Uncanny Shift
‘This isn’t it.’
The drum of rain on the bonnet highlights our sudden quiet. Only a minute ago Buckley was singing along to the music, my accompaniment beating on the dashboard with a packet of mints; now, though, we’re just sitting, staring out at the grey day.
‘This isn’t it.’
He glances up from returning the keycard to his wallet. ‘It’s the right road.’
I wipe away the condensation and peer out at the sandstone houses with their air of quiet respectability. There are lots of streets like this in north Bristol but I’m certain I’ve never been to this one.
‘No. It’s not.’
‘It’s the right coordinates.’
I shake my head.
‘Check yourself if you like,’ he says, gesturing to his Specs.
I accept the packet in my own and a messy topography of roads and housing overlays the windscreen. The car icon sits directly on top of our plotted destination but this tangle of roads is a world away from the sounds and smells of the territory I know and love. I push the hologram from my lenses and glare out at the hanging baskets of petunias on the closest fence.
‘See?’ Buckley says.
‘Maybe you entered the wrong coordinates. We can check with Lauren.’
He leans over and pokes the Specs back up my forehead before I can bring up her number. ‘Tomoko’ll be here, or nearby with the other cubs. I promise.’
But my disbelief isn’t anxiety – though I’ve admittedly plenty of that. It’s this place that gets me. Nothing about it is familiar.
He cracks his door with a grin. ‘Come on, at least allow me the pleasure of proving you wrong.’
It’s true that I’m not going to prove anything by sulking in the car so I step out to face the house. A house that I’d swear I’ve never seen before in my life, let alone one I lived outside only weeks ago.
The trim lawn leads to a patio guarded by tiny ceramic men, coned hats painted warning red. Territory markers.
‘It’ll be fine, trust me.’
I shrug Buckley’s hand off. ‘Yeah.’
He opens the gate and I duck after. Closer, I can see that the paint on the men is peeling. They must have been here for some time, but there was never anything like them at my old home – that I noticed. Could it really be that they just never entered my awareness as a fox? It’s not like humans often notice the markings of other animals.
But Buckley is already on the porch, reaching for the bell.
‘No. No. No,’ I sub-vocalise.
You don’t mess around on someone else’s territory, not ever, not without very good reason. But without comms, Buckley can’t hear me.
There’s no cover here but before I can retreat, Buckley throws back a smile. There’s two of us. We’re humans. This is suburbia. The worst that can realistically happen is that we get chased away.
A figure wells behind the frosted glass.
‘Yes?’
An elderly lady stands in the doorway, squinting up at Buckley through small gold specs that aren’t really Specs at all but old analogue glasses. To my relief, she seems even more nervous than I am. It’s hard to defend your territory when you’re old.
If Buckley has processed any of this he doesn’t show it. Spreading his palms in greeting, he starts to lay out our case.
I’m Buckley Maurice and this is my colleague Katherine North. We’re calling on behalf of ShenCorp and the Fox Research Centre at the University of Bristol. Perhaps you aren’t aware but a family of foxes has been living in your back garden, and we’d be very grateful if we could make some quick observations.
The way he puts it makes it all sound so simple. Even more impressive, technically every word of it is true, although he’s left out the part about my being one of those foxes. Trust Buckley. Now she’s gathered that we aren’t a threat she actually seems excited about the company. Still, as she grabs an umbrella and they start round the side of the house, I keep a step back – just in case.
We edge past dustbins and a rusting fridge to emerge in an overgrown back garden and my stomach contracts. Ahead of us is my shed. Though, of course, it looks different to my shed – what was once a fortress is a tenth of the size, and yet . . .
I overtake the others and push through the long grass. The planks are soft where the paint has flaked away and the windows are feathered with lichen. I never knew our home was in such a bad state but, of course, our real home was underneath. I kick my way round the perimeter until I spy a dislodged brick in the foundation.
Kneeling by the opening, I breathe in a slight sourness but that’s all I can be certain of. There is something that could be the residue of fox but it could equally be my imagination. Human noses are useless and human ears aren’t much better. I’m going to have to rely on vision.
Face to the hole, the rancid air immediately sets me coughing; I clamp my lips and plug the gap around my cheeks with my hands. Complete dark.
A couple of seconds and greys separate from black. The shape closest to me could be an old pizza box – Tomoko and I used to bring them back to suck on the grease. Those ghostly white patches along the far wall – bones? Maybe. The only thing I can be certain of is that the den is abandoned.
