Bang.. .baa-ng...
The same would happen to him if he ventured too close to the building. The other had already tried to kill him once. He could run now, escape, leave this place. He would have done so had it not been for the woman. His woman.
Instead he would watch and wait from up here. Incapable of forming any other plan, he could think of nothing else.
The days were shorter, colder. The leaves had begun to fall from the trees leaving the branches stark, no longer a protection against the chill westerly winds, and the dense bracken lay brown and flattened by the rain and sleet storms.
Eric had attempted to make himself a shelter out of dead branches and bracken because the thorn bushes no longer shielded him from the elements. He had worked on it for a whole day and that night a gale had demolished it. He would have to move on up to the forest, find himself a place amongst the thick firs. The idea did not appeal to him. The forest was alive at night, wild dogs that howled and bayed as they hunted their prey. And people who had moved up here crept stealthily through the trees and fled at the first sign of a stranger. He did not seek any company other than his own and that of the woman down below.
He was permanently hungry too. The wild fruit was becoming mildewed and sour and he was having to rely almost solely on rowan berries. He had long since given up setting deadfall rock traps for rabbits because it was a waste of time. He never caught anything.
Grey skies stretched to the furthermost hills and beyond, low cloud that brought hill-fog and fine drizzle. He shivered, knew that he would have to go into the forest. First, though, he had to find some food of a more substantial nature.
During the summer months he had feasted ravenously on the small tubers which grew at the base of the long-stemmed plants with the white flower. They were scarce now, harder to find because the flowers had died down. Armed with a knife, one he had taken from the Quinn workshop, he embarked upon another, more desperate, hunt for the bulbs.
It was painstaking work, his stomach urging him on. Scrabbling with his fingers, hacking until he broke the knife blade; finding one or two, cramming them into his mouth, spitting out the soil, obsessed with his task.
So obsessed that he did not see the snake until it was too late! The adder had burrowed deep into a pile of dead leaves, its hibernation already begun, its colouring rendering it almost invisible. Something awoke it, a sharp pain as the jagged knife nicked its body. It turned, spat, struck blindly and instinctively.
Eric Atkinson screamed, dropped the knife, stared in horror at the wriggling reptile which was now visible, a black zig-zag on its back. Excruciating pain and terror, revulsion. His fear of snakes went back further than his memory; to that day when his parents had taken him to Whipsnade Zoo. He had virtually had a fit in the reptile house, gone hysterical, angered his parents because they did not understand, had tried to force him to overcome his phobia, had held him there, pinioned his arms, dragged him from glass cage to glass cage.
And now, thirty years later, that fear came to its peak. He stumbled, fell, crawled, could not put his full weight on his poisoned hand. Gibbering, sobbing, blind to direction. Flee. Anywhere.
A dim realisation that he was in the forest. It had to be night because it was dark. Crawling until he collapsed from exhaustion, edging himself up against the bole of a huge fir, its branches dripping condensation steadily. Drip . . . drip . . . trickling . . . the kind of sound a pursuing snake would make . . .
Wide-eyed, staring into the blackness, seeing innumerable moving things, pushing his back hard against the tree trunk. Eyes; green ones, red ones, things moving about, twigs crackling. Circling him. Watching.
Waiting for him to die!
His hand throbbed. He held it up before his face, tried to see it, could just discern its outline. It was huge, throbbing with pain, so swollen that he could not lift it for more than a few seconds.
You're going to die!
Whimpering. He heard those animals snuffling again. They weren't in any hurry.
The darkness was streaked with red, brightening, dulling. His head pounded, but uppermost in his mind was the basic will to survive. He wasn't going to die, he would be all right when daylight came, find a stream or a pool and bathe his wound. He thought he could hear the rushing of water somewhere far away; it might just have been the rain.
Exhaustion was taking its toll, stronger than the pain; his arm seemed numb right up to his shoulder. He shifted his position, made himself as comfortable as he could. Those creatures had gone away; they were frightened of him after all.
People. Lots of them, frightening because they did not have long hair, nor were they dressed in crudely fashioned animal hides. Smooth flesh, tight-fitting clothing, sitting in a brightly lit room, eating strange food off the tables.
And he was with them, one of them, the same as them!
He held out his hand, examined it. There was no sign of the snake bite, the swelling had gone down, not even the puncture to be seen. Those clothes, he was wearing them too!
'What's the matter, Eric?' The woman sitting at his table eyed him with concern. 'You're acting very strangely.'
He stared at her, fought to remember her name, finally came up with it. Marlene. He could understand what she said, wondered if he could converse in the same language.
He took his time, got the words out, 'I'm OK. Really I am.'
'You're certainly acting very strangely then. Or are you trying to avoid the issue?'
'What issue?' What's an issue? Oh yes, I remember. I don't remember what this particular issue is, though. So strange, a kind of faraway feeling like he was sickening for something, a spectator to his own actions.
'Oh, you're impossible!' She was twirling the stem of her empty wine-glass angrily, it might snap at any second. 'AH you want me for is to screw, Eric. Now answer me straight, do you or do you not want to go back to your wife? Come on, let's have it straight.'
'My ... wife?'
'Yes, your wife. The woman you are legally married to. Sylvia.'
Sylvia . . . Sylvia . . . Sylvia. His arm was starting to throb again, his vision had darkened or else they had .dimmed the lighting in the restaurant. Whisperings, like those creatures moving about in the wood. What creatures? What wood? Sylvia. . .Sylvia. . . Sylvia. SYLVIA. Oh God, he could hear her calling him somewhere. He staggered to his feet, clutched at the table and slopped a carafe of water.
'You've been taking me for a ride, haven't you, Eric?' Marlene spat out her venom in a shriek. She hurled her wine-glass; he felt the rush of air as it skimmed his face, smashed somewhere behind him. 'Well, if you want your wife that bad, you go to her, and she's welcome to you. You're a wastrel. You go back to Sylvia!'
Sylvia.
He turned away, Marlene already forgotten. He had to find Sylvia. She could be anywhere, he had to search for her. Pushing his way past people who seemed oblivious of his presence, staggering out into a street that was brightly lit with orange lamps. Crowds everywhere, having to fight his way through them. Have any of you seen my wife? Her name's Sylvia. Nobody even glanced in his direction. He was a man alone.
Constant traffic, horns blaring. He gave up trying to cross the road, continued on his way along the packed pavement, lurching from side to side, would have fallen if the throng had not kept him upright.
Has anybody seen my wife? Her name's Sylvia. I've been unfaithful to her and now I need her more than I've ever needed anybody in my life. Please, somebody find her for me.
Featureless hairless faces everywhere, trying to scrutinise them but they were gone too quickly. All hurrying, all searching for somebody. They've all lost someone! This is hell, purgatory without the promised flames. You repent for your sins, want to say sorry to somebody but that somebody isn't there.