Scarecrow.

A Mr Thursday Story.

The rain sluiced down on him in sheets of cold water. Greg kept his head down, kept his eyes on the stony ground and the rivulets of water running down the channels carved into the earth and beneath his walking boots. He only risked a glance up now and then to check how far they had come through this miserable landscape of featureless hills and dark grey sky. Every time he lifted his head, his face was exposed to the wind and the rain, stinging his eyes and making him gasp with the cold. So he kept his head down, and just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. 

He hadn’t even checked if Mary was still behind him, but simply assumed that she was. Trudging along the footpath with her head down, just like he was. This whole travesty had been her bloody idea in the first place. A weekend away, walking in the Scottish Highlands, a chance to reconnect and bring back some happiness and meaning into their joyless, sexless marriage. That had been the plan, at least. And God knows why, but Greg had agreed. 

Now though, out here in the middle of bloody nowhere, his shoulders damp from the incessant rain having penetrated the so-called waterproof jacket, and his feet sore with blisters, Greg fervently wished he hadn’t bothered. 

Their marriage had been in trouble for years now, but they had stayed together, hadn’t even voiced their concerns to each other. It had been for the kids, of course, but now the kids were adults and all grown up and moved away. So what was the point of staying together anymore? 

There had been plenty of time for Greg to consider that question as he had trudged up and down these hills, his head bowed against the rain. And finally he had come to the conclusion that there was no point in staying together. He’d loved her once, of course. But not anymore. Not for a long time. 

Just when had he stopped loving her? That was another question Greg had been able to contemplate on this hideous hike over the hills. 

And really, although he knew he had started the inevitable process of falling out of love with Mary already, he could see that the rot had truly set in the day Lydia fainted in that disgusting public toilet. Something had changed in their beautiful teenage daughter that day. For a couple of months after that incident, she had been withdrawn, constantly distracted. Greg and Mary had talked then at least, if not about their fading marriage, about their concerns for Lydia. They had been on the verge of suggesting that she visit their GP when Lydia had started coming out of herself. Started to shake off the black cloud that had seemed to hang over her after her ‘Episode’ as Mary called it. 

Even now though, with Lydia and Toby both adults, whenever Greg saw the beautiful woman his daughter had transformed into, bright, joyous, full of life and laughter, he still couldn’t help but feel that the day she visited the TOYLAT had changed her forever. 

Of course, Mary had blamed Greg for the whole thing. It was his fault, insisting that they eat at that dreadful McCluckers. And Greg had returned a week later intending to give the owner hell, but when he had arrived, he had found the door boarded up, and the lights out. The window had still been covered in wilting, faded posters advertising cars for sale, rooms to let, missing pets. 

And missing children. Let’s not forget the missing children. 

Greg had found a bare patch of window, and he had bent down and pressed his face against the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes, and had peered into the gloomy interior. And when his eyes had finally adjusted to the gloom, he felt sick to the bottom of his stomach as he saw the thick layer of dust over the empty surfaces, the water-stained walls and the mounds of rubbish in the corners. 

Greg shrugged the memory away, something he had become well practised at doing over the years since then. He’d told no one else about what he had found. He’d just wanted to put it behind him, never think about it again. 

Greg looked up, hoping to see the warm, welcoming lights of a pub somewhere in the distance. He didn’t care how far away they were, it would at least be a sign that they were heading towards civilisation. Towards a warm fire and a pint of real ale. 

No pub. Just the hills, barren of life, and the stony path snaking out of view between peaks and troughs. 

And something else. 

Something that halted him in his tracks. 

Mary appeared beside him. She was still with him, then. 

‘What’s wrong?’ she said. ‘Why have you stopped?’ 

‘Look,’ Greg replied, pointing. ‘Over there, look at that, it’s a bloody scarecrow.’