South
By Alexander Moore
- 139 reads
Two cars passed him as he walked the meandering country road. The latter rumbled to a halt a few yards ahead of him. As he passed the driverside, an elderly man was leaning from the window and blowing cigarette smoke into the freezing night air.
If you’re that hellbent on suicide, son, he said, I can lend you my rifle. He nodded towards the back of the old chevy and Cillian could see the wooden hunting rifle laying across the back window.
I don’t plan on dying.
Happens to us all.
I mean to say anytime soon.
The old man took a long pull from his cigarette which now sizzled to a stub between his fingers and flicked it past Cillian onto the road. Jump in.
Cillian walked around the front of the car and noticed one of the headlights blown out. He had to shimmy side on between the passenger door and the hedge and squeezed into the seat. He pulled the pack from his back and sat it on the empty beer cans that littered the floor of the car.
The car choked to a start and spun down the narrow road in the darkness.
Been 20 odd year since I’ve seen a wanderer, the old man laughed, shaking his head. Takes me back.
You got a cigarette?
The old man handed Cillian a packet of Malboroughs in a torn case.
This is the last one, Cillian said. The old man waved his hand.
Lighters on the dash he said and pointed with his free hand in front of Cillian.
It took three or four rips of the handle to spark a flame but eventually, a long yellow stream hissed from the top and the cigarette smoke bloomed like a great chimney from Cillian's mouth. He said thanks and the old man said that’s alright.
Where you fixed on going? The old man asked.
Nowhere in particular.
Well getting off this road is a good start. You running from something?
From the city, I think.
You think.
I think.
The hedges rattled in the wind as the car sped along the road, and trees hung limp overhead from the fields on either side. Frigid midnight air was whirling around the pair as the old man still had the window down but it didn’t seem to bother him.
There’s a sure fine difference between running from something and chasing something, the old man said.
Cillian thought about this as the foliage rushed past in a blur and the stars stood still and distant in the blackness. I’ll figure it out, he said.
We all do. Some of us just too late.
There was a silence for a few minutes and Cillian finished his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window and the car groaned to a stop and took a right turn. It rattled along a cobblestone driveway towards a small wooden cottage. Its windows glowed a homely orange. The car halted and the old man turned to him.
You’re more than welcome to stay. My wife and I have a spare bedroom. Just for the night.
Cillian thought for a second. I’ve nothing here, no money or…
The old man cut him off and told him Nonsense and that He doesn’t need money and What would an old bag like him do with money?
This brought a smile to Cillian and he grabbed his pack, opened the door and the pair walked towards the house.
This country here south of the city is a dangerous place, said the old man.
Can be no worse than the city itself.
It’ll surprise you if you let it, young lad. Come on, you can cut the blocks before you leave tomorrow and we’ll call us even.
Sounds good.
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