Speaker 1: The hilltop cottage was somehow even smaller than it looked online,
but it made it feel more charming. Sunlight split generously
through the mismatched windows, catching on the old brass fixtures
and the worn but beautiful woodwork that ran along the
door frames. Or The garden was wild and overgrown in
the best way, full of wild pollinator flowers for bees
and tangled roses, with time creeping into the cracks of
the old stone path. It had flows, but the price
had been unbelievably low for what it was. And Mara
was over the moon. I love it, she beamed, arms
spread like she was already embracing it. And look at
that view. It's like a painting. There are so many
pretty places to take pictures off from my shop. She
was right. Our view was stunning, fields folded over each
other in soft green swells, a thin river glinting with
seams of silver, while the town itself sat low, as
much of clustered rooftops nestled in the valley, ringed by
more of those sleepy trees. I had told Mara it
was a romantic reset. I used words like digital detocks
and back to basics, which she ate up for what
she didn't know, because I was buried in debt so
deep I couldn't see daylight, cards, loans, sharks that keep lending,
even when I'd nothing left to prove I could pay
them back. I'd better house as a final hope to
get it all back, and I'd lost. This cottage was
a cheap scapegoat. I just didn't know how long we
could keep it up. The general store sat squat and low,
as if it had grown there. Inside it smelled like
old wood and something shay, like vinegar or pickled onions.
Mara was already halfway down to one of the narrow aisles,
asking about local trails and making conversation the way she
was always good at doing. The man she was talking
to was in his late fifties, maybe older, with a
weathered face and hands that looked too big for the
delicate register he tapped with one knuckle. When he finally
looked up, he did it slowly and grumpily, in that
way that I assumed came with age. He looked at Mara,
then me, and finally tilted his chin towards our new home.
The river wives don't like being seen, he said. His
voice was calm, but it felt rehearsed, especially not by
young women. Mara paused halfway through, flipping a trail map
over for what the ones by the river? He respond quickly,
you'll know them if you see them. Don't let it
get that far. And if you have to walk past
the river, wear something that doesn't invite trouble. Cover up.
Before we could ask what he meant, another man, a customer, presumably,
spoke from somewhere in the store. He's right, don't greet
him in. Do you best to ignore him? Mara turned, frowning,
like she was trying to decide if this was a
joke or some backwards performance art. I watched as she
folded the trail map with careful fingers, her mouth pressed
into a polite, unreadable line. She didn't say anything, but
the silence felt like it had teeth. She gave the
man a short nod and stepped away, the trail map
still clutched in her hand. At the far end of
the counter, a woman looked up from a station behind
the battered produce scale, late sixties, maybe, with a pinched
expression that made it hard to tell if she was
squinting at something. She looked at Mara girls dressed like
that in the city, I'm sure, she said, sizing Mara up.
But the river's not a place to be soft hearted.
She dropped a handful of apples into a paper bag
and folded the top slowly. Some bits out here take
advantage when you go offering bits of yourself without thinking.
Mara smiled politely, but I could see the muscle working
in a jaw. She wasn't the type to speak to strangers,
so she gave a quick of course, and turned to me.
I caught her expression, the kind of look that meant
get me out of here before I say something I'll regret.
Let's go, I said, already moving, still need to get
to the hard shop before it shots. Thank you for
the advice. We stepped out into the sun, and Mara
was quiet for exactly three seconds. Bloody hell, she muttered,
cover up because my arms are out. It's twenty one
degrees and I'm wearing a nice sun dress. Sorry for
dressing like it's a warm day and not a funeral.
She didn't wait for me to respond, just kept walking.
I get that it's a small town, she said, but
come on, offering bits to yourself. Wear something that doesn't
invite trouble. She made air quotes without slowing a pace.
It's all just polite language and know your place. Girl.
Did you notice they didn't say a word to you.
I did notice, I said, and yeah, it's daft. I
glanced back at the shop, then ahead at the worn cobbles,
tufts of grass poking through the gaps, and nettles crowding
the edge of the road. These people have known each
other forever. They've grown up together and seen each other
through weddings, funerals in the lot. They've probably sat in
the same pub with the same pint and the same
complaints into the seventies. I kicked at a loose stone.
