There’s a certain beauty to solitude. I tell myself this at regular intervals every day, but I don’t truly believe it. No, what beauty there is left in life I have to find elsewhere.
Which is why, on a magnificent July morning, I’m sat at the top of a colossal hill in the Lake District, soaking in the heat of the sun as it soars towards its zenith, and watching as the occasional hawk or falcon circles in an updraft or drops like a stone to snatch its prey from a hill-top.
The grass up here is thick and lush, and I have abandoned my clothes in favour of the cool green carpet. Dandelions, daisies and buttercups sweep in huge rolling waves that spread in every direction, long splashes of white and yellow flowing down the hill until the gradient becomes too steep and the long grasses and deep violet thistles take over. Clumps of heather add deeper hues of green and a rich brown to the tapestry, which is repeated on a grand scale for miles and miles around me. To the west I can follow the long glacial valley to the sea which must be forty or fifty miles away, the hazy blue line punctuated at the limit of my vision by the enormous columns of a wind farm’s turbines.
As usual for my morning walks I have brought a lunch with me. Next to my discarded clothes are several mixed apples and a couple of bags of dried fruit and nuts. A half-empty bottle of water lies in the shade of my backpack, next to a larger plastic bottle which holds the contents of two bottles of Bordeaux. I’m sipping some of the delicious liquid from an indestructible plastic cup whilst smoking an endless supply of joints which are lined up inside a wooden cigar box that lies open next to my right leg. I’m sat cross-legged, meditating in my nakedness, letting the sun and the breeze and beauty of nature flow through me, wash me away until all that’s left is the peace and stillness of absolute solitude.
One morning in late August I awake with a start from a deep, dreamless sleep, and know with an invigorating certainty that today I am going to go hunting. I wash in the stream behind the cabin and dress quickly, the khaki of my shorts and shirt now paler than my deep tanned skin.
I assemble a pack with the practised precision that all of my actions have taken on, and shoulder it before taking the rifle from its hook on the back of the door. It’s a Winchester long-barreled 308 with a lever action that I have spent many hours learning to shoot over the past few weeks. I found it in a fishing and hunting equipment shop on a foray into the nearby town of Cockermouth, just sat in the window display. It took some effort to locate a supply of ammunition locked in a cabinet in the back of the shop, but the utility of a gun was so obvious that I chastised myself for not considering it sooner.
The rifle is heavy, and throws out the balance of my usual morning load-out, so I lighten my pack by substituting a half-bottle of vodka for the wine. With the weight considerably diminished I feel comfortable carrying a couple of pounds of bullets with me. Pleased by my decision I light up a cigarette, kick the door of the cabin closed (don’t want and stray animals finding their way in whilst I’m gone), and start the long walk around the lake towards Loweswater woods.
The path through the woods is overgrown already, six months of disuse allowing the brambles and nettles to spill over the bare earthen track, forcing me to slow my pace and frequently hack my way through with a long thin branch. Before long my legs are covered in dozens of short thin scratches. The nettle stings don’t hurt, but I can feel a warm tingling from each brush with one of the bristling leaves.
An hour’s walk brings me to a meadow that I’ve seen from my walks up in the hills, but have not visited before. I’ve seen deer here, gathering at the edge of the woods and lying in the warmth of the afternoon sun. From a distance I’ve counted perhaps four or five that return on a regular basis, amongst them a large stag which I have determined as my prey. I’ve never hunted before, and my body is a raging storm of anticipation, excitement, and mounting terror.
The clearing is empty, calm and still with the fresh morning air. It rained last night, little more than a shower but sufficient to clear the dusty dry head of the last week and provide the day with a sharp clean edge that makes the heat of the sunlight somehow more pleasurable. I’ve not seen the deer here any earlier than about three in the afternoon, though I doubt that they keep to a strict schedule. Come to think of it, neither do I. I haven’t known what time it is for months, relying instead upon an my own interpretation of my body clock and the sun’s position in the sky. Time is a fluid concept for me now, and I have spent considerable amounts of it contemplating my freedom the tyranny of the clock. I’m not even sure it’s August now, the only indication I have is a vague feeling that summer is near an end.
An hour or two passes whilst I count blades of grass, smoke a couple of joints, and sip at the vodka. The sun has climbed high overhead, disappearing behind a bank of cloud that threatens to spoil the rest of my afternoon with rain. The atmosphere takes on a tinge of static and ozone, and a rumble in the distance suggests a storm could be heading this way. I’m laid on my stomach at the opposite edge of the glade from where I expect the deer to appear, almost invisible unless seen directly from above except for the smoke rising from my hiding place in the tall grass. The rifle lies alongside me, resting in as much shade as I can provide for it. Even without direct sunlight the barrel is still hot to the touch, and I remind myself to only carry it by the stock.
