Nowhere Left to Run
Aunt Margaret, dont you recognise me? Its me, George your only nephew.
George?!
For several moments Aunt Margaret just breathed heavily into the phone.
Good heavens, I thought youd long since shuffled off this mortal coil or else landed in jail! Not a call, not a word from you in years
*****
Why now, of all times?! I muttered to myself, staring hopelessly at my laptop. The thundering sound of a power drill was splitting the air from next door, each high-pitched whine and metallic screech making me feel less like I was in my London flat and more like Id been dropped in the middle of a construction site.
Not even headphones helped. Id tried burying my head under pillows and pressing my palms over my earsbut still, no escape.
With every slam of the drill, I wanted more and more to hurl myself out onto the landing, kick down the neighbours steel door, and snatch away that cursed power tool. But of course, I only dared do that in my wildest fantasies, or maybe on the pages of my new novel.
In real life Well, my neighbour Mark, a retired paratrooper built like a wardrobe and with the stare of a man whos seen much, could easily flatten me with the drill if I did try anything.
Sobitter but trueI did absolutely nothing, except try to put up with it.
Really, I might have managed, were it not for one thing: only last week, the director of a rather prominent London publishing house contacted me. Hed read my last detective novelthe one about the mysterious crime in a small, imaginary market town. He offered not just a contract, but a hefty sum for a new book. Pounds, not pence.
Im in! I cried, probably more keenly than I should have.
Smashing. But there is one catch: Ill need the manuscript in three months time, he said.
No sweat, I answered quickly, as I always docommitting first, thinking later.
Only as I hung up did I realise I hadnt the faintest idea what Id write about. It needed to be a gripping mystery, something worthy of my seasoned pen. But finding the perfect idea, laying out every twist, conjuring the right castit all takes time. And the crime itself! You cant just pluck the right crime from thin air, at least not one good enough.
Last time, Id spent six months on this very thing, with no deadline to haunt me. Now there were only three.
And right on cue, Mark decided to do up his flat, rending the silence apart and flooding my mind with nothing but death and destruction.
I did ask Mark, one day on the shared balcony over a cigarette, how long the banging might last.
Oh, about three months, Id say. Bothered?
No, not at all, just curious, I replied, face pale, retreating quickly inside.
It was obvious: If I stayed here, the book would never happen. But where to go?
A hotel was outhorrifically expensive, I calculated. Renting a place seemed more realistic, even if it ate up my advance. Buthow could I know that the new neighbours wouldnt fancy their own home improvements? Or a month-long bender for the birth of a child, or a budding pianist practising scales next door No. Letting somewhere new was risky and maybe pricier still, if I kept moving.
A series of thumps from next door (sounded like the ceiling caving in) had me leaping off the bed, knocking my already bruised head against the bookshelf.
And thensomething clicked. Aunt Margaret! My mothers elder sister. I hadnt seen her since Mums funeralseven years ago, by my count. Our relationship was neither good nor bad. Just non-existent, really. But oddly, her number stuck in my head, even if my own sometimes didnt. Mustve been the bang on the head.
Hello! came her familiar voice, and relief swept through me. Still alive, thank goodness.
Good afternoon, Aunt Margaret. Its George.
George George she sounded uncertain. The plumber? Because if its about the kitchen tap, Im sure I settled my bill last time. Or did I forget something?
Aunt Margaret, its me, your nephew. Your only nephew.
Georgie?!
Several moments of heavy breathing.
Lord above, I thought youd pegged it, or were banged up somewhere. Years without a whisper! Whereve you been?
Im alive, just busy with work, I spluttered out.
Seven years of non-stop work? Not a minute to spare? Youre not secretly enslaved, are you?
Not quite. I, er, became a writer. Detective stories, mostly. They sell well, you know.
A writer?! And why did we push through all those years sending you off to Imperial for physics? Your mother and I spent a fortune on your education, all for nothing?