We're just new faces to them. It doesn't matter what
we say or how reasonable we know we sound. It's
just us stepping into their town. That doesn't make what
they said right, just means it's not about us. I
gave her a note with my elbow. You know, you
could always bring a few soaps around to the shop.
You give them something nice, they might start being nice back.
That got the corner of a mouth to twitch just
enough to call it a win. A few days in,
I was still finding my rhythm, but Mara tucked to
the countryside as if she had always belonged in it.
She was already in boots, basket looped over her arm,
pigging wild things from the hedgerow as she knew them
by name. She dried bundles of herbs and twine stretched
across the kitchen window, yarrow, mug, wat, lavender, horsetail, always
something gently fragrant tucked beneath her ear. She sang when
she worked, little hums and wordless melodies that carried through
the house like incense and cheered me up. As I
worked remotely. Sometimes I'd find love notes folded and slipped
under my coffee mug, tiny sketches of flowers or hearts,
which felt great until I remember the real reason we
were here. I started going for early runs most mornings.
I was out the door before Marow was up, lacing
my shoes and the doorstep while the sky was still waking.
It gave me space to think proper. But no matter
how far I went, I always ended up circling back
to the same thought I needed to tell her, And
the longer I left it, the worse it would be.
I'd lost our old life to a stupid selfish mistake.
I hadn't just messed up, I properly wrecked things. This cottage,
this so called fresh start, was damage control. And yet
she liked it here. She was happy, And part of
me kept wondering if I told her now, would she
be furious enough to leave? Or would she stay? Because
despite everything, something good had come out of the mess.
I didn't know. I just knew I couldn't keep dodging
it forever. One of the first few mornings, I decided
to try a different path. I was still working out
which ones were worth the mud and which ones didn't
leave You stuck two fields from where you meant to be.
This one dipped through a patch of large and followed
the river for a bit. I hadn't been that way before.
It was colder down there, Damp hung heavy in the
air and caught in your throat, And in the mornings
there was a fog that thickened the closer you got
to the river's path. I spotted some figures in the fog.
There were women standing knee deep in the river, backs
turned half lost between the trees and the fog. They
seemed to be barefoot, their dresses hung soaked and heavy
clinging to their legs, headscarves, not a tight, not a
strand of hair showing. They moved in silence, slowly and steadily,
scrubbing stained fabric against old wooden washboards. One of them
lifted a strip of cloth, wet and head. She twisted
it with both hands, and red water trickled out. Then
my foot went out from under me. I went down hard,
knee first onto the path. Paine shot at my legs,
sharp enough to make me swear out loud. My palms followed,
scraping against the grit and shaving away my skin. I
stayed down for a second, catching my breath. When I looked,
blood was already starting to soak through the fabric of
my joggers. When I limped back into the kitchen, Mara
was already at the counter, hanging another row of drying
bundles in the window while she made breakfast. She turned,
took one look of my leg, then my top, and frowned,
What the hell happened to you, river path, I said,
slipped the blooded streaks down my trousers, the stubborn stains
spreading beneath the fabric. She touched to him gently, then
looked at me for a moment. Lucky you, she said,
I made a new bar yesterday. It's good for blood.
Could pull that out nicely. She moved to the shelf
and peeled back the linen from the stack of pale
gray soap bars, all the same size and shape, more
than she usually made in one go. I frowned, you
planning a bulk sale I didn't know about. She didn't answer,
too preoccupied with insuring her food didn't burn. She passed
it to me like she hadn't heard the question. Use
cold water first, she said. Always cold heat sets it in,
then scrub it out with this, work it into it,
let it sit a bit. She didn't offer to do
it for me, which was strange for her. Was it
the path by the bend, she asked, almost off handedly,
where the fog rolls in. I nodded, she didn't look up.
That's where the best wild arrow grows, loads of it,
just before the river curves back inland. Some of it's
already gone to seed, but I've still been able to
find the good stuff. She stirred the part on the stove,
her wrist moving slowly and steadily. It's quiet out there,
she said, I know what you're going to say, yes,
I saw the river wives, as they call them. Don't worry,
she scoffed. I didn't bother them. But I still think
it's mad that a town like this let disordest women
stand out in the col don't laundry like it's eighteen
twenty bloody backwards, if you ask me. There was a
long pause as I record my encounter this morning. Heah,
you're right, I said, but it's not our place. Do
you really need to go all the way out there
for yarrow? I can pick it up for you on
my runs if you want, She turned slowly. I like
it here, she said, I love it, actually, But I'm
not stupid. You've seen how they talk to me like
I'm a child or a house care She set the
spoon down a bit harder than she probably meant to.
