Awake

By Maxim Griffin.

It started during the months of evil heat – walking in the day at 37 degrees is no good for anyone – so you flipped schedules a little – rising early, around 4am, to get out with the dog and get a few miles in before it got too hot – you’d be back home by 6 for a shower and a coffee before the rest of the house had risen – a perfect little system – then you started waking earlier – 3am then 2am – by August your mechanism wouldn’t let you settle until you’d been out – you tried the usual tactics, counting sheep etc, but your body has decided that there will be no rest until a proper walk has been undertaken – so you lay awake until gone 1am – the house quiet – the dog is ready, having adapted to your weirdness – boots on and you both depart, silence broken only by a wagging tail.

It’s not as if the nights have been particularly starry – a succession of evening storms have smeared lightning and rain west to east – the air smells fresher and the grass has come back to life – there are still flashes and rumbles due north as you head out – a great blackness over Humber – you let the dog gulp at a puddle and head on – the streetlights are out, the houses are unlit – rainwater from the earlier weather is finding its way to the sewers – there was a flash flood on the main road two evenings ago and the sandbags are still out – a stack of camping gear has been left on a wall with a soggy cardboard sign – ‘Storm damaged tents – FREE’ – you make a note to pass this way in the daylight and make a proper inspection – a car passes too quickly and the splash nearly gets you.

Walking solo
There’s a big house at the junction with a big lawn and big trees – the horse chestnuts have been wearing their autumn colours for weeks now – a month early at least – the effects of the evil heat – and the conkers are hanging fat on the boughs – any day now and pockets will be full of them – usually a job for October – even the trees are out of sync – you head on, check the time – half past one and wide awake – go through town – follow the main drag – everything is shut, of course and there’s no one about – you ease up the pace and let the dog sniff around – it’s good to have a dog with you – the dog is your excuse to be out at unreasonable hours – the solo walker at night is a subject of suspicion – you are well practised with explanations for your nocturnal movements – tonight, should the authorities make enquiries, you are merely exercising an unsettled pooch.

There’s a pair of fellas up ahead and across the road – unsteady, loud but jovial enough – you take the next left and disappear from the possibility of an encounter – you can still hear them as you trudge up hill – a wine bar, an antiques place, a vape shop, a branch of Spoons – another café has opened but the menu in the window is entirely made with artificial intelligence so you strike it from your memory – it’s important to have rules – there’s a pub at the top of the hill – the dog sniffs around – the dog is familiar with this pub and often makes friends there – not now girl, come on, good girl – a little drizzle picks up – you’ve a tiny rain jacket stuffed in your knapsack but don’t bother with it – take the next right and continue uphill – you look back, a bit of a view towards the north – that storm still visible but miles out at sea now – just flickers on the dark horizon.

Pacing the bounds
A deep hedge at the border of the cemetery – the gates are open but you don’t go in – follow the road until it becomes a track – at the southern edge of the cemetery is one of several community orchards that have been planted in recent years – you smell fallen fruit – sweet decay – there’s a gap in the hedge – you step through and pick four conkers the size of toddlers’ heads and place them in your sack – you slip back through the hedge and follow the track until it becomes a path – the path follows a medieval field pattern at the back of 1960s municipal housing – the dim flicker of screen light from one window – you move quickly and quietly – taking up running has crossed your mind but the pace of walking is best – the path turns into a warren of 1980s semis – flagpoles, grey fences, immaculate 4x4s with personalised plates – there’s a cul-de-sac you’ve never been up so you go – nothing of note but at least you can tick it off the list – there is, of course, a list – a psychogeographical game you’ve been playing – walk every path and pavement in 10 square miles – you’re doing well at it too – these night walks turn insomnia into a task – the drizzle increases – did you hear a rumble, or was it a wagon on the bypass? You pass one of those giant care homes – they never sleep – check the time – nearly half two – good – there’s a shortcut through the new builds – new builds means new roads for the list – drizzle into light rain, not unpleasant – Lavender Avenue – tick – Thyme Gardens – tick – Badger’s Way was a field up until six months ago – find a gap in the fence and shimmy onto a tarmacked lane that leads north – keep going until the cover of trees turns into the wide road – there’s a 24-hour petrol station, young lad at the counter half asleep – you turn onto a large playing field and cross diagonally – breeze and rain – 17 nights in a row you’ve been out pacing the bounds at unusual hours – you keep going until you’re nearly home – the houses are dark, the streets are dark – one last push and sleep should be attainable – close to 3am – you’re wide awake and a little exhilarated – a coffee would be good.

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