I stood alone at the first set of crossroads long before the first blush of morning. I fumbled with the zip of my black rain jacket. There was a sharp chill in the air. It bit at my fingers and made my cracked lips sting bitterly.
I balanced on the edge of the pavement, my heels hovering slightly over the curb, and I looked around, scanning the street in every direction.
To my right, the road climbed for twenty metres before a set of large black iron gates appeared on the left-hand side, flanked by tall stone pillars. The hill grew steeper, where at the top sat a settlement of new houses, mostly bungalows, all identical and sterile.
It had not always been so. Generations earlier, it had been a collection of large fields, open beneath the sun. It hosted one of the last great community fairs. They would cut the grass low, leaving a crisp scent that lingered in the air well into the summer days. Bales of hay were stacked up for seating. I remember watching the kids play in the loose piles of hay donated by local farmers. They'd throw it, dive in, and burst out again, spitting out chaff. The adults clustered together to chat. Their voices overlapped. There was a sweet, indulgent aroma of fresh doughnuts. One day, the great fair with the lights and the stalls left town. It didn't return for reasons nobody could remember. As the years passed, memories of it faded. It slowly became part of local lore, told between old friends over dinner. Then they, too, were gone. After that, it was spoken about no more.
A stone wall of weathered granite stretched downhill from the gate. It stood about four feet high and was crowned with sturdy metal railings running horizontally. At the base of the hill, the wall swept around the corner and up the road in my intended direction. Every ten metres, a proud pillar rose from the wall, each topped with a sharply defined triangular pier cap.
I rocked forward one last time, shifting my weight until I lost my balance and stepped back onto the road. With my hands buried deep into my pockets and my head down, I dropped my gaze to the wet asphalt ahead, and my footsteps echoed down murky pathways and gloomy avenues. Now, the light rainfall had begun to ease slowly, and the Scotch mist was rising, allowing me a clearer view of the road ahead.
I must have passed four of the stone pillars before my ears caught something. At first, I thought it was the bark of a dog out in the shadowy gulf. I heard it again and was pulled back into the world, the noise piercing the obnoxious silence. At first, my ears did not separate it; however, the second time around, it unscrambled, and I heard a voice.
"Excuse me."
I stopped.
"I said, excuse me."
As I turned to my right, I came face to face with an older man. He stood on the other side of the wall. He wore a charcoal grey suit with a matching waistcoat and burgundy tie. His shoes were brown brogues. Thinning grey hair was combed back atop his head. Below it, his face was creased. Bushy grey eyebrows and round brown eyes fixed on me. Unblinking, he held his gaze. A wide smile spread across his face as his piercing stare swept over me. He stood perfectly still with effortless balance and poise, as if he belonged exactly where he was. The air around him seemed to settle into place. I stayed frozen, shoulders tight like a startled cat.
"Ah, excellent, I was wondering if you could do me a favour," he said. He seemed well-spoken, with a warm and polite voice that took great care to articulate his words. "Could you please pick up that silver chain lying there on the ground?"
"A chain?" was all that I could muster.
"Yes, it is laid right there between your feet. I believe you were about to step over it." He raised his eyebrows slightly and flicked his eyes down to the floor. I looked down. Sure enough, it lay there between my feet: a thin silver chain, tinted yellow by the streetlight.
“Well, there it is,” I exclaimed. I reached down and picked it up with great care, holding it delicately between two fingers. The rest draped loosely across my palm. I lifted it over the fence and poured it gently into the stranger's cupped hands.
"Thank you." Beaming, he opened his right jacket pocket, slid the chain inside, and said, "I've been waiting for some time for someone to assist me."
"Couldn't you have just picked it up yourself?" I asked, and then scolded myself for the rudeness.
"Alas, no," the stranger answered, "I could not reach it from this side of the wall.”
“However did it get there?" I enquired.
The stranger shook his head and gave a soft chuckle, "That would be my dear wife. We had what you may call a passionate disagreement. Some things never change, it seems."
"Is she in there with you?"
"Yes," he replied emphatically, "We have been here for some twenty years now. But I couldn't say precisely, for I don't keep time, and the world seems to pass us by. We are but mere observers these days, it seems."
He paused, and his smile faded slightly as his eyes fell upon the wedding ring on my left hand.
"I see you are married."
I rotated the ring, and my hand twitched. "Yes," I replied, "Five years now. She tolerates my quirks and fumbles." "How lovely," the stranger remarked. "I was married for fifty-three years." His smile suddenly returned.
"I met my wife at a dinner party hosted by mutual friends. It was love at first sight. We fell into conversation, and she began laughing at something I'd barely said. The rest of the room faded away. We snuck off early to a pub down the road. I don't remember what we discussed. Perhaps it was the stain on my tie or how badly I had ironed my shirt. We were married six months later."
He spoke softly, his face creased and lined; his eyes betraying a disguised weariness, yet he spoke of love as if it were fresh, and he did so without flinching. He talked unabashedly, for he had lived it.
"It sounds like a grand love story," I mused.
