Short fiction

Mole Hill

It is very late when we reach the Mole Hill. It looms over us, strange and tall in the night sky. I can hear it breathing steadily, in and out, deep and soft. Tiny granules of earth skitter down its sides with each loud exhalation. Some stop close by our feet and Hen shivers a little; I take her hand in mine, squeezing it gently. I have never seen the Mole Hill sleeping before. It becomes frightening when you can’t see its smiling mouth, its warm brown eyes. There is a lamp post directly behind us but its orange light does not touch the Mole Hill - it becomes a lump of nothing in the darkness.  In pictures, it always looks bright and cheerful, misshapen snout pointing upwards, filthy teeth glinting in the sunshine. My mother has a postcard of it on the fridge, stuck down with a magnet in the shape of a butterfly. She likes to pull it off to show to relatives when they come to stay. A local attraction, she says, proudly. It moves! Only a little; it breathes. It has a face, see? No, not as big as a mountain! It’s made of earth. Oh, yes. I’ll take you next week, sometime. She doesn’t, though – she always forgets. They visit the farmer’s market instead, so they can buy organic vegetables and exclaim excitedly over all the different types of chutney.

I look around. In the daytime, this place is teeming with people, digging in the dirt, setting up deck chairs, slurping ice-creams - it has become a pleasure park. Children squawk and make mud pies; orange women in bikinis gossip in the hot baths. Old women visit on day trips, riding coaches with no air con, clutching digital cameras in their wrinkled hands. They zoom and snap, snap, snap away at the Mole Hill’s funny, heavy face. It’s unpleasant here usually, I think. Overcrowded. But it’s empty now. A white rubbish bag hangs on the fence, blowing a little in the cold wind, and somewhere nearby a fox barks. I can feel my heart thumping wetly inside my chest. I was hoping for a security guard; someone who would ask why we were here, who would gruffly tell us to clear off. I’d probably protest a little but then I’d just shrug and walk with Hen in tow, quickly home, over the train tracks, through the park, softly clicking the front door shut behind us and creeping back, up the stairs, into our clean beds. I’d smile secretly to myself underneath the covers and rub my feet together. Close my eyes and sleep. But no, the whole place is deserted. No one expects anyone to hurt the Mole Hill.

Sweat beads on my upper lip. The napkin is in my right pocket but I don’t need to look at it. I’ve studied it enough. I know where to start. I glance down at Hen; her pink nose is all scrunched up, so that you can’t see her freckles. This means she is upset. Poor Hen. She didn’t like the idea of tonight and she dislikes the reality even more. But it wasn’t my idea - so I won’t feel guilty, not yet. I reach into my back pack and pull out the trowels. The big square old fashioned one comes first. This is for me. I found it in our shed - it belonged to my father. I grip the heavy handle, imagining him clutching it tightly, the way the dark wood would have dug into his cracked skin. It looks like him, this trowel – weather-beaten and sure of itself. The fresh-looking green one is for Hen; it has a pattern of white daisies trailing along its side. I saw it yesterday in a shop window and thought of her, out here, her worn blue coat covered in mud, her pained expression. She hates getting dirty. The bright looking woman at the counter smiled when I told her the spade was for my little sister. I pass it over now and Hen just sniffs. She holds it at arm’s length, as if she’s worried it might bite at her spindle fingers. I wonder if she will start crying. I hope not; her nose always runs and I’ll have to clean it up. I crouch down low so I can look into her eyes and sure enough, the tears are pooling there. I wipe at them with my sleeve. ‘Don’t, Hen’, I say.  At this, she breaks out into sobs – whiny, rattling cries that hurt my ears. She’s probably been holding them in since we left the house. I put my hand to her mouth and tell her to hush, to stop being silly. She wraps her arms tight around my neck, too quickly and it takes me by surprise - I stagger a little, getting my balance so I can hold her up properly.

