Come, Time - A Thriller

Chapter One

Why does God need people? What use are we to Him? In His possession is absolute knowledge, so what can God learn from people? Why create people? What’s the point of doing anything when you know it all already? He knows the beginning and the end of each and everyone of us, but still we keep coming, faster and faster, spamming His world with nothing he doesn’t already know, with nothing He hasn’t already seen. We enter His world and face two exits. We are tested, judged. We dare to live and fear to die. We can pass into heaven or fail into Hell. You created me God, but you knew I would ultimately fail. Was I necessary? Was I needed? Did you need me, God? Or am I weight, just ballast? A spec of junkie dust? What can you gain watching me suffer here or forever in Hell?

Does this, us, make Him happy or sad? Can we move God to tears, can we make him smile? If we fail to educate Him, is our purpose to entertain? Is life an audition for God? Well if so, look away, God, look away from me. I seek no recognition, I need no fame.

God, in my mind, is insane. Imagine knowing everything; imagine needing to do nothing and having eternity to do it in. Imagine having no hunger, no need or urge to know. Nothing would ever surprise you. Nothing would ever challenge you. You would exist in a singular state. Nothing would ever change, not even time. Nothing would really exist.

Why bother with people? Does He consume our souls? Do they somehow have a value? Is God addicted to beauty, to perfection, in finding it in something other than Him?

All this drama, it all seems a bit much to me, but then I am a simple man. My use to God, I dig graves. I earn money from death. In the countryside, you can often earn a few quid digging a home for the dead. I enjoy it. It’s one of my most favorite jobs, even in a winter freeze when the earth becomes one, a solid, zipped-up mass. I’m good at it, too. Not a boast you’ll often hear, but digging a grave satisfies well. Nothing morbid, you’ll understand. To me, it’s thirty quid cash-in-hand and a full body workout. Hard, manual labour can get me high.

Anyway, job done. Grave dug. The final resting place of Tony Spence, a man who died from a heart attack, aged just fifty two; a local man who I’d acknowledge with a smile, or a nod of the head. Whose death has inspired great pity and sadness, and created the catch phrase,

‘Just fifty two. So young, too young to die.’

But then, tell that to the billions who came before him. To all but a few the life of Tony Spence would seem divine. He was never short of food; he was never out of work. Not once did he fear for his life; not once was he told to kill. His house was solid and rightfully his own. He travelled to foreign lands as a free man, for pleasures as simple as lying in the sun. All his children lived. At forty five, when a mole on his shoulder became cancerous, a medicine man cured him, not with magic but with science. Of course, as modern wisdom insists, his fondness for cigarettes, pastries and beer pushed him hard to an early grave. But did he care? Should we? Historically speaking, he lived a long and successful life. In the history of humankind, Tony Spence was a winner.

My time is up, my thirty minutes gone. I’m lying in the grave looking up at a near cloudless sky - my usual practice once the grave is dug. I enter the earth to rest and think. To let my thoughts drift with the clouds. Not that they ever do. They always seem stuck on a topic that is rarely of my choosing. Often, I hear people, those visiting the dead, their feet on gravel, rarely the spoken word, but only once, and then a child, has someone looked down into the freshly dug grave to witness me resting. The child, a boy of about eight, on seeing me asked,

‘What are you doing down there?’ I should have replied,

‘Keeping it warm.’ But didn’t. I smiled, shrugged and stared.

I live off the land. I hunt, forage, grow and poach. When you live by the coast you can always find food. I eat well, better than most: fresh fish and seafood all caught by me; fresh game, poached of course, my me. I even rustle the occasional sheep and the farmer’s crop I treat as my own.

I live isolated, perched on a cliff top, in a four birth caravan on an acre of land. The land I bought for a single weeks labour. Cheap, I hear you think, but listen, hear the sea work the cliff, hear it smash and grab the earth and rock. In three years time my land will be gone, erased and fully consumed, a tenant of the sea once more.

The area where I live has never been a tourist haven. The coastline is too wild, the beaches too pebbled. Only walkers seem to visit. Today, however, we have marked the map and the map has called us treasure.

It is a brisk, autumn afternoon. Thick, sunken cloud is docking in the sky above. Embraced by a beautiful wind I walk along a ragged stretch of coastline on my way to gather mussels. This should be a solitary affair but today I am joined by people, crazed, manic people. Some are local, most are not. Whole families are out to snatch the bounty.