Realised it wasnt for me Actually, Aunt Margaret, theres something I wanted to ask
Ah, so its not just a social call! You want something?
Well, yes no I mean, of course I care how you are! I just have a small favour first
You after money?
No, its about your place in Devon.
My cottage?! You want me to give it to you? Bit much, dont you think? Bumped your head lately?
How did you guess? I asked, rubbing my sore scalp. Not to have it, Auntie. Just to stay a while.
To be honest, Im selling the place, through an estate agent.
Could you delay the sale? Just for three months.
Maybe I could.
Really?
But I need to know why, first. Are you planning to sneak women up there behind your wifes back? Because then its a hard NO.
Aunt! No such thing. I dont even have a wife
I spilled the whole story, letting her catch every wail of the drill through the phone.
You hear that? Im desperate, Aunt. Please.
In the end, Aunt Margaret sympathised and agreed I could stay at the cottage for three monthson one condition: Id tidy the place, weed the garden, make it look good for viewings.
Not a problem! I answered, probably too hastily.
Afterwards, I did wonder anxiously when Id have time for all the chores, but I figured with real peace and quiet, Id bash out the book sooner than planned and tackle the garden after.
*****
I thought Id planned it all brilliantly, really. It was late summer, city dwellers gone, so I figured Id have the little hamlet to myself. Warm enough that the lack of mod cons was a non-issue.
Pushing through brambles, I spotted the shabby white-washed cottageand suddenly, a voice rang out:
Who goes there?!
I froze.
I said, who is it? Why arent you answering?!
Er, its George.
What are you doing here?
Visiting.
Visiting whom? Nobodys lived there in years! Are you a thief?
Its my aunts cottage, Margaret Stevens. Shes let me stay.
Come closer to the fence then.
Which ways that? I asked stupidly.
To your left.
I edged left and spotted an elderly man and a massive dog on the neighbouring plot. The dogs eyes told me in no uncertain terms that I was on tonights menu. Maybe not, but Ive always had a healthy respect for dogsbordering on dread.
The gentleman, on the other hand, turned out to be chattyintroduced himself as Christopher.
Having confirmed my credentials as Margarets nephew, Christopher began regaling me with tales of his solitary life. Hed given his London flat to his daughter, moved here for peace, picked up faithful Rex off the roadside, and now they watched over the cottages together. Christopher made a modest income as the local watchman.
So youll be here three months, writing your book? No better place for quiet. Just me, you, and Rex.
*****
After saying goodbye, I carried in my bags, laptop, and a battered microwave. Praise be, there was a working fridgeand no TV, which I didnt need.
Gazing over the wild garden, an odd sort of embarrassment crept over meespecially compared to Christophers neat patch next door. I resolved to clear things up before writing.
So I spent four days hacking and weeding. By the fifth, every weed was gone. I even piled the cuttings for composting, just in case.
All this while, Rex never made a soundjust watched, as though marking me out. The silence was almost ominous, prickling my skinbut at least, separated by a mesh fence, I could relax a little.
Now, to begin the book at last, I grinned, opening the laptop.
It was blissfully quiet. No traffic, no cockerels crowing, no drills, no hammers. I couldnt have wished for more.
That is, until I sat down to typeand Rex suddenly broke into a furious bout of barking from Christophers garden.
Hed been silent as the grave during my weeding, but now, as soon as I tried writing, he thundered loud enough to rattle my bones.
Nothing helped. Rex fell silent every time I stepped outside, but the moment I went back inbarking fit to burst.
Why me? I groaned.
Christopher was as baffled as I was, but agreed to chain Rex up for a time. That made it worseso freedom and noise it was.
Days blurred by. I got no writing done; my head filled only with barking. Had it been possible, Id have given that mutt the scolding of his lifebut the reality was I was terrified to get too close. Rex was the canine incarnation of Mark, my noisy neighbour.
What am I to do? I sighed, nursing a cuppa on the porch. The truth is, Ive nowhere left to runand a weeks already gone.
