Pieces Of A Stranger

Pieces Of A Stranger

26/07/26

I’m gonna die shitting muck, my father used to say, and didn’t the bastard get it right? Dropped dead in the pig pen, spade still in hand, like it was a cheap joke fate couldn’t be bothered to finish telling. The irony is he died proving he was right, and that eats at me: if what he used to say about me — that I’d never amount to anything and would die in the muck too — is also true, then I’m doomed. I hate him for it. Since he left, the farm, which has seen better days, has fallen entirely on my shoulders and my mother’s. But let’s be honest: all the backbreaking work is mine. I’m the one up before the rooster crows, the one scattering corn for the hens, the one hauling buckets of water to the cows, the one mending broken fences after the storm, the one gathering eggs still warm, the one spending hours chopping weeds that insist on growing faster than any hope I’ve got. It’s an endless cycle: clean, feed, carry, repeat. And every task feels like a sentence, as if the land and the beasts are reminding me there’s no way out, only wear. My name is Ewan O’Connor, only son and wretched heir to these acres in West Yorkshire, godforsaken England. I know nothing beyond this place. I’ve been nowhere at all, only to nearby towns with my father to buy feed for the animals or some new piece of equipment. The rest of the world exists to me only through the TV or books. But someday, who knows, it might be different. Turned twenty-three this year. Thin in the way of someone who works too hard and doesn’t eat nearly enough. Dark brown hair, short, always falling back without my having to make the least effort to push it there. Lean face, ears that stick out more than I’d like, pale eyes my grandmother used to call beautiful — a compliment I never knew how to take. I’m not ugly, I’m not handsome. I’m the sort of face West Yorkshire churns out by the dozen. After another gruelling day trying to keep this goddamned farm from sinking for good, I step inside and call out for my mother straight away. I wipe my boots on the doormat and watch the dirt pile up there, like the floor’s more honest than I am.

— Mum, Mr. Wenk’s cattle are sick again — I say. — We’ve got to do something about it — I wait and hear nothing. — Mum?

She doesn’t answer right away, but I know where she is. The kitchen’s always the same scene: wooden table scarred by years of hot plates, curtains faded by the sun, the smell of smoke tangled up with fried onion. I hear her cough from there, confirming she’s gone through another cheap cigarette. The house is plain, built to last, not to look pretty. Cracks run in the walls like keepsakes, the floorboards creak with every step, and the furniture gave up being new decades ago. It’s a place where everything serves a purpose, nothing is for show. The silence hangs heavy, broken only by my mother’s coughing and the wind whistling through gaps in the window frame.

— Mum — I call again, stepping into the room.

There she sits, at the table, short white hair, thin, pale-eyed, that look of a countrywoman about her, peeling potatoes and smoking, same as ever. Smoke drifts slow from her, thickening the air.

— Didn’t you hear me calling? — I ask.

— What is it, lad? — she answers dismissively, never lifting her eyes. — My mind was wandering, thinking on things.

— I fixed the fence and put a new latch on the gate — I say. — Felled that big tree by the drive too. I’ll drag the trunks out first thing tomorrow.

She takes a drag from her cigarette and speaks around the smoke.

— Your father was saying he’d cut that tree down for I don’t know how long — she says, and gives a little laugh.

I cross the kitchen, grab a mug, and pour myself cold coffee — it’s been sitting there so long it might as well be part of the furniture.

— Melvin says he’s interested in buying the big pig — she goes on. — Says he’ll pay extra if you deliver it today.

— Today? — I say, rubbing a hand over my face. — I don’t want to drive into town in that old pickup. I won’t be back till dark.

— We need the money — she says, steady as a rock. — And I’ve told him you’ll go.

— Mum?!

— Don’t you argue with me — she shoots back. — And you can stop by Timothy’s on the way and collect what he owes for eggs. That layabout won’t get another egg from us till he pays up first.

— Bloody hell — I mutter, slamming the mug down on the sink. — I’ll go there and back as fast as I can. Hope it doesn’t rain.

— Thank you, son — she says, flat as anything, like reciting a line she’s said a thousand times.

I storm out angry, because I’d had no plans to drive into town unless it was for a drink and a bit of fun with someone, if I was lucky. No such luck. I’ve got to go sell that bloody pig just because my mother’s given her word. I load the pig into the pickup and head for town to get this rubbish over with — and maybe, if I’m quick, I’ll stop for a pint. Nothing more than that.

