Excuse me

Excuse me.

Are you from around here? I’m looking to go on a nice walk. Can you point me in the right direction?

I’ve seen the Public Footpath signposts, and I know Tourist Information’s just around the corner, but I was hoping to go somewhere off the beaten track.

You know, somewhere only locals know, through word of mouth.

Somewhere that’s not written down in any guidebooks.

Somewhere no one’s ever taken a selfie and shared it to Instagram.

Somewhere I can feel excited to be in on a secret between the nature and the residents living here.

Somewhere that looks like nothing spectacular until you get to the beech tree at the end of the trail and lift back its leaves and – BOOM, a perspective-changing view of an amazing landscape for miles and miles.

I know this area’s capable of that. I can sense it. Does anywhere spring to mind?

I should say, I don’t want to be walking for ages. But then again I want a bit of a challenge.

Look at what I’m wearing – I want to feel that I dressed appropriately for the walk. I don’t want to be sweating buckets before I’m halfway around and have to carry my coat. But on the other hand I don’t want to wish I’d worn another pair of socks because of the cold. I’m only wearing one pair, just so you know.

I don’t want to be scrambling up mountain tops or anything like that. I want the destination to be fairly easy to get to. Not a walk where I’m constantly wondering ‘did she definitely say South South East?’ but one where I only have to remember like three clear directions. The white pebble path, the horse field, and the tree house, for example. A general orientation and a few landmarks are all I want to bear in mind. A walk, not a hike. Difficulty level 5/10.

I need to think a few things over, you see. That’s the whole reason I’m here wanting to walk. I want to figure some stuff out. I want to focus my mind outward while I do that, because that’s how they say people make good decisions.

And God knows I need to make a good decision here. If I were at home I’d just get lazy and not want to change anything, but I’ve come all the way out here to be have a word with myself and be brave, for my own sake.

It’s to do with a guy. I won’t go into it, all I’ll say is... he’s a physical person. He uses his body to... send messages.

He hits me.

You’re the only person who knows this, believe it or not. Isn’t it odd how you can sometimes feel more comfortable opening up to a complete stranger than the people you’re closest to?

All I’ve ever wanted is to make people proud, especially my family. So it would tear me apart if my mum knew, because then she’d know things weren’t going well for me, and she’d stop being proud and start being worried. She deserves to be proud of her only daughter.

Sorry, I said I wasn’t going to go into it.

Back to the walk.

I’m looking to go on a cool little journey that’ll give me the headspace I need to realise that I shouldn’t be with this guy. You might think the walk’s totally irrelevant to me making a decision like that, but it’s not, trust me.

Think about how I’ll feel after a long, pleasant walk by myself in the wilderness. I’ll feel accomplished. I’ll feel like I can do anything.

That’s what I want this walk to do for me.

Think about how I’ll feel after a really exhausting walk where I get lost and bump into all sorts of weirdos on the way. I’ll think I can’t possibly be on my own, and I’ll end up stuck with this guy long-term. Even you, who’s only just met me, must know that would be a terrible thing.

So you see, this walk is a turning point.

So tell me.

Show me.

Help me.

———

Click here for more Prose

Click here to follow clarkspeak on Twitter

He took his trainers to work

How could I be so stupid? I didn’t think the film was going to drag on so long, but I should have accounted for the possibility that it would. Now I’m behind on everything…

I’m such a pathetic girlfriend. Dan took his trainers to work so he could run home and get high as quickly as possible. I know what he expects – I expect it of myself. I should have had the first joint rolled and the munchies prepared by now. He’ll be absolutely livid if I’m not ready when he gets back. And when I tell him I went to see a film with my mum, and it lasted longer than I thought it would, he’ll say “that’s no excuse”. He’ll say, “I told you what time I’d be home.” And he’ll be in a mood all night. Sure, he’ll smoke and snack with me until 3am, just like every night, but he won’t say a word. His mind will go to a place I can’t reach, and it will all be my fault.

God, why did I even go to see the film? I could have just called my mum, right here in the kitchen, and got ready at the same time. Then everyone would be happy. I wish I’d done that. That’s what I’ll do next time, if there is a next time. I don’t deserve Dan. There he is, working full-time in the shop, while I’m just here at home. He says he likes me being at home, but I feel guilty about it. I love him so much. I need him. One day he’ll know better than to be with me. It might be today, if I’m not ready in time. It’s a terrifying thought. How will I cope out there on my own? I haven’t spoken to my friends in months. I really, really need to be ready in time for him getting home. There’s a lot riding on this.

OK, now the munchies are all laid out as he likes them. Sausage rolls, chips, dips and ice cream. I’ve put them on his favourite tray with his favourite sauces, and I haven’t forgotten the cutlery this time. I’m learning. This is good. The thing is, there’s hardly any time to make this joint. I can’t rush rolling it, because he’ll notice. He might not notice an undercooked sausage roll or a burnt chip, but he’ll notice if his first joint isn’t up to scratch. It’s the most important thing. It’s got to be the right size, and the right strength – he will be able to tell the difference.

I should have made more time for this. Is the clock ticking louder? It sounds like it’s ticking louder. I’m sweating from running around the hot kitchen. I burnt my hand pulling the sausage rolls and chips out of the oven and it stings. I’m shaking so much that I rip one of the papers I’m rolling up, and weed falls onto the carpet. Tick-tock. No. Please, no. Not now. It looks like I’ll have to start again, God it really looks like I have to start again and I don’t have time now. What is time? Time is wherever Dan is.

It usually takes me about seven minutes to roll a three-skinner and I’ve only got half that. God it’s everywhere. It’s all over the carpet. I should clean all this up before starting again because he’ll be angrier at me wasting weed than not being ready with the first joint. I think. Or will he? Now’s not the time to be frozen in fear! There’s no time.

And now I can hear the lock turn in the front door, and tears are falling down my cheeks. He’s even earlier than he said he’d be. I fall to my knees. I was so close, Dan. I was so close to being ready. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. Please just smile. You look so beautiful when you smile.

———

Click here for more Prose

Click here to follow clarkspeak on Twitter

'Never late'

I've been a little quiet about my creative writing in the past 12 months or so. My progress on a novel has been staggered, for a variety of reasons, but in recent weeks I've been working on a short story for this year's Bridport Prize. This isn't it - I won't be allowed to publish my entry in any form or else be disqualified from the competition - but it's something.

'Never late'

The boy looks at CDs in a shop. An independent one, on the outskirts of the city.

At the same time, the boy’s mother is sobbing. She’s sat in a car on a motorway, just sobbing.

‘He’ll be alright, won’t he?’ she says to her husband, who is driving. ‘Maybe we should go back for him!’

He says: ‘Rachel.’ He looks into the wing mirror and changes gear.

‘Listen, he won’t be waiting there for long. You know his taxi, never late,’ he says.

‘We’ve had this time arranged for weeks now. It’s not our fault. It’s his dad’s.’

She tries to imagine the boy in the shop. He’s eleven, getting into music, so he’ll be happy in the shop, she thinks.

The husband turns the heating on and gets the wipers going. He puts his hand on her thigh, but doesn’t look at her, as the raindrops race each other down the windscreen.