The full details, to me, are vague but we have made the news, captured the public’s imagination. A cargo ship, which failed to hug a storm, has spilled forty or so containers. The contents of which, from toys to home wares, unable to resist the desire of the people, have been pulled towards this beach, and now the people embrace the bounty as if a suddenly found long lost relative, a rich one at that.

Two women, mother and daughter would be my guess, bred in the fashion of Chinese Whispers, both wearing near identical sportswear and both carrying that fat gene, the one activated after eating copious amounts of cake, furiously drag a reluctant, bounty laden shopping trolley up along the beach. I know that modern woman, and man, likes to have things but thirty sets of cutlery? Thank God no one invites me to weddings. The beach becomes steep, the pebbles sharp and slippery. The trolley becomes stuck and their fury thickens. The trolley is now the latest scum that clogs their passage through life that conspires to deny them all that is rightfully theirs. They stop unable to progress. One pulls out a mobile phone and makes a call. Somewhere a skinny man with emotional problems splutters into action. Seagulls glide on the wind looking down, picking up tips.

I scramble up a grassy embankment onto a narrow footpath. Instantly my scent is snatched by a TV News film crew, one of six out hustling for the action. Without hesitation the Anchorwoman charges towards me, her microphone thrust forward and aimed directly at my face. A crew of two dutifully follows. Her smile glitters through the grey of the day. As she rapidly nears I hear her purr.

‘Are you local? Can I ask you some questions? We are the news!’

They are the news. I thought we were the news. I have no intention of stopping. I lower my head and stare at the ground, enough body language to inform them all of my intent. The purr begins to growl.

‘We’re national! You could be on national television!’

They block the path. I continue to walk. The Anchorwoman stops, I do not. Her reactions are good. She just manages to twist her body beyond my course. The cameraman fails to react so gets lightly shouldered aside, as does the soundman.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ I hear her snap, with bemused contempt.

I turn to look at the news. The Anchorwoman stares at me with a look of absolute contempt. A look I’ve seen before.

‘Bashful, are we? Grow some fuckin’ balls!’

Heard that said too, only said with more aggression.

What is it with balls? Everyone wants balls, especially people in suits. Get balls, go ruthless. Fine by me, but why draw the line? What if now I pulled out a knife and took it to her throat? What if I answered her with a cold, ruthless action? Would she congratulate me for having king-sized, made-of-steel balls?

My father, who was a violent man, loved to recall how he and an army friend once beat the living daylights out of four Punk Rockers. The irony of course, which wasn’t lost on him, was that the Punks, the anarchists, actually called the police and demanded that they arrest my father and his friend. As my father would say, they got taught a proper life lesson and for free.

I wouldn’t volunteer to live in a society without laws, but if it happened, then I believe I would prosper, certainly I would survive. Would the suits?

I leave the knife in my pocket and politely flash them a smile.

I gather the mussels quickly. The tide is starting to turn and will soon rapidly rise. The mussels grow on a series of decayed wooden jetties that have long stopped having any other use. In the distance, to my left, I can see the scavengers, all high on their own good fortune, and all blissfully unaware of how quickly the tide will turn. To my right, set back against a foaming sky, a Land Rover ambles slowly away. It is the same Land Rover that I have already encountered four times in the last two days. Now, I’m not classifying this as suspicious, but five times, in my isolated world, and each time in a separate location? Whoever sits in that Land Rover may not be watching me, but me, now, I am watching them.

Chapter Two

My day had nearly finished. The time is 9.38 p.m. I am at home in my caravan, well fed and warm. I am standing at a window, peering through the curtain, watching a car as it pulls up outside. I am expecting no visitors, I never do. The car engine is switched off, the headlights follow. The shape of a Land Rover silhouetted against a moon-lit sky is revealed. I step away, stand still and wait.

Two cars doors open then gently close. I hear no voices. Footsteps approach. A short, sharp, not too loud knock on the door. I wait, let them knock again. Seven seconds later they do. The knock is exactly the same - no increased force considered necessary. I open the door, and in the murk of the night, see two men and a Police wallet-badge raised for me to read.

‘Mr. Dean, we’re Police. We need to speak to you. Don’t worry; we’re aware of your disability.’

I have a disability? I assume they mean that I am mute. They both seem serious and, unless armed, physically not a threat. Both are touching forty and dressed as company men in smart, office clothing. Both are lean, fit and seemingly healthy. The badge I ignore, it tells me nothing. I mean, how can I tell if it’s real? I gesture for them to enter, which they calmly do.