I won't play small just because it makes this place
more comfortable. I like my walks. I like finding things
with my own two hands. I don't need someone fetching
yarrow for me, like I'm some little wifey who's save
us staying inside? All right, all right, I said, gently,
I get it. I'm sorry, she sighed, pinching the breech
of her nose. Sorry, that was an aim at you,
just all of it. This place is so beautiful until
people start speaking that way. I stepped forward and rested
her hand lightly on her back. She didn't pull away.
You're right, I said quietly. You shouldn't have to shrink,
not for any one. She looked at me, and something
softened behind her eyes. Her shoulders dropped a little. We
moved here to grow, and instead I'm supposed to fold
up smaller. You won't, I said, not with me. Not ever.
She leaned into my chest with a soft, exhausted sigh,
and I wrapped my arms around her, careful of the herbs,
still tired at her hip. I like that, you worry,
she murmured. Just don't make it delicate. I'm not I know,
I said, You're a bloody force. There got a quiet laugh.
She pressed the forehead into my shoulder and let it
sit there for a few seconds longer. Then she pulled
away and gave my leg a glance. You'd better get scrubbing,
by the way, if you let that set, I'm not
making a second batch, noted, I said, cold water, firm scrubbing.
Let it sit, got it? She gave me a mock
stern nod and went back to her part. I waited
a few days before running again. My knee still twined
when I bent it too far, but I told myself
the ache was good. It meant I was healing. It
was early again, and the fog thickened as I got closer,
just like last time. This time, however, I was determined
to see what was past the river, and as I'd expected,
they were there again, the same women in soaked dresses,
dragging the soaking clothes against the washboard. For this time,
one of them turned slightly, like she'd heard me coming.
Her face stayed hidden, just enough that the scarf blocked
everything but the curve of a jaw. Would you be kind,
she spoke, and give this one a twist. These old
hands aren't what they used to be. She held up
a sodden sheet. It was dark and dripping. She turned
it slightly in her hands. It hung the limp and lifeless,
the water sliding off in long, reluctant ropes. There was
something in the way, she asked, though I couldn't put
my finger on it, so I stopped. The fog pressed
against my back. The only sound was the slow trag
of fabric and the slap of water on stone. The
bird song had long disappeared. My fingers twitched like they
might move on their own, and I shuffled my feet forward.
But then I noticed her arms. They were pale and bloated,
way past the usual prune from water. Then I noticed
the folds of the dress near her wrists were torn
in places like the fabric had been picked at, and
the sheet it wasn't clean, the water sliding off it
was thick and red, too heavy looking to just be mud.
Come on, love, she said, again, voice softer this time.
You've got young arms. I've had awful joint pain lately,
and a terrible bit of rheumatism in the elbows. It
just needs a twist. She gave the sheet a small,
hopeful jiggle, like that would draw me closer. She still
didn't look at me, which bothered me more than I
wanted to admit. I don't know why, but it made
my skin crawl. There was something unnatural about someone asking
you for help without ever meeting your eyes. My wrists
have been locking up something terrible, she added, as if
it hurt just to say. All this damp in the
air worse than it used to be. You'd be doing
me a kindness. The other women didn't react. They continued
dragging their fabrics against the washboard like I wasn't even there.
The words from the general store came crawling back. Ey's low,
don't greet them, don't offer anything. I thought it was
cruel the first time, rude for the sake of it,
But at that moment I felt like advice was passed
on with caution. Still I hesitated, because what if she
really was just some old woman in the cold water,
soaked to the skin, wrists giving out from year of
doing this exact motion. What if I was being the
bad guy here, watching her struggle and walking away like
it could cost me something. Um, I began, Oh, sort it.
Then she snapped at my voice, suit yourself. The shift
in the tone shocked me. It wasn't the sort of
hurt you'd expect from being turned down. It was snappy
and impatient, like she dropped something and blamed me for
not catching it. Not even a moment for an old
woman with bad arms. She hissed more to the river
than me. What a thing to watch someone struggle and
turn your back on them must be nice being young
and quick. Men are so bloody selfish. I clenched my jaw.
