It was New Year’s Day in Tewkesbury, and they’d just visited the abbey (or rather the church, which was all that was left of the abbey once Henry VIII had finished with it). Now, they were on their way to the pub. But between the abbey and the pub, there was an antiques shop — open, presumed desperate. The shop was long and dim and presided over by a woman in a jaunty pink neckerchief.
‘Where you two from then?’
At the mention of London, her face lit up.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you hear? They had to cancel the fireworks.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’ said Natalie.
‘Course she’s sure,’ said Isaac.
In London, the show always went on. That’s what Natalie liked about it. Unlike the bloody countryside. The longer they were in the shop, the more Natalie felt a need to buy something. Ideally, something under twenty quid that would fit in her tiny flat.
‘How about a candelabra?’ the woman said. ‘Or a nice jardinière?’
Natalie picked up a porcelain hedgehog. It was cheap but horrible. Isaac, meanwhile, was aiming a musket at a stuffed brown bear. It was hopeless, so when the woman answered her phone, they took the opportunity to slip away.
At the pub, Isaac bought her a glass of something vicious. Once his friends from work arrived, he glued himself to the bar. While the others talked shop, Natalie looked to the year ahead.
Dry January, or at least no booze during the week.
Pilates? No.
Gym? God, no.
Swim before work? No, ’cause skin, hair.
Yoga then? Bit of a stretch. Sweat-free, chemicals-free.
Yoga.
The pub was depressing, with bulging plaster and a fruit machine. As for Isaac, he seemed to have entirely forgotten last night’s row. Amazing, his capacity to obliterate anything that reflected badly on him. And those clothes. She hadn’t known him very long, but still. That jerkin thing. Christ. Natalie locked eyes with a stag on the back wall, its antlers strung with purple lights. If only she’d taken the morning train back, she’d be on her sofa by now, eating chocolate, watching old-school Austrians waltz.
‘Look, guys’ she said. ‘I’m absolutely knackered. Last night was too good. So, if nobody minds…’
She’d been unable to find her phone on leaving the hotel, so Isaac said he’d call her an Uber. But 10 minutes became 18 became 23. Hattie the Hairband knew a taxi firm, but really it seemed quicker to walk.
‘You do realise it’ll be dark soon,’ said Cordy Alex, glancing down at her feet. ‘It must be three, four miles.’
‘You’re going to walk in those?’ Isaac said. ‘You’re in the country now, Nats. You might have bloody thought to pack some shoes.’
That clinched it.
There was a sensible pavement to start with, but Natalie soon found herself forced up onto the verge, where the grass was ankle-deep, luscious, wet as a sponge. It was the country all right. Natalie’s mother, from Devon, believed the countryside was best avoided. She said it was full of people with terrible opinions, and that if you stayed there more than a wet weekend your brain would rot. And yet, the countryside was default-England, wasn’t it? In which case, Natalie thought ‘Londoner’ should be a nationality in itself.
By now, the ribbon of housing on either side of the road had petered out. She wished she could tell how much farther it was going to be. It was weird, not having a phone. She kept reaching for it. Stupid, to have allowed herself to be bullied into leaving the hotel without finding it. All these steps, and not a single one of them would count. Oh well, she would just have to look at things. Though there better not be anything worth posting. She glanced over her shoulder in case Isaac had decided to follow her. But there were no other pedestrians. Just a steady stream of cars.
Things she observed: a discarded blue tent, a bleached crisp bag, a badly dented hubcap. So far, so not-worth-posting. On the far horizon, there were high nests in tall trees, thickets of greyish wood. Standard stuff. And then, so close she almost stepped on it, a dead, white rabbit. It was lying at the in-out entrance to a crescent of new-builds, its paws clawing the air. It looked like an escapee — from a pet shop, a magician’s act, from Wonderland.
This was just the kind of weirdness her mother had warned her about. And then her eye was caught by a wintry-coloured car that swung into the crescent, then straight back out again. On a second look, the car was silvery-blue. Ice-blue, actually. Must be a fleet car, she thought. No one would actually choose such a sad and unassertive colour.
Her feet were cold now as well as wet. Glancing down at her gold sling-backs, she had to concede that Isaac had a point. She had a fleeting image of a woman once seen on the side of a country road, somewhere in southern Italy. She was wearing gold hotpants that looked tight and scratchy. At the time, Natalie had assumed the woman was for sale, but perhaps she’d simply been misconstrued.
A sign announced that Natalie was entering a place called Shuthonger. She read that Shut as Slut, which took her back to 3 am. The feeling was not emotion, not exactly. It was more a kind of coldness. She had been talking to one of the only people who still made sense at that hour. A man. Joe? Josh? The man was interested in Buddhism, and they talked, that’s all.