‘My name is Phillip and this is my colleague, Andrew.’

First name terms already. No constable or detective. He continues.

‘We’re from Special Branch.’

I stare at them passively, remaining outwardly calm. Inside a swirl of confusion, is this serious or ridiculous? When spoken, it sounds both. They stare back at me, solid and without reaction. Should I believe them? I could ask them to prove it but what good would that do? They couldn’t. All I can do is let them speak; let them say what they’ve come to say.

We crowd around a small dining table. We are bunched tightly together but neither of them seems uncomfortable. There is a fresh pot of coffee sitting on the stove; its smell is loud and delicious. I offer them nothing, but neither seems to care. Andrew pulls out a notepad and pen from his coat pocket then slides them towards me. Phillip places the black leather folder he has been holding down on the table then quickly gets down to business.

‘Mr. Dean, firstly let me make it clear, you are not in any trouble. We are not investigating you or anyone you personally know. Our visit is for one reason and one reason only and that is to ask for your help.’

He opens up the folder. I see a photo of a house that looks familiar. He slides the photo towards me and continues to explain.

‘This property, it’s familiar to you.’

It is, so I nod my head.

‘It’s isolated, but you pass it on a regular basis, when you’re out poaching or foraging for food.’

Again, the truth, so I nod.

‘Recently the property has been bought by this woman.’

From the folder I am handed a second photo. It is of a woman standing outside the house. She is about sixty years of age, a pensioner hippy-chick dressed in colourful woolens, the sort you can buy at craft fairs. Somehow I think she looks wise, with skin regularly refreshed by the great outdoors. She is smiling even though she seems to be alone. Phillip continues.

‘Now, what we can tell you about this woman, and we can tell you this with absolute certainly, is that this woman, is active within the animal liberation movement.’

Without pause the double act begins. Andrew breaks his silence.

‘She’s a key player.’

‘A figurehead.’ Adds Phillip.

‘Not as physically active as she once was, but as an organizer, as an inspirer, she is still very much an important figure.’

Silence. They both look at me for a reaction but I give them nothing. Andrew continues, somewhat impatiently.

‘Her views are extreme. Do we need to explain them to you?’

I shake my head. He continues.

‘Do you sympathise with her views? Do you have any sympathy at all for what she believes in?’

Phillip rolls in seamlessly.

‘If you do, you must tell us, you must tell us now?’

I shake my head.

‘You’re saying no?’

I nod.

‘Good. As we thought.’

They pause, watching me, making sure. Convinced, Andrew continues, his impatience settled.

‘We want you to watch the house. We need you to tell us when either of these two men visit, which they will.’

Andrew fans out eight photos on the table, all are ten by eight inches in size. They show candid surveillance shots of two average looking men, both aged around thirty. In none of the photos are the two men seen together.

‘These are dangerous men.’ So you say.

‘Not one-on-one.’ Adds, Phillip.

‘They’re terrorists. Cowards. They harm from a far. The sort of men it’s easy to hate.’

Pull me in. Let us hate together. Phillip continues.

‘We can’t talk specifics, but we need to know when they visit her.’

‘This doesn’t mean we want you to set up a surveillance unit on a twenty four seven basis. We’re simply asking you to be aware, to be vigilant. To pass the property in the morning and at night. To follow your usual routine, nothing more.’

‘To react to any intelligence that we feed you.’

‘When they show up, which they will, for a period of two to three days, all you need to do is make contact with us.’

‘Make a note of any car number plates and any other details you think important. If anyone else visits, then do the same.’

‘Simple, but important.’

There is a pause. Being a mute, pauses don’t unsettle me like they do other people. I can quite happily stare someone silently in the eye without a care in the world. Andrew sees this and breaks the silence.

‘Why you? Why are we asking you? Well there’s the obvious reason, you’re local, you know the area, it wouldn’t be unusual for you to be seen in the area, or to be seen carrying binoculars or wearing camouflage.’

‘Of course, we know other locals who fit the bill, but none of them are quite like you, are they, Mr. Dean?’

I offer no response. Unfazed he continues.

‘It’s also a question of resources. We have none.’

He smiles. He wants me to share his truthful joke. We’re all mates now. I return no smile. Phillip brings the matter back to business.