I must have dozed off for a while, because the next thing I notice is that it’s cooler and darker, and a breeze is swirling through the grass, a long whistling rush that plays back and forth above my head. My face is pressed against a crushed mass of stems that stick to my cheek as I sit upright, blinking and looking around. Minutes pass whilst I gather my thoughts, sip some water, and chew on a handful of raisins. It feels like a few hours have passed, maybe. I scan the far side of the meadow for the deer, but there’s no sign of them. My hand moves unconsciously to the gun, fingers closing around the stock, as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I turn round, shifting my weight so that I can kneel slowly, bringing the gun up to sit snug against my shoulder.
Behind me, about twenty feet away just inside the tree line, the stag watches me motionless. His antlers are a terrifying rack of prongs that I realise are capable of shredding me without effort. His eyes don’t waver from my gaze, and I can hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing. I bring the gun up across my cheek, sighting clearly, and push the safety off.
Click.
The stag starts, but only takes a single step backwards. His eyes are locked onto mine, hasn’t blinked or looked elsewhere. Just one step.
The gun didn’t fire, and I know that getting a round into the chamber without causing my prey to bolt is going to be require every ounce of self control I can muster. Slowly, eyes never leaving his, I reach into my pack with my right hand and locate a box of bullets. With my thumb I prise the cardboard top open and feel the smooth copper metal beneath my index finger. Heart barely beating, my breath shallow and measured, I catch the bullet between the tips of my fingers and extract it, letting it slide into my palm, then pulling my hand out of the pack and lifting it to the rifle. The next part is going to be tricky.
On the right side of the barrel a lever sticks out about two inches, capped at one end by a small black plastic ball. The lever is attached to a bolt loading mechanism that I slide backwards along the rifle towards my body, and the twist downwards when it reaches the end. A long, narrow slot has opened in the body of the rifle, enough space for me to insert a single bullet, which I do with without making a sound. The stag has started to look around, and I know that I have only seconds to finish loading the gun without scaring him away before he decides to leave of his own accord.
The loading mechanism of the rifle clicks as I lift the level upwards and slide it forwards to close the chamber. This time the deer takes a few steps away from me, and turns to run. I can see his muscles tense, his rich brown coat rippling and bunching as he readies himself for flight.
Inwardly I swear, the first time I have done so for weeks. I’m about to lose him, and don’t expect a second chance. Throwing everything into this one shot, I slam the bolt shut and snatch my hand back to the trigger. My left arm is still propped under the front end of the wooden stock about a third of the way along the barrel, and I use it to track the deer as he springs away, hurling himself into a leap that carries him across the gap to the nearest tree.
In agonising slow motion my index finger finds the trigger guard, and falls into place behind it, squeezing slowly until I feel a faint click followed by a shove from the rifle’s recoil that topples me backwards, legs flying in the air, arms flailing outwards in a vain attempt to keep myself upright. An enormous boom echoes through my ears, a crash far louder than the mere firing of the gun. Flat on my back I stare upwards as the sky unleashes a torrent of rain, the charcoal grey skies split by lightning that leaves an afterglow on my retinas.
I lie there, letting the rain soak through my clothes, and take deep, ragged breaths. After a while I realise that I’m crying, and curl up sobbing until the tears stop and all I feel is emptiness and remorse and loneliness. I’ve made a huge mistake, and I can’t bear to know if I’ve hit my target.
I leave the rifle and the bullets at the foot of a tree, and trudge home taking long drafts from the vodka. In my hand I’m carrying the broken edge of an antler, splintered where a bullet passed through it. There’s no sign of the stag.
I think it’s October, or maybe November. It could be December, but if it is then I’m really losing track of things. It’s freezing cold, and I spend my days either hiking through the hills to keep warm, or stretched out in front of the cabin’s cast-iron stove, writing furiously with a cheap plastic biro in one of a series of spiral bound notebooks. I’m writing the story of my life – everything that I can ever remember happening to me – in a broken, unordered jumble of episodes. I try to fill each with as much detail as possible, my writing style ludicrous in its complexity of flourishing prose. A playground bullying incident at age six fills hundreds of pages. My expulsion from school a year later for taking revenge on the bully hundreds more. Where memory fails me I embellish without remorse. Friends become caricatures. Minor acquaintances are provided with back stories and motivation that spin off into miniature biographies. I write for days at a time, immersed in the fantasy of my own life, stopping only to drink, smoke or piss.
Every few days I need to chop firewood, and locate food. The firewood is the easier of the two, as the conservation of the Lakes seemed to involve a reforestation programme whereby foreign pine trees were replace with native species, requiring extensive logging. About a mile from the cabin dozens of stripped tree trunks have been drying naturally under enormous tarpaulin sheets throughout the summer. A few hours with a chain saw provides me with enough firewood for weeks at a time.
