Tales of Disturbance

The Fox and the Starlight

Weary, so weary. He can't even open his eyes. His head seems to be made of stone and there's a solid sort of throbbing in one of his temples.

Cautiously he shifts his weight. He comes to gradual awareness that he is lying on something soft, an intense heat blasting on one side. He's warm. The place where he's lying is dry, almost cosy. There is a consuming desire to settle down and go back to sleep. Where is he? All he can think of is the sheepskin rug in his grandmother's study. As a boy he used to lie on it, reading novels by the fire, the room snug, the fire glowing in the grate, the conversation droning on like rain on a roof, in the other room. Sometimes he would even drift off to sleep on these occasions. (But he would always wake up on time for apple pie. The scent of apples pastry and cinnamon, hot from the oven, wafting in, roused him every time.)

He swears he can smell baking even now. 

He must be in some danger, so why does he feel so safe? He tries to sit up but the pain attacks that tender spot of head where yesterday he was struck from behind. He lifts his hand to feel that spot with his hand and rubs gingerly, eyes still half closed.

Was it yesterday? 

He hopes not. If it is the next morning, he will be in trouble at work. Questions. Questions will be asked that he cannot answer.   

He pieces the fragments together: the fox, the walk, the cold, the snow, the church, and, finally, the violent thump on the head.

That smell again. Someone is baking. He is sure he has not imagined it. Yet the concept is ridiculous, because surely he has been captured, and lies languishing in a prison cell and this is in some sort of dream. 

He squints his eyes open. He is not in his grandmother's study, yet the room is somehow grandmotherly. Yet he is lying on a rug in front of a fireplace in a dimly lit room - a room in a style he has not seen for twenty years.

Reclining on a nearby cushion he becomes  aware of a whiskey- coloured cat watching him through narrow eyes. The whole room is enclosed by thick, dark green velvet drapes in an ancient, pre war style. And though it feels like it should be morning, it seems to still be night time. There is a smell of peat and smoke, but it seems to be in a memory. 

A door creaks open. There are sounds that become voices - a headmasterly one is chastising. Their sounds seem to come from inside the rug. It feels like it is not happening, but he is simply remembering it. 

"Unacceptable Henry. Completely unacceptable! Exactly what do you think you were you playing at?" 

From the rug, he twists his head, and tries to lift himself up on to his elbow at least; but there's that pain in his skull. He holds on to his head and he lies back down again. 

"A man. Ok a man. Was this man attacking you? Was he violent? Did he yeild a weapon"

"No"

"Words, were there words.Did this man - insult you? Say something offensive? Abominable?"

"No" 

From the rug he suddenly catches a glimpse of a the scuffed shoe of a small boy on the other side of a table.

"No papa. He was just looking at the church. But-- I thought -- you know I thought he was --"

"Doesn't matter. There is no excuse for violence, ever. You never do that again. Do you hear me?"

That voice, he thinks from the rug. Where had he heard that voice before? 

"You do not put yourself in danger." 

He feels rather than sees the small boy's humiliation; his scowl as he flumps down in a huff.

But most of all he is fascinated by the voice. Baritone, confident, clear. So familiar. He knows the man, he is sure of it. Suddenly it comes to him. It is the same voice that yelled out in the office - regardless of the consequences; the man who had escaped without his shirt straight onto a winter street, who had dodged two government bullets into the bargain.