‘Or rather, what we do have quickly runs out. The service is under a lot of pressure. I’m sure you can understand that, that animal liberation is not exactly our priority.’

‘To be perfectly honest, you’re the easiest option.’

‘So, can we count on you?’

I write on the notepad, ‘I don’t work for nothing.’ Seeing my words Andrew is quick to reply.

‘A payment, of course, if reasonable.’

I add to the note ‘A thousands pounds, cash.’ Again his reply is instant.

‘Done. So we have a deal, Mr. Dean?’

I nod. Job done. They both look ever so slightly relieved and pleased with themselves. Phillip glances at Andrew then speaks.

‘Well, that was all very, civilised.’

They share a smile then focus on me. Andrew speaks.

‘Do you have mobile phone?’

I shake my head.

‘I assume you know how to use one?

I nod. From his inside jacket pocket he pulls out a mobile phone and charger then places them on the table.

‘For you. Standard, simple to use. In the contacts is one number, our number. If you need to contact us, use it, text us. Oh, and business only. Over step the mark with personal calls and you’ll have the most feared men in the service after you, the accountants.’

They both laugh. I force a slight smile.

‘That’s not a joke. They will check the bill. Anyway, to reiterate, if either of these two men visits, which they will in the next month or so, then we need to know A.S.A.P. That is your prime objective. If they arrive in a vehicle then take the details. Same for anyone else who visits. That’s all we require of you. You need do nothing else. Is that clear?’

I nod. He continues.

‘These people assume they are under surveillance. It’s not in your interest, or ours, for you to take any unnecessary risks. Neither is it in your interest, or ours, for you to tell anyone what we have asked you to do, or in fact to tell anyone anything we have said here tonight. Is that understood?’

I write, ‘It is. Now, what about the cash?’

After fetching the money from the Land Rover, they leave.

I sit at the dining table and study my bounty: a thousand pounds in twenty pound notes, a mobile phone and charger, a notepad and pen and eight photos of two men wanted by Special Branch. Not a bad haul, but then life never deals straightforward, unambiguous positives and tonight is no exception.

One of the photos concerns me. It shows one of the men, his back to the camera, his head turned to look behind. He is wearing a t-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. The jeans are Levi’s 501 Red Tab. The waistband Red Tab label is clearly visible, as is the red Levi material tag that is stitched to the left side of the right back pocket. My concern is simple; the Red Tab label is made from suede. Now wouldn’t a man involved in the animal liberation movement, involved to terrorist level, be a vegan? Wouldn’t he be savvy enough to know a label on his jeans was an animal product and so point blank against all that he believes in? To my mind, yes. So why is he wearing the jeans? Maybe he’s undercover, posing as someone who couldn’t give a shit, but that would be stupid. A man who assumes he is being watched by the government undercover for his cause? Maybe he’s a double agent. Maybe this man was himself an agent of Special Branch and the photo shows him in Civvy Street. Maybe this man has nothing to do with the animal liberation movement and is instead wanted for something completely different.

I have been in the employ of Special Branch for less than fifteen minutes and already I am becoming paranoid.

My day had nearly finished. All was calm and settled. My only pressing decision was one whisky or three. I could have said no. I would have, if all had seemed well and genuine but it didn’t, so I said yes. I couldn’t resist. I will not walk away from a lie.

Could someone be trying to mess with me, playing a practical joke? But then who would play it? No one I know, after all I know so few, and those I do, would have more sense. Maybe I am over reacting. Maybe there is a true and valid reason why he’s wearing the jeans. After all, even people with serious, passionate causes can be stupid. The majority of people I’ve met who have held deep, unmovable beliefs have seemed pretty thick to me. If the human race has one true genius it’s the ability to adapt, to think freely and to understand, at some level at least, that there is no one, singular, absolute truth. Many a stupid man has been empowered by an ideology. It saves them from having to think for themselves and provides easy, ready made quotes and answers. It wraps them up all snug and warm in the collective acceptance of others.

Of course, this man may be a psychopath, and animal liberation an easy route to violence, murder and pain. I mean, how many psychopaths have used a political cause to satisfy their psycho desires? Two percent of the population is thought to be psychopathic. Now violence is always in the hands of the minority, but what minority, two percent? Take the IRA or Al-Qaeda. What percentage of catholic men in Northern Ireland joined the IRA to kill and maim?

Animal liberation, my honest opinion, depends on my mood, depends on the image. See a monkey chained, his eyes silently screaming why, then gladly I’ll sign the petition, but such an image will quickly fade as I get back to my own survival.