But Slut was the word Isaac had used. He was really drunk, of course. But that was no excuse. And now she would have to decide. Would she tell him she was ending it? Or would she simply block him? Just as she was pondering that, she saw the flowers. Over by the side of a pristine-looking barn. She was not aware of any flower that bloomed on New Year’s Day. But there it was, and to be honest it was pretty uplifting. Well done, countryside. Fair play, nature.
The light was thinning now. And there were fewer cars than before. Up ahead, there was a tower. Red brick, probably Victorian. A real Rapunzel tower. And then she saw it again, parked just beyond. The ice-blue car.
Oh, she thought, with a slight curdling of the gut. Must have turned back. But why? What the fuck? She’d heard that in the countryside people offered lifts, so perhaps it was someone she knew, or rather someone she’d met last night since she didn’t actually know anyone, unless you counted Isaac. She summoned up the late bar, the lurching, high-kick circle, the auld lang syne. But it was all a blur. Just in case, she waved.
Right indicator, wide swerve, quick three-point-turn, and there he was, facing back the way she’d come.
She didn’t recognise him, which was hardly surprising. He was an ordinary, rather boring-looking man. Overall palette, brownish green. And old. Forty plus. Signet ring on right pinkie. No wedding ring. He was Land Rover in appearance, though the car was something Japanese. He was probably decent enough until you scratched the surface and found some ugly little prejudice.
He rolled down the window. ‘You lost?’
‘Not really. Just heading back to my hotel.’
‘The golf place?’
‘I guess.’ She hadn’t noticed any golf though. Just some huge banners at the door advertising weddings with smiling mixed-race couples.
‘Hop in,’ he said.
‘You’re facing the wrong way.’
‘Well, I’d obviously turn the car.’
He said that ‘obviously’ a little too smartly, and she didn’t like it. It reminded her that it was ‘obviously’ stupid to get into a car with a complete stranger, greenish-brown or not.
‘Actually, I’m fine. Thanks though.’
‘Another couple of miles at least.’
‘No, really. It’ll do me good.’ She patted her stomach, which was stupid because she noticed something knowing in his face then, disdainful crossed with sly. She congratulated herself on having turned him down. ‘Really kind of you, though,’ she said. Say kind, encourage kind, that was her philosophy. Give the plumber the mug marked perfectionist.
As the window whirred back up again, he mouthed the words of the day. ‘Happy New Year.’
No sooner had he driven off than the dark rushed in. The road was silent. This was just a night like any other, she did know that. But it seemed to her weighted by the newness of the year, by all those hopes and resolutions tailing off into whatever. The dead white rabbit, the Rapunzel tower, the strangely blooming flowers, the ice-blue car, the Slut. Amazing how the mind steps in to fill the gaps when it’s deprived of tech. Amazing how nature manages to unsettle you. All she needed now was to get back to the world of Wi-Fi and large corporate banners. But not before she’d asked the receptionist if anyone had handed in her bloody phone. And booked herself a single room.
London in the morning. Work the day after. All good. But then a thought broke through like a spike. There was no reason for that car to turn back, to stop and wait for her. He was a creep, for sure. And she had almost got into the car. And now she was scared of what she hadn’t done. Not terrified, not yet. Not incapacitated. But spooked, for sure. And no longer happy to be out here on her own.
She realised suddenly that her feet were not just cold now, they were freezing. She doubted this wet grass was doing the gold any good. And the stiletto heels kept sinking. She could do with a wee, but no way was she dropping her knickers out here. She didn’t know what time it was, but the sky seemed very black. As for the lack of traffic, perhaps all the drivers had finally succumbed to their New Year hangovers. She hated the silence, the countryside, the room it left for thoughts. Why the hell had she left the pub? Walking away on her own without a phone. Into a thicket of unsettling signs.
And then, out of nowhere, a village. She’d forgotten there was another village, if indeed she’d ever noticed it. Village meant pub, shop, people, phones. But this one didn’t even advertise its name, just its twinning with several unpronounceable places. There was a stagnant pond — of course there was. Village was a big word for this place. No shop. Just a row of dead houses and a shuttered pub.
And an ice-blue car. It was idling on the opposite side of the road, just ahead of her. She was walking into the oncoming traffic, not that there was any, like everyone advised. She was not an idiot. And he could fuck right off. As she passed the car, she allowed herself a glance and saw that he was reading something on his phone. She registered the bluish glow, sucked in her fear and walked. As soon as she was free of those headlights, she knew she must prepare herself. And so, she removed her gold sling-backs and flexed her toes in the soft wet grass. She couldn’t bring herself to leave them there, because she loved them too much. And she was pretty sure they’d discontinued them in gold.
She could run more easily now. But instinct told her not to. Bulls and savage dogs. Don’t start a battle you can’t win. Besides, any moment now, some rural taxi, some non-Uber, available car would arrive, and that would be the end of all this nonsense. Because she did not belong here. She had no idea what they grew in those fields. She didn’t even know the name of this village. Or why the pub was shut. Why did it have to be her?
