him he might get a call?”), but apart from shop assistants and Kathy he has spoken to no one. His mobile phone is loaded with texts from people he knows, people who claim to know him, people who don’t know him at all because every one of us is fundamentally unknowable. The more we talk the less unknowable we feel, but speech is just a circus act, words thrown from frantic lips, dialogical hocus-pocus.
At 11.30 p.m. on his birthday, Ralph walked through these woods under a full moon with an unfathomable sense of purpose. On any other night he would have been terrified of being out here, but tonight he kept on going. His feet followed an unlit path until the path stopped. No street lamps, twenty-four-hour shops, headlights and neon signs. Just night and night and the cracking of twigs. Dried leaves, unbroken curls. Nocturnal rustling. Creaking branches. Minuscule legs, invisible. He went deeper and deeper, looking up at the moon. He tripped, fell, got back up. He reached out and touched soft bark. Was he approaching the middle or the edge now? He couldn’t tell.Was anyone else out here? Highly unlikely, but you never know what is looming, what is waiting, ready to jump out.
The ground turned level and easy. The trees seemed to disappear. Ralph was on another path now, which began nowhere near the entrance or the exit. He kept going until he saw something solid. Up close, a kind of hut or shed. Now came the fear. Who was in there? What was it used for? He felt around for a door, trying not to think about the episodes of Wallander he had watched on TV, especially the one about the man who lived in the woods, the man who killed swans and set people on fire.
It was even darker inside the shed.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Anyone in here?”
Nothing.
He put down his guitar. With his arms stretched out in front of him, he wandered in. He ran his fingers over the back of a wooden chair. On the floor, what felt like a bundle of sheets. He shook a box of matches. Stepped on a plate, cracking it.
On this August night, as his birthday ended and a new day began, Ralph sat on the floor and pulled the sheets over his legs. He didn’t expect to fall asleep, not out here, but he did. He slept until morning.
When he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. He stood up with a sore back and a sore head and opened the door. The sun was already fierce, the birds were singing. He stepped out and looked around. He was in a small clearing in the woods, encircled by a thin path, and he had spent the night in an old shed that looked like it would collapse if someone kicked it. Inside, there was a chair, some old sheets, a box of matches, three metal tins, a cracked blue plate and a teaspoon.
He sat in the sun, leaning against the front of the shed. Yesterday felt like a week ago.
His phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket; he switched it off without reading the messages from Sadie, Kristin and Carol. He rubbed his eyes. No traffic, no passers-by. A stillness that was not still, a silence that was not silent. It was all going on out here: birth, death, eating, mating, idleness, murder, calling, calling back. It was all going on, wordlessly.
He watched. He listened. He fell asleep.
When he awoke, he saw a ginger cat. She was sitting and looking and he was sitting and looking. This went on for some time. Who would make the first move? She was a handsome cat with a white chest and white paws, but she was patchy and thin and one of her ears was torn. Ralph waited. The cat waited. Time passed. Was this a test, an initiation, or just laziness?
Slowly, he stood up. The cat remained in the same position. Ralph edged closer, bending, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger. He made a kissing sound with his lips. He didn’t know why humans tended to approach cats in this way. The gesture was an imitation of something he had seen a hundred times before, but did that make it right? He stopped what he was doing. The cat was clearly
At 11.30 p.m. on his birthday, Ralph walked through these woods under a full moon with an unfathomable sense of purpose. On any other night he would have been terrified of being out here, but tonight he kept on going. His feet followed an unlit path until the path stopped. No street lamps, twenty-four-hour shops, headlights and neon signs. Just night and night and the cracking of twigs. Dried leaves, unbroken curls. Nocturnal rustling. Creaking branches. Minuscule legs, invisible. He went deeper and deeper, looking up at the moon. He tripped, fell, got back up. He reached out and touched soft bark. Was he approaching the middle or the edge now? He couldn’t tell.Was anyone else out here? Highly unlikely, but you never know what is looming, what is waiting, ready to jump out.
The ground turned level and easy. The trees seemed to disappear. Ralph was on another path now, which began nowhere near the entrance or the exit. He kept going until he saw something solid. Up close, a kind of hut or shed. Now came the fear. Who was in there? What was it used for? He felt around for a door, trying not to think about the episodes of Wallander he had watched on TV, especially the one about the man who lived in the woods, the man who killed swans and set people on fire.
It was even darker inside the shed.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Anyone in here?”
Nothing.
He put down his guitar. With his arms stretched out in front of him, he wandered in. He ran his fingers over the back of a wooden chair. On the floor, what felt like a bundle of sheets. He shook a box of matches. Stepped on a plate, cracking it.
On this August night, as his birthday ended and a new day began, Ralph sat on the floor and pulled the sheets over his legs. He didn’t expect to fall asleep, not out here, but he did. He slept until morning.
When he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. He stood up with a sore back and a sore head and opened the door. The sun was already fierce, the birds were singing. He stepped out and looked around. He was in a small clearing in the woods, encircled by a thin path, and he had spent the night in an old shed that looked like it would collapse if someone kicked it. Inside, there was a chair, some old sheets, a box of matches, three metal tins, a cracked blue plate and a teaspoon.
He sat in the sun, leaning against the front of the shed. Yesterday felt like a week ago.
His phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket; he switched it off without reading the messages from Sadie, Kristin and Carol. He rubbed his eyes. No traffic, no passers-by. A stillness that was not still, a silence that was not silent. It was all going on out here: birth, death, eating, mating, idleness, murder, calling, calling back. It was all going on, wordlessly.
He watched. He listened. He fell asleep.
When he awoke, he saw a ginger cat. She was sitting and looking and he was sitting and looking. This went on for some time. Who would make the first move? She was a handsome cat with a white chest and white paws, but she was patchy and thin and one of her ears was torn. Ralph waited. The cat waited. Time passed. Was this a test, an initiation, or just laziness?
Slowly, he stood up. The cat remained in the same position. Ralph edged closer, bending, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger. He made a kissing sound with his lips. He didn’t know why humans tended to approach cats in this way. The gesture was an imitation of something he had seen a hundred times before, but did that make it right? He stopped what he was doing. The cat was clearly
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