Fauna E-Book

David Hartley

• Herausgeber: Fly on the Wall Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 155

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Fauna follows the lead of the bacon-skinned Pig with a menagerie of twisted tales about the lives and times of our fellow-feeling creatures. There are guinea pigs in the underworld, elephants in a virtual world, vengeful birds from a far-off world, and so much more beastliness. There will be nowhere for the humans to hide."Brilliant imagination and sharp storytelling aside, Dr. David Hartley shows us a delightfully fresh way of looking at who should, really, be our closest friends."-  Nik Perring (Author of Not So Perfect, Freaks!) "Fiercely original, these are stories that are at times disturbing, absurd, and darkly comedic, and which refuse to conform to the constraints of time and space. A startling collection, that begs to be read aloud. Hartley is a brilliant storyteller, with the kind of imagination that leaves you feeling a bit fearful for your own safety." - Lucie McKnight Hardy (Author of Water Shall Refuse Them) "I haven't read anything quite like these brilliant, dark and often fairy-tailish short stories. The tension is found here on the edges and boundaries: human/animal, natural/man-made, happiness/horror. With humour and an incredible versatility in voice and style - not to mention technology-hacking rabbits and horses who time travel - Hartley asks us to look hard at our own world and never, ever, underestimate the animals. " - Tania Hershman, author of Some Of Us Glow More Than Others and My Mother Was An Upright Piano Extract: A Panda Appeared in Our Street     A panda appeared in our street, skewered to the railing outside my house. Let me paint the picture: there's the road outside my house, then there's this long strip of grass, then there's the houses opposite. And the grass has got these railings all the way around it, for kids to kick their footballs off and stuff, and this panda was just there that morning, stuck on a row of the spikes, directly opposite my house.     So, I went up to it and I was like that to the kids who were playing out, I was like; who's is this panda, lads? And they were like; dunno, dunno mate and they didn't seem to care. So, I knocked on to my neighbour, Gail, and she comes out and I'm like; Gail. Check this out. A panda. And she's like; hmm, oh yeah aye. So how are you keeping Jon, are you well? But I'm like; Gail, it's a panda! What should we do? And she's like; leave it, it's just some kid's toy.     And that's when I realised. The people of the street; they weren't seeing the same thing I was. They were seeing a stuffed toy, like a teddy bear type thing, all synthetic fur and glass-bead eyes. But I was seeing something else. I was seeing a real-life panda skewered on a row of the railing spikes. And the poor bugger was still alive.     There was blood on the floor and the panda was squirming and crying out a bit. I didn't know what to do. I thought about trying to lift it off, but you shouldn't do that in case you hit an artery. Or it might get angry and start attacking me, or it might run off and hurt some kid. So, I thought; ring the RSPCA, Jon, but if I'm the only one who can see it's a real panda, they might end up locking me away instead. So, I just left it. I guess I thought someone else would figure it out, or it would free itself or something. 

Leseprobe

Fauna

David Hartley

First published September 2021 by Fly on the Wall Press

Published in the UK by Fly on the Wall Press

56 High Lea Rd

New Mills

Derbyshire

SK22 3DP

www.flyonthewallpress.co.uk

Copyright Dr. David Hartley © 2021

ISBN: 9781913211608

The right of Dr. David Hartley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Typesetting by Isabelle Kenyon. Cover illustration from Unsplash, McGill library.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permissions of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Fly on the Wall Press is committed to the sustainable printing and shipping of their books.

This collection is dedicated to all the staff and volunteers at the Manchester and Salford RSPCA, and to all those people who have stepped out of their human heads to do something genuinely nice for an animal, large or small.

Acknowledgements

Broadcast of the Foxes was first published in Structo Magazine

Shooting an Elephant first appeared in Ambit Magazine

A Place to Dump Guinea Pigs was performed at the ‘Gods and Monsters’ event at Liar’s League, London

Flock first appeared in the ‘Humanagerie’ anthology with Eibonvale Press

Come and See the Whale first appeared in The Cabinet of Heed

Betamorphosis was first published in The Shadow Booth

Hutched first appeared in The City Fox and was reprinted in Foxhole Magazine

A Time Before Horses was first published in Shooter Literary Magazine

A Panda Appeared in Our Street was first published on STORGY.com

The Bycatch was published in BFS Horizons

Contents

Broadcast of the Foxes

Shooting an Elephant

A Place to Dump Guinea Pigs

Flock

Come and See the Whale

Betamorphosis

Hutched

A Time Before Horses

Tyson/Dog

A Panda Appeared in Our Street

The Bycatch

Bug-Eyed

Broadcast of the Foxes

The fox has made a nest in your satellite dish and feasts on your children’s fingers. You can’t get a good signal. You can’t watch your favourite programmes. You can’t keep up with the news.