I pull back and scrabble amongst the trampled weeds. My back tingles under the old lady’s eyes but I keep searching, working round the perimeter of the shed, turning up a couple of feathers and the stiff body of a vole. It’s been dead for some time. Tomoko would have eaten it if she were still living here. I shut my eyes and listen to the drip of rain from the crab apple tree; its trunk is stunted, perfume faded to a murmur.
Can this really be my territory? The landmarks of our old haunts have sunk into mud. So hard to believe that I could squeeze into that hole and sleep in that cold, dank space. Yet this has to be my old home. It’s not it that’s changed.
Contextual spatiality.
Dr Vince’s precise voice rises through my memory. In training there was a whole lecture on how the appearance of place changes with each body, another on how to orientate yourself in such scenarios. Academically, I understood the concept, even thought I’d experienced it several times, but faced with it in a place I once called home, it turns out to have depths I hadn’t even imagined.
At the swish of grass I look up, somehow expecting Tomoko, but, of course, it’s only Buckley. He crouches next to me.
‘No?’
I shake my head.
‘OK?’
‘Yeah.’ I cough to cover the croak of my voice.
‘Is there a problem?’ The woman calls from the path.
‘Nothing to worry about. We just think this den has been abandoned.’ He lowers his voice and turns back to me. ‘She’ll have moved on to another earth. There’d be nothing here for her with you gone.’
‘What if she got hit?’
‘She was over the road. I checked on the recordings. Come on. She’ll be with the other cubs, I’m sure of it.’
It’s true that Tomoko wouldn’t want to den here on her own. I uncurl my hand to reveal the vole – dewdrop eyes misted – and return it to its rest.
Back on the patio, the woman hugs the umbrella, her eyes wide on my muddy hands. I wipe them on my trousers, glad that Buckley distracts her with small talk as he leads the way back round the front. How does he do it? I feel completely empty.
As he sees the woman safely inside the house, I take one last look around. My first impression was right – this is the home of a stranger.
The uncanniness doesn’t get any better as we return to the road.
‘We can always do this another day,’ Buckley says.
I stare up the street, as if recollection were a late bus that might turn the corner any moment.
‘She’ll be fine. I promise.’
‘It’s not that – I just realised that I don’t know the way to the allotment. I lived here nearly four months and I don’t even know where I am.’
He removes his Specs and shakes off the droplets that have gathered in the scratches of the hydrophobic coating.
‘There’s no going back, is there?’
Buckley talks about his jumping days so little, it’s easy to forget that he’s been through nearly everything I have. I scuff the remains of a cigarette butt on the kerb.
‘We’ve got the map,’ he says eventually. ‘Finding the allotment won’t be a problem.’
I’m feeling a little better by the time we reach the allotments. We’ll find Tomoko. She’ll be settled in with the other cubs. Everything will be fine. I’m still shaking a little but this could equally just be the cold.
Our immediate problem is getting in. As a fox I slipped in and out of here so easily it hadn’t even occurred to me that the access might be restricted for humans. Buckley gives the padlock an optimistic shake, but no such luck.
‘If we can get someone with a key.’
He gestures at his Specs and starts to type against the back of his free hand, but finding someone willing to come and let us in when it’s pissing it down seems unlikely. I start along the link fence, searching for somewhere to squeeze through. There’s an old walnut growing just outside not too far along. I place my foot on a knot and swing up for the nearest branch.
‘Kit?’
The third branch is a short hop. I crouch there for a second, casting around for my next footing. Claws are a hard luxury to lose.
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea.’
I block his voice out to concentrate on edging myself out away from the trunk. Why even have a locked gate when there’s this tree here? Hands in contact with the branch, I shuffle forwards until it groans under my weight, and leap—
‘Kit!’
By the time I’ve straightened, Buckley is scrabbling onto the first branch. Seated there he pauses, chest heaving visibly beneath his waterproofs.
I press my face to the fencing. ‘Buckley?’
Seeing me he unfreezes, long arms reaching for the second branch.
Buckley, afraid of heights? He was an ornithological phenomenaut in his time.
He looks from his perch to the drop, finally to me. I nod and he jumps, slams into the ground, huddles over his right leg.
‘Are you OK?’
For a horrid second he’s silent, then he curses. ‘You’re a fucking monkey.’
