Dark Night of the Soul

Chapter 17

Makka Pakka stiffly uncurls from a foetal position, still jammed against the door of his cottage. He stumbles then heaves the basket of logs from the living area and pushes it against the front door. His head darts around, twitching, like his beloved robins. He draws the curtains above the sink and furiously washes his hands and face.

His hands stinging from their scrubbing, Seamus steps back from the sink and stands motionless. Again, he tilts his head as if listening out for something. Slowly, he turns and makes his way upstairs.

He stops briefly in the bathroom to wash his hands and face again before opening the airing cupboard. He rummages frantically amongst the towels before pulling out his leatherbound notebook.

Seamus sits himself down at a small desk in his bedroom and stares out of the window into the gloom. Turning on a desk light, he reaches for his favourite pen and starts writing, slowly at first.

Soon, he can't get the words out rapidly enough. He stops to shake his cramping hand before opening a fresh page and drawing a detailed diagram of the Pinky Ponk. He fills another page with the skatepark and the burger van, the images transferring directly from his brain.

Turning another page he draws the five skateboarders running up the ramp, leaping across to the Haahoos. Next page ... they're gone. Seamus's whole body tenses and he rips the page out and screws it tight in his hand, standing up as the rest of the notebook falls to the floor.

He runs to the top of the stairs before turning back round to the bathroom, stuffing the torn page into his pocket, and scrubbing his hands with his toothbrush. Finally, with numb hands, he goes down the stairs, drawing all the curtains, before sitting on the faded leather pouffe by the wood burning stove.

He sits in the darkness, barely moving. Suddenly he leaps up and begins to pace up and down, muttering to himself. Every so often, he sneaks a look outside, before resuming his pacing.

Finally, he sees a faint light emerging from the East. He runs out of the back door, leaping over a low wall and throwing himself into the woods behind the house.

Once again, he runs from tree to tree, gradually wending his way up the hill. Finally, he reaches the edge of the woodland and pauses before taking a steep path towards the telephone mast. As the sky grows lighter, Seamus makes out some small huts in the distance.

Seamus fixes his eyes on the graffiti-covered huts and staggers on, as if in a trance. He is taken aback by an overpowering stench of goats. He stands still, swaying, staring.

Eventually, with a shake of his head he sits down at the entrance to one of the huts, leaning his back against the damp wall. Behind him he hears a faint metallic sound. Rhythmical, growing gradually louder. His eyes darting, he crouches, trying to make out shadowy forms in the gloom. Approaching. His heart pounding, the noises multiply and encroach upon him until he's butted gently on the shoulder by a bleating goat.

The goats crowd around Seamus, licking his bare arms, the bells round their necks now falling silent as they rest on their straw beds. With a wry smile, Seamus takes a deep breath in... and out. His head bows gently, his shoulders lower and his hands, now no longer clenched, gently stroke the goats.