FOX!

 An indistinct but foul smell pervaded the room as Heather woke. Immediately a lightheaded sweaty flush spread from her lungs to her gut. She needed to vomit.

She swung her stiff legs to the wood floor and propelled herself into an unstable stand. She remembered last night – a party. Drink, cacophony, seven or eight furious and fast conversations, a bundling of her small nieces into an unexpected spare bed, more talking and drinking, dancing on the roof; dissatisfaction and fevered sleep. She pulled on last night’s crumpled clothes, stumbled to the toilet and failed to throw up.

 Ian was in the kitchen. “It stinks in that room”, she announced. “And it’s not me.”

He clumped up the wooden steps, then roared. “There’s shit in the cupboard, those bloody dogs are not fucking coming here again, bastards!”

There was a clattering of toenails on floorboards and Heather’s husband Frank emerged from another part of Ian’s house with their friendly animals, dog-smiling and enthusiastic. “They wouldn’t,” Frank insisted, but Ian was furious; “Just bloody look,” he grumbled.

The dogs shut in the kitchen, Heather, Ian and Frank stood in the spare bedroom. The two girls came in, bleary but lively. Frank peered inside the mostly empty built-in wardrobe, frowning. “That’s a fox poo,” he asserted. “It’s stickier and blacker than a dog’s.” “Poo, Gross!” yelled one of the girls, fake-retching. “I’m gonna be sick!” “I was, nearly,” Heather said.

Back around the kitchen table, Heather whispered excitedly to Frank. How did the fox get in and did it walk up the stairs?  Did it use the cat flap? Did it come in while they were partying, or when Heather was already asleep?

“East London fox-hunting would be a good sport, we could chase ‘em on bicycles” interjected Ian. “Bloody Tories” snapped Frank, “bringing back hunting”. He put on the TV, switching channels aimlessly.  “Jesus, another terrorist attack.”

Focused on the flickering images of destruction, Heather pretended not to hear Ian’s final ultimatum: “It can’t have been a fox. Those dogs are out, from today. No more visits.”

Ian was an idiot, she thought

 ***

The midday sun shone palely through the smudged windowpanes, bouncing off the glasses that Heather had washed and illuminating the dust on the mirror, which had developed a big crack. The air hung, heavy, laced with stale smoke and alcohol fumes.

Ian was so cross he thought his chest would burst. Angrily he fiddled with the ancient cat flap. “It won’t lock, dammit,” he muttered to himself.

Heather and Frank banged into the room swinging voluminous bags, with two dogs and two children in tow. “See you then,” said Frank. “Bye Ian,” added the girls. Heather said nothing. Ian grunted a farewell as his guests filed out into the street. “Nice party, thanks, mate” were Frank’s parting words.

Alone, Ian got out the laptop and sitting at the table he opened Google and typed: “fox shit” then changed it to “fox poo” He waited for the images to flash up, clicked on a few, sighed then lolled in his chair.

Frank and Heather were old friends, possibly his best friends. But they always knew best. And they seemed to care more about their dogs and about their nieces than they did about him. He had thrown a great party and let them all stay the night, but that wouldn’t matter now. They would be angry with him. It just wasn’t fair.

It struck him then that the droppings upstairs looked bigger than the Internet pictures he’d seen, and his mood improved. Perhaps he was right after all, and a dog had been the culprit. He needed to check.

 He seized some kitchen roll, a plastic bag and a bottle of disinfectant and stamped up the stairs. Outside the spare room door he double-folded two kitchen towels in one hand and held his breath. He barged in, swung open the wardrobe door and made a grab for the offending object. It was gone. Someone must have cleared it away. Looking round he saw that the bed was made. He sniffed: air freshener.

His anger rose again. Fuck. That was it. Someone would pay. Downstairs he went, back to the laptop.

Ian read on the computer that foxes are highly territorial, that they do go inside houses (mostly teenage foxes who know no better), that foxes have attacked people in East London, that foxes like watching schoolchildren and that that dogs injure more people than foxes.

What Ian actually took in was that foxes go inside houses and attack people.

 He walked over to the safe, jabbed his index finger four times to complete the code and opened the door. The single object inside was matt black and heavy in his hand. His Taser. He liked just having it. But he was also prepared to use it.

***

 It was dark outside now. The streetlights glowed orange and the flats opposite Ian’s house loomed high. In the alley between the tall buildings the air smelled clean from the recent squall. Everything dripped: the concrete balconies, the leafy sycamores, the black railings. A cyclist rode past and a fan of water radiated out, soaking Ian’s steel-toe workboots and the bottom of his black jeans. He remained motionless in his hiding-place, a boarded-up doorway by the flats’ shared bins.

 He was uncomfortable. His feet hurt, his beanie hat was hot, itching his baldness, and the Taser didn’t quite fit in his anorak pocket. He shifted position from left to right and wondered if there was a market for fox pelts. A proper taxidermist might want paperwork, but with their penchant for Victoriana, one of those hipster artists would likely buy a fox corpse, he thought. And they’d tan it themselves.

