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Kate Marsh and Edward Little are no strangers to the Community Hall. For the former, it is a strange kind of home. Temporary, perhaps. Perhaps not. She has nowhere else to go, and lacks the nerve to find somewhere on her own — finding safety in numbers. For the latter, it is another part of this community to patrol, to check on those who dwell within. The former is one of those he checks in on frequently, ever since that day on the edge of the Basin’s cliffs.
Some days, he comes across Kate as she sits at the tables. She may be hunched over her bible, neatly writing in the pages, highlighting passages before turning to her notes. Or perhaps she’s drawing, and she will lift up the paper to show him with a small smile to see what he thinks.
The style is… modern, he thinks. But she’s very good, and he will gently compliment her work. She’s happy for the kind words, and Kate tells him how she’d like to be a children's book writer and illustrator one day. It is a fitting career for her, he thinks. These are good days.
Some days, he lingers in the doorway to the kitchen where she can be found — humming church hymns as she washes dishes. Occasionally, she slips into the words: a low, sweet voice for a line or two before she lapses back into humming once more.
He listens for a moment before he remembers it is impolite to eavesdrop and he makes his presence known. She is in brighter spirits, talkative as she works. Those too are good days.
Some days, which are his favourite of all, he arrives just at the right time of day to catch her when she plays her violin. She told him once that Mozart was her favourite, and she knows how much he enjoys hearing her play. He removes his cap, tucks it under his arm to listen, an engaged and enthralled audience.
Sometimes, her gaze lifts and she catches his — realising he’s come to listen to her play. Her smile is shy, but there’s a little more enthusiasm to her bow work. Those are good days, perhaps even the best days.
But not all days are good days.
Of course, there are days where she cannot be found at the tables, by the fire, or in the kitchen. The air is bereft of music. Edward feels it in his stomach, a tightening dread, his footsteps a little quicker as he moves through the Hall to find her. His heart booms in his chest, a hammer against taut cloth: Not again, he worries. Please, not again.
The Voice has made no further move on her, he thinks. But he cannot be sure. The threat of it hangs over them all.
She lies on top of her cot, turned away — hair wilted and wild from last night’s sleep (or sleepless night, perhaps). Kate hides her face into white deer fur, the blanket she was gifted by the mysterious spectral stag that stalked the town and its outskirts for a few weeks. Her fingers curling and uncurling into it over and over, staring into the soft blankness of it with vacant eyes. She doesn’t know if the action soothes her, or if she’s too restless.
Footsteps approach, boots slowing and then… growing careful. She considers feigning sleep, but doesn’t have the energy to. She doesn’t have the energy to do anything. She’ll hear his voice, hushed and thick with concern. He calls her name.
She doesn’t answer him. There is silence.
Edward’s hands flex at his sides, he considers for a moment. He does not know if he should retreat or persist, but settles on the latter. He cannot abide the former, nothing in him will allow it.
‘Are you unwell, Miss Marsh?’ he asks gently. ‘Shall I fetch Doctor Goodsir?’
She doesn’t answer him.
‘Miss Marsh, I—’ he does not finish. Kate cannot see his face, she doesn’t know what he’s doing, what his face looks like. The silence seems to last an age, and Kate soon hears the sound of his boots retreat.
It doesn’t last long. Once more, they draw close and suddenly there’s a blur of greatcoat, and the sound of something being put down on the floor in the walkway space that separates her cot from the one next to hers. A chair. One of the foldable ones used at the tables. Kate doesn’t react, her eyes feel heavy.
‘Forgive me.’ his voice is hushed, and Kate wonders what he’s done to be forgiven for because she can’t seem to think of anything.
Edward sits, and is silent. She hears him inhale deeply, the chair creaks with it. His entire body swelling with it and then deflating with the exhale. He does not move for some time after that. He looks down at her for a moment, brows knitted.
Kate’s eyes stare into the deer fur, her fingers close around the faint hairs — she thinks of dog fur, if dog fur could ever be as soft. Maybe it could. She likes dogs. Dogs are nice. Wagging tails, cold noses. There was a dog here, once. It’s gone now. She never got to pet it.
It’s funny, she thinks. There are other dogs here. One is right here. They call it that, don’t they? The big, black dog. She’s sure it’s on her now, some huge and monstrous thing, lying on top of her — too heavy to move, suffocating her. The dog is so tired and sad, and it crushes her beneath it. Bad dog, sad dog.
He shifts a little. In the blurred peripherals, she sees it: he offers a hand out to her, palm upwards. The words replay in her mind: If you are drifting, then I will extend my hand to hold onto you. Please— know that there is a hand there, and so long as you are in this place, it will be there. Please know that.
Here is another kind of dog, she thinks. Not a big black one, but brown. This one is tired and sad, too. He does not crush her, but sits beside her: watchful and still, attentive. This dog is a blessing.
Silently, her hand lifts from the fur and finds his, fingers curling to grip it. His skin is cracked and rough. Edward grips her hand gently in return, offering a slight squeeze.
Finally, he speaks:
‘Today is not a good day.’ he states quietly, and the worry bleeds through. She wishes she could grasp at the shame it makes her feel, but it too is smothered by the dog above her. She is sorry, always sorry.
‘No.’ her voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from not speaking in so long.
‘I understand.’ Edward nods once, then wets his lips. ‘Have you need of anything else?’
The silence is short: ‘No, this is okay.’
