A river rodent

A sea gull perches atop a stone column in Park Circus. Overlooking Glasgow, the bird sits stoic in the winter wind and calls intermittently into the night. Below the gull, a female face carved into the grey stone has been gifted a sad, delicate mask by the cold weather. Minute ice eyelashes grow from her face and water drips from the cracks in her profile.

A man sits near the column on a worn wooden bench. Tired from walking through Kelvingrove Park, he lets his eyes close over while watching a plane in the sky - the tail light flickering like the colourful lure of a microscopic fish that swims thousands of meters deep in the sea.

Behind the man and his bench, a row of well kept houses is broken by a blackened building. Lined up within these grand structures, the decaying house looks like a singular rotting tooth within a mouth of otherwise beaming teeth. And from this ruin scuttles a black rat - across the concrete and up to the man’s bench - where it nimbly scales a wooden leg to sit on the armrest.

Astonished, the man fixes his eyes on the little animal and then goes pale as it begins to speak.

'Do you live in Glasgow?' he squeaks from his sitting spot.

'I don’t. I am just a visitor', the man replies automatically, still glaring at the rodent.

The man’s head empties as he watches a red light floating above the Clyde grow and expand in the distance until his vision is blurred and everything around him is bathed in colour. Temporarily anaesthetised by the light and feeling a new calm, the man restarts conversation with the rat.

'What is your name? Do rats have names?' he asks.

'They do indeed, and mine is Alfred. I have lived in Glasgow my whole life, born and bred. My family used to live by the river but we were forced up here during my youth by a spring flood.'

'My God.... I am astounded to hear you say that Alfred, not least because you are a rat, and up to this point I had lived my life unaware that rats could speak, let alone possess a manner as friendly and knowing as you clearly do.'

'Well thank you, but I must tell you my manner is often put to the test up here. Do you see that seagull over there, he is a right pain is that one. I have the displeasure of living fairly close to where he nests with his wretched lot. Never stops squawking I tell you! Some mornings I wake up and berate him, serve him the most heated of verbal lashings, yet he carries on like a ghastly fog horn, day and night.'

'Does he have a name too?'

'Of course, his name is Finsey.'

'My word, and can he speak too Alfred?'

'Don’t be so silly, Finsey is a seagull. They do not speak - all they do is squawk at ungodly hours.'

'Oh right then.'

The man watches a yellow street light flicker softy in the distance, somewhere near Argyle Street. He imagines the flicker as an electricity pulse trapped under the tarmac skin of the city, coursing from Cessnock to Partick looking for an escape route, as an air bubble released from the lung seeks the ocean surface. He wonders if he is dreaming.

Looking back down to his new friend, the man feels pressed to talk about the surrounding city.

'Can you help me with something that has been troubling my thoughts Alfred?' the man tentatively begins.

'Today, as I was walking around Glasgow I looked at a stately building in George Square and thought of the dissected trunk of a tree, complete with hundreds of growth rings radiating outward from the centre. Because that is what cities are aren’t they, hundreds of concrete layers building on top of each other? Take Glasgow for example, the first settlers must have constructed a few simple buildings with their bare hands, and from that small nucleus, a huge city has grown. Even now it still grows! With concrete and slate and mud we continue to grow it, adding layer upon layer. Do you understand?'

Quiet now, Alfred considers the statement. The rumble of the city is a quiet presence around the pair; it ticks over continuously, like some giant sprawling machine working in a distant land.

'I do, but I am afraid your analogy is flawed', Alfred replies.

'For you see, a city may be growing, but in the same moments of creation come moments of destruction - new buildings appear to replace old ones in a cycle of regeneration. Your process is therefore inaccurate, and we cannot seek out the city’s history using just buildings; no matter how old they are, for humans are dreadfully wasteful. They are just as fast to destroy a section of city as they are a field of trees.'

'But may I suggest something else?' the rat continues.

'If you want to look deep into the history of a city and trace back the growth, quantify those layers you speak of, then you should look to the river or more specifically the riverbed - which is the Clyde in Glasgow’s case.'

'Are you talking about what is buried in the river bed?'

'I am. And I have a slight confession to make here. For I am no ordinary rat- oh no my friend - I am a time travelling rat. While living in those muddy crevices by the Clyde in my youth, I was able to dig into days long past.'

Animated now, Alfred paces backwards and forwards along the armrest of the bench, pausing often to speak with heightened excitement.

'Using a buried network of old sewage pipes I dug deeper into the riverbed. Descending through those layers of sediments and muck, I was moving into the past, for the riverbed records time, it captures whatever surrounding growth is occurring.'

'I found all manner of objects down there, pieces of steel shrapnel from the ship building days to artefacts of clay pottery from before that, and even carved stones – probably used to steady the river banks by the earliest settlers.'

The man listens intently and takes his time considering everything the rat has spoken of, eventually providing Alfred’s perked, expectant ears with a response.