He flared across my face from embarrassment. A few days ago,
Mara had practically bitten my head off for offering to help.
Now some old hag in a river made me feel
like the villain for not pitching in. I didn't know
what the hell women wanted any more. I decided to
stay silent and let the fog have the last word.
I turned back to the path and let my feet
do what they came here to do. Move. My breathing
evened out as I picked up my speed. The rest
of the trail cut through thickets and a small patch
of pine. The cold stuck to my skin, and the
sound of the river grew faint behind me, and I
let it fade. By the time I got home, the
sun had risen properly, the mist was already pulling back
like it hadn't touched anything, but something had. I felt off,
like the run had taken something out of me. My
legs ached, my fingers felt stiff, and there was a
rob in the back of my head that hadn't been
there when I left. I skipped to breakfast took a
shower so hot it should have scolded. Still, he barely
did anything. By late afternoon, I was curled up on
the sofa under a blanket, useless. Mara came in from
the garden with dirt on her knees and a fresh
bundle of herbs in one hand. That's me sorted for
a few months. She was slightly wet from getting caught
in sudden rain. She glanced at me, taking in my
pale face, then back at the kettle near the fire.
You're not running tomorrow. I wasn't planning to, I said.
My voice came out hoarse, like I'd been shouting when
I hadn't said much of anything. You look like a
washed out sock, she said, crouching to soak the fire
back to life. Then a man flew something like that.
She didn't press, and set the kettle above the fire
more carefully than usual, and sat beside me, still smelling
like rosemary and wet grass. Maybe your body's trying to
tell you something, she said quietly. They keep pushing into
places that you don't want to. I didn't answer. I
didn't know how to. Really, she didn't know it, but
she was spot on. She passed me a cup of tea.
She hadn't asked if I wanted strong, slightly bitter, the
kind she made when I was sick. You're resting tomorrow,
she asked again, gently this time yeah, I said, I'm
staying in. We can have a lie together. She smiled,
but kept a distance. Absolutely not, she said, I make soaps,
not cures. The last thing I need is catching whatever
this is and sneezing over my stock. I gave a
weak laugh, half into the tea. Wow, no bedside manner,
she grinned. Not in the job description. You want sympathy,
you'll have to bribe me with biscuits. Then you'll get
some tea and toast in bed if you're lucky. The
next morning, the sun woke me up before I was ready.
It poured through the thin curtains and strips warm across
my face. Nice, actually one of those rare moments where
the light feels soft instead of sharp. I still felt awful,
and became clear that I sweated through the night. Despite
the fact that the sun's warmth and quiet made me
feel like I could have maybe stayed like that for
a while. I reached over, expecting to feel the softness
of mars skin, but the bed was empty. The covers
and Morra's side were flat and cold. I blanked up
at the ceiling, confused for a second. I had been
looking forward to tea and toast in bed, like she
usually did when I had the man flu. I listened
for her. The house had thin walls. You could hear
everything in it, but there was nothing, just quiet. I
sat up slowly. My head swam with that awful cotton
wool in your skull kind of dizzy. Everything felt a
bit too bright, a bit too sharp. My legs were
heavy with fatigue, but I swung out of bed anyway,
feet hitting the cold tile on the floor. I made
my way around the house, noticing nothing unusual until I
saw that her boots were missing. She wouldn't have gone far,
or at least that's what I told myself at first.
But something didn't sit right. Mara had already gathered all
the herbs she needed, she'd said, so everything was drying
nicely on the twine above the sink, and the rest
of her supplies were tugged away in their usual spots.
I looked up at the shelf where she kept her
finished soaps. The top row was still lined with the
usuals lavender, oat, rosemary, but the pale gray bar she
had me use the other day We're gone. I moved closer, squinting.
Maybe theyde me move to the market box. My brain
felt fogged over, like thinking through clingfilm. I touched the shelf,
ready to steady myself. Nothing, not a single bar left.
I opened the bin on instinct. Half buried unto yesterday's
peelings was the linen wrap she used for packaging, the
same dotted one she'd used when she first showed me
the batch. She had folded once, then crumpled like someone
had changed their mind at the last second. I knew
where she'd gone, even before I admitted it. I knew.
I turned and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes, my
head spinning as I bent down, but I shoved them
on anyway. The air outside was sharp but warm from
the rising sun. That same low mist was back again,
thicker near the fields, sticking to my throat with every breath.