Edward shifts slightly in his chair, as if to settle himself. His head dips slightly. Perhaps he might try to coax her out of her cot, in time. But for now, his watch begins. A tired and sad dog. Gently, he squeezes her hand again, as if to make a point with his next words.
‘Then you shall have my hand for as long as you need it.’
Some days, he comes across Kate as she sits at the tables. She may be hunched over her bible, neatly writing in the pages, highlighting passages before turning to her notes. Or perhaps she’s drawing, and she will lift up the paper to show him with a small smile to see what he thinks.
The style is… modern, he thinks. But she’s very good, and he will gently compliment her work. She’s happy for the kind words, and Kate tells him how she’d like to be a children's book writer and illustrator one day. It is a fitting career for her, he thinks. These are good days.
Some days, he lingers in the doorway to the kitchen where she can be found — humming church hymns as she washes dishes. Occasionally, she slips into the words: a low, sweet voice for a line or two before she lapses back into humming once more.
He listens for a moment before he remembers it is impolite to eavesdrop and he makes his presence known. She is in brighter spirits, talkative as she works. Those too are good days.
Some days, which are his favourite of all, he arrives just at the right time of day to catch her when she plays her violin. She told him once that Mozart was her favourite, and she knows how much he enjoys hearing her play. He removes his cap, tucks it under his arm to listen, an engaged and enthralled audience.
Sometimes, her gaze lifts and she catches his — realising he’s come to listen to her play. Her smile is shy, but there’s a little more enthusiasm to her bow work. Those are good days, perhaps even the best days.
But not all days are good days.
Of course, there are days where she cannot be found at the tables, by the fire, or in the kitchen. The air is bereft of music. Edward feels it in his stomach, a tightening dread, his footsteps a little quicker as he moves through the Hall to find her. His heart booms in his chest, a hammer against taut cloth: Not again, he worries. Please, not again.
The Voice has made no further move on her, he thinks. But he cannot be sure. The threat of it hangs over them all.
She lies on top of her cot, turned away — hair wilted and wild from last night’s sleep (or sleepless night, perhaps). Kate hides her face into white deer fur, the blanket she was gifted by the mysterious spectral stag that stalked the town and its outskirts for a few weeks. Her fingers curling and uncurling into it over and over, staring into the soft blankness of it with vacant eyes. She doesn’t know if the action soothes her, or if she’s too restless.
Footsteps approach, boots slowing and then… growing careful. She considers feigning sleep, but doesn’t have the energy to. She doesn’t have the energy to do anything. She’ll hear his voice, hushed and thick with concern. He calls her name.
She doesn’t answer him. There is silence.
Edward’s hands flex at his sides, he considers for a moment. He does not know if he should retreat or persist, but settles on the latter. He cannot abide the former, nothing in him will allow it.
‘Are you unwell, Miss Marsh?’ he asks gently. ‘Shall I fetch Doctor Goodsir?’
She doesn’t answer him.
‘Miss Marsh, I—’ he does not finish. Kate cannot see his face, she doesn’t know what he’s doing, what his face looks like. The silence seems to last an age, and Kate soon hears the sound of his boots retreat.
It doesn’t last long. Once more, they draw close and suddenly there’s a blur of greatcoat, and the sound of something being put down on the floor in the walkway space that separates her cot from the one next to hers. A chair. One of the foldable ones used at the tables. Kate doesn’t react, her eyes feel heavy.
‘Forgive me.’ his voice is hushed, and Kate wonders what he’s done to be forgiven for because she can’t seem to think of anything.
Edward sits, and is silent. She hears him inhale deeply, the chair creaks with it. His entire body swelling with it and then deflating with the exhale. He does not move for some time after that. He looks down at her for a moment, brows knitted.
Kate’s eyes stare into the deer fur, her fingers close around the faint hairs — she thinks of dog fur, if dog fur could ever be as soft. Maybe it could. She likes dogs. Dogs are nice. Wagging tails, cold noses. There was a dog here, once. It’s gone now. She never got to pet it.
It’s funny, she thinks. There are other dogs here. One is right here. They call it that, don’t they? The big, black dog. She’s sure it’s on her now, some huge and monstrous thing, lying on top of her — too heavy to move, suffocating her. The dog is so tired and sad, and it crushes her beneath it. Bad dog, sad dog.
He shifts a little. In the blurred peripherals, she sees it: he offers a hand out to her, palm upwards. The words replay in her mind: If you are drifting, then I will extend my hand to hold onto you. Please— know that there is a hand there, and so long as you are in this place, it will be there. Please know that.
Here is another kind of dog, she thinks. Not a big black one, but brown. This one is tired and sad, too. He does not crush her, but sits beside her: watchful and still, attentive. This dog is a blessing.
Silently, her hand lifts from the fur and finds his, fingers curling to grip it. His skin is cracked and rough. Edward grips her hand gently in return, offering a slight squeeze.
Finally, he speaks:
‘Today is not a good day.’ he states quietly, and the worry bleeds through. She wishes she could grasp at the shame it makes her feel, but it too is smothered by the dog above her. She is sorry, always sorry.
‘No.’ her voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from not speaking in so long.
‘I understand.’ Edward nods once, then wets his lips. ‘Have you need of anything else?’
The silence is short: ‘No, this is okay.’
Edward shifts slightly in his chair, as if to settle himself. His head dips slightly. Perhaps he might try to coax her out of her cot, in time. But for now, his watch begins. A tired and sad dog. Gently, he squeezes her hand again, as if to make a point with his next words.
‘Then you shall have my hand for as long as you need it.’
