, at a proper table. The light of the candles kicked up little dancing shadows and sparkled off glass here and there, from picture frames to the microwave door to overhead light fittings and decorative ornaments on the kitchen window sill

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

(bottle of wine)

and a bottle of wine. I paused in mid-bite. There, across from me and previously unseen in the shadows. I got up and approached the small table alongside the fridge. Oh yes. Wine it was. Red. I preferred white, but beggars and all that jazz, blah blah. I found a bottle opener in a drawer and - taking a glass because drinking from a bottle was uncouth - I settled into an armchair in the comfortable lounge, along with a blanket from one of the beds.

I finished the bottle. It was the best thing that happened to me - after that meal - all night.

I say best because I was woken in the early hours by what sounded like the crash of a dustbin being pushed over. At first my wine-addled brain

(shoulda stayed alert, mate)

went straight to “animal” but - har har - there were no fucking animals. I got up to see what was going on and

(candles)

remembered the damned candles in the kitchen. They were at the end of their lifespan but a dim light still fluttered. I rushed to blow them out. I hoped it wasn’t too late.

It was too late. The worst part of the evening had begun.

Part 4: the ruckus

The only available light now coming from a waning moon, I could see very little inside the kitchen. I dared not touch my torch. I kept low and listened intently, trying to hear anything and everything, figure out what was outside and how to react to it. My wine-mind was spinning scenarios left and right and I couldn’t catch a single one, much like a questing finger batting at dust particles frolicking and dancing in late afternoon sunlight.

(hammer)

My hammer. Where was the blasted hammer? Outside. Last time I had used it was outside, to push coals around for my pots to go on. Blasted fire. Was it still burning?

(I told you so)

I shook my head, trying to hear whether it was Ell or the Mocking Voice. The latter had become so insistent over the last day that it now deserved the capital letters. I didn’t know if the Mocking Voice would provide reliable information and couldn’t trust it anyway so I took a leap of faith - willing the voice to be Ell’s - and crawled-squatted over to the back door. I raised up slightly to peer out through the glass pain in the upper-middle. Seeing no movement

(breathe)

I took a deep breath against the noise and eased the door open. There, close by the fire that I had mercifully put out, was my hammer. I darted out on all fours and grabbed it, then froze and listened some more. Nothing. I retreated backwards into the safety of the house

(broken window)

before remembering the broken window and the futility of thinking that this was a safe space any longer. Locking the back door and still staying low, I made my way back into the lounge and grabbed my boots from where I had kicked them off earlier that evening. The window I had broken had been the forward bedroom. It wouldn’t help to cut my feet now. Shoes on, laces securely tied against the rising fear, I crawled quickly but carefully into that bedroom. The lounge curtains were drawn and I didn’t want to attract attention by trying to look out onto the street between them. The broken window was the safest - I hoped - bet I had.

I stayed low, crouching behind the bed and then slowly lifting my head above the covers, knowing full well that someone would already be standing there

(a catcher)

smiling at my foolishness, at my arrogance, laughing at my belief that I could possibly have gotten away. There was no one there. The open curtains shifted in the light breeze and threw up shadows on the wall, each one a reaching hand or descending arm. I gripped the hammer tighter and moved from the protection of the bed, around the bottom, and made my way to the window. As much as possible I pushed glass aside as I went, using a pillow from the bed to prevent cutting my hands or - worse - making a noise by trampling on broken glass.

(candles)

How could I have been so stupid? Even at the warehouse I had been sure to check the perimeter and the roads on a regular basis, keeping fires as low as possible and putting them out when done. I don’t know why I thought

(Ell would have loved it)

sitting down to candlelit dinner, burning lights for everyone to see, would be a good idea. I had not seen anyone in weeks and cursed myself for the weak rationalisation. Wine, for fuck’s sake. A fire and candles and a torch and rice with peas and beans and fucking wine and where in God’s Green Earth did I think I was? Club Med? Settling into a nice armchair with a blanket and kicking my shoes off, and leaving my

(only weapon)

hammer outside? There was another clang and I felt my bladder start to loosen. I dared to raise my head above the window sill and risk being seen, to see in return. The light outside was better than the light inside, and I could see well enough by the dull moon that I could pick out nuances and tones of greys and blacks. More than enough, in fact, to see the figure standing by a dustbin a couple of houses up the road.

(kill him)

The noise must have carried far in the dead of night. What had initially sounded like it was right outside the house now proved to be - thankfully - further away. Breathing space. Sooner or later he must spot the broken window

(smash him)

surely, and the decision I had now was whether or not to  make a run for the back wall and get away or to stay and defend the meagre yet valuable and life-sustaining supplies I had found. A third was to

(stop him before he stops you)

hide elsewhere and wait for him to move along up the road. Would he, though? In his place, I would make the best of this situation and go through as many houses as possible, even camp from house to house for as long as I could get away with it.