 A shriek disturbed his musings. There were two foxes opposite him, on the other side of the road, next to where his very own vintage Peugeot 405 slumbered. The larger of the two was staring straight at him. Its ginger coat gleamed and its eyes shone yellow in the reflected light. The animal’s head was down and forwards, as if sniffing him. A big one, thought Ian, and he sprang out of his hiding place and ran directly at the fox.

Ian was a fast runner despite his age. Years ago his Dad had coached boys’ sprinting teams and had made him join in, humiliating him at every chance over his smallness or his weakness. But he had become quick and tough.

 The man and the fox raced down the road past the bagel shop on the corner, hurdling soggy cardboard boxes. Heel to paw they sped past the 24-hour corner shop whose hidden basement held an illicit drinking den, swerved a scattering of its patrons smoking outside, and veered left into the housing estate.

 He stayed with the fox as the two of them careered across the estate. Over concrete paving, through plain communal gardens and down passageways they went, until the fox gained the advantage and disappeared around a corner out of sight. With a roar, Ian chucked his Taser recklessly in the fox’s direction as hard as he could, then doubled up wheezing.

 When he came round the corner into the cul-de-sac he could not comprehend what had happened. Had the Taser somehow struck the animal? The fox was crouched near the ground with the weapon in its mouth, as if it were a bone. To Ian’s anguish it then stood upright, flicked its head backwards once to get a better purchase on the object and started to walk away.

 “STOP!” screamed Ian, “DROP IT!” He jumped forwards as if to resume his pursuit. But instead of running, the fox turned and faced him. As it did so, it released the Taser onto the ground with a loud “clonk”.

 Bathed in diffused orange light, the man and the fox stood three yards apart. It was huge, Ian thought, as big as an Alsatian. He could see each black bristle on its pointed ears, on its dark feet. Its chin sparkled white. Its yellow eyes were unblinking.

 “What do you think you are doing?” It was the fox that spoke.

***

 “Don’t you dare speak or move,” said the fox. “There are things you need to hear.”

“I stole into your house last night; I use your cat door often. Jenny the feline is not disturbed by it. And your friends’ dogs know I am different and leave me be,” the fox said.

“I defecated in your wall space when your female friend was asleep. It smelt like a good place to relieve myself, and was reasonably protected.”

“This is the way of the world. Shit happens, as your kind say. But you have woven a conspiracy, which comes from fear and jealousy.”

Ian’s stomach reeled. “Eh?” he managed.

“Too many humans are like you,” the fox continued. “They think they own territory that they don’t, because in reality no-one owns anything. Not ground, not space, not each other. Only Nature owns us all.”

“Humans are so afraid that someone or something will violate the territory they have occupied that they commit evil deeds. You wanted to kill me, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Ian admitted. The fox seemed to be growing in stature. He felt very confused.

“That kind of fear has no use,” explained the fox. “We animals need real fear. If we sense another animal that would eat us, we are afraid, and we flee; it’s simple. We don’t plan revenge or harbour resentment.”

“You humans smell danger where there is none but fail to spot it when it's real. Your fear instinct has gone awry. You over-react when it comes to your neighbours’ supposed transgressions - or to my shit, in this case. But you don’t notice when it comes to the big questions.”

“What big questions?” ventured Ian.

“Aren’t you afraid of what you humans are doing? Think about it,” ordered the fox, and with that, grasped the Taser in its jaw, tilted its head back a little, and loped off.

Ian didn’t try to follow.

 ***

The next morning, Ian called Frank.

 “About your dogs mate, of course they are welcome. Guess you were right and it was a fox that did it. What you got on today, will you drop round later?”

Last night seemed a long time ago. He looked out of the window on to the street and smiled. Despite the grey day, everything was all right.

The bagel shop was doing a crisp trade; there was a queue inside. A group of girls emerged in school uniform, clutching paper bags, ponytails bobbing in unison as they hurried along. Two men in hard hats and fluorescent vests sat on the damp floor sipping from cans labelled “Zywiec.”  A woman with a bright scarf tied around her head arranged bunches of greenery; mint or coriander perhaps, he couldn’t quite see, outside the 24-hour shop. The shiny red peppers, green chillis, plump tomatoes, pale bananas: all seemed within his reach. His Peugeot was gleaming softly in the morning light.

On his TV was a review of election broadcasting. A nice-looking young woman was talking. “I don’t understand why everyone in this room seems so keen on killing millions of people with a nuclear bomb,” and the audience whooped. Ian switched channels, looking for golden oldies.

The doorbell rang. Outside were two white women, one about his age and one a lot older. They both smiled nervously. “Hello, we’re from the Labour Party’” the younger one started. Ian banged the door shut. Hadn’t they seen the sign saying “no traders”?

He called Frank again.

“Listen mate, I’m going to board up that old cat flap. It’s a security thing, really. Jenny doesn’t use it much anyway; she goes in and out of the bathroom window. Can you bring your toolbox when you pop round? Great, thanks mate.”