The fox, still hungry, lifts his mighty wings, spreads his crackling feathers through a ripple of red and green, then splits himself into a million tiny pieces, a firework of fur. Scattered, he seeps through the mortar of your house, seeks pathways in cracks in the brickwork, finds damp to bathe in and mould to lick.

But when he finds a rip in the wallpaper he peers through and watches you. He watches you think. He watches your thoughts. He watches you cross the room. He watches you pick up the phone. He watches you shout into the receiver.

“999,” you shout. “999. I need the newspapers. 999. Tell the newspapers.”

The phone is dead. The fox chewed through the wire three days ago.

He has eaten your children’s fingers.

Upstairs, your children are crying.

Your signal is intermittent.

You cannot watch Great British Bake-Off.

“999,” you shout, “999.”

There is no-one there to hear you.

The sun slips away as if scared. Twilight creeps out and reclaims the world. The fox rises from your bricks and reforms. He is still hungry.

He leaves one eye behind to keep watch and stalks the streets for flesh. He is nightflame. Every step of his paw is another pothole, every swish of his paintbrush tail leaves a tag across shutters and walls. His stare beheads flowers, his bark topples bins, his claws awaken every sleeper to sweats and shivers.

He is your every complaint, your every inconvenience. He is your shame and your shadow. He is your simmering rage.

You’ve stayed up late. You’ve given up with the phone, no answer. You’ve shut out the wails of the children and you’ve sat down to write a letter.

Your anger swirls. You grip the pen like a talisman. You carve the words so deep into the paper they will never escape.

The fox hears your scritching, your scratching. He hears every letter you etch. The message amuses him. He forgets his empty belly.

He turns tail, heads for home.

999, you write, 999. Police? I need the newspapers. No-one will help me. No-one cares about me. 999. I need the newspapers. Get me the newspapers.

His teeth shine in the moonlight.

Your children pick at their wounds and sob.

Your signal is weak.

You’ve missed Line of Duty.

999, you write, 9999999999999.

You post the letter through your own letterbox, backwards. It lands upon the soggy pile on your doorstep.

It will never be read.

The fox has found a vixen. He has brought her to your home and they copulate in your satellite dish. They suck the last bits of flesh off the bones of your children’s fingers.

They watch you while you sleep. They snigger every time you squirm.

The fox likes you. The fox finds you amusing and he feels sorry for you. You made tasty children and he promises not to eat too much more of them. A few toes perhaps, maybe an eyeball. And the vixen might need an arm to chew on, but just one.

He likes you. He will tip the balance in your favour. He will keep you going for as long as he can. He will not make it easy for the others.

The weather is on shuffle. It burns hot one hour, spits hail the next. It rages through a storm and then settles to stillness. Each shift adjusts like a valve in your brain and you pop awake and fume your way back to half-sleep.

You didn’t see the forecast. You don’t know if this was predicted. You missed the news.

The fox and vixen don’t feel weather. Nothing disturbs their hunger, nor their licking of the bones. Nothing stops their barks and giggles, nothing distracts, nothing shames.

The fox knows he nearly has you. The fox knows the time draws close.

You wake and illuminate your face with your phone. You open metro.co.uk. You find a comments box and press for the pop-up of the keyboard.

999, you type, 999. I need yous to help. I have a story. bring ur newspaper 2 me. 34 albion street. plz come now. police wont help. 999. i need the newspapers. plz help.

The fox impregnates the vixen.

Your children bleed over the bedsheets and weep themselves to sleep.

There is no signal.

The comment fails to post.

You watch the buffer circle spin and spin until the phone blinks out and dies.

The day breaks. The fox feels the morning crack awake like a sudden whip and he knows it is time. He knows the day has arrived.

Phone, letter, internet. Your options are gone. There is nothing left. There is one thing left. The fox watches the tiny muscles of your face and reads your thoughts. They are as slow as lazy clouds, but clear.

There is nothing left, there is one thing left. You stare out of the window. The day is here, the moment has come.