'So, we could say that these layers of sediment are closer to the growth rings of the tree I described earlier?'

'Yes, I believe so.'

Pleased, the man relaxes and smiles at his companion. The headlights of a passing car brighten their surroundings and Finsey takes flight from his column, a final squawk ringing out into the night. The man senses that his time with the rat is coming to an end.

'You are without doubt the wisest and most personable rat I have ever met, but I guess that we shall not meet again?'

'I am afraid so my friend.'

And with that Alfred leaps from the armrest to the ground, then scuttles to the decaying building from which he appeared.

After watching the rodent leave, the man walks to the nearby stone column. At the base, the wind has gathered a pile of wet decomposing leaves. The man picks one up then holds it in his fingers against the horizon, and lights from the city illuminate the delicate veins branching across the leaf.

Legs

I look around the inner car and consider the state we have let it get into. The fabric of my seat is ripped, discarded pieces of stale food line the dashboard and everything is marked by small piles of sand, carried in by warm Australian desert winds. As my eyes pass over the dusty speedometer I have to stifle a whinge. I am constantly reminding Ross, who is sat beside me in the driver’s seat concentrating on the open road, to keep it below 100km/h. The kindly mechanic we begged to help us at the last garage told us not to go over 100, or the car’s radiator would probably explode, leaving us helplessly stranded by the roadside. I don’t think I can deal with the embarrassment of all that again.

Two days ago we were parked in front of Ayres Rock and the sun was setting beside the huge monolith, splashing it in the most serene pinks and reds, while desert animals howled in the dissipating light- a memorable moment not just for us, but also for the other fifty observers in the car park. Wary of spoiling the atmosphere we attempted to sneak off unnoticed, but Margaux, our car, was in no mood for that and instead contrived to fill the quiet surrounds with ghastly coughs and splutters, before promptly stalling and blocking off the only exit from the car park.

I struggled with the ignition, grabbing at it recklessly in a fit of impotent rage, willing her with all my heart to roar into life. Of course, she did no such thing and just sat there, a useless hunk of rusty metal and peeling paint, as a queue of gleaming cars formed behind us. Eventually acknowledging defeat, we sheepishly clambered out in front of the bemused crowd, some of whom made no attempt to conceal their cruel sniggers and jeers, and shoved our little Daihatsu off the road. The embarrassment was so acute, so penetrating, that I could have curled up and died right there in the creeping shadow of Ayres rock.

Just keep calm, don’t lose your temper I tell myself over and over - the last thing me and Ross need right now is another petty argument. We have now reached an unusual state of friendship in which neither of us respects the rules which mediate normal, civilised conversation. Even within a group of people we have just met, I cannot help but scream at him if I disagree with anything he has said, even over the most inconsequential things. Six weeks on the road together, coupled with the inevitable frivolous disagreements, has fuelled a growing climate of mutual resentment, in which we desperately try to maintain ‘one up’ on the other. We didn’t speak for four hours this morning because he insisted on breaking our self imposed 100km/h speed limit, and I strongly suspect he only did it to wind me up.

Falling out while driving is awful because the person in question must be stationed next to you, at all times, for the remainder of the drive. The only remedy after a spat is to stare through the window intensely for as long as your neck will allow and pretend to be observing the scenery, while secretly plotting your next vitriolic put down.

I try not to let myself get sucked into all that again tonight, so I pull my eyes away from the incriminating speedometer and stare out the passenger window. A beautiful cold dusk is coming down across the sparse arid landscape and the first stars of the evening are raising a sparkle high above the desert. In the far distance the Flinders mountain range casts a sprawling shadow, and shelters our next stop, Adelaide. Only four more hours of driving and we will have left the Northern territory.

From the safe confines of the car I see into the red heart of the territory, and observe an unforgiving land. The dry pastel sands and rocky escarpments, dotted with hardy cactus and bush, are near barren. A black sky is falling deeper into the horizon, slaying the last glimmers of blue sky and shimmering orange sun to create a lucid colour gradient and the fleeting beauty of it all manifests a feeling of vulnerability and loneliness within.

Something catches my attention up ahead and I swivel in my seat to focus on the road verge. Strange figures form in the twilight landscape, among the gloomy scrub plants, and I am able to distinguish animals moving towards us. I call out to warn Ross but before he can react with the steering wheel their long shapes are on us.

A mob of kangaroos bound on to the road and we raise our hands to protect our faces as the car smashes into the side of one. I hear a sickening thump as the soft animal wraps around Margaux and is viciously tossed off the road. The hand brake is pulled and we screech to a stop suddenly.

‘What was that? What the hell was that man?’ Ross mutters, his fingers held up to his pale face.

‘I think we hit a Kangaroo.’

I take a couple of deep breaths and get out the car, check Margaux for damage, then walk down the road towards a shallow ditch, where the twisted animal is lying. Its arched chest rises and falls with quick breaths as I get closer and bend down next to the body. A wave of nausea washes through me as I see the legs, a mess of tangled bone, blood and fur - they have been broken and crushed into every manner of unnatural direction. A small whisper sounds out from behind me as Ross catches up.