The most interesting animal experiment I know of is this: two mice kept in large, separate cages. Both cages were full of twisting tunnels, and natural vegetation. One mouse was given all the food he could eat, and guess what, he got fat and lazy. When he wasn’t sleeping he was sitting perfectly still, waiting for the time he could feast again. The other mouse was given hardly any food, certainly not enough to survive, and guess what, he stayed sharp and active, lean and healthy. He spent his day scurrying around the cage investigating, looking for food. He was happier, healthier and lived longer.

So if you can stay hungry whilst all around are feasting….

I could contact them, text them on the phone and demand an explanation, but why should I? I’m sure they could come up with a plausible explanation. What good would it do me? The only thing to do is to play along, to act out what I have agreed to do.

Chapter Three

The cottage does indeed stand isolated and alone, but as a place to hide from prying eyes, it is useless. It is perfectly exposed, no trees, hedges or fence attempt to obscure it from view. The landscape which surrounds it is hilly pasture and woodland. As a defensive position it is futile. I can take my pick of places to hide and never be seen.

I have no doubt that it was recently sold. I clearly remember seeing the “For Sale” and “Sold” signs. It can’t have been cheap, either. My guess, three hundred grand at least, and that’s now, 2010, in recession. Four bedrooms, full of character, in good repair and with half an acre of land. One old lady living alone, but surviving on more than a state pension. The half acre of land is unkempt and without any specific purpose, no flowers, no vegetables or well kept lawn, exactly how the previous owner left it. Parked outside the cottage is a 2006 Nissan Micra. For now, I will assume this is the woman’s car.

It is 6.30 a.m. and not yet fully light. I am well hidden in a patch of woodland and have my binoculars trained on the front of the cottage. Through the kitchen window I can see the woman. She is wearing a blue dressing gown and is standing perfectly still, as if listening to something intently. On a kitchen table I can see a radio. Suddenly, she becomes animated, her body language dismissive. A wave of contempt pulses across her face and she seems to mouth the words ‘Oh, fuck off!’ Shaking her head, she turns and quickly paces away.

Through a second downstairs window I see her enter a room. She hurries to a desk, sits and begins to work on a laptop computer. I cannot see the screen.

She continues working, typing furiously away for an hour and twenty minutes. During this time I scan what I can and, although my view is limited, I see no signs of protest. Nothing makes me suspicious. I’m sure this woman has passions, and maybe even causes, but am I really watching the hub of animal liberation? Maybe I am, but to be sure, I need to get closer.

For the rest of the day I shop. They paid me a grand and however I, the woman and Special Branch play out, I’m keeping it. I stock up on food, on basic supplies. I then treat myself. I buy a new coat, not one to appease the latest fashion but one to take on the elements, likewise a pair of boots. I then go to the butchers and buy a rib of beef, a family joint for six. An expensive cut of meat, but one I will consume in a single, joyful sitting. The rest of the money will be hidden, stashed away for a moment unknown.

It is 4.05 p.m. and I am hurrying down a country lane on my way to watch the cottage. Night is quickly approaching and will soon smother what remains of the day. In the distance, I can hear a car lumbering towards me.

The lane is narrow and twisting, edged with tall hedges that act as blinkers. Hearing the car reach the corner ahead I step off the road and onto a narrow grass verge, where I stand waiting for the car to pass. An act of self-preservation. The sound of a car slowly approaching is no guarantee of one competently driven. The car cautiously appears from around the corner. It is the Nissan Micra that was parked outside the cottage. Inside I see the Woman, driving. Seeing me she brakes and slows to a pace that is polite but also unnecessary slow. As the car rolls towards me she looks at me and smiles. I reply with a nod and a smile that feels somewhat awkward. Her stare and smile continue. Time it seems is sticking. Finally, the car reaches me, as it passes she manages to keep her smile fixed on me for a few seconds more by turning to look out of the driver’s side window. Her smile widens and her eyes seem to say ‘There, we made it.’ As she accelerates away she toots her horn twice.

We have made first contact, we have looked each other in the eye, and without saying a word, I told her a lie. In my world, she is significant, a fact that is known to me. In her world, I am significant, a fact that is unknown to her. How many such shadows follow us around?

Now, unless she is on her way to visit someone who lives close-by, and there aren’t many who live close-by, the nearest, rational location for her to visit, a local village shop, is twenty minutes away minimum. This gives me forty minutes to move in closer. Forty minutes to put the lie to rest.

