The man nods at her. ‘Ow doo’, in broadest Yorkshire.
‘Hi,’ she replies. Keeps walking. She’ll ask about a room later. If she decides to stay.
This floating feeling. Nobody knows her, or knows she is here. This place is negative space, and that minister none of her business. She has a sudden notion of a tent. Her and canvas and the stones and the sky. If she follows the burn, finds a knot of trees behind a hill and just lives wild. How good would that be? That collie is sniffing about again. In a garden this time, growling as Justine passes. ‘Here boy, it’s me.’ She offers him her fingers. A wee boy comes from the house, stares at her. The dog snarls. She continues walking, the dog growling until she is far away from his house. His best buddy in the churchyard, now she’s a threat. Defending his territory like the men above the gate. You’d think on a planet eight thousand miles wide there’d be room enough for everyone.
Oh for God’s sake, just stop, Justine. Here is far enough .
But she walks further along the main – and only – road, her bag bumping on her shoulder. She’s getting used to the weight: quite likes the solid reassurance of it pitching and settling. When she’s dizzy from tiredness, she’ll stop. There are no streetlamps beyond the houses; the grey light is turning black. Plenty of cats’ eyes, though, running up the centre of the road. She’ll go a little further yet, just to check the boundaries. She takes her old phone pouch from her jacket pocket. Rattling inside is the bus station pay-as-you-go. Untraceable. Very definitely pink. But it does have a dinky wee torch.
The high verges are fertile ground for weeds and wildflowers. People live outdoors all the time. Perhaps she could forage for her tea. Stay outside for ever. This sense of space expanding; she doesn’t want to lose it. The road is empty; you can hear low traffic hum from far away, carried on the dulling air. But no one is coming to Kilmacarra. Where are the hordes of windfarm protesters? The crusties and the travellers, the greenies and the Druids? Poor hairy Mhairi has baked all that lovely bread. Justine keeps to the lower edges of the verge. Ahead is lighter. That must be west. She is moving away from the glen and up towards . . . Kinmore says a road sign. Will Kinmore be any different from Kilmacarra? No lights, no cars, no human noises. She flicks on her phone-torch. Glitters of quartz on the road catch bouncing light.
What exactly are you looking for, Justine?
A low serrated thrum, rumbling beneath her feet. She trips in the dark. This is stupid. She should go back, book a bed, get some dinner, some sleep. Tomorrow she can decide . . . she, Justine, can decide anything at all. The rumbling increases. She waits. Faint. Very faint like foil rippling, or wads of paper notes. A silvery whispering; the wind rising. And then a boy, emerging from the dusk in front of her: head down, thumping shiny feet in resolute lopes. An iPod wired to his ears. Justine moves in to let him past, he doesn’t see her, then does. Is startled, stumbles out as the rumbling gets louder, Justine dipping, the boy going wide, away. Away?
Suddenly, a van punches past.
It’s a mobile home, towing a wee car behind it – or she knows that after, or her logic says it while her eyes burst only with streaks of coloured light: a white metallic comet, then the swinging flash of the bright red car and a flapping flag and its residue of colour, glowing. And the whoosh and the whoosh and the whoosh. Her belly slackening. Then snapping back to hurt her.
The car misses her by an inch.
She stands a full two minutes. Flesh dancing, breathing in. Breathing out. Where is the boy? Was that a bang, just there, just then, just the two minutes ago, two seconds, ten hours, did she hear a screeching bang? Justine starts to chase the empty tarmac back towards Kilmacarra. To a bend in the road. Stripy chevrons banking the deep curve, white
‘Hi,’ she replies. Keeps walking. She’ll ask about a room later. If she decides to stay.
This floating feeling. Nobody knows her, or knows she is here. This place is negative space, and that minister none of her business. She has a sudden notion of a tent. Her and canvas and the stones and the sky. If she follows the burn, finds a knot of trees behind a hill and just lives wild. How good would that be? That collie is sniffing about again. In a garden this time, growling as Justine passes. ‘Here boy, it’s me.’ She offers him her fingers. A wee boy comes from the house, stares at her. The dog snarls. She continues walking, the dog growling until she is far away from his house. His best buddy in the churchyard, now she’s a threat. Defending his territory like the men above the gate. You’d think on a planet eight thousand miles wide there’d be room enough for everyone.
Oh for God’s sake, just stop, Justine. Here is far enough .
But she walks further along the main – and only – road, her bag bumping on her shoulder. She’s getting used to the weight: quite likes the solid reassurance of it pitching and settling. When she’s dizzy from tiredness, she’ll stop. There are no streetlamps beyond the houses; the grey light is turning black. Plenty of cats’ eyes, though, running up the centre of the road. She’ll go a little further yet, just to check the boundaries. She takes her old phone pouch from her jacket pocket. Rattling inside is the bus station pay-as-you-go. Untraceable. Very definitely pink. But it does have a dinky wee torch.
The high verges are fertile ground for weeds and wildflowers. People live outdoors all the time. Perhaps she could forage for her tea. Stay outside for ever. This sense of space expanding; she doesn’t want to lose it. The road is empty; you can hear low traffic hum from far away, carried on the dulling air. But no one is coming to Kilmacarra. Where are the hordes of windfarm protesters? The crusties and the travellers, the greenies and the Druids? Poor hairy Mhairi has baked all that lovely bread. Justine keeps to the lower edges of the verge. Ahead is lighter. That must be west. She is moving away from the glen and up towards . . . Kinmore says a road sign. Will Kinmore be any different from Kilmacarra? No lights, no cars, no human noises. She flicks on her phone-torch. Glitters of quartz on the road catch bouncing light.
What exactly are you looking for, Justine?
A low serrated thrum, rumbling beneath her feet. She trips in the dark. This is stupid. She should go back, book a bed, get some dinner, some sleep. Tomorrow she can decide . . . she, Justine, can decide anything at all. The rumbling increases. She waits. Faint. Very faint like foil rippling, or wads of paper notes. A silvery whispering; the wind rising. And then a boy, emerging from the dusk in front of her: head down, thumping shiny feet in resolute lopes. An iPod wired to his ears. Justine moves in to let him past, he doesn’t see her, then does. Is startled, stumbles out as the rumbling gets louder, Justine dipping, the boy going wide, away. Away?
Suddenly, a van punches past.
It’s a mobile home, towing a wee car behind it – or she knows that after, or her logic says it while her eyes burst only with streaks of coloured light: a white metallic comet, then the swinging flash of the bright red car and a flapping flag and its residue of colour, glowing. And the whoosh and the whoosh and the whoosh. Her belly slackening. Then snapping back to hurt her.
The car misses her by an inch.
She stands a full two minutes. Flesh dancing, breathing in. Breathing out. Where is the boy? Was that a bang, just there, just then, just the two minutes ago, two seconds, ten hours, did she hear a screeching bang? Justine starts to chase the empty tarmac back towards Kilmacarra. To a bend in the road. Stripy chevrons banking the deep curve, white
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