‘Jesus Christ. Where did it come from?’

I place my hand on the warm abdomen and feel a thumping heart as I pull my fingers through the wild animals hide. Hacking coughs begin to sound out and looking up to its head - I see the contorted mouth hanging aghast on the dusty ground. I turn to Ross, a black silhouette against the rising white moon, and tell him that we have to kill it.

‘Well we can’t run over it again’, he says coldly. ‘Margaux has stalled out, the little bitch.’

He bends in for a closer look but recoils sharply as the animal starts coughing again.

‘Could we break its neck? Or crack it on the head with something? Like when you run over a rabbit or something back home.’

‘Well we can’t leave it here in this mess. There isn’t anything around big enough to knock it out with, so let’s flip a coin to coin to decide who is going to break its neck.’

The silver dollar spins and comes up heads, so I resign myself to what must be done. Nervously lifting the kangaroo up, I rest it in a sitting position against my legs and attempt to get a hold around the stiff neck. Tugging sharply, I wrench the throat backwards, but the short arms work up and lash at my face with dirty claws. The animal grazes me across the neck so I quickly drop it back to the ditch. Sweaty and rattled from the wrestle, I move away and turn to face Ross’s nervous look.

‘I can’t do it,’ I say to him. ‘We are going to have to hang it somehow, go and get the tow rope from the boot.’

‘What? What?!’ he stutters in surprise, his fingers jammed into his mouth nervously. ‘You are not serious. No way, there must be another way’.

‘We can either hang it to death or leave it to choke on its own blood, and Christ knows how long that will take, so go get the tow rope’ I shout at him.

He shuffles back meekly with the thick rope, usually reserved for embarrassing break downs, and I form a loose slip knot around the Kangaroo’s neck.

‘I reckon we are going to have to lift the animal up ourselves and dangle it between us, with the head in a noose’ I say, pointing at the body. ‘So be ready to hold on for a while and try not to let the rope slacken when it kicks out.’

‘Okay, okay’ he reassures me. ‘I will be fine.’

We tug the kangaroo from the ditch to the middle of the road, to get a level surface for lifting. I stand with my legs apart, brace my back for the weight and wrap the rope around my arms.

‘Right then, I am ready’ Ross says as he arranges himself the same way.

My sweaty fingers tremble as I try to get a tight grip on the rope and mentally prepare myself for lifting up the animal’s heavy body, which is easily as tall as a grown man. The blood drains from my face as we count down together.

‘3.......2.......1......’

Raised from the road, the animal bursts into berserk movement- errant claws slice through the air and piercing squeals fill our ears. Knots of cramp clench across my shoulders while we struggle with the suspended weight and I feel the kangaroo’s wasted legs crashing off my thighs, staining blood and bone into the blue fabric of my jeans. Urine begins to gush out of the animals emptying bladder and a growing puddle circles our feet. I look at Ross’s tense, pallid face and see tears forming across his eyes, then to the animal’s bared teeth, forced together by the pressure of the tight rope. Gathering the last of our strength, we raise the rope higher above our heads and I hear a sharp crack ring out. The rope slackens slightly and I know that we have snapped its spine.

‘Okay drop it’ I spit through my teeth.

The fire of pain growing in my shoulders is extinguished as we fall to our knees on the hard road. We both roll on to our backs and look to the starry sky.

‘Imagine if someone caught us doing that man?’ Ross eventually says, breaking the silence.

‘I know, what the hell would they think of us?’ I reply. ‘Imagine coming across a couple of Scottish idiots driving through the desert, lynching kangaroos at their leisure, in a banged up old Daihatsu’.

We both let out a relieved laugh, and then pick ourselves up to go find a burial spot. Ross gets Margaux started and brilliant beams of head light illuminate our surrounds while we dig into the ground. After the grave is deep enough we drag the corpse over and push it into the hole, gently folding its ruined legs into the ground. I run my hand through the Kangaroo’s soft fur and look into one of its cold, dead eyes. In the black pupil I see an endless night sky, voided of all stars and light, and I imagine the Kangaroo alive - straight and powerful legs carry it to safety across the red landscape. An uncontrollable surge of guilt hits me, so I step back from the mangled corpse and take a few shallow breaths, leaning on my knees for support, while my heart pounds violently in my chest.

‘It would have starved if we hadn’t killed it’ Ross tells me reassuringly.

We get into Margaux and her engine purrs happily as the accelerator is tested. In no time at all she has carried us away from what we have done, and my heartbeat gradually slows, calmed by the thought of the open country before us. The road remains perfectly straight, without even the slightest corner or deviation for miles, and I watch the first desert birds of the new day in the distance. They emerge from the looming shadow of the Flinders Range, clutching a blanket of brightening morning light in their talons, and I know it won’t be long until Adelaide.