Wild Life Read online

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  A shrill sound reverberated around the tent, the timbre and cadence of an old-fashioned air-raid siren. Or perhaps a howling dog.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  The noise came again, and this time I was certain it was animal in origin. I relaxed slightly as I remembered Bruno. Yet still, I was unsettled. This was like no dog I had heard before. It wasn’t a pet inadvertently locked out overnight. No, there was something threatening about this sound. Something wild. Like a wolf calling its pack to hunt.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  Moments later a second howl started up, seeming to answer the first. This one sounded closer. I tried to stay calm, telling myself that Bruno had found a friend, that at any moment I would hear Rusty yell for the pair of them to shut up.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  I was surrounded by a chorus of wails, the notes clashing horribly and growing louder – and closer – by the second.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  Fear shook me from my stupor. I threw the sleeping bag from my shoulders and began scrabbling around in the darkness for my shoes. I needed to get out. My hands shook as I dredged the floor of the tent, but it was no good. My shoes were gone. Someone had taken them.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  Abandoning my search, I decided to make a run for it. I dived for the doorway and grabbed hold of the zip, only to find it jammed. I tugged at it with all my strength, but it was no good. Something was causing it to stick. I was trapped.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  As more howls joined the cacophony, five, six – too many to count – I began to feel around the walls, desperate to find another way out. Just then something hit the tent. The fabric whipped and bulged alarmingly in one corner.

  Whatever was outside, was trying to get in.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  I tore at the tent, my fingers frantically pressing into the smooth walls for a way to escape. It was hopeless though. Without any sort of blade to cut myself free, I was imprisoned by a few millimetres of canvas.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  As the baying circle closed in around me, I retreated to the centre of the tent. I felt throttled by panic, gasping shallow gulps of air as the tent shivered and shook under the assault. I curled tighter into myself, snatching up the sleeping bag and coiling it around me.

  There were other sounds now. Hoots and hollers. Scratches and scrapes. Shadows flashed in the darkness, strange, monstrous silhouettes that reared up all around me, pummelling the tent from every angle.

  aaaaWOOOOOOOOOooooo

  Exhausted, helpless, I crumpled to the ground and plunged my fingers into my ears, attempting to block out the awful roar.

  I closed my eyes and waited for the end.

  SEVEN

  ‘You made it then?’

  I opened my eyes. It was light. So light, that it took me a couple of seconds to focus. Slowly the world came into view. The fuzzy halo of Rusty’s beard and hair framed a faceless void. I blinked a couple of times, then sat bolt upright. There were my shoes, at the bottom of the tent. Right where I’d left them. I spun around. The jumbled mass of supplies looked the same as before. Everything was as it was.

  ‘You lost somethin’, have you?’ Rusty asked, watching me with a mixture of concern and amusement. ‘If you have, it’s probably that bleedin’ dog again. Eat anythin’ he will, I swear. Wonder he didn’t try and gobble you up in the night!’

  The was a gruff bark outside.

  ‘There he is. Protestin’ your innocence, are you, boy? Even if you are guilty as sin! You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. That storm put the willies up you, did it? I’m not surprised. Hell of a bad ’un to be fair.’

  ‘Storm?’

  ‘Ah, come on. Don’t try and tell me you slept through it? I was up half the night meself! The way that wind came whistlin’ through them trees I was half scared one of ’em was going to come down on top of me. You think you had a bad head yesterday? Try havin’ a two hundred-year-old supportin’ beam landin’ on your bonce!’

  I scanned the tent again. In the light it all looked so utterly innocuous – homely even – that with every second that passed, it became harder to remember what had terrified me so much only a few hours earlier. Could it all have simply been a nightmare, the last of the toxins offering a final, hallucinatory salute as they leached from my pores?

  ‘Well, at least it seems to have blown some good weather our way,’ Rusty continued. ‘It’s bloomin’ gorgeous out now. Not a cloud in the sky. Sometimes I think we all need a good, strong blast now and then, just to shake off the drab and drizzle. Speakin’ of which, why don’t you come and get some fresh air? I was just about to fix us up a spot of brekkie.’