I laugh. Only now realising how hard my heart is beating. ‘You’re a monkey too, just one that spends too much time sat in front of screens.’
‘Keeping you out of fucking trouble.’
‘Sorry.’
But he’s gone quiet again, head bent beneath the patter of raindrops. I can feel that my face is screwed up too. Buckley is in pain. Occasionally he’ll curse over comms when he spills his coffee in his lap or stubs a toe. There was even one time when he leant too far back in his chair and crashed onto the floor – I never let him forget that – but this is different. Somehow, I almost thought it was impossible for him to get hurt.
I crouch a step away, caught between crawling closer and giving him space. Should I be doing something? If it was Tomoko I’d nibble her ear but I get the impression that would only anger Buckley. Instead I hug my own knee.
‘Buckley?
‘Buckley?
‘Is it . . .
‘Can I . . .?’
The question takes me several starts.
‘Should I get someone?’
He shakes his head.
‘Is it OK?’
‘Fine. Just no more stunts today. Please.’ There’s flattened anger in his voice and I don’t risk saying anything else as I follow him across the allotment. His back is taut, muscles standing out through his raincoat. We know how to be silent together, that’s one of the things I like about our friendship, but this feels different. Perhaps it’s just the rain; though it’s been years since he was a bird, he still hates it.
When we reach the main den it holds no better news. I kneel in the wet grass and pull back my hood to try to listen . . . but there’s nothing. If only I had fox senses; a single sniff, a twitch of an ear, would tell me everything I needed to know. But I don’t.
I lean in to the hole, ears straining to the point where I can hear the pump of blood inside my own head, but not a murmur of fox. The whole family could be inside right now and I’d never be able to tell.
My hands knuckle against the soft earth. Human hands. Skin their horrifying pallor, thick with their stench. If Tomoko were here she’d only run. My eyes itch with the threat of tears and I laugh. It’s so ridiculous. Buckley, huddled inside his raincoat, gives me a strange look.
My smile feels like a leer. Only one more stop to go.
The rain has eased off by the time we reach the road. A tentative spark of sun peers between the clouds. this place is almost peaceful. Nothing is how I remember it today.
I’m aware of Buckley’s watchful silence as I pace the small stretch of tarmac. This road is even less familiar than the garden.
There isn’t one drop of blood, not a single orange hair. The body must have been disposed of, or dragged off to be eaten, but still, it’s almost as if it never even happened.
And, of course, that’s when the email arrives.
‘Kit?’
From the change in Buckley’s tone the disaster must show on my face but strangely I don’t really feel it.
‘We’ve been summoned to see Mr Hughes,’ I say. There’s no need to add what that means, coming right after a meeting with Niti.
I can’t meet Buckley’s expression, look to the embankment instead. My heart starts to squeeze.
The rustle of grass. Musk, the scent of growth and rot.
A shadow. Eyes of coal.
It steps out into the street light. Fur licked to flame.
An engine roars. Light erupts, wheels squeal.
I leap—
There’s an image of a face painted across my eyes. I blink, but the image won’t budge. Panic clamps around my chest. The mouth moves but it isn’t real. There shouldn’t be a face there.
I struggle to sit but can’t. Then reality flushes into the image and I realise that the face is real, that it’s Buckley’s, somehow leaning over me though he was on the pavement only a second ago. His lips move again but my ears are too full of static to understand. I paw at my forehead, half expecting blood, but only find smooth skin.
Just the fox body. Over now. Over.
Buckley’s lips mime.
Kit
It occurs to me that I’m sitting in the middle of the road, that there’s a car behind us, a curious face peering over the wheel. Buckley has placed himself between me and it. He helps me up and I stumble over to the pavement.
‘Are you OK?’
‘The other fox.’
‘Tomoko’s here?’ He glances around.
‘No. The other fox.’
His expression is strained.
‘That night,’ I explain. ‘Right before I was hit.’
‘There was no other fox. I checked the recordings.’
‘It was right there. In the gap in the hedge.’ I point but he shakes his head. ‘It was dark. It would have been hard to see on your screens.’
He gives up on keeping his trousers dry and sits next to me. ‘I suppose.’
Suppose. My fingertips trace the hard grit of the pavement for the certainty of the sensation.
‘Buckley.’
‘Yes?’
‘That night . . .’
‘That night?’
Another car rumbles past; I stare through the blur of wheels at dark tarmac.
That night, something died here, there’s no doubting that. What I can’t work out is whether it was me.