The worst of it was not being able to focus. Every morning Id stare at a blank screen; my fingers half-moved to write, only to wilt again.
Instead of writing, I wandered the garden, steadily depleting my food supplies.
Christopher, why does Rex bark every time I enter the house?
Dunno, lad. Cant get in his head. But if you ask me, he rather likes you.
Couldve fooled me.
Give him timeyoull come round. Loads have sworn off dogs, only to become inseparable in the end.
Not everyone, surely? After all, someone abandoned Rex on your doorstep.
Ah, well. Some folks arent really people at all.
*****
One evening, an ambulance pulled up to Christophers gate, and I watchedsomewhat guiltilythrough a crack in the outside loo. They stretchered Christopher away.
Wholl look after the cottages? Wholl feed the dog? Rexll be all alone, you knowhe cant manage Christopher groaned as they loaded him into the ambulance.
Youll be well in no time, old chap, one paramedic replied warmly, but for now, we cant leave you here with a heart attack.
That night, Rex howled at the moon while I lay awake, then finally slept through till dusk the next evening.
For days, the pattern repeatedRex howling, alone.
A few days later, a policeman arrivedstayed an hour in Christophers cottage, sealed the door, and as he was leaving, I asked:
Is everything alright?
After detailing my situationand offering my passport and Aunt Margarets numberthe constable told me.
Your neighbours dead, mate. Heart attack.
Gutted. He was a kind soul. What about his dog? Hes on his own.
Up to you, really. Take him in, if you like. Or let him go. Hell fend for himself.
Easy for you to say, I thought, watching Rex, chained and silentand probably starving.
Hungry, are you? I ventured pointlessly, already knowing the answer.
I took some sausage from the fridge and, eyes squeezed shut, hurled it over the fence. Missed. Tried againmissed. Third tryno luck.
Swearing under my breath, I crept round, legs trembling, praying I wouldnt faint. Rex eyed me hungrily, but only licked his nose. I threw the sausage closer; he wolfed it down.
Emboldened, I tossed two more until they vanished too.
Then, for some fool reason, I unchained him. As I stepped back, heart in my mouth, Rex leapt at meknocking me down and lavished me with slobbering, delighted licks.
Ahhh! I shrieked.
No one heard. The gardens were empty.
Id thought to set the dog free, but Rex had other ideas. He stuck to me like a shadow, wagging his tail, all but declaring himself mine.
Oh no, mate. You cant honestly think Ill take you on?
Woof!
Youve got the wrong end of the stick. Its not my house. When Aunt Margaret finds out, Ill be out on my ear. Im only here temporarily. And if I dont finish this blasted book, Ill be penniless. Which is largely your fault, mind.
Woof!
Yes, yes. If not for your infernal barking and howling, I mightve managed something! I grumbled.
But it was clear: Rex wasnt asking. He had simply decided. Youre my human now. Were a team.
There was nothing for it. Miraculously, with Rex now by my side, the barking stopped. But of course, the silence itself became my new enemyI had so utterly lost touch with peace and quiet that now, staring at a blank page, nothing came.
I even regretted leaving London. At least there, rage and frustration might have fuelled my creativity. Maybe I couldve spun a thrilling novel about Mark, felled by his own power drillthough then, I suppose, it wouldnt have been much of a mystery.
So instead, I did anything but write my novel.
One day, I dragged Rexs kennel over from next doordoor and all. Why? Well, Rex had begun snatching food from the table whenever my back was turned, so I secured him during meals. It didnt work. Id step in to brew tea, and upon returnempty plates. Rex, still in his kennel, looked up at me as if butter wouldnt melt.
The clincher came when I watched from the window. A wiry grey catwhere he came from, who knowsdashed up, flicked the kennel latch open with a paw, and he and Rex raided my lunch with military precision, then quickly slipped back, the cat latching the door behind him.
What madnessdoes this really happen in life? I wondered.