"Quite." The stranger gave a long blink, and for a moment, his eyes softened. The wind howled faintly somewhere beyond us. Damp earth scented the air.
"How happy we were," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "three children and a nice house, a quaint little life in suburbia."
"And now you're here…”
“Every year, a family trip to the great fair. The sound of calliope music, a Ferris wheel, children with chocolate smeared faces, the merry-go-round.”
“This is an odd place to be," I observed. He smiled;
"Some might see it that way, but I don't. Nor do I especially have anywhere else to go. You could say this is where I belong now. Does that bother you?"
“No, no, it doesn’t.”
He cocked his head inquisitively and frowned.
"Do you have any children?” I did not reply, still fiddling with my wedding ring. The stranger held up a hand.
“Never mind, do forgive me, it's none of my business. I do apologise."
I looked up "it’s fine, I just-"
"No, no, let’s not do that ", the stranger said, holding up a hand. He flicked a smile. “I'm not ashamed to say that my wife and I have three beautiful children and a lovely house in the suburbs. A beautiful house with a neat little garden, French windows in the lounge, and a beautiful kitchen. Pure paradise.” His eyes lit up with pride. “We even have five grandchildren now, how about that?"
"You've been blessed."
“Quite so", he nodded, his head bobbing up and down, and then brought his hands together in front of him, rubbing one over the other as if washing them, repeating the motion in a slow, deliberate rhythm. As he did this, his eyes dropped, and a vacant look fell over his face. He muttered something under his breath, his lips barely moving, as if he were counting, and then stopped, his hands stilled in front of him.
"Quite a blessing", he murmured. "Say, have we met before? I have a nagging feeling that we have." He began again with his hands, his fingers twisted around each other, the knuckles whitening as he kneaded his hands together.
"No," I said, shaking my head, "I'm sure I would remember if we had."
"Quite so, but there is something, something familiar. I'm sure I've seen you before. Perhaps in town? We may have a mutual friend, we could have met at one of those quaint coffee shows or whilst walking around—"
He stopped suddenly, narrowing his eyes and then scrunching them. He shifted his weight and tensed his body. His left arm fell limp to his side, and he clutched it suddenly with his right hand, but it still trembled, and he fought to hang on. He began to mutter something indecipherable under his breath and then started counting upwards, stopping once to release a quiet whimper barely audible over the rustling of leaves nearby. At the twenty count, he had relaxed, and his eyes were open again, letting go of his arm and placing his hands in front of him once more, clasping his hands together. His eyes settled on me once more, and his broad smile returned. The fragile moment that had passed.
He took a deep breath and then straightened his body, looking straight into my eyes.
"Yes, they knew who I was and what I stood for. There was no nonsense in my time; people knew that they could come to me for anything and that I was good for my word."
“Who did?"
"Everyone," he said, sweeping his hands upwards in a broad gesture, "the workers, of course. Management, too, I was an intermediary at times. I had to be, of course. Everybody knew everybody, and it was a time of great opportunity."
“Ah, at your work.”
“Yes, of course.”
The stranger paused and leaned against the pillar.
“It was a sad day when I retired. I hung on for as long as I could, as did many of us, but change was inevitable. There was a new government, and times changed. They wanted new blood, I suppose. First there was one young face, and then another, and before I knew it, I was the only one left from the old guard. That's when I knew it was my time. I thought I'd have more time with my family from then on, and we made plans to travel, but then, ah—" his voice trailed off.
"Then what?" I asked.
"There was an accident."
The streetlight behind me suddenly flickered impatiently, jolting me with unease. A low buzzing, which had escaped my attention at first, drilled into my eardrums, gradually growing louder. As it grew, it became irritable, then jarring, and then obnoxiously unbearable. The stranger reached inside his right jacket pocket and removed the silver chain, holding it in his right hand between his forefinger and thumb as he slowly raised it above his head. The buzzing grew to a raucous level, and the light from the streetlight grew to a brilliant, blinding yellow, piercing the darkness, and a sudden blistering heat struck my skin.
I shielded my eyes as best I could and turned away, expecting the light to blow any second spectacularly. Instead, the light struck the silver chain, casting a honeyed glow. At first, it shone across his face, then it became ethereal, and his features seemed to fade. His edges blurred, and the grass behind him could be seen, dew-covered and swaying gently. I closed my eyes, but as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The invasive noise dropped away, leaving an oppressive silence, and as the light dimmed, the shadows that had been overrun returned.
When I opened my eyes, everything had returned to normal; the streetlight maintained its regular gentle glow, and the stranger stood before me with a rigid frame and perfect posture, his hands bound together in front of him. His smile was gentle and familiar, and there was no sign of the silver chain.
“You do look very familiar,” he said curtly, “are you a local?”
I nodded politely, but everything about this encounter so far confused me.
“Then you must know Lynxton school?”
“I was a pupil.”