  Stomaching more of Rusty’s soup was the last thing on my mind. Still, I was anxious to escape the confines of the tent. And so, with a tentative nod, I pulled on my shoes and followed him through the small flap of canvas into the world outside.

  Rusty wasn’t wrong about the weather improving. The air smelled sweet and earthy – fresh enough to loosen a rattle in my chest. I coughed hard and spat. Judging by the light I guessed it was still morning, the sun already sliding steadily upwards in the unblemished sky. I took a few more steps and then turned back, realising it was the first time I’d seen the tent in daylight. I was surprised to find that it was a far smaller than it seemed from inside, the moss-green canvas ravaged by a series of dark scars and patches, marking what looked like decades of previous repairs. It almost resembled an organic being; as much a part of the landscape as the gnarled oak tree it nestled beneath. It blended so completely with its surroundings it would have been difficult to spot had I not been looking for it.

  ‘You comin’ or what?’ Rusty called, by now already halfway across the clearing, Bruno trotting by his side.

  I turned and hurried after them, hoisting up my trouser legs to save them from the misting of dew that clung to the long grass. As I picked my way through the foliage, I was struck by the lushness of my surroundings. From the purple and white flares of crocuses, to the blue dapple of forget-me-nots, everything looked crisp and hyper-defined in the sunlight, the colours rich and oversaturated – almost too real. My first instinct was to take a photograph, though a quick pat of my pocket reminded me I didn’t have my phone. The realisation brought me sharply back to reality.

  ‘I’ll need to be leaving soon,’ I said as I caught up with Rusty.

  He was kneeling beside an upturned log, next to which a small campfire had already burnt down to a glowing stack of embers. ‘Aye, of course you do,’ he said, without looking up. ‘But first – we eat!’

  I watched as he retrieved a small canvas sack from behind the log and started digging through it, pulling out a small cast-iron skillet, a stainless-steel bowl and a fork. Setting the pan on the fire, he reached into his coat and, with a flourish, produced a mottled, white ball. He held it up for me to admire. An egg.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ he said as he cracked the shell on the rim of the bowl and let the insides slither out. ‘Bit better than bleedin’ soup, eh?’

  I sat in silence as he dipped his hands back into his pocket and produced another egg, the fork clacking out a steady rhythm as he beat them to a froth. Once satisfied with the mixture, he leant forward and spat towards the fire, leaving a brown stain sizzling on the surface of the pan.

  ‘Ain’t got no tomatoes I’m afraid,’ Rusty said as he poured out the mixture. ‘Bit early in the year for them. I have got a bit of this though.’ He held up a handful of sharp-tipped leaves, ripped them between his fingers and tossed them into the pan. ‘Wild garlic. Grows down by the lake it does. Not as strong as the bulbs, but it does the trick… NO! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU?’

  While we’d been talking, Bruno had crept round the back of the fire and now had his nose inches from the pan. At his master’s roar he leapt back and dropped to the floor, cowering under his paws. I looked up, shocked to find Rusty’s ordinari
ly genial expression replaced by an altogether darker look, his eyes flashing with menace. An awkward moment passed before he turned back to me. ‘That bleedin’ mutt, eh? I swear he’s got a death wish! Anyway, I think this one’s just about ready.’ He reached into the bag and handed me a fork and a battered stainless steel plate.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, as he held up the pan and slid a surprisingly fluffy-looking omelette onto my plate. After eating so little for days, it tasted incredible, the wild garlic infusing the egg with just a hint of spice. ‘This is fantastic!’ I said between forkfuls.

  ‘Yeah, well. Be better with cheese. Cows are a bit of a bastard to keep though. I did think about getting a lamb or two, make some feta like. Could knit meself a nice woolly jumper for the winter too! But seriously, they’re a pain in the wotsit. Foot rot and ticks and lice and all the rest of it? No thank you. I don’t want to lose me eyebrows messin’ about with sheep dip neither. At least the chickens more or less look after themselves. All I’ve got to worry about is the bleedin’ foxes. That’s where havin’ a dumb brute like Bruno comes in handy.’