I backed away from the window and stepped on the pillow, losing my footing and falling backwards. I fell against a small table, sending the table and the glass mirror atop it crashing to the floor. The decision on what to do appeared to have been made for me. It was time to

(cave his head in)

make a run for it. Without questioning, I got up and ran. I hit the back door, free hand grasping the handle to thrust it open. It was still locked. My head hit the pane of glass hard, starring it, the sudden shock of pain confusing me further. I frantically scrabbled for the key, missing it and finding it, missing it again and then finally turning it and bursting out into the back yard. I ran for the safety of the bushes and pushed myself into them.

(backpack)

I had left my backpack inside. Stupid, stupid. I waited for a little while, listening again. I felt a trickle of warmth down my head and winced as my fingers found something sticky and painful. They looked black in the moonlight. I watched the now-open back door, cursing myself for not locking it again, adding one more item to a long list of abysmal stupidity this night. I could hear nothing. My rational mind told me that the man

(woman? Child?)

would likely have been just as spooked as me, that he would have taken off for cover at the first sound of the crashing table and mirror. My rational mind also told me that - as he was so far away - he couldn’t possibly have seen the light of the candles

(the kitchen windows look out onto the street)

But the Mocking Voice - and now Ell had joined the chorus - insisted otherwise.

And then a silhouette appeared in the open doorway.

I froze. My breath and heart sounded like clanging cymbals in the night as I watched, eyes locked and frozen in terror. The figure stood stock-still in the doorway, peering out into the garden. It was large, broad-shouldered, and the slender thing protruding from one hand looked like a very long knife.

(meat)

My wine-mind was now adding in other details. His eyes, like lasers or infra-red, boring into the darkness, sure to find me within seconds. He took a step out onto the patio, his form becoming a little clearer in the open. He appeared to be wearing a thick, hooded jacket, the hood up. It turned from side to side as he traced his laser eyes back and forward over the garden

(clothing)

and he was seconds away from seeing me. Though crouched and hidden in the blackness of the bushes along the wall, I knew it was no use. It was the end. I was but a mere three metres from him now, as he moved onto the lawn - like one who knows that nothing can harm him.

(now)

The gap in the bushes that I had come though seemed to widen the more he moved forward. I could not risk moving by pushing myself deeper in or to one side.

(socket)

Without thinking, I reached into my jeans pocket and closed my hand around the 13mm socket. I drew it out and in one swift movement threw it past him, just as his head was turned, back towards the house. It struck the door with a loud clash, the starred window now giving way. He spun around, knife arm up, and I darted out of the bushes, hammer framed by the waning moon as I brought it crashing down.

Part 5: the madness

I was still sitting next to the body when the sun came up. The man was lying face down on the grass. I’d left him where he lay. Ell was urging me to check to see if anyone was with him but the Mocking Voice just sent out peals of laughter, minute after minute and hour after hour. Both fell to silence as the sun touched my hands, and I watched it is it spread up my arms. I still held my hammer. My arm had stiffened up from the impacts and my fingers were dead from the grip.

I hadn’t yet checked the body. It was something I should get to but

(check the street)

I was still thinking of my backpack and the need to secure my belongings. I stared at my hand, willing my fingers to open and drop the hammer and after a slight argument I won. I left it and put my arms on the ground, crying out against the pain in my back as I uncrossed my legs and came to my knees.

(no going back)

I shook my head against the rising doubt. It had been necessary. What’s done is done. I pushed myself to a crouch and then rose up, joint by joint and muscle by muscle until I was standing upright. I backed up from the body, slowly at first and then faster. The dam broke. I turned and ran for the kitchen, just making it in time before throwing up into the sink. I heaved until there was nothing left, the taste of bile mingling with my tears, gasping for breath. I cleaned my face as best I could with a dish towel, then finished it up in the bathroom with some of the water I had left over from cooking the night before. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Weeks of beard growth, hair dirty and matted, vomit still wet and

(you ruined his jacket)

glistening on my shirt. If not this house, then another, should provide clothing in my size.

(why did you do that)

I closed my eyes, not willing to look as Ell spoke up. I never could stand her disapproval. I turned from the mirror without looking again, and slowly made my way to the master bedroom. The cupboards had been stripped, but some t-shirts in a wash basket in the en suite looked like they might do the trick. I took mine off and dumped it into the wash basket, after having emptied it of clothing. Many were women’s shirts. I picked a light blue men’s shirt, only one size too big, and put it on. My own jacket was still in the lounge, where I had left it before settling into the armchair with my bottle of wine. I retuned and put it on, zipping it up to the neck. I probably should

(food, you need food)

do something about the body but did it matter? No one was ever going to find him and no one was ever - probably - going to care. Not anymore. His own small bag, slung over one shoulder when he walked out into the garden, may hold something I could use and

(you’re a real asshole)

his boots might just be better than mine. After weeks on the road, they were showing signs of wear but what made me think that his wouldn’t be in the same state? At that, a fresh pang of regret gripped my stomach and I doubled over again.

“No,” I said out loud. No. I had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t have killed me

(like you care)

and taken my stuff. Killed me FOR my stuff.

