Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 85
Just fertiliser. I get out with bad grace and walk around the back of Mr Car. It wobblesas he
shifts seats. Then Mr Car makes a grinding sound and rampages off down the
lane.
“Hey! Come on!”
I stagger to a halt, watching the headlights define the 40-mile maze of hedges into
town. In seconds, a fly-style buzz, then nothing. Coldest night of the year. My chids are gone
and I’m left in a t-shirt.
Just like that.
I want to cry.
My name is Ricky and a hilarious thing about me is: I’m alive! I’m on fake time and
everything’s funny.
Do I feel bad? Of course — more gunge for the guilt pit. But I have a positive plan
about that, which is: Drive to the sea, hide on a ship, goodbye fucking Ricky. The plants love
it, cheering every pothole. He was right about them. Endorphins in the spores. Then I think:
The Syeds’ house is news by now. Footage of me on social media. My sister. But if I’m gone,
she’s safe.
The green choir finds its voice: Go faster while you’re still free!
Coldest night of the year, no phone and no shelter, I, Jason, am up turd creek.
Homeless folks die on nights like this.
Is this it? Is this how I go?
Would anyone care?
Shut up. Two Jeffreys are relying on me. Nonetheless it’s 40 miles back to town, no
way I’d last the trek, plus why would he stop there? He might sell Mr Car to be compacted in
some strange town, Jeffrey’s frail stem crushed...
Sobbing! Sobbing now!
Shut up. By the river there were lights, meaning warmth. I cut through fields,
shortening the distance. Lot of gleaming eyes in this one. The next one, all dark. I stub my
knee on a watering trough, thinking: something drinks here. Yup, I hear thunder. I’m over
the hedge, minus one trouser-leg, when the bull crunches the gate like celery.
After two miles I’m numb, shuddering with cold; then I smell ammonia. I glimpse the
battery farm by moonlight, circle it for an hour, shout and wave and cause the floodlights to
come on. I shake the fence but nothing comes out of the fortress but more wind.
I think: Something comes out.
I fight the wind to the riverbank and look down. There’s the pipe. Wide enough, and
no grate.
I look back at the compound: About 40 metres.
40 metres of unthinkable hell. Otherwise, death by exposure.
I suddenly recall Jeffrey’s sweet head back when it bobbed, too young to support
itself. This here is in no manual, but this is when it counts. I squirm into the slimy reeking
darkness of the pipe.
I never ever wish to talk about the pipe.
A heavy grate admits me to a darkness wonderfully warm. I strip off my slime-chilled
78
32
