Drug cat

The taxi driver pulls up at the side of the road. The driveway is half a kilometre long, but Roger only arranged to pay up to the gate and Hill has no money on him.

‘Classic Roger’, Hill thinks.

Hill looks at the wrought iron gates, open and pressed back against the high stone wall, only partially visible amongst the overrunning ivy and nettle bushes. He turns around and looks in the direction of the taxi, the driver is adjusting his earpiece, speaking, laughing.

Did I talk enough on the journey, Hill thinks.

Didn’t speak at all, Hill thinks.

Hill feels regret for not having brought the suitcase with wheels. He doesn’t know what is making the suitcase so heavy; all that he can remember packing is socks, pants, one pair of jeans, and a couple of T-shirts. He made the conscious choice to leave his laptop at home. Hill told Ed he would be uncontactable for most of the time he was on the island, and wasn’t sure how long that would be; he explained that Roger was very ill, mentally unstable, pathetically insistent on him staying at the house.

Hill stands at the wrought iron gate, suitcase in one hand and cat carrier in the other. The taxi pulls away into the distance and towards the A-road that runs uninterrupted from one end of the island to the other.

Is Dave awake, Hill thinks.

Resting the suitcase on the ground, Hill holds the cat carrier in both hands and lifts it up to eye level. Peering through the metal grill he looks at Dave, curled up and still feeling the sleeper.

Drug cat, Hill thinks.

Hill lowers the pet carrier to the floor and picks it up by the handle. He looks at the suitcase and sighs.

The trees and woodland that surround the driveway look exactly the same as they did when Hill lived there. Towards the edges of the driveway the grass is neatly kept, gradually becoming wilder until the denseness of the bushes and trees is only broken by a hacked pathway or old tree trunk. Hill listens to the wind and looks at the leaves on the large, old trees.

Objectively beautiful, Hill thinks.

Did I ever appreciate this, Hill thinks.

Hill picks up the suitcase and tries to work a comfortable way of slinging it over his shoulder. This is worse. Hill keeps trying until he feels the sharp edge of the small Yale lock scratch above his neckline. He throws the suitcase to the floor.

Nope, Hill thinks.

Nope, Hill thinks.

Nope, Hill thinks.

Standing still for a moment, he closes his eyes and listens for the sound of waves; beyond the driveway, beyond the house, beyond the front lawn, beyond the rocky path but still there, still existing.

Sailing lessons hell, Hill thinks.

Ambient waves sleep app hell, Hill thinks.

He picks the pet carrier up and begins walking down the driveway, a slow, warm line of blood and sweat creeping down his back.