Apologies for the lack of Friday Flash last week, I was away to That London. We nearly didn't have one this week either. I've been working on a completely different story, but it blossomed (as they so often do) into something much too big to finish in one week, and needs far more work before I can present it here.
Then this morning, my mind returned to an idea I've been kicking around for a while now, looking for a way in. Suddenly it came to me, the opening line. Sometimes an opening line gives you the whole story. This one did. The title took a little longer. It might very nearly have been called Birdwatching, but that seemed a pun too far. Twitching, a euphemism for the same activity, seemed to work better...
He thinks she’s pretty. She thinks he’s a rapist.
He sees her most evenings, walking her dog on the common. It’s a Westie, a wiry little bundle of fizz called Jake. It barks at him sometimes, but not in an aggressive way. Sometimes he puts his hand out and waggles his fingers and the dog jumps up to try to sniff them or lick them, until she tugs it away. He’s more a cat person himself. He’s got three back home: Blanche, Belle and Barry. Mum always laughs that he named the new kitten called Barry. He bets she’d laugh at that too, if she ever stopped to chat. She’s not the sort though. He’s tried saying ‘hi’, but she turns her head and pretends not to hear him. Some people are like that. They don’t want to be bothered. You have to respect their wishes.
He’s always out here, just hanging around. There’s obviously something wrong with him, she thinks. The way he dresses for a start – that ratty old bodywarmer, like a continental quilt from the 80s, the woolly hat, the unkempt beard. Care in the Community written all over him. If he was just out walking maybe he wouldn’t seem so dodgy. But it’s the way he loiters, just stands and stares at stuff – up in the trees, or over in the bushes – all shifty and furtive, like he’s looking for a quiet place, like he’s planning… something wrong. She bumped into him coming out of the rhododendrons last week, on the far side of the park, where the common meets the fields. Afterwards she wondered, if Jake hadn’t been there - sometimes she lets Jake off his lead, lets him run where he pleases, forage, investigate – if Jake had been over by the trees looking for squirrels, would this weirdo have seized his chance? Grabbed her and dragged her into his fetid little den, pushed her down and…What the hell was he doing in those bushes anyway? Playing with himself, probably. Watching her and playing with himself. It wound her tight inside just thinking about it. People like that, they shouldn’t be out in the world. They ruin it for everyone.
He likes to watch the birds. Sparrows and robins, great tits and blackbirds. Even the magpies and pigeons and jackdaws, the birds most people dismissed as ugly or raucous, pests, he could watch them for hours. They’re so amusing, with their crazy little missions – finding food, collecting twigs to build nests - and all the many different ways they flew. Soaring and gliding, swooping and darting, fighting the wind or bobbing and singing in the branches. The swallows are his favourites. He hates it when they leave after the summer. They were such characters – mental. It was almost kamikaze, the way they fly. Reckless, certainly. He’d love to be reckless, but he’d worry too much about the consequences. He’s worked in the same job for 16 years now, at the same office in the same town. He doesn’t enjoy it, but he knows it’s safe. Feeling safe is important. It may seem dull, but he doesn’t exactly want for excitement. He saw a jay last week. They’re pretty rare in this part of the country. Such gorgeous colours. It flew into the bushes and he tried to follow it. Ridiculous really, like all that crashing around wouldn’t scare it away, but he couldn’t help himself. Seeing that bird, it made his week, it really did.
Her cousin Julia was raped, three years ago now. She was walking home late from a club and hailed an unlicensed minicab. She didn’t know it was unlicensed at the time, of course. He drove her onto some waste ground behind the cooling towers. When she tried to get away he punched her in the face. Julia changed completely after that. She used to be such a laugh. That bastard took the laughter from her, along with everything else. She thinks of Julia sometimes when she’s out here by herself, especially when she sees him. It makes her shudder what some people are capable of.
She made him jump when he came back out of the rhododendrons, he hadn’t expected to find anyone there. It was embarrassing – she probably thought he’d gone for a pee or something. He wanted to explain about the jay but then her dog started yapping and she yanked it away, giving him such a look… he felt bad afterwards. He hadn’t meant to scare her. She was a very attractive young woman – shapely, not like the stick insect joggers or the prim, pram-pushing yummy mums who circled the playground like gargoyles. She was the most attractive woman he saw out here on the common. If he had a girlfriend, he’d pick someone like her. If the choice were his. If he was even remotely the sort of bloke women went for. If he didn’t still live with his parents at 34. But if wishes were horses and dreams were dragonflies, he’d be soaring free with the swallows and flying down to South Africa to enjoy the winter sun.
On the day she twists her ankle, he’s standing out on the heath, gazing off into the distance with his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled down over his ears. She can’t help but stare at him, though not in the way he’s always staring at her. More like the way you stare at an animal in the zoo. Not a cute animal like a meerkat or a lemur either – this guy’s a tarantula, a rat, or a boa constrictor. You don’t want to get too close.
And that’s when her ankle goes, pain shooting up her leg and spiralling through her whole body. In a heartbeat it takes her breath, her balance, and her consciousness. She screams as she faints, thudding to the earth like a sodden blanket.
He hasn’t even seen her till she cries out. He’s watching a heron grace the skyline, mesmerized. It’s an effort to turn away from something so beautiful. Then he sees her and his heart’s in his chest. She’s fallen on the rocks where the dry stone wall’s come down, right across the path, still waiting to be rebuilt.
He runs to her through the ferns, splashing where the grass turns to mud, but he’s not worried about that – he’s wearing wellies. By the time he gets there she’s just coming to. Her coat’s fallen open to reveal the lacy flirt of cotton and skin below her neckline, and for a moment, just a moment, his eyes are snared. He can’t help himself. He’s only human. Jake the dog is barking, but not at him. Poor little thing, it’s worried, that’s all. He starts to speak, reaching out to help her up – and that’s when she reacts. Faster than any bird. He doesn’t even see it coming.
It takes a second to work out where she is, how she got there, what exactly happened – and then the pain reminds her. Her ears are ringing and her head is full of wool. Not cotton – wire. The kind you use for scouring pans. It hurts so much she wants to puke. Then she sees him. Standing over her. Staring. Leering down her top. Reaching out his big, sweaty rapist’s hand—
“Are you all—?“
She grabs the rock and swings it upwards, straight into his groin, putting everything she can into the blow. She’s still weak, shaken, but it does the job. He goes down fast. Even faster than she did. He doesn’t so much scream as mewl. Like the animal he is. She struggles to stand, before he can recover, her ankle protesting, but she can’t listen to that now. You only get one chance to fight back, to save yourself from something like this. You only get one chance and you’d better damn well take it. She forces herself to walk, hobbling, and every step breathes fire. The pain is so bad, she just wants to lie down and call an ambulance from her phone, but she can’t take the risk. He could spring back up any moment and come after her, madder than ever. If he catches her after that, there’s no telling what he might do.
But he’s not getting back up. Not now anyway. He must have struck his head when he fell. There’s blood, she realises, there’s blood on the stones where he lays, twitching, in the late afternoon sunlight.