“My sons went there too,” he remarked, “A bit before your time, I should imagine. I used to go to summer fairs there, and I helped with the Christmas services. In the autumn and winter months, I’d stand at the side of the playing fields in all weathers watching them play sports. I continued to help out after my boys left the school. You could say that I was well known and a friend of the school. I got along famously with the headmaster and a few of the other staff, and I was very good friends with the man who was head of geography there. Tall and slight, always wore tweed. A wonderful man with a wicked sense of humour. He was quite mischievous but a consummate gentleman if ever there was one. He took his job very seriously and cared deeply about achieving results. That is, until he left and retired to Ireland with his wife to open a guest house.”
“I knew his son,” I nodded again, “we were in some classes together.”
“The death of his son was a great tragedy; his father never recovered, you know. Some believe that’s why he left and moved away to Ireland.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I do as it happens.”
The solemn pause for respect dragged on for a minute until the stranger continued,
“It was awful. A needless car crash. He had no business going that fast. What was he trying to prove?”
“He wasn’t the only one hurt that day,” I added, and was seized suddenly by a sudden pinch on the left side of my neck. Sharp, angry pain erupted, and I pushed my collar aside and pressed down on the afflicted area with the palm of my hand and rubbed it.
“Indeed,” the stranger continued, “there were others in that car too. There were witnesses as well.” He turned his head and squinted as the shadows moved, and through the dimly lit shapes, he peered at the vertical scar that began on the side of my neck and ran downwards before straightening up again and resuming his perfect posture.
“I heard,” the stranger continued, “that there were others in that car, and that they had all been drinking.”
“I heard that too.”
“But you knew them all as well, of course.”
“Yes, they were in my year at school.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“They flew down that hill, and they had no business doing it,” the stranger repeated.
“He was good at sports, his son,” I continued, “and he was well-liked too. Very good at rugby. He could have played for the county at least.”
There were pedestrians at the bottom of the hill, and they came racing down”, the stranger said, no longer smiling.
“He was going to take our rugby team all the way to the county cup finals,” I continued, “he could have become a professional player.”
“My wife and I were walking at the bottom of that hill. We were making a leisurely return from town, the weather was fine, and we were discussing the garden and our grandchildren. We heard noises, horrible noises. Rolling and screeching, and then screaming. We were struck by something; there was darkness, and now we are here. The feel of cold air on my skin, a sudden disconnection, and a road stretched out before me, a ribbon of darkness unwinding before me. I fell into a slumber, and now I am here.”
The stranger pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes slightly; his face darkened.
“Now, we are here, damn you. And damn your friends.”
I felt my heartbeat increase, a sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through me. A wave of nausea struck me, and I swayed forward, placing a hand on the wall. My hand trembled as I struggled to remain upright.
“I think I’ve caught the edge of something,” the stranger remarked icily.
I pulled myself to my feet and brushed down my trouser leg.
“I lied. I do know that hill. I know it as well as anyone else.”
“I know,” is all he said. His lips pursed again, the corners turned down, and his eyes viewed me from the very depths of their colour.
“That day,” I continued, “I was in the car.”
I felt my throat tighten, and through unimaginable hoarseness, I began to speak, “We never meant to –”
But he held up his hand to stop me with his long, bony fingers; his hand was pale with light marks of dry skin and calluses. He did not speak but fixed me with an unwavering, sharp, commanding stare through his furrowed brow, his lips pressed together, displaying no trace of softness.
I felt the pinch again, an angry flaring of pain, then a feeling of my skin pulling tight. A warmth like fire grew, and the acrid smell of burning rubber filled my nose. As I took a deep breath, I felt the weight of smoke curling in my lungs, the feeling of broken glass pressed against my skin. There was a sudden unbearable searing pain as if I was being branded, and my legs became weak with pain. I cried out as I buckled to the ground.
From down the road in the direction I had come from, I began to hear a hollow echo. We both turned and saw a car approaching from far off, two headlights on full beam. It roared and glided down the hill like a beast in full charge, breezing through the junction with no regard for the traffic lights. As the car drew closer, the lights on the ground rushed toward us until they collided with us, and then the car suddenly braked, slowing to a crawl. As it approached us, I could see the shadowy outline of the driver lean forward as if he were taking a closer look. The vehicle passed, and the figure craned their head to allow them one last look, until finally they straightened up and drove on. The car sped up, mounted the bridge over the railway, and then disappeared. Eventually, the noise faded, and the quiet resumed.
I turned back to the stranger. He had a large hole in his shirt, and there was a fresh laceration on his chest. His left arm was missing, and the sleeve hung down empty; his suit was bloodied and covered in dirt. There was no smile; his face was sagging, twisted, and unmade. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, and were fixed on me. His right hand was held out flat, and in the palm of his hand was his silver pocket watch. However, the glass was broken, the lid was twisted and bent horribly, and only one of the hands on the clock face could be seen. The stranger looked at me without blinking, without saying a word. His face was swollen; his skin was bruised. My stomach knotted, and my throat seized. I gasped.
Dumbfounded, I stumbled backwards and fled, legs trembling beneath me. After ten metres, I forced a glance back. The stranger was gone. Only the lamppost remained, and the old trees swaying over the gravestones.
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