(you killed him just for being there)

“No,” I said again, he would have killed me first

(you don’t know that)

and I knew that, I had no choice, I had to strike first and

(now you can only think of his things)

I had to get away, Ell needed me, I have to get back

(you killed him)

“NOOOOOO!” I screamed as I swept a large ashtray off the side table and hurled it at the wall. The bang went through my head like a shockwave and I screamed again, this time just the guttural pain of a wounded animal, and I sank to the floor again.

(it’s okay you’re okay)

I grasped at Ell’s voice as the room swam and faded.

I woke to find that the shadows in the lounge had changed direction. It must be afternoon already. How long had I been out? I pushed myself to my knees yet again, the hangover clanging in my head but my stomach quiet. I made it to the backdoor before my head swam again. I took deep breaths against the rising darkness, leaning with one arm against the door frame. Without looking out

(the body)

I closed the door, willing myself not to look

(the man you killed)

through the broken window pane. I turned the key in the lock and backed away from the door

(hammer)

until I bumped into the kitchen counter and stopped. My hammer was still out there. I would need to go and get it but didn’t want to. Not now. Not this minute. Maybe later.

(it’s your hammer now)

Besides, I could always find something else. There would be something in this house: a large knife, a poker, perhaps an axe or another hammer.

(you’ve murdered together)

“Fuck you,” I growled. Piss on the hammer. It can stay there

(you’re not going to do the decent thing and check?)

with the body. He’s dead. The hammer is dead. There is nothing I can do. I thought about this while staring into the long distance and putting cornflake after cornflake into my mouth, as the shadows descended on the kitchen.

Part 6: the field

That one is an upside-down dinosaur. It looks like it has a little hat on its head. And that one is a car. See how the wheels turn? And that one could almost be a rhino. Or a swordfish, if the horn straightens a little. They both have fat little bodies. Ell laughed and agreed. We laughed together.

I lay in the lavender field across from the housing estate, on the other side of the wide road. The sun was high and the day was warm. I rested my head on my backpack and watched as the puffy white clouds morphed from one thing to the next. Here an aeroplane, there a rabbit. Ell and I used to do this a lot, on that hill up from our first home. A picnic basket, blanket, the clouds. And us. Needing nothing more than to try and do one better than the other, spot the next big shape in the clouds. It would be her head in my lap, her arm pointing up at the sky. I put my hand in my lap. Where Ell would lay.

(come to me)

I nodded. Yes. I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.

The Mocking Voice had died down a bit since the previous evening. I had gone through a lot of the bag of cornflakes before boiling some more water and digging into my backpack for my precious supply of coffee. I had sugar but no milk. It wouldn’t keep. Over the course of the evening I had four cups, this time boiling my water over a fire that I made behind the garage of the house next door. The backdoor of my own house remained locked. I took a chair with me, and a book on Unsolved Mysteries (I so loved that stuff) and paged through it while warming myself by the fire. There was a decent amount of books in the house but I couldn’t stomach anything too deep, and couldn’t abide by anything too shallow.

(my little intellectual)

I had smiled at Ell, her voice as usual reassuring me. I paged through the book, alternating between reading to Ell and discussing the stories with her. All the old favourites were there: Jack the Ripper, the Bermuda Triangle, the Voynich Manuscript. She had sat with me at the fire as we discussed the Zodiac Killer, and debated the Shroud of Turin. We sat and imagined that, we too, could now hear the Taos Hum, its low pitched sound like a distant diesel engine.

(Black Dahlia)

She had been found in two pieces in a parking lot in Los Angeles, in 1947, I had told Ell. I said that she had gotten the name because of a movie playing at the time, The Blue Dahlia. No, Ell had said, the media invented that name. We agreed to disagree. We always disagreed well.

I had gone to sleep, finally, in a proper bed for the first time in a long time. My groundsheet and sleeping bag had stayed packed away. I’d picked the left-hand side of the bed - my left - because that’s where I always slept and Ell had taken the right. Where she slept. On the bedside table I had placed a long, sharp knife, which I had found in a kitchen drawer. I didn’t know the knife, so I was happy with it. I had slept on my side, as I always did, one arm stretched out to Ell, fingertips just brushing her shoulder.

And now, this morning. It was time to leave. There was no time to stay, to remain, to read books and drink coffee and eat rice with peas and beans, when I knew - I knew - that Ell waited for me. She had loved lavender. We always tried to have a bush growing but were pretty useless at it. Bath salts, creams, scented candles - I couldn’t go wrong with lavender and Ell always loved it.

So, we lay down in the lavender. Ell and I. We lay down in the lavender across from the housing estate and looked up at the clouds, Ell and I pointing out one shape and then the next. We were buried so deep in the lavender that I could no longer see how big this field really was. To the left there was lavender, to the right there was lavender and above the clouds.

My arm was still across my lap. Where Ell used to lay. I looked down at my arm, the vein I had opened staining my new, light blue shirt.

I smiled.

I’m coming, Ell. I’m coming.