  At the sound of his name, Bruno looked up expectantly, having recovered from his scolding.

  ‘Wait… So these are your eggs?’ I said, pausing mid-mouthful.

  Rusty smiled. ‘Of course! There ain’t no Sainsbury’s round here in case you ain’t noticed. These are freshly laid about an hour ago. ’Bout as organic as they come I reckon!’

  ‘So you keep chickens? Here in the park?’

  ‘That’s what I just said. I got a dozen or so in the back field. Thought they would’ve woken you to be honest. Noisy buggers they are. Still, I guess that’s the price you pay for a half-decent breakfast. Now, if you’ve nearly finished I’ll get a pot on. I like to have a cup of peppermint first thing in the mornin’. It ain’t Colgate, but it’ll freshen up your gob good enough.’

  I forked the final chunk of egg into my mouth and chewed slowly as I tried to digest this new piece of information. Was it really possible that Rusty was actually some kind of rebel agriculturalist? Growing vegetables, foraging for herbs, raising chickens – all under the nose of the local council? Part of me suspected this was all an elaborate joke. Any minute now he’d wink at me and slap his thigh and pull out a can of Special Brew.

  I watched as Rusty fiddled with the fire. Just as before he’d staked a branch into the ground, over which the stainless-steel bucket had already started to steam. ‘Have you been here long then?’ I asked.

  ‘Where’s that then?’

  ‘Here. In the park.’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh, aye. We’ve been here a while, ain’t we, boy?’ he said, addressing Bruno.

  I waited for him to elaborate, but instead he turned away to tend to the fire. It seemed for once the conversation was over.

  A few minutes passed before Rusty handed me a warm mug of mint tea. I thanked him, before we again lapsed into a comfortable silence. Breakfast had provided me with a much needed bump of energy. In fact, I felt the best I had in days. Tucked away in the secret park, with sunlight spilling through the newly budding branches, I found it was almost possible to imagine my problems were happening to someone else, far, far away. I let my eyes fall shut for a moment and listened to the secret murmur of the woods.

  Despite only the slightest of breezes, the trees stirred and groaned, their young leaves crackling like static. Elsewhere, invisible birds cackled a shrill call-and-response, trilling their gossip from vertiginous perches deep within the woods. Finally, so faint I could almost pretend it was my own pulse burbling in my ear, I detected a less welcome sound; the low mumble of distant traffic, dragging behind it the real world, and all of the unfinished business that lay there.

  I swallowed a mouthful of bittersweet tea, determined to refocus my attention on this green pocket of serenity – at least for the short while I had left before I returned home to start picking through the wreckage of my old life for bits I could salvage.

  ‘Listen, Rusty. I want to thank you for everything,’ I said, once I’d set my empty cup down on the tree stump. ‘You’ve been amazing. Seriously. I was in a bad way and you, well, you helped me out. I owe you one.’

  ‘You sound like you’re leaving, sonny,’ he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. ‘Got somewhere else you need to be?’

  I shrugged. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Aye. Well. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.’

  He stood up, shaking the remains of his cup into the fire. I followed suit, heaving myself to my feet and dusting myself down. As I did, I noticed for the first time the state of my clothes. I’d left the house in what I’d been wearing – just another high-flying corporate clone in a tailored suit and designer brogues. Now though, my trousers and shoes were caked in dark mud and my jacket was ripped along the seam of one arm. My shirt was smeared with various unidentifiable fluids. Stood next to Rusty, I realised that – aside from the beard – there was little to tell us apart.

  When I looked up again, he was holding out his hand. I took it. His calloused palm engulfed my hand completely, crushing it slightly as he shook.

  ‘So I’ll be seeing you?’ I said, wincing as I attempted to disengage.

