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Bonesy found the upstairs toilet, locked himself inside then—fuck it—got the shower going. Pretty quick the water started warm. He stripped off and got underneath it, picked a bottle off the shelf and squeezed it over himself—no bubbles—bath gel maybe—but he carried on; the smell smelt alright, geranium and something, flowers, all the water in between his shoulderblades and, bouncing off his shoulders while he faced away and sort of hugged himself a second—stupid—turned towards the jet, the warm on his forehead, eyelids, cheekbones underneath, the drumming of it. He stood there ages like that while the steam filled up the room and somebody kept rattling at the door, a minute later rattling again, a bloke’s voice, voices, mumbling behind the doorhandle again and coming back.

There were towels, clean towels, a full basketful of them. He grabbed one and got himself dry and dressed—a change of clothes would have been perfect, if he’d thought about it in advance—then sort of folded up the towel and shoved it back.

Up at the fire in the orchard nobody was really talking. Quite a few were stood about with their eyes shut, maybe whispering. He must have interrupted them—this thing he’d heard about—they wrote stuff down and put the paper in the flames to see it burn and afterwards they probably said things to each other in a circle. They stared into the logs now and the flames with folds of paper dropped between or wedged or envelopes and even, one or two, were drawings maybe, drooping down or getting blown about in flecks.

Magda was there. She was on her own. She was sitting on her own crosslegged on a boulder. He went around towards her and squatted down next to her with the fingers of one hand stretched open on the grass for balance. He stared into the fire exactly the same as the others. How hot it was, it was surprising. He shuffled back. Before too long only one thing was left, an envelope, inside a crevice of a branch that stuck up vertical above the flames. The flame had started licking up the branch; he watched it, blue, he watched it lick and lick and twist and flutter up till half the envelope was almost scorched away with lines of paper showing, sideways handwriting in capitals, a load of exclamation marks. He didn’t look. He looked away. He looked down at the grass. Nothing was happening. He swapped hands leaning on the ground again for balance. The flame had maybe dropped away or moved direction in the breeze. A motorbiker bloke came up and stood, his legs, big heavyset, his leathers, staring while he crunched a small bottle of Evian in both his thumbs at once and gripped it tight against his belly. His foot lifted up slow, his bootsole on the branch. He waited for a second then shoved inwards with his weight. The branch cracked in a rush of upward sparks that disappeared. The bloke came to squat down alongside Bonesy, more or less, almost alongside. He dropped his head and beard and made a crying sort of snorting noise out of his nose, not even hiding it. Bonesy focussed on the grass, all different blades, each separate outline flickered if he caught it in the flamelight. Then he made a fist and pressed his knuckles soft into the ground. The bloke was squatting there for ages, almost next to him, smell off his leathers, making sniffing noises. In the end he stood up and his back and legs moved off. Somebody reached out for him, an arm reached out, a woman’s arm, bracelets and voices murmuring and silhouettes under the tree, and everybody chattering again and quiet laughter maybe, talking normal.

You okay? she said.

Who me? Yeah why.

Was wondering where you’d got to earlier, that’s all.

Just wandering around.

Around?

Around that field. Behind the house. Seeing what stars I could see.

She looked at him.

What?

She uncrossed her legs and brushed off the knees of her jeans—as if dried mud or something, but her knees were clean—she kept going, brushing. There was nothing there. She flicked her hair out of her face.

Wanted to show you this, she said. She unfolded a leaflet out of her pocket. This place is coming up. I’m viewing it next week.

He nodded. Letting agency or something. Logo and photo. Some kind of farmhouse cottage somewhere. Oh good for you, he said. No that’s great. Honestly that’s great.

I even know the woman who’s moving out, she said. I’ve got a feeling this could be the place. Looks perfect for the kids.

Yeah go. Go see. Looks great. You definitely should. A dog came sniffing round and laid down with its ribs against his foot, against the side, its belly up and down and warm. He moved his fingertips between the ridges of its back. Better say something else.

Where did you say it was?

She said the name again, a village probably someplace. He nodded. He thought he recognised it.

It won’t be immediate, she said.

Okay.

Could be a month. I’ll have the hut till then. You know you’re welcome there until I move. Could even be two.

Two what? Sorry. I missed that.

I was saying it could be a month. Even two. I’ll have to see.

Yeah definitely. Fair enough.

It’s one thing at a time, she said.

Alright then. Yeah. He stood up and took a couple of steps back from the fire looking round behind him. Getting cold, he said.

Have you not got your coat?

I might have left it in your car.

Maybe, she said. I don’t know if it’s locked. Better take this. Wait hang on though. She had stood up. She was behind him straight away. She put her hand on his back. Hey? She squeezed his elbow. He turned more towards her, not fully.

You’ll be okay yeah?

He shrugged. Don’t know. I mean don’t know what to say. I knew it was always going to be temporary. I better find my coat.

He got in her passenger seat a minute for a think. Two months. A month maybe. It all depended. Her and her kids. From the house behind him thumping music drifted out. On the shelf back in the hut he had his camcorder—if he could somehow get the thing flogged. There was movement at the doors behind him in his rearview mirror now, voices laughing, music louder at the open door a second then dull thuds of it behind. He zipped his coat up tight but shivered, shivery, and leant to get the key in the ignition for the air, the air through the blower. It blew out cold. If the car was moving it would soon get warm. He had took quite a few lessons in his hometown years ago but never done a test—if he had done a test he probably would have passed. The drive of this place, from the gate walls to the main door, was about a mile long he reckoned. Half at least say. Private. No Public. Up and down and back it would be, sit somewhere and get his head straight. In reverse he crunched real careful on the gravel breathing in, missing the tree stump at the side. The headlights on. Okay. His seatbelt. Why not. He was moving and it felt okay, the headlights slide through the trees on either side, the dip. The gearstick buzzed out of his hand a second—he pulled his hand away—the noise had made him jump. He must have been in neutral for a second. It was fine.

*

Ruskin Smith is from Hull but now lives in Lancaster. He has had stories published by thi wurd in issues 3 and 4 of the magazine and in the Alternating Current Anthology, and by Tangerine Press in their Cofferdam pamphlet. Another was shortlisted for the Royal Society of Literature’s V.S. Pritchett Short Story Prize 2022.

Rosanna Gammon is a multidisciplinary artist and teacher from Hull, now based in Leeds. Her work incorporates elements of collage, drawing, and experimental painting. rosannajgammon@gmail.com