The vixen slips through the floorboards. She spirits along woodgrain and finds your children’s bedroom. It stinks of gangrene, but she doesn’t mind. She will tend to them, look after them, she will resist the hunger in her belly.

She likes your children, she means them no harm.

You stare out of windows. You stare out of every window. You move from room to room, from window to window. The fox follows, your shadow, your ghost. He blows and blows at the walls, wills them to fall, urges you to make the move, screams at you to go. You stare out of windows. It looks cold outside.

The fox leaps and lands on your back. He wraps his tail around your neck like a scarf and breathes hot breath across your cheeks. His heart thumps against the back of your head and the warmth washes through you like steam. You break out into a sweat.

You open the window. You put a hand out and feel the air. It wants you, you think. It wants to take you out.

You climb out of the window and emerge onto the street. The fox unravels and leaps to the roof, his tail a newborn bonfire. He leaps from spot to spot like CCTV, every image showing you stride down your street.

You look at your neighbourhood. No-one around. No-one out to play. Mess everywhere. The sky is a sickening red, the clouds look ready for war. Everything is silent, nothing moves, everything waits. Except you.

On you march, feet slicing open on bits of broken glass. You reach the main road. You look left, you look right. No cars, no life.

Except one thing. A fox. Mangy-looking. Sitting on top of traffic light stuck on red. Watching you. Grinning, you think.

You take a deep breath and hold it. Every hair on the fox’s body rises. His tail stops. His claws flex. He is ready.

He is your every grievance. your every irritation, your simmering rage. You are standing at the end of your street at the end of your time, naked, freezing, sweating and angry. You breathe out.

“999,” you shout. “999 I need the newspapers. Bring the newspapers. I need to tell my story. I need help. 999! Tell the newspapers.”

Your fox barks and receives a thousand barks in echo.

The foxes have heard your broadcast.

Your signal was strong.

“999,” you whisper.

The foxes are coming. The hunt is on.

Shooting an Elephant

He strode in, the first customer of the day, an angular man with sleepless eyes. He flicked out his card from a magicked nowhere and slapped it into place on the desk.

“Elephant,” he said.

“Certainly sir. Please take a seat in the waiting room.”

I processed the payment. It cleared without problem so I clicked it straight through to the troupe. I hoped they were fully stretched and limber. The gentleman didn’t strike me as the patient type.

On my monitor the Arena waited, blank and serene. A few moments of stillness passed then the troupe swarmed in, lithe bodies in grey Lycra. They chalked up and I set the atmos to Savannah. Helen spoke a few words to the group, strode to the camera and held up two hands, fingers splayed. I moved out from behind the desk and approached the gentleman. He was already deep into mime and didn’t look up when I spoke.

“There’ll be a ten-minute wait, sir,” I said. “You’re first in today and we like to allow time for the atmos to settle. Can I get you a drink?”

He grunted and shook his head. I nodded and left him alone.

Back at the desk, I swiped the waiting room onto the monitor. The gentleman’s mime was complex and precise. He was stooped over a case of some kind and his rifle was in sections. He picked up and inspected each part then slotted them together and faked the weight of it across both hands. He frowned and took it apart again. For a long while he cleaned the barrel, a frantic hand buffing thin air, then he made minute adjustments to what I assumed was the dial for the scope. He slotted it back together, clicked his tongue as every piece found its place. He snapped the magazine in with a pop of his lips and flicked the safety catch. I couldn’t tell if he’d switched it on or off.

He closed the case and propped it against the wall. He laid the gun across his lap and waited, hands hovering just above his legs. I checked in on the troupe. They were ready. Helen swung from the front of the face, her body curled into a very convincing trunk.

The gentleman crouched as he waited for the Arena doors to open. His pointy elbows and knees made him look like a cricket. He had one thumb pressed upon his shoulder where the strap of the rifle lay. His other hand pressed invisible binoculars against his chest.

I put him on all the monitors as he made his way inside, including the online live stream. The gentleman stalked forward and hid behind a shimmering bush. He put the binoculars to his eyes and peered across the Arena. The elephant was grazing only a couple of hundred metres away.

I switched angles. The troupe’s beast was as magnificent as ever. Sixteen of the men in four groups made up the legs, belts locked. They gripped the ankles of the youngsters above them who curved back and interlaced to form the width and bulk of the body. At the rear, Lucia’s gentle arm flopped loose to make a tail.