Five minutes later I reach the cottage. Scanning the view nothing alerts me to company. With darkness is fifteen minutes away. I could play it safe and wait, or I could make my move now. Given the odds that hidden eyes are watching me my decision is easy. I approach the cottage. The hall light is on. I walk directly to the front door and knock loudly. Silence. I knock again. Silence. I quickly try the door, it is locked. I turn to face behind, take several paces away then turn back and hurry towards the rear of the cottage. Here I see two doors. I try the first. It is bolted shut, but the give is considerable. All that holds it firm is an inside bolt fixed to the top of the door. I concentrate my force over the bolt and the door opens.

I step inside and close the door. Inspecting the bolt for damage, I see none. The catch on the door frame is loose but no wood has splintered away. I turn a few screws and conceal my entry.

The house smells of baking. I am standing in the kitchen and the welcoming smell of fresh pastry hangs sweetly in the air. I take several deep breathes and my pounding heart begins to ease. My gran, who for a time brought me up, could always soothe my moods with an afternoon of her magic baking.

The light is low but I have no trouble locating the fridge. I move to it and open the door, inside: bacon, cheese, eggs and milk, an organic salmon fillet, salami and a pork chop. We all have guilty pleasures but can this really be the fridge of an animal liberation extremist? To my mind no, it can not.

I decide to leave. I know I could stay and dig deeper; rummage through her belongings and look for clues, but what right do I have? I have trespassed long enough. This woman has only ever smiled at me. She wasn’t the one who told me a lie.

Passing a kitchen table I find a laptop. The screen is on, so I can’t resist a look. It shows a web page, address https://boxxx5481422.com/oakley. A casual scan of the text heavy page suggests an academic report on the subject of growing algae. Is she an academic? She has the look. Next to the laptop is an empty bottle of wine. Has she gone for supplies?

I exit through the second back door and head back to the caravan, for whiskey, beef and thought.

I am alone in the caravan, sitting in silence for tonight the elements are still. The beef was delicious and the whiskey a warm embrace. I should feel contented; however, loose-ends nag me. I don’t like it when people complicate things. My life is simple; it’s what I have chosen. Some people get off on drama and constant complications I, however, do not. I like routine. Change is fine when it’s paced with the seasons but ultimately, in routine I can trust myself, in routine I can know myself.

I decide to do nothing, to pull myself from the loop, to continue as I was before the visit. They asked me to watch an animal rights extremist, but this was a lie, so now the contract has been broken and the deal is off. For all I care, Phillip and Andrew can come and go along with the truth of the situation. I care for neither. It would be easy to sit here a slave to imagination, a slave to the question, why, but I desire not the truth. I desire my own peace of mind. If, in time, I am confronted by the truth then fine, I am more than willing to defend myself, but for now, for me, the adventure has finished.

So quiet is the sea I step outside to check it still exists. It does, as does the wind. I will sleep outside tonight, and tomorrow I will continue as I normally would.

Chapter Four

It has been said numerous times that a criminal will often return to the scene of their crime. This is something I have always thought stupid; however the next day I cannot resist walking past the cottage. Admittedly, I am on my way to do other business, but still, I stop and stare. The Nissan Micra is once again parked outside but I see no sign of the woman. The hall light I notice remains on, no curtains are drawn and all other house lights are off.

I quickly move on. The best time to shoot rabbits is early morning and today, this is my goal.

Early evening and again I pass the cottage. The car is parked exactly where it was this morning, the hall light continues to shine, no curtains are drawn and no other house lights are on. All remains the same.

The following day I fight the urge to go to the cottage. By nightfall I am standing in woodland looking down on a scene that refuses to change. The car, the hall light, the curtains are all as before, and all other house lights remain off.

All is probably fair and rational. I have suspicions, but only ones that concern a pensioner living alone - a trip or a fall in a house that cannot hear you scream. I could find her in need, but if I did, how would I justify my presence? Through lies or confession? I cannot find her by accident. She could simply be out, she probably is. I’m speculating, procrastinating. I cut myself off and decide to move.

I hurry to the cottage, straight to the front door and knock loudly. No answer. I knock again. No answer. I head straight to the first back door, apply the correct force in the correct location and push the door open.