My legs protested the second I pushed into a run,
cold muscles left over fever. I felt wrong, but still
I ran. The trail was soft from last night's rain.
I kept slipping, catching myself just before I went fully down.
My breathing turned quick and right, get too soon. I
followed the curve on the path, past the hedgerow, past
the spot I fell before, and then I saw a
bootprints in the mud leading down to the water's edge.
I picked up speed, and there she was. Mara stood
at the bank, boots muddy, sleeves pushed up. She had
both hands out in front of her, offering the soap
to the river wives. The woman closest to her lifted
her head and I saw her. Her face was puffed
out in places and sunken in others, like it had
been soaking too long in the wrong kind of water.
Her bloated corpse came to mind. Her skin had that gray,
puffy look like you'd seen pictures you wish you hadn't
clicked on. Her lips were pulled thin, but puffed at
the edges, like they were losing their shape. I opened
my mouth to call out, but instead my stomach turned.
The run, the fever, and the sight of the woman
all hit me at once. The taste of last night's
food climbed back up my throat, and I barely had
time to lurch to the side before it came up.
I doubled over, wretching, hard, hands braced to my knees,
bitter half digested vomit, hid the mud with a wet slap.
My eyes watered. The noise, the stench, and the sting
in my nose all grounded me and made it worse.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my dressing
gown sleeve, heart still hammering, chest heaving, and Mara had
turned towards me with a concerned look on her face.
She didn't have time to say anything. The river wives
moved faster than they had any right to. One of
them searched from the water in a wet heave, cloth
slapping against stone. Mara turned too late, her hands fumbled, soap,
slipping from her palms and hitting the rocks. Another one
rose behind her, then another and another. They surrounded her,
water logged limbs coiling around her legs, wasisting arms. One
pressed the palm flat against her chest, Her boots lost grip,
and her knees gave. They began to drag their washboards
across her back, over her arms, over a scalp, like
they were trying to strip a clean They worked fast.
Her clothes came apart of the seams. Threads poured like
worms from the stitching. Her skin went with it, peeled
back in patches, red, bloomy, and then vanishing under the froth.
One of them worked at her wrist until the joint
gave a little pop, then twisted another open their mouth
wide and bit down on Mara's shoulder like it was bread.
The flesh gave. Mara's mouth opened, but no sound came.
I forced myself upright, stumbling forward. My legs didn't want
to cooperate. Mara reached out in a last weak attempt
to push away, to reach for me, but then her
head went under. Her hair was the last thing I
saw of her, fanned out on the surface like ink
in water. I finally made myself step forward, and one
foot sank into the bank, but I didn't go any further.
I couldn't. I was outnumbered. There were too many of them,
and whenever they were, they weren't just old bats with
bad joints. I threw up again, barely staying upright, still shaking.
I could taste it all in my mouth, and the
feel of last night sweat still clinging to my neck
one of them turned slightly in my direction, just enough
to let me know she clocked me, and I stumbled
back weakly, shoes skidding in the mud. My heel caught
a root and I went down hard, hands scraping against
the cold, muddied stone as I scurried back on my feet,
losing a shoe to the river, and I ran faster
than I had ever run before. I didn't stop until
I hit the edge of the village. My lungs were burning,
my chest felt too small, one foot was raw, my
sock soaked through, and mud clinging to the back of
my legs like tar. I stumbled into the center, wheezing,
hunched ies, scanning for anyone. The first person I saw
was the woman from the sharp She didn't flinch. You're
a state, she said instead, eyes flicking to my missing shoe,
then the blood and the dirt down my arm. You
went down there, didn't you. I opened my mouth to speak,
but the words weren't ready. My throat closed around them.
Behind her, another man leaned out from the post office steps.
He took one look at me, then shook his head
like he's seen all he'd needed. You were worn, son,
Better not bring that hassel into town. Either leave or
go back and finish what you've started. I shook my head,
still breathless, voice barely there. I need the police, I
need someone to The woman scoffed, actually scoffed, Oh love,
No one's calling anyone. What would they even do? Fill
out a form and lose it. I looked up at her.
Mud streaked at my legs, acid in my throat, one
shoe gone to the river. I must have looked half mad.
She's gone, I said. It came out dry and it stung.