Darren, Geri and José made up the head. José in the middle, Darren and Geri either side, their outer arms hidden in the controls of the Lycra earflaps. José was braced by an army of hands so that he in turn could hold onto Helen. She swung upside-down in full trunk mode. She bent herself around a bundle of straw and passed it up to – who was that? I changed the angle – Carla, one of our newest recruits. Carla did an exemplary job of pulsing the bundle to let the elephant chew before making it all disappear inside. I allowed myself a small smile. Our service was second to none.

I changed the angle and brought the gentleman back into view. He crept out from behind the shrub and shifted his shoulder to swing off the rifle. He advanced on the elephant, watched his step for our virtual twigs. He reached the edge of a rocky outcrop and dropped to one knee. He clicked his tongue as he loaded a bullet into the chamber. José gave a quick grunt and the elephant’s head lifted and turned. Geri raised an ear. José huffed.

The gentleman stayed very still and waited. The elephant took a few tentative steps away then Helen swung down and the scour for food resumed. The gentleman sidestepped behind the rocks and lay down. It was a good position.

He flattened himself and brought his hands up. His shoulder kinked back as the stock found its place. I zoomed in. He closed one eye and peered down the scope. His finger curled against the trigger.

I flicked to an angle behind and framed the troupe in the distance. The gentleman fired and shouted the bang. The troupe flinched as the shot hit. Tomas was the closest and he was quick to let the red ribbon spurt from the back of the elephant’s head. It sprang out and left a twisting trail. José bellowed his best roar and the elephant bolted.

The gentleman fired off another shot and hit the left flank then leapt off the outcrop and sprinted across the Arena in pursuit. The elephant made good progress but stumbled as the first wound took hold in the brain. It twisted back to try and rid itself of the trail of ribbon spooling from its rump. The gentleman lifted the rifle and fired then tugged on the reload and fired again. The two bullets found their marks in the face and José was smeared in bursts of red. The troupe slumped and José gave a muffled cry. The gentleman strode to the dying beast and emptied the magazine into its heart.

He posed for the picture but didn’t smile. The Arena flashed when I pressed the icon and the image filled my monitor seconds later. I ported it onto the keyrings and fridge magnets and waited for the gentleman to emerge. As soon as the Arena doors opened he burst out, marched straight to the desk and slapped down his card.

“Again,” he said.

It was the first time in my career I had ever hesitated. I cancelled off the photographs and cleared my throat.

“Elephant?” I asked and he nodded. He would not make eye contact with me.

I processed the payment. It cleared.

“Certainly sir. Take a seat.”

“Ten minutes,” he said, as he thumped away.

Five minutes later Mr and Mrs Booth arrived.

“Morning Sami,” they said, almost in unison.

“Good morning Mr and Mrs Booth.”

“Today’s the day,” said Mrs Booth.

Mr Booth put an arm around her shoulders and grinned. He lifted his card and rapped it against the desk.

“Giraffe, Sami. The best you have.” He winked and Mrs Booth giggled. They had been saving up for this for some time.

“Certainly Mr and Mrs Booth,” I said. I did not allow my smile to falter. “There will be a short wait.”

They peered into the waiting room. “Oh no bother. We’ve got plenty of time,” said Mrs Booth.

“You can take the payment now Sami.”

I processed the money. “Thank you. Take a seat. I’ll bring through some tea.”

“You’re a good’n.”

They bustled into the waiting room and sat opposite the gentleman. Mrs Booth tried her hardest to catch his eye so she could smile her way into a conversation. The gentleman was resolute in his denial that anything else existed. He pointed his right hand into a revolver shape and twisted it to let the chamber fall loose. He clinked in the bullets with his left thumb then snapped the chamber back in and spun it. He made the noise like a purring cat and stuffed his fingers into a holster at his hip.

Mr and Mrs Booth joined me in reception as the gentleman made his way inside for the second hunt.

“Curious chap,” said Mr Booth. “What’s that he’s shooting with? Pistols?”

“Revolvers I believe. Two of them.” Both the gentlemen’s hands were pointed into gun shapes, thumbs cocked as hammers.

“Funny things to hunt an elephant with,” said Mrs Booth.

Mr Booth leaned closer to the screens. “What on earth is he doing?”

The gentleman did not bother taking cover this time. He strode straight towards the troupe, hands at his sides like a cowboy. The troupe tottered, not quite sure how to react. They couldn’t pretend they hadn’t seen him. Lucia whipped the tail, Darren and Geri raised the ears. The leg-men stood firm.