Witness

By Maxim Griffin.

You know you should sleep but there’s so much to do – nearly three and your boots are on – a walk to sunrise then – stepping out without a noise into dark streets – the council keep the lights off until half-five – the sky is gin clear and full of our local stars – the air is fresh rather than cold, there hasn’t been a frost for weeks – there is washing on the line and it will be dry in the morning.

No sound – not even distant traffic – no footfall – you move in a way as to not break the silence – boots on grass rather than pavement where possible – a silver birch full of dreaming pigeons – there is movement at the back of the supermarket – a delivery – cages rattle on the other side of a wall capped with spikes – you cross the empty car park – a hoarding offers you excellent deals on hot cross buns – beyond the bottle banks are three cherry trees still in the ecstatic state of full blossoming – you reach for your phone to take a snap but think better of it – after the cherries are the willows and the river – you listen closely to the water as you cross the bridge and head past a pair of 1930s semis which are obviously haunted.

After a procession of large, ugly houses you cross the parish boundary – the path goes due west across a golf course – to cross a golf course by starlight has always been an act of quiet resistance – something moves quickly in the corner of your eye – wait – there – look, rabbits!

It’s closer to four than it was – a hollow lane leads into the hills – the bypass spans the lane with a little concrete overpass – some fairly pedestrian graffiti, nothing to recall in detail – you can hear the road hum – a little pull in where people who park up park up – what they do is their business – you cross a stile and find yourself in open fields – still, bright and starry – you take it in – the little red beacons of the transmitter 10 miles off are the only colour in a world of black and silver – it has been ages since you came this way – it’s different – the once sketchy path has been gravelled and you hate it – in your memory this is a secret place – you let it go.

Before dawn
Torch on but you keep it low – historically, the landowner was never best pleased about the presence of public footpaths across his turf – while the landowner has long passed, the legend remains – in the form of signs – NO WALKERS – Trespassers will be… you keep going – a curly track through light woodland, then a straight one along the border of a finely ploughed field – you admire the patterns that follow the contours – what is this? – something in the path ahead – black and shapeless – you approach to inspect – huh? – material, cotton, dark but possibly Prussian Blue covered in the major constellations and assorted astrological symbols – possibly a duvet case for a child’s bed – there is no explanation as to how this arrived here – a found map should always be recorded – in this instance a telephone photograph will have to do – you do not touch the star map – on it Orion is clearly visible and you look up to see Orion, clearly visible.

You keep on – taking mental notes on your discovery – you should forward this finding to a local hauntologist – a metal gate promises that a bull will be in the next field but you see none – here is a wide meander of chalk stream – it widens still into a small lake – in the summers of the past this lake has always stood as a point for youthful mischief – a moorhen breaks the silence but you feel no movement – it has turned 4am – there will soon be light coming from the east – you move on – another metal gate which you open with great delicacy – despite this it creaks and moans as you pull it to – you feel alert and seen.

Life and death
You walk on a little – still no light yet but that will quickly come – a big field with night shadows and a well-heeled path through bone dry clay – you catch a quartz pebble on the heel of your boot and stumble but do not fall – a sudden shriek of alarm from the east – you wait a beat – another shriek – fox? No – deer maybe – in a flash a muntjac appears from the direction of the bypass, gunning across the field at a furious pace – you walk in zigzag as though you were being sprayed with machine gun fire – you can taste raw panic – you don’t move – you don’t breathe – no need to add to the situation – the muntjac keeps coming until it stops – thirty metres ahead – it stops – then it stops completely – and collapses sideways – you wait a beat – the stars inch toward dawn.

You walk closer to it, expecting it to startle and speed off again – nothing – you flick your little torch on – you edge closer to investigate – a trace of steam coming up from her nostrils but there’s no movement in her ribcage – you hold your breath – she’s dead – no signs of injury, no blood or mangled limbs – the beam of the torch scans the immaculate fur – died of fright maybe, stress perhaps – all you know is that it’s 0413, you are standing in a field a female muntjac has just died and you are the witness.

It’s just starting to get light – you remember everything that needs to be done – you loop back in the direction of home – everything beginning to stir – blackbirds, bread lorries, a bathroom light – the cherry trees at the back of the supermarket remain magnificent – a great drift of gulls glides by as you reach for your keys – the house still silent, your dog has not woken – you softly slide your boots off and tiptoe to the kettle – a coffee, then the next tasks – the dog pads in, happy to see you – she is ready for her walk.

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