They took her. The woman from the shop just shook
her head. Then it's done. She looked me over again.
But there was no pity in it. They're not coming
for you, she said. Whatever happened out there, it was
between her and them. They don't take much interest in men.
She nodded at my state like that explained it all.
You're not. There's the bother unless you give them a reason.
She paused moment, as if deciding whether to waste the time,
saying the rest. Then she nodded toward the village green.
You can waste your morning reporting it. The police will
be down there. Poke around with a note box and
by the time they do, they won't find a thing.
They never do. She shifted a weight and tucked her
hands into a cardigan's sleeves. Or you can come inside,
sit down and have a cup of tea. Let it
settle a bit, figure out what you want to do next.
If anything, I couldn't answer. The clouds had closed in
and rain had started again, that fine, soaking kind. She
gave me a look that wasn't quite sympathy, just something like,
well pick. The weeks that followed were slow and quiet
in the worst kind of way. The shop lady was right.
The police didn't find anything. They looked at me like
they knew what was happening, like an adult checking under
a child's bed for monsters. They asked me to walk
them through it, so I did. The whole thing sounded
like a story. One of them nodded like he was listening,
but I could tell he wasn't hearing a word and
just filling in boxes in his head. They stepped down
to the river eventually, boots careful on the edge, like
they didn't want to get dirty. One of them crouched
and stared at the water for a while, like he
might offer something up if he looked long enough. The
other paced around with a stick, prodding at the reeds,
like he would find her folded neatly in the mud,
just waiting to be uncovered. They didn't find any thing.
They knew they wouldn't. I could see it in the
way they moved, slow and half hearted. In the end,
they gave me a number to call and said someone
might be in touch if anything came up, though it
probably wouldn't. I didn't leave the town. I couldn't. Every
room still had her in it despite our short time here.
Her handwriting on labels, her coat on the back of
the door, A stupid mug with a chip in the handle,
she always said, gave it character. Some mornings I'd wake
up forgetting turning to her side of the bed, expecting
her weight and warmth, only to be met with a
flat sheet in silence. And that's all it took. The
silence would drag me back to that day, straight to
the mud her final moments, and she reached out, my
chest would lock up like someone had stuck their hand
inside and squeezed tight, and my hands would shake. Breathing
would come out wrong, sharp and fast, like I was choking.
Sometimes I'd curl up and try to ride it out.
Other times I'd sit up and press my palms to
my knees, like they might pin me to the moment
and anchor me down until the wave passed. It always passed,
but it took its time. Some days I thought I
should burn the whole house down with myself in it,
but I didn't. The people in town started treating me differently,
with noods and cups of tea. The townspeople stopped to
ask how I was holding up. They didn't say sorry,
not outright, but it was there, and the way they
helped me. The shop woman held even started saving me
the good milk without asking. One of the older men
gave me a spare radio in case the silence ever
gets too loud. You're one of us, now, Hilda said,
handing me a paper bag of apples without charging. Everyone
loses someone eventually in one way or another. So I stayed,
partly because I had nowhere else to go, and partly
because of my debt. Even if I could the thought
of packing up and moving on somewhere else without her
made me feel sick. I kept Mara's little shop going
under a name changed the labels on a soap to
Mara's blend and started selling them at the market. They
did well. I messed up a few batches, some trial
and error, but before I knew it, they started to
smell like hers. It was maybe a month when I
realized I was out of Yarrow. I'd use the last
bit of it on the latest batch. He didn't feel
right to stop making one of her best sellers. I
thought about asking someone to fetch some for me, but
that felt like cheating, so I waited. A few days
turned into a week. I kept putting it off, and
even tried looking for it in different areas. At one point,
I told myself the blend didn't need Yarrow, but I
knew I was wrong. Every time I ran my thumb
over the label. Mara would have been furious at me
for half passing something under her name. The thought stuck
and grew teeth. I kept seeing her hands, the way
she held the bars when they were still curing, her
thumb running along the edge. She'd never half finished anything,
not even breakfast, And there I was, letting fear decide
what got made and what didn't, letting it whisper that
maybe it wasn't worth finishing. Maybe I was safe and
not to Mara would have seen through that. In two seconds,
she'd have thrown something at me, probably a damp tea towel,
and she'd have followed it up with that sharp look
she had, the one that said pull yourself together, and
she'd have been right. All I did was give the
anger space to grow. It started low in my chest
and curled around the edges of everything, as if fested,
into the corners of the cottage, and on to her
side of the bed. Eventually it boiled up into an idea,
one I couldn't shake away no matter what I tried.
