Read by David Mildon
We were bowling down a bóithrín with Springsteen on the radio when we hit the cow. It was me and Cian and Rob in the back, Aidan driving and no-one in the front because he’d said it would be a distraction and besides, he needed space for the suits. We’d always relied on Eoin to protest this kind of behaviour and when no one said anything I abruptly realised how coltish our friendship now was, and wondered whether we’d ever be able to rebalance it. Still, it was cosy, the three of us sharing warm elbows and nips of whisky like auld ones on a park bench. Aidan drank nothing except peppermint tea, which he’d brought in a monogrammed flask with a self-conscious and challenging air about him that none of us rose to. A pink winter afternoon and the smudged grass and hedgerows whipped by as we rolled west into the cowboy sunset.
It had been Aidan’s idea to drive. This time of year and the coaches were full of Midlands shoppers on pilgrimage to the sales both ways along the M6. At this short notice it’d be cheaper and anyway it wasn’t often that all of us were back together so we might as well make the best of it.
Cian was telling us about his new girlfriend. 'And sometimes when I’m out, and she’s out, we’ll all meet for a few in Flannery’s after.’
'Just like in college', sniffed Aidan. He often spoke expansively about his elite, metropolitan nightlife which was seemingly centred on ‘museum lates’ that ended at 9, and anything where the adjective ‘pop-up’ could be realistically applied.
‘Dublin’s grand, but it feels like everyone’s just rotating around finite social experiences, like a deck of cards. You pull out a card, say, a night out or watching the rugby - and everyone knows exactly how the evening’s going to play out,’ he would say, flapping his hand dismissively. ‘But in London now, I can be completely anonymous. I never do the same thing twice. I’m a different person every weekend.’
Just thinking about this constant pursuit of novelty made me feel exhausted.
I watched the edges of the road tick past. The motorway traffic had been so bad that we’d pulled off shortly past Ballinasloe to take a maze of tiny roads cross-country, badly lit but twice as fast. We were a little glowing bubble in an inky sea, until Aidan yelled and slammed the brakes, there was a dense, wet thwack of impact, and we were all hurled forwards.
My mouth felt upholstery, tasted aluminium. And then Cian’s thin voice, from somewhere in the footwell. 'Was that … what was that?' We were a jumble of limbs and the car smelt of spilt whiskey and sweat.
I could see the shock of Aidan’s face in the rearview mirror, bleached, with a bright gash across the bridge of his nose. With shaking hands we unbuckled seatbelts and out onto the road, where the icy air seemed solid and chewable. The cow lay on its side a metre or so in front of the bumper, matted tufts of bloodied hair spotlit by the car headlights, like the star attraction in some gruesome circus. The scoop of its ribs shuddered up and down rapidly and it released a convulsion of moaning which crescendoed in a loud cough. Crimson droplets spattered across the marled grey tarmac.
'Jaysis.' Aidan sucked shallow sips of air and leant heavily against the car bonnet, a concertina of crumpled metal and ripped flesh. The cow blinked up at us absently, Dairy Milk eyes ringed with tear-spiked lashes.
'It came out of nowhere.' He squinted through the gloom. 'There must be a field ahead or something, a gate. There might be more of them, it could have killed us!'
'I can’t believe it’s still alive,' said Cian weakly, 'that was some hit it took. Should we … should we call someone?'
We fished phones from pockets. No signal. I thought about the Mahoneys, who would be expecting us in an hour in their house full of radiators and affable yellow lamplight. I’d promised to be there to hold Hannah’s hand. She was too young to really understand but I knew tonight would be the hardest, back in the bunk-bed of half remembered sleepovers, gazing pale-eyed at the plastic galaxy on the ceiling and waiting for the dawn. They’d had to buy a child-sized black coat specially. She wasn’t my little sister but tonight we would all pretend.
'Maybe … could we just … leave it?' I offered, 'I don’t think it’s got much longer.'
'Are you joking?' said Cian, 'We can’t just leave it in the road here, waiting for its own life to seep away. And what if they find out it was us?'
'Dead right, imagine my mam finding out about this,' added Rob, 'I’d never live it down.'
