Thunderstruck
Just as we got to the door of the pub, the heavens opened and unleashed a storm of apocalyptic doom.
Brody faced me as we all headed back into the pub. ‘I told you this was going to happen, Dare. Now we’re stuck here for who knows how long.’ The words may have been harsh, but the tone was playful.
I grinned and pecked my spouse on the cheek. ‘Look on the bright side. At least you don’t have to make me dinner.’
Brody gave an amused shrug and looked at our friends, Pip and Jules. ‘Who wants to come to the bar with me?’
Jules went with Brody while Pip joined me and Starling, my ancient poodle-cross, as we returned to the table we’d abandoned only moments before. I rubbed my hands together over the fireplace before taking my seat.
Pip dropped into a chair. ‘So…’
Our conversation had reached a natural conclusion when we all thought we were heading home for the evening. This unexpected delay left the group with not much to talk about. Or so I thought.
‘Maybe you’ll finally tell us that story.’ Pip reached down to scratch Starling’s ears. A flash of lightning illuminated the Scottish night sky beyond the pub’s windows. Starling saved me from having to answer that by making an age-defying leap into my lap. Outside, thunder crashed.
Brody and Jules returned with a fresh round of drinks in hand. They set the glasses in front of their respective drinkers before resuming their seats.
‘Food’s coming,’ Brody offered.
‘Cheers,’ Pip said. ‘I think Dare should tell the story.’
Jules raised an eyebrow. ‘Which story is that, then?’
‘The story,’ Pip repeated.
‘Oh.’ Brody took my hand and drew the word out for several heartbeats. It was only now – a decade later – that I was beginning to feel like I had it together enough to talk about what happened. ‘You don’t have to.’
I leant in closer to the pub’s crackling fire. A lot of pubs in Scotland have fireplaces – but I loved the White Hart best because it had three. ‘It’s time, though. I should talk about it.’ I didn’t want to tell this story; I never did. But enough time had passed now – I should face my demons.
Feeling my heart race, I clutched Brody with my left hand and Starling with my right. ‘You remember Covid, right?’
Everyone instinctively touched their upper arms. We all had our annual jabs.
‘The first time around, I mean. Back before the vaccine – when we all lived with a seemingly endless cycle of lockdowns and deaths. It was 2020 or 2021 – I don’t remember.’ The days, weeks, and months had all blurred into one another.
‘At the time, I was living in London. Recently divorced and overcome with loneliness, I’d adopted a dog from a local shelter. The poor lost lamb was the sorriest creature in the shelter – refusing food and water, unwilling to come out to make friends with prospective adopters. I think I saw something of myself in Starling.’
With this, Starling climbed down off my lap and crawled up between Jules and Pip.
I looked over at my dog. ‘Traitor,’ I said – but I cracked a grin as I spoke the word.
The frayed ends of sanity
‘My flatmate disappeared off to their parents’ place just before the first lockdown and I never saw them again, so Starling and I were left alone in this grotty two-bed ex-council flat in Deptford.’
I got lost in my own story as I told it, the decade since slipping through my fingers like sand.
Back then, I lived in a third-floor flat. Without our own garden, I had to take Starling out multiple times a day. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, I’d mask up and we’d head to Friendly Gardens, the fully fenced dog park down the road. Sometimes there were other people there with their dogs and sometimes there weren’t.
My shopping was delivered and – as a freelance editor – I’d already been working from home for a few years. Because I was immunocompromised, I didn’t want to take any chances. Once the pandemic hit, I became a recluse. Being autistic, I’d never exactly been a social butterfly. But the near-complete isolation hit me hard and I began timing my trips to the dog park so I’d see people. The socially distant outdoor chit-chat was as close as I got to a social life in those days. But I still felt terribly anxious and desperately lonely.
One morning, on the way back from the park, Starling and I climbed the stairs and walked along the exposed walkway to the flat, both of us shivering in the freezing wind. As I fumbled in my pockets for the keys, Starling bent down to sniff something on the doormat.
I put the key in the lock and fought – with frozen fingers – to get the door open. When at last it swung inwards, Starling picked something up and ran inside.
‘What have you found?’
Starling looked up at me and growled playfully, daring me to take this new prized possession away.
‘What is it?’
I finally spotted it – a doll.
‘Give me that, you naughty thief. Some poor child must be missing it.’ Starling looked offended but dropped the doll into my hands. A little handmade rag doll with unruly orange yarn for hair and light brown cotton skin. It wore a blue and white striped jumper, black leggings or maybe skinny jeans, and tiny red trainers.
It looked a lot like me, truth be told. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, figuring a neighbour’s child had dropped it. I assumed the doll’s resemblance to me was a mere fluke.
But now the wretched thing was coated in dog slobber. ‘I can’t give it back to anyone like this, can I?’
Starling blinked big doe-eyes at me.
I tickled my dog’s chin. ‘You’re cute, but you can’t have it. It belongs to someone.’
The doll looked pretty sturdy so I decided to put it in the wash. I’d been planning to put some laundry on that day anyway. Still carrying the damp, slimy toy, I headed into my bedroom and gathered up the stuff to go into the wash. I tossed the doll into a pillowcase and tied a knot to protect it, then threw it into the machine with the rest of my washing. I wrote a note and went out to tape it to the wall by the stairwell, telling the owner of the doll where to find it.
It must have been a workday because I sat down at my desk. In the distance, I thought I could hear someone screaming. I raced to the front door. Bracing against the cold, I stepped onto the walkway and looked left and right. But there was no one. Leaning out over the railing, I looked around. No sign of anyone in distress.
The screaming had died down, so I went back inside. I was working on a horror novella; maybe it was getting to me. I cranked the music up a bit louder and set to work. Most editors said they preferred to work in silence – but for those of us with sensory processing issues, it was never truly silent. I opted to drown out the background noises of life in a modern, urban environment with heavy metal.