***

Alright, I went too far with the drink tonight. The evening was pleasant, the chat with the locals had flowed well enough, and so one pint soon turned to two, then a shot of vodka, and after that another three or four pints and a brandy. I didn’t even notice the hour until I was talking to the bloody wall. That’s when I got up and left. I drive along the road with extra care, because I know things aren’t sitting right in my head. Swear this road is darker than it should be this time of night. At least it didn’t rain — if it had, this damn place would be slick and thick with mud. I keep going a while longer, sipping from the last pint I brought with me. Never was one for wasting things. The air’s too quiet, and my own thoughts aren’t enough to fill the silence. I glance over at the radio and switch it on. Start twisting through stations, trying to do a dozen things at once: keep my eyes on the road, finish the beer, find something decent to listen to. I look at the radio for just a second, tune the dial, and the moment I land on something clear — I feel it. Impact. The car’s hit something. A sharp, hard thud against metal yanks me straight out of the haze like a slap in the face. My heart slams into my throat. I grip the wheel tight, eyes wide, and stamp on the brake. The car skids a little on the dark tarmac before coming to a halt. Silence settles again, but now it and the music feel heavier than ever, thick with questions. What in God’s name did I just hit? I sit there shaking. Must’ve been a bloody deer, I tell myself, trying to believe it — but my heart’s hammering all the same. I get out, palms sweating, and walk round to the front to see the damage. The bonnet’s dented. Shit, I really did hit something. I scan the dark, straining to make anything out — nothing.

— Shit, shit, shit — I mutter. — Knew I shouldn’ve drunk so much.

I go back for a torch; the headlights aren’t bright enough. I shine the beam about, searching for any sign, still nothing. Whatever it was must’ve got up and limped off. Just as I’m about to give up and get back in, something stops me dead: a boot. A bloody boot. And boots usually come with feet inside them. Please God don’t let it be what I think it is. I aim the beam further down the verge, along the kerb — and there, plain as day, someone’s lying there.

— Fuck — I say, lantern dropping as I run over. — For Christ’s sake.

It’s a man. Lying face down. I turn him over gently, checking he’s still breathing. Now I can see him better: young, mid-twenties, thick black hair falling in messy locks over his forehead, a full, well-defined beard, chest dark with hair where his shirt’s torn open. Thick eyebrows, dark eyes, light olive skin with warm undertones, a straight, strong nose — the kind that gives a face an almost noble look. Handsome, in a way I’ve no business noticing right now. I hold my hand close to his mouth — breath, warm and steady. Thank God.

— Hello? Can you hear me? — I say. — What were you doing in the middle of the road at this hour? That’s madness.

He doesn’t answer. I pat his cheek lightly, nothing. I look around, scrambling for what to do. I can’t just drive off and leave him. Can’t exactly take him to the authorities either — not when I’ve no mind to get done for drink-driving again.

— Bloody hell — I say, panic rising. — What am I supposed to do?

Then he moves, a soft groan.

— Hey, mate — I call. — You alright?

Nothing.

— Right then — I say. — Brilliant.

I decide I’m lifting him into the pickup. I’ll figure it out somewhere better lit. I drag him round to the passenger side, get him in as best I can, then slide behind the wheel. I drive away carrying a man I just ran down. I’m well and truly buggered. I get home — lucky for me, Mum’s already asleep. That helps. I carry him through the kitchen quiet as I can, straight to my room. Lay him down on my bed, the rough sheet brushing his skin.

— Don’t you dare die on me, you daft bugger — I say, half-prayer, half-plea.

He stays out cold. I tuck him in, pull off his other shoe, cover him up. Still, breathing heavy.

— Right. I’ll call the sheriff in the morning — I murmur, not quite believing myself.

There. Safe now. I need a black coffee — something to snap me out of this nightmare. I spot the chair in the corner, piled high with my clothes, and sink down onto it to catch my breath. He was heavier than he looked. I wonder where he’s from. Doesn’t sound English. Darker features, something about him — Mediterranean, maybe. What on earth was he doing on that road? I rest my head against the pile of clothes and close my eyes — just for a second. Just to rest. Not sleeping. I swear I’m not.