We stared at the cow, willing it to die. It stretched out its short neck and thrashed against the concrete.
'Oh God, make it stop!' shouted Cian, wrenching his hoodie up over his eyes.
Rob smirked at him. 'All right Cian, get a grip, it’s only a cow for chrissake. You’d probably end up eating it at some stage anyhow.' He poked one Adidas-clad toe at the animal and hunched into his coat sleeves. 'I guess the other option is we … help it along a little?'
'What?!' said Aidan. 'You’re not seriously suggesting … Christ, Rob. And anyway we just hit it at 40k an hour and didn’t kill it. What’re we going to do, bop it on the head with a rock? Cop on.'
Cian shuffled his feet, kicking up road dirt and possibly preparing some elaborate intervention. I went back to the car to retrieve what was left of the whiskey, and stood in the disco-flash of hazard lights, liquid burning my throat. Rob and Aidan were still arguing. The cow gazed at them impassively. Rob pointed to the white-painted boulders lining the side of the road.
'I’m just saying, if we used one of them. They’re real heavy, we’d just knock it out, it’d die without even noticing.'
‘Yeah, and the ISPCA would be right on to us like. Dropping a feckin’ rock onto an innocent cow. Sure they’d be too heavy to lift anyway.’
'Not between four of us.' Rob looked at me and Cian. We eyed up the boulders.
The road fractured with an approaching sweep of headlights and widespread relief at adult intervention. The driver wound down his window, digesting the grisly still-life of blood and burnished apprehension. He heaved himself out and crouched down, stroking the cow’s long velvet nose and whispering reassurances.
'I’ve been looking for her. I know it wasn’t your fault, they got out. Stay here. I’ll go get my gun.' He drove off, shaking his head.
We sat cross-legged around her flared nostrils, executioners turned priests. Her breath varnished the night air.
'Should we say something?' ventured Cian, 'It’s an awful way to go.'
Aidan went back to the car and fiddled with the radio, turning up the volume until a cascade of trembling strings and soprano soared out around us. Cian nodded at him and smoothed the hair back from the cow’s forehead with one hand. Her eyes eased shut. I solemnly decanted tiny capfuls of whiskey.
'A toast,' offered Cian. 'To clean air and green fields, milk and buttercups. Amen.' He emptied the cap and stuck out his hand for a refill.
'May she rest in peace.' Rob said, 'May her heaven be empty of roads and the eejits who drive on them.'
Aidan threw the bottle cap at him and it bounced away into the grass.
'I think she had a good life,' I said quietly, 'And at least the end will come quickly. No bad news. No hospitals. No chemo. Just out like a candle. That’s how I’d like it.'
We were all silent for a moment. Words hung heavily in the air between us, over the hulk of the dying cow.
Cian broke first. 'What do you think he would’ve done, if he were here?'
'Same as us probably. Faffed around for a while, made a hash of things. Would’ve been all right in the end though. That’s Eoin for you, it always seemed to work out OK. That’s why … I never imagined that … '
'Do you think about him?'
'All the time pal. All the time.'
We all took sudden and individual interest in different slices of stars and hedges and ground. A distant engine hum grow louder until the farmer appeared, this time in a large truck. 'All right lads,' he said. 'I’ll take it from here.'
One by one we said goodbye to the cow, Cian, Rob, Aidan and I. We stroked her head and wished her well. The farmer waited, engine running, eyes gleaming. As we drove away we heard the crack of the shotgun, spurring us on into the endless night.
(c) Jess Worsdale, 2019
Jess Worsdale lives in London (but very soon, in Dublin!) where she works in events management and drinks too much coffee. She used to write reviews for the Irish music magazine GoldenPlec.com – but criticising other people’s work is never as fun as creating your own.
David Mildon is an actor, playwright and founding member of Liars' League. His stories “Worms’ Feast” and “Red” were read here and appear in Arachne Press anthologies London Lies & Weird Lies. Plays The Flood and Leaves have been produced on the London stage along with many shorter pieces. Acting work includes the National's production of Consent at the Harold Pinter.
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