‘I want to go home, Zach,’ she whispers; ‘We can’t go home,’ I say. I rub her back in soothing circles. I often wonder at how thin Hen is; I can feel every knob of her spine, each individual ridge. She feels so fragile. ‘Why not?’ she says. I stop with the circles. I don’t want to get annoyed at her, but sometimes it’s very difficult. ‘We made a promise.’ I prise her off me and set her back down. She looks up at me imploringly, with stupidly big eyes. ‘I don’t want to do it. I don’t like getting dirty,’ she says, in her tiny voice. I sigh. ‘I know you don’t– but you have to dig, Hen. It has to be both of us. We made a promise.’ She squints, her brow furrowed. I know she remembers - I remember. I straighten up and begin to walk forward, slowly and steadily, stepping out of the light. Hen trails behind me, mumbling to herself. I remember everything - the too warm day and the private room. I stop and reach out to touch the Mole Hill. My grandfather’s skin, a yellow colour. This is the spot. Bright sunshine pouring in through the open window, the blue and white bed. I push my trowel into the damp earth. Hospital sheets underneath my hands, stiff and unforgiving. Hen slipping off them, me hoisting her back up.

I start to dig. The air smelt of antiseptic and bile, and Grandfather had his eyes shut, like normal, but I could see his eyeballs moving, agitatedly, beneath the lids. A song was running through my head, sweet and unnameable. Hen was colouring, with her new crayons. Dig, dig. She had drawn a tiger wearing a bowtie - he looked happy. Dig, dig – Hen’s trowel has joined mine, and we’re gouging a wound, deep in the Mole Hill’s chest.  I heard my Grandfather take a sharp breath - his lids had opened. We locked eyes and I knew that for the first time in months, he had really seen us. He had seen me - my messy dark hair and my favourite patched jumper and my panic. Dig, dig. And then he saw Hen just the same and she cried ‘Granddaddy-o!’ and crawled up the bed and kissed his papery cheek. He smiled at her and it made my stomach clench. Dig, dig. I was about to call for someone when he gripped my wrist, too tight, and he said that he needed us to make a promise. Dig, dig - I need to find my torch, it’s in my backpack somewhere, I can’t see what I’m doing. It was so nice to hear his voice, even though it was husky and manic, and I nodded and Hen nodded and we both just stared at him, because he’s our Granddaddy-o and he was back, he was back. Dig, dig. He spoke quickly, like he was running out of time. I suppose he was. Go to the Mole Hill. You have to look for something for me. Dig, dig - my wrist is aching. I buried something. Dig, dig - Hen is sniffing again. It’s a secret thing. Dig, dig. I shouldn’t have put it there. Don’t cry, Grandfather. Please don’t cry. Dig, dig. You can’t tell anyone, Zachary. Or you, Henny. You have to go in the night, and pull it out. Get rid of it, stab it, burn it; you can’t tell your mother. Don’t tell your mother. This will show you where. On this napkin, see? Look where I’ve drawn it, Zach. Dig. Do you promise? Do you promise? Dig, dig. We promise, Grandfather.

My trowel has hit something soft and gooey and the Mole Hill has started to tremble a little. I reach inside the narrow hole we have made and although the feeling of it makes me want to retch, I get a grip on the thing. Hen is telling me to stop but I won’t, I won’t, I need to know what it is. It’s slick and it’s moving and I have to grasp at it with both hands, it’s so fat and fleshy. Once it’s out, I throw it down and furiously wipe my hands on my trousers.  I pick up my torch, so that I can look at it properly. Hen peers at it too, over my shoulder. It looks like a ball of dirty red jelly and it’s shaking, strangely. I hesitantly push my palm up against it. It pulses and throbs; it feels warm. I shine my torchlight upwards, onto the Mole Hill’s face. Its eyes have opened and it’s watching us, its mouth set in a silent scream. It looks frightened and pained, like something caught in a trap. For the first time, I understand. The Mole Hill is living. It is an animal. Hen drops down on her knees, next to me. She puts her hand out to touch the thing too. She strokes its side, ever so delicately, with her littlest finger. I hear her take a short, sharp breath and the wind blows hard suddenly, cool and strong against my lips. ‘It’s a heart. Grandfather made us dig up its heart,’ Hen whispers, quietly. ‘Put it back, put it back!’ I look at her and she stares back at me. I can see the tear tracks shining on her cheeks, pale salted silver. The thing has stopped shaking.

Grace Darbyshire