  Rusty gripped tighter though, pulling me closer to him, until my ear was level with his lips, so that I could feel the rancid heat of his breath. ‘I tell you what,’ he said, his voice little more than a growl. ‘Why don’t I show you around the place before you go? I’ve got a few vegetables growing in the field back there. You can see the chickens if you like?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Ah, come on,’ he said, grinning now, but nevertheless refusing to relinquish my hand. ‘Won’t you spare twenty minutes to humour a proud old fool? I hardly ever get any visitors. Besides, you said it yourself… You owe me.’

  *

  It wasn’t just a few vegetables Rusty wanted to show me.

  It was a whole other world.

  Once I had acquiesced to his offer of a guided tour, Rusty quickly packed away the breakfast things and then led me across the clearing to yet another section of woodland. As ever, Bruno charged ahead and was quickly swallowed by the undergrowth, his distant snarls and barks providing a ragged chorus to our own grunts of exertion. This time the terrain was almost impenetrable. Dense snags of brambles tore at my hands and face as we fought our way deeper and deeper into the trees. Rusty seemed unperturbed, however, chattering enthusiastically as he paused now and then to point out a particular species of edible herb, or to muse on the medicinal benefits of a variety of mushroom, the bulbous helmets of which erupted from the shadier patches of sodden earth.

  After what seemed like hours of grappling with barbed tentacles of vegetation, we came upon a man-made fence; a rusting steel web that divided the woods. Scanning its length, I saw it was decorated with a selection of official-looking signs, warning that trespassers would be prosecuted.

  Sensing my concern, Rusty paused to reassure me. ‘Ah, ignore all that. They’re only there to deter the tourists.’

  We continued onwards.

  Following his lead, I snaked my way along the fence until we reached a small breach, where it looked like a section had been snipped from the wire. The gap was just large enough for a person to squeeze through. I hesitated for a second. Somewhere nearby, Bruno was barking again.

  ‘After you,’ said Rusty as he stood aside.

  With a final look over my shoulder, I dropped to my hands and knees and began to crawl.

  After another few minutes of walking, the trees began to thin out. Before long we stepped out into another clearing, this one three or four times larger than the field we’d been in earlier.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ said Rusty. ‘What do you think?’

  Ahead of me lay a patchwork of freshly turned earth, the land geometrically staked out and carefully segmented by crop. Here and there stood tall bamboo trellises, the first coils of beans winding around their ligneous frames. Elsewhere, recently pl
oughed furrows housed great leafy explosions of vegetables; wrinkled fans of rhubarb towering above fleshy pink stalks, while chaotic flops of spring cabbages cowered beneath the polythene parasols of polytunnels. It was an allotment – but on a near industrial scale.

  For once Rusty was silent, watching with evident pleasure as I strode around, trying to comprehend the size of the operation. A little further up the field I spotted an imposing wooden structure. Approaching, I realised it was an elaborate hutch, a dozen or so chickens strutting behind the crosshatch of a wire mesh fence.

  ‘This is incredible!’ I said once I’d eventually finished looking around. ‘You’ve got a whole farm back here. There must be enough to feed an army.’

  He flushed slightly behind his beard, scuffing the ground with his boot. He almost looked embarrassed. ‘Well, you wouldn’t be far off the mark there, son.’

  I shook my head, confused.

  ‘I have to admit, I haven’t exactly been straight with you. You see, it’s not just me that’s here.’

  I followed Rusty’s gaze to where his dog lay crouched, tongue unravelled from his jaw as he silently eyed up a fat hen. ‘What? You mean Bruno?’

  Rusty chuckled but didn’t smile. ‘No, son. I mean there are other people livin’ here. Men. Workin’ the land and that. We’re a whatchamacallit? A community.’

  I studied the old man’s face, trying to decide if he was joking or not. Over by the chicken hutch there was a sharp yelp followed by a panicked beating of wings. Neither of us turned to look.

  ‘Well then,’ I said, having decided to call the old man’s bluff. ‘Shouldn’t you let them know I’m here?’

  At this Rusty did laugh. A booming chesty convulsion, one that set his eyes streaming and doubled him in two. When he finally straightened up again his face was red and he was still smiling, though his eyes were once again sparkling with an unsettling intensity. ‘Oh, they know you’re here alright,’ he said. ‘They know all about you.’