Food is tougher, as I have to put in considerable effort to maintain a supply of fresh ingredients. There are several farms within an hour’s drive, and I rotate amongst them for eggs, fruit, milk, and a decent supply of vegetables. Fish is a rare luxury, as I have little luck catching it at the best of times. Other ingredients I stockpile whenever I pass through a town. Dried products are easy – flour and sugar will last years – and with a little careful organisation I can work through canned foods for for just as long.
I don’t eat meat any more. I keep the antler with me at all times, a constant reminder of my one failed attempt at hunting. Perhaps my reluctance to kill anything is the reason my fishing is so unsuccessful: subconsciously I’m trying to avoid having to drag the flapping, wet fish from the water, watching them struggle for life as the line swings them inexorably onto land where they writhe, gasping for one last breath before my knife falls upon them.
Or maybe I’m just crap at fishing.
It’s December. The Land Rover I’ve been using has run out of fuel, and rather than try to refill it I have simply found another one with a full tank. On the dashboard a little LCD clock shows the time and date. It’s a few minutes after midday on December twenty-fourth. It’s been more than nine months since I last saw another living person. This time last year I was trying to keep Emily from taking my clothes off whilst making excuses to Nina for why I would be late home. This year is going to be a little less busy.
The Land Rover bumps somewhat when the wheels hit remains. I stopped calling them anything else a long time ago. All they are now is remains – clothes loose around skeletons, only clumps of hair clinging to the dried husks. They’re not dead people to me any more, just annoying obstacles that I am tired of avoiding. I barely even notice them other than as a shadow of their last actions. This one was crossing a road, and never made it. Too bad.
When I arrive at the farm for my eggs and milk, I can tell something is wrong immediately. The animals here have grown accustomed to my approach, and there’s always a few sheep or pigs milling around the farm yard when I arrive. Today the yard is empty.
The reason is obvious the moment that I turn the engine off. From nearby (the chicken coops?) I can hear a riotous commotion, and a series of low, rolling growls. A dog is killing my animals.
Anger rises up in me. After months of effort to keep myself in a steady supply of food, to have it destroyed is more than I can bear. There’s a shovel in the corner of the yard that I use for cleaning out the hens. I heft it in my right hand, fingers closing around the polished grain of the wooden shaft, knuckle whitening with the power of my grip, and stride towards the hen house.
The sight that greets me is awful. Two large mastiff dogs have the few remaining hens pinned in a corner. Scattered around the straw nests that line the wooden hut are the broken, mauled bodies of eight or nine hens. Blood and feathers are everywhere, but are most noticeable on the snouts of the two snarling dogs. The larger of them lunges forwards, a black mass that scatters squawking, screeching birds, emerging from the confusion with a brown wing clenched between his teeth. The stench of straw, blood, birds and shit is thick in the air, and I step back from the door to breathe before I gag.
I lift the shovel, appraising its weight, and am about to step back in when the larger black dog edges out of the door, lips curled back in a snarl that reveals a row of blood-covered fangs. He growls at me, head turned upwards towards mine, and paces into the open. Following him is a tan-coloured bitch, her skin stretched thin over a bony frame. It’s clear they’re on the edge of starvation. She stands in the door of the shed, then barks at me once.
The male is keeping between me and the female, his body bristling with tension, edging towards me so that I have no choice but to step back. We keep no more than a metre apart as I creep backwards, the shovel hanging impotent in my hand. I know I can’t take them both, and the prospect of serious injury in the attempt is less than appealing. In the yard a stray pig takes one startled look at the dog and bolts with a panicked shriek.
When I have backed off a few yards, the dog turns his back on me and trots back to the hen house. With a single glance backward to satisfy himself that I have not followed, he and his mate walk back inside. The cacophony of bird noises rises in volume, so I jump in the car and drive away as fast as possible.
It takes me half an hour to get back to the cabin, and another hour to walk out to the meadow and back. I clean the barrel and check the action on my return, firing a couple of times to be certain. The noise is a violent but welcome intrusion open the silence of my anger. I’m walking as fast as I can, legs aching against the pace, but I refuse to notice the pain. The Land Rover loves being driven at speed on the roads around here, and I don’t disappoint it. The journey passes too quickly for me to be aware of it.
The dogs are sleeping on the steps of the farmhouse. They register my presence with disdain. I fire through the open window of the car. The first shot causes the bitch to leap to her feet, and I expect her to run whilst I reload but she doesn’t. Instead, she nuzzles the limp body of the black body, unaware of the pool of crimson blood pouring from the wound in his chest. I reload quickly anyway, and fire again. Her body falls across his, then tumbles down the step onto the dusty paving slab below.
When I return to the cabin I haul my clothes and what remains of my food and drink into the back of the car. It’s nearly two in the afternoon. By midnight I’m on the North Circular, back in London. It’s Christmas day.
Somewhere in the distance, a flash of light catches my eye. I look up, an involuntary reaction. A few seconds later there’s another flash. I stop the car, wanting to watch and be sure.
Somewhere to the south, fireworks are exploding.