I step inside, stand perfectly still and strain to hear any sound. Silence. No sound of human occupation. The smell of baking has gone, replaced with the smell of rotting household waste, both vegetable and flesh. I stand in darkness. The only artificial light is that from the hall, which spills through the gaps of an ill fitting door. I move to this door and open it. My eyes take the first wave of light with a beat of pain and a heavy blink. Quickly, however, I see, and what is it I see? I see her, the woman, in the hall, slumped on the floor, her head and face bludgeoned. I freeze, speechless of course, but also thoughtless. For a time, I do not know how long, I stick to this moment, this snap of time, and then, I wake. I do not panic, I do not fear, I feel no revulsion, disgust or even anger. All I feel is sadness, sadness for this woman. I kneel beside her and hold her hand, and of course it is cold and stiff, but still it feels human. My gaze turns in on itself and I see her face from memory - her smiling, pleasant face. But then, suddenly I wake once more. I drop her hand as my thoughts start shouting, what are the consequences, the consequences for me?

Now sickness turns in my gut. Now my stare is drawn to her face. Now I see the horror of what truly is before me. I see the present and flashes of the past, this woman hit once then battered beyond death. Murdered for business and pleasure. I see the horror in her stare as she takes the blows. I see her staring at me, directly at me, but I wasn’t there! She and others are staring at me, but I wasn’t there! I am not the witness to her last, final scream!

Instinct propels me to leave, but I resist and force myself to stay. I cannot runaway. Something cold and ruthless has caused this, and now, if I am to face it, I too must find a chill in my soul. I stand trying to think clearly, trying to resist the call of flight. I am in her house, I’ve broken in, and my fingerprints wait to snare me. Using the sleeve of my coat, I vigorously wipe the interior door handle, then the fridge door, then all other areas corrupted by my touch. My coat, my new coat, bought with their money. Good. For tomorrow I will burn it, along with everything else I am wearing.

Will my fingerprints be on her hand? I refuse the risk and wipe it anyway. Her fingers are long and slender, her nails without varnish. I look for rings, there are none. No watch or bracelets. I look at her crushed and broken face then down at her neck where I see no necklace. Her blood-matted hair covers her ears. I hesitate for a second then brush the hair away. Her left ear is pierced but holds no earring.

I stand and see my muddy footprints covering the tiled hall floor. I need a mop. I find the kitchen light switch and with my sleeve covered hand turn it on. Instantly my reflection in the kitchen window pounces. I feel watched, observed in the distance. I rush to the window and kill my reflection with the pull of a blind.

Muddied footprints cover the kitchen floor. I kick off my boots and then cover my hand with a tea towel. I look for a mob and quickly find one, bucket and all. Frantically, I begin to clean the floor. Evidence washes away but do I save more than myself?

Job done. I return the mop and stuff the tea towel in my coat pocket. I pause and catch my breath.

Why murder? I quickly move through the house lightly looking for clues. Nothing is disturbed. No draws pulled out, no looting. If robbery was the motive then the robber came with knowledge.

The urge to flight floods through my veins. I have to leave. Never have I felt so wrong. I pause and think. Do I leave here for good? Do I take with me all traces of my visits? I think about burning the house down, a thought I barely resist, but instead I pick up my boots and move to make my exit.

Outside in the darkness I struggle to put my boots on. Standing on one leg is impossible. All balance is void, my equilibrium is smashed.

Back at the caravan, in an oil barrel blaze all that I was wearing is destroyed.

Freshly washed, scrubbed hard, I sit naked and alone. Rarely do I feel alone, but tonight, I recognize that this is what I am, completely alone. I console myself by reminding myself that at least I am alive. I live. All that I want, which isn’t much, is still within my grasp. I am more than willing to fight for it, and now, whatever comes my way.

I could call the police and submit my truth. I was watching the woman yes, a request from two men claiming to be from Special Branch. They said it concerned animal liberation but this I know was a lie. Do I sound convincing? No. Do I sound like a nut? Yes. And maybe that’s the point, to sound like the local nut, the weirdo amongst us. He who never speaks, who lives alone, removed from normality. The hunter, the poacher. Paranoid. Dressed in camouflage, waiting for the world to end. Put me under the microscope and they’ve got their disease.

I was lied to. They came to my caravan and lied to me. They involved me in this, but what is this? Murder, obviously, but who am I? What is my role? They lied to me! To what extent I do not know. My first move now? Strike for clarity. Do I text them murder? No. I will text them what they wanted to know.