After that, I gave up securing Rex, and we dined togetherme at the table, Rex below, and eventually the grey rascal, whom I dubbed Cheeky, joined us.
Cheeky, by way of thanksor so I imaginepurged the cottage of mice, stacking their little bodies beside my bed. The Sunday morning expletives probably echoed all the way back to London.
Right, lets take stock, I mused, staring at the empty fridge with a mug of tea. Two weeks in: not a word written, not a clue in my head. But now, theres a dogand a catwhich means two mouths to feed
I had to shop. I meant to go alone, but Rex and Cheeky had other plansdashing into the car the moment I opened the door. Clearly, they werent letting me leave them behind.
It took three hours, what with pit stops for the dog and distractions for the cat chasing sparrows. I could see now, planning anything with them around was pointless.
Again, I felt the urge to run. But there was nowhere left to go.
*****
After dinner, I steeled myself to call the publisher and cancel the deal. Then pack up for London. But, as ever, events overtook me.
That night, as I finished my third mug of tea, I heard the low rumble of a van engine nearby. Not a car, but something biggereven in the countryside, this was odd.
I rang the local bobby, who promised to pop over for a look.
Peering out from the loo, I watched a white van (a Transit, I think) roll up to Christophers, and two masked figures went about hauling appliances out the door.
No questionburglars.
What should I do? If I waited, theyd vanish long before the police arrived, especially as Christophers cottage was right on the edge of the hamlet.
Worse still, they hadnt noticed my carif they did, theyd soon realise they werent alone.
Right, action now, I whispered into the darkness, nervously feeling for some loo roll.
Outside, I approached the open van. TVs, microwaves, fridgessomeones summer jaunt, spoiled. As I crept closer, two men marched out, one with a small telly in hand.
Not a bad haul, ey, mate? one smirked.
Old boy even has medals. Could flog them after.
Then they noticed me.
Who the hell are you?
Police! I lied, going full film-cop. Youre nicked! Hands up, back to meresistance is futile!
They blinked. Even looked a little shakenuntil one said,
Hang on, youre no copper. Werent we told about some crazy neighbour? The writer guy?
Ah, yeah, him! the other laughed.
I cant fight, so I pictured my own demise. They inched closer.
Suddenly, out of the night, Rex and Cheeky darted in. Cheeky leapt onto one mans head, claws kneading at pace, while Rex sent the other toppling, growling fiercely, hot drool all over his face.
Aaargh! he hollered.
Suits me, I thoughtthey can shout till dawn, no one would hear.
I hastily tied them up with Rexs chain, just in time for the policeman to arrive, delighted to swap my makeshift ropes for real cuffs.
Good work, George! he grinned, shaking my hand. Facing down two robbers on your own.
Wasnt just me, I said, gesturing to the dog and cat. My mates helped.
Fine friends youve got there. With them, you could take on the world. Look after them.
Not much choice, is there? I thought, with a grin.
Who were those blokes, anyway? Seemed oddly familiar.
Paramedics, actually. Ive been after them for monthshelp themselves to whatevers left behind. You caught them in one night.
The police left. I rushed inside, heart thumping, a new idea leaping fully-formed into my mind. Id never written faster.
*****
Two and a half months later, I handed my manuscript to my publisher, who read it in a single sitting.
George! Its a knockoutyour best by far! Well publish, and you can expect a healthy cut of the profits.
With the proceeds, I sold up in London and bought Aunt Margarets cottage, and Christophers as well; combined the land and built myself a proper house, with central heating and a loo indoors.
Now Im living here, outside the city, with Rex and Cheeky. Why shouldnt I? Peace, quiet, friendshipthe perfect trinity.
Days, I write at my laptop. Evenings, the three of us patrol the grounds like sheriffs. I give thanks that things turned out this waythanks, too, to Mark and his infernal drill. Had he not started that wretched renovation, Id never have found this quiet haven and, more importantly, my friends.