Suddenly, her head was bursting with things, desires, things desired. Gold hoop earrings, Whispering Angel, everything rouge-noir. How pathetic. But they kept on coming, these things she wanted. Ibiza, Paris. Chats with Izzy and Mel. A turntable to play those vinyls on. Another Christmas. A field of sunflowers. A saxophone, a cat, her mum. She wanted a nice boyfriend. Not Isaac. Someone sweet.
She wanted to stay alive.
The obvious thing for the man to do would be to repeat his earlier manoeuvre. And that’s what he did. Indicator, swerve, three-point-turn. Her insides liquefied. And her head, the lack of some deserving goodness in it made her panic. Was that why this was happening? She racked her brain for good deeds done. That spaggers she’d made for those old people during Covid, the tenner she gave that homeless man on Christmas Eve. She was not a bad person. But when the ice-blue car drew up and lit the road ahead of her, Natalie felt herself shrink. What was she now, then? A specimen, a statistic, a piece of clickbait?
Twenty-seven was the age for an iconic death. Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain. Natalie had no wish to be iconic. All she could think about was reaching twenty-eight. Fifth of May. Pink fizz, red velvet cake. If only she had her phone, she’d know exactly where she was. She could call her mates, her mum, the cops. Livestream the bastard. She could even summon up Isaac, if she had to. Better the devil you know.
The ice-blue man did not open the door. He did not sound the horn. He did not lower the window. Dazzled by all life’s possibilities, Natalie walked right into his headlights and out the other side. And in that blaze of light, she was transformed. Her entire life after this would be different. She would be different. She would earn her reprieve. It would be like the sunset at the end of a movie, when all the best choices have been made. But just as she was maxing out on refugee camps, food banks, Crisis at Christmas, the ice-blue man drove on and took his headlights with him. Natalie thought of that white rabbit, still prone, claws up. Thank you, rabbit. Or, if you’re up there, God.
And then, at last, the hotel sign. She could see the distant glimmer of low-rise buildings and of the old manor house that formed the core of the hotel. There was indeed golf. Those were greens and fairways, fake countryside. She was home, safe, back in the real world. As for New Year’s Day, it was simply the day when you were at your weakest. She’d be glad to see the back of it. That ice-blue man was not a nemesis. He was just some arsehole who got off on scaring people.
The gold sling-backs swung reassuringly against her thigh. She was glad she’d held onto them with that thing coming up at Koko. They would look perfect with her sequined dress. She could feel grit underfoot, possibly glass, and considered putting them on again. But she was so nearly there. The relief of it, the reprieve, the car park lights. As Natalie stepped up onto the verge, she felt her transformation start to slip away from her, like a silk shawl from around her shoulders.
When he next appeared, or rather his ice-blue car, it was just after she’d reached the edge of the hotel car park. His was the only vehicle. Natalie the only pedestrian. Slinging her gold stilettos up onto her shoulder, she felt another crinkle of alarm. But she could see the reception desk through those plate-glass doors. And the countryside round here was hardly countryside at all. It was tamed, contoured. Teletubby land. There must be cameras everywhere. So, she didn’t run. She gave him the finger instead.
This time, though, the ice-blue man was not alone. He had two others in there. One in the passenger seat, the other to the rear on the driver’s side. Natalie strained to see if she could spot anyone in reception, and for a moment she thought there was something, a shadow perhaps, flitting across her vision. But when she looked again there was only the marble corridor, stretching off into infinity. Infinity? Wrong word. Stretching off into whatever.
The ice-blue car was stationary now, lights off, engine ticking. As she approached, the three men got out. They formed a line across the bright face of the old manor house. Were they blocking her way? Or guiding her home? Or was she not the object of their attention at all?
The only way to find out was to keep on going. Eyes on the prize. Because if New Year’s Day had taught her anything, it was this: you must carry your worth like a weapon; you must push on through. Natalie steadied herself and wrapped her fear inside her worth. She brandished her stilettos, because they were all she had. And then she ran at them.
That yowling sound she made wasn’t really hers at all, it was something prehistoric. But it made her bigger than she was. It turned her into a multitude. She was every girl who ever lived, propelling herself at the rest of her life. She was fierce and she was golden. And if they really meant to take her, then she would take them first.
Annemarie is an Irish-born, London-based short story writer and the author of three published novels. Her stories have been widely published in the UK, Ireland and the US, most recently in New Ohio Review, The Westchester Review, The Argyle, Époque é-zine, and (forthcoming) The Bangalore Review. Prizes for short fiction include the Columbia Journal, Bryan MacMahon and Michael McLaverty short story awards. She has recently completed a collection of art-related stories set in Venice. You can find her online at:
http://www.annemarieneary.co.uk
Doric Literary 