The Valley

The rhythm of the rain never varied. It was a strict waltz: one two three, one two three. It had been the same for at least an hour. In the background he could hear the river, a strong current sweeping over a stone bed. He took in a breath of wet air and heard the dull thud of the punch land before he felt it.
“Oh, nice, very nice.”
“Oh yes, did you see the blood going up his face? That’s quality.”

There was a deep gagging sound as he swallowed down a mouthful of mucus and then coughed loudly. His head fell forward and the high pitched ringing faded but this time didn’t clear completely. The river was now further away, beneath him somehow.

Across the valley the light was starting to change, the drifting light grey was getting heavier and more dense. In the hedgerows there was a rustle of activity as the finches left their perches and headed back up to the safety of the woods and by the river a group of coots gathered at the bank to cross back to their nest.

“Do his knees again, see if you can get down to the bone.”
He could hear the plank being raised and knew he was going to be sick soon. The taste was strong and though he could swallow the pieces in his mouth, a larger wave was on its way. The voices were becoming more blurred; mixing with the ringing, and when the short, solid piece of wood made contact with his tibia he was only dimly aware of the vibration that rode through his body. As usual there was a lot of laughter but at the end there was another new sound: something metallic, heavy.

The coots had started their journey now, a steady line of black puffballs eking a line through the steady current. The rain made the crossing slow going but the first bird reached the opposite bank and leapt up onto the mud; a quick shake to dispel any water trapped in the feathers and it was gone into the long grass.
“Right, son. No more fucking about. What are you doing here, eh? Where’s the rest of your squad? Last chance. No bollocks, or you’re dead.”

The voice was nervous but he believed it. He had long given up trying to remember details; unless they had double backed they wouldn’t find him in time. He had done well, hiding out here for two days; surrounded by the enemy after the fuck up at the bridge. He had managed to keep hidden and avoided them so many times, but that little one with the squint nose had to go and see him; he knew he had started to move too soon.
“Nut? Nothing? Stupid prick.”

The rain was getting heavier, the same rhythm but faster. One two three. One two three. More swallows had emerged, picking off small insects, and the few breaks of light off on the horizon had been absorbed by the cloud cover.

Most of the coots had crossed the river by now. From the remaining group two birds reached the bank at the same time and there was an explosion of fury as they caught each other’s wingtips. They backed off and repeated a few circles before each climbed out: two middle-aged bathers, still eyeing each other warily. The final few birds gathered at the bank and all but one successfully skipped up and into the grass. The last coot worked his way along the bank for a few seconds before attempting to land but struggled to get a hold and slipped back into the water. The rainfall was making the sides of the river into a thick, brown oily slope and finding any grip was not going to be as easy.

One two three. One two three. The heavy metal noise again. One two three. Then a thinner sound: unscrewing, a quick, twisting whistle as a lid was removed. He straightened his body and swayed forward.
“Oh aye, wriggling now, in’t he?”
“Aye, I love this bit. Do it slowly, make sure he knows what’s going on.”

He heard the first splash and then smelt the strong chemical waft of gasoline being thrown over his legs, back and groin.

There was a panicking blast of noise from his head then a groaning, a deep, guttural plea.

“Too late sunshine. Aye, may as well use the lot. Pile it on his heid. Ever seen that, boys? It melts like a candle.”

His body was shaking, he could hear himself moaning, praying.
“Last chance, sunshine.”

The rain was battering hard now and a wind was starting to build. It came in from the north and carried low across the valley; the tops of the trees bending back in response. The click of the Zippo was followed by a violent roar as the wind swept through the branches, the leaves sounding like an applauding crowd. Down below, far away, he could still hear the river flow as the last coot managed to get a grip on the bank and pull itself into the long grass and safety.