That evening, the local pub was lively and dimly lit.
A few of the regulars scattered across the low tables,
shouting across to each other, cracking jokes. The fire was
more glow than flame by now mostly embers tucked into
the grate, flickering just enough to keep the cold off
the walls. George, the gent who gave me the radio,
sat near the back half watching darts on the telly.
I took the stool next to him, no fuss, and
didn't bother with a pint. You still got that shotgun,
I asked, bloody hell, he said, after a pause. You
don't start with hello anymore. Didn't feel like chatting clearly,
He glanced at me suspiciously, like you already knew why
I was there. What for foxes? I said, been getting
into the garden, and they've stuck up half the beds,
most of Mara's corner, chewed through all her hard work.
That made him pause, and he set his pint down
onto the sticky table. Sombly. Blerdy hell, he muttered that
patch always looked proper, never thought foxes would go after herbs.
He went quiet at that rouse, drawing in a touch,
the lines around his eyes settling deeper, as if he
were figuring out whether that was the truth or not.
Been hearing that from folks too, he said, after a beat.
Not just foxes, badgers and rabbits too, all of them
turning up where they shouldn't be. They're bold, like they've
forgot how to be wild. Don't bolt anymore, Just stand
and watch you like they're taunting you. I nodded once.
That's what they've been doing. He studied me again. You're
planning to shoot anything, only if I have to. He
let that sit between us for a second, then gave
a small nod. I'll get it to you in the morning,
he said, one day. Only barrel pulls a bit left
if you're not paying attention, and it kicks like it's
got something to prove, So don't try and be clever.
I won't. Once I had the gun, I set out early.
The sky was gray and the path was soft with
last night's rain. The shotgun was wrapped in oil cloth
and strapped across my back. I could feel it with
every step foxes, I said, pests. George must have known
he'd handed me the gun like he understood. He said nothing,
but gave me a small nod, the kind that said
do whatever you got a doo, mate, but don't come
crying after The fog was thicker, this time, proper thick.
It clung to the hedges and swelled low across the path.
The visibility was awful. The river wasn't even in sight yet,
but I could feel it just around the bend, that damp,
cold presence and impending doom. I stopped walking, reached back
and undid the strap. It came free without fuss, oilcloth,
damp with mist. I wrapped it slowly, feeling the weight
of it in my hands. It felt wrong, like it
knew I had no business holding it. My arms weren't
made for this, My hands weren't steady. I never handled
one before, not properly, not like this. And there I
was alone in the mud, with fog at my ankles
and a loaded shotgun in my grip. Like I knew
what the hell I was doing. I broke it open
to check the two shells. They were right where they
were meant to be, and when I clicked it shut,
it made a proper sound, clean and final. Then I
kept moving slowly. My boots sank a little into the
wet ground with each step. I could feel the thud
of my heart beat in my jaw and finger tips.
Then I saw it, a figure of a woman standing
in the water with her back turned, her dress soaked
and clinging to her legs, and her head was wrapped
in a scarf pulled tight. Every muscle in me went taut.
I raised the gun and flicked the safety off with
my thumb, clumsy and stiff. Was louder than I expected.
It made the hairs on the back of my neck
stand up. The figure reacted to the noise one foot
dragging through the water like she was remembering how to stand.
Her body swayed slightly, and every part of me tensed.
My arms were locked and my shoulders tightened. I braced
the stock against my shoulder, properly, lifted the barrel and
lined it up through the gray. The fog swirled around her,
thick as milk, only showing a blur of her. I
couldn't see her face, but I knew what this was.
What it had to be one of them. I had
seen this before. I knew this shape, this silence, the
soap dress clinging to her legs, sleeves hanging, heavy hair hidden,
no part of her left of recognize. She was just
another one of them, waiting for a next victim. So
I aimed, and just when I had her square in
my sight, she spoke, did you finally bring those biscuits
you promised me? The words took the ground from under
me without warning, and my arms dropped just a little
and shock. I couldn't help it. It felt as if
the gun had become heavier because it was her. It
was Mara