The hawthorn bush
Sundown
A week today
Quack
Memory Loss
The note hung in Barnie’s mind like a fly on the water. It hung on the door like a piece of paper speared to a door. Everything about it was incomprehensible to him, although this could just have been the hangover, which made his senses reach out into the world and drag back all the painful sounds and irritating smells it could find.
“She can’t have liked me,” he said matter-of-factly to the walls.
Several more times Barnie told himself that one fact throughout his morning routine. In the shower. With the toast. In front of the mirror. With the last steps out of the door. The shower washed in the doubt and the toast tasted of insecurity and the mirror reflected disappointment and, by the time the door closed, it only clicked shut with regret.
He replayed the night before over and over again in his head. The drink. The boredom. The drink. The mystery guest. The drink. The fall. It flashed past his eyes like a cinema reel, and he could only catch fragments. But what he caught, he clung to.
A dog? The question squash-balled around between his ears. She can’t have been a dog...
Barnie worked in a little place down Hedge Way that dealt in mainly in analysing the density and consistency of soil. It occasionally branched out to looking at trees. In hard times, it would assess rocks. It was a business based on poor puns and even poorer demands.
“Morning, Gumball”, slithered out of his lips, directed at the dark scraps of cat that rocked in the corner. Marcus Milktray had once been a prominent member of the feline community. Then, he accidentally nuzzled up to a trapping of chewing gum. His fur had to be shaved from his skin. Now, he was Gumball, and lived underground.
“You’re late,” was hair-balled back.
“Let me see today’s soil.”
“It’s brown and mucky and looks just like yesterday’s soil and tomorrow’s soil.”
“Uhm... Where’s it from?”
“Dunno, somewhere near the hawthorn bush, I think.”
The hawthorn bush!
Six days to go.
Woke up. Got dressed. Went to work. Looked at soil. Thought about a girl he couldn’t remember. Went home. Slept. Dreamt about a girl he couldn’t remember.
Five days to go.
See previous day for details.
Four days to go.
See previous day for directions to the day before that.
Three days to go.
Something changed.
By this time in the week, Barnie’s memories of the night that would eventually changed his life were little more than languishing tendrils of thought and imagination. He’d dreamt about it and her and them and her and the noises so many times that reality was as much a part of his dreams as his dreams were a part of the world around him.
At work, he would see reflections of purple in the soil, or hear barking where once there was just the squeaking of a rocking chair, or even see hope in what, essentially, is a hopeless feline. Like a fever, his dreams were throbbing through his body. He was making them real.
But a part of him had to know what was real and what was fake. His brain.
Two days to go.
The next morning, Barnie woke extra early, dressed with surprising haste, ate with insatiable greed, and left the house with dancing heels and inquisitive thoughts.
The pub was closed when he got there, but he’d expected nothing else. Inside, he could hear movement. He rapped on the door. The activity within stopped.
“We’re closed,” a voice called out, pushing years of lingering smoke out of tar-filled lungs.
“I just want to come inside for a minute.”
The living tar depository paused. “We’re closed!”
“Just a minute, then I’ll be gone.”
The inside of the pub was different in bright light. The void of people drew eyes to the walls and the ceiling, both a dull, faded brown. Soil brown. West Country soil brown.
“Do you recognise this?” he said, and held out a purple spine.
“What is it?”
“It’s a spine, like from a hedgehog.”
“It’s purple.”
“Yes, thank you, but do you recognise it?”
“Hedgehog’s aren’t purple.”
“This one was, I think.”
“...but hedgehogs aren’t purple.”
Barnie made to leave. He had left the house knowing two things: hedgehogs were not purple, and that this had to belong to a hedgehog. He needed an explanation, not a repeated fact. Maybe she wasn’t a hedgehog, his mind whispered. Maybe it was just a dream.
“She’s a hedgehog.” The voice came from deep behind the bar, but Barnie didn’t care. He didn’t care who said it or how they knew. He cared about one thing: she was real. His dream was real. She was a hedgehog. He was out of the door faster than any mole had ever moved before.
The next few days flew by.
Two days left.
One day left.
Zero days left.
Best suit on. Fur washed and fluffed and combed back down. Contact lenses on (blue tinted, they matched the tie). Half an hour early. Sweaty hands. Pacing and pacing and pacing and pacing and pacing...
“Quack!”
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