***

 Frank was annoyed, he’d been working all day and now he was banging wood over Ian’s cat flap. Ian was nowhere to be seen.

 At least it wasn’t raining, he thought. The wind was up though. The sycamores swished. On the other side of the road a big rusty fox ran between the parked cars. “Hey boy” Frank called hopefully.

***

Ian woke with a start, feeling cold. The green letters on his clock radio flickered; 3am. He turned his head and was nose to nose with the fox. Its breath was foul and fishy. The beast was standing at the side of his single bed, its head hanging down to meet his. It was far too big to be a normal fox.

The fox’s eyes glinted in the grey air. “You thought you could stop me by blocking up the cat flap. You’re ridiculous. I came in through the bathroom window,” it breathed. “And I brought some friends.”

Ian gagged and squinted. He could hardly see anything but he could hear a movement, a whispering and fidgeting. There was a smell in his bedroom: a mix of the reptile house in London Zoo and wet marshland.

“When I reveal myself to humans,” the fox continued, “I do not expect to be ignored.”

A huge flapping crow flew out of the darkness at Ian’s head. He screeched and tried to roll sideways. As he moved to avoid the bird he shuddered; he was connected to the bed via thousands of sticky webs. Spiders dotted his body. He screamed at the top of his voice, sat up, shook himself, swivelled round and planted his feet on the floor but instead of carpet, he encountered something cold and flaccid; slugs. He recoiled and retreated, sitting with his back to the headboard, brushing off spiders, his eyes wildly scanning the room.

Ian could not stop shaking. In the gloom he looked to the window for escape, then saw that the ivy outside had grown over the glass and was pushing its tendrils inside, through gaps in the frame. Something brushed his face and stung: a nettle that was emerging in the space between the mattress and the now mossy headboard. He recognised the twittering of bats. Terrified, he regarded the fox still at his side.

 “Rodents” summoned the fox, “shred those magazines!” In response a rippling mass of beings surged from under Ian’s bed and swarmed over his precious collection of car titles. Ian squeaked. His heart thumping, he patted the bed, frantically searching.

“It’s no use looking for your 'phone, I’ve taken it - just as I took your Taser,” said the fox. “You will face me naked without those artificial trappings. This is my last warning. You will change your ways. Or we will destroy you.”

A large black beetle tickled Ian’s toe. He vomited on the bed.

“Tell me what you know about yourself,” ordered the fox.

 There was pure silence. The animal noises had stopped.

 “I think I like people, and animals,” Ian spluttered, the vomit still sour in his throat. “But then I behave the opposite way.”

 His eyes itched. “I would like to be open and warm and loving and have everyone be my friend. I have my cat Jenny, Heather and Frank – but even they don’t like me very much.”

 He thought about his father. His father hadn’t liked him much. He’d bullied him.

A car alarm went off in the street.

He looked the fox in the eye. “I get it. I’m afraid, in a fucked-up human way. So you’ve scared me the animal way.”

 A tear escaped down his cheek.

 ***

It was polling day, a bright sunny London morning. Ian almost skipped as he walked up from voting. He’d thought about his choice of politician and opted for the many, not the few.

His father wouldn’t have liked it. An intransigent Conservative to the last, he'd detested any kind of left-winger and loved Margaret Thatcher. Late in life he would sit with his pipe in the lounge of his small terraced house, wearing a yellow monogrammed jumper, uttering expletives as he expounded on the wrongdoings of the trade unions, of the Greenham Common protesters, of anyone who criticized the police.

Ian hadn’t disagreed with his father. But now things were different. He really didn’t want to be afraid any more.

A plastic bag swung against his thigh; he’d bought a new cat flap from the scruffy hardware shop, an outpost of normality amongst the new-fangled coffee and gin joints in his neighbourhood. He needed to shop there more often, he thought, and support local business. He’d buy some tools.

On the corner of his road, he greeted his neighbours easily; a cheerful “alright” to the builders outside the bagel shop, and a quick chat with a lady outside the corner supermarket, about which vegetables were best right now. “Fancy a cuppa?” he said to the man squatting on the pavement with a white fluffy dog in his lap, a rainbow array of pastel drawings in front of him and a paltry selection of coins in a cup. “I can bring one out for you.” He pulled a few heavy pounds from his pocket and they banged into the tinny receptacle.

He unlocked his door, and as he did he glanced down at Frank’s neat woodwork. 

He dialled his friend. “Alright, mate; thanks for boarding up the cat flap, but I’m going fix it after all. I can do it myself though. Do you fancy a big dinner tonight? You could bring Heather and invite your sister; the girls too if you like, and the dogs of course.”

Without waiting for a reply he continued on: “Oh yeah, you can tell Heather I've voted. Labour, like she said. For the kids, for the future.”

Several streets away, Frank put his mobile ‘phone down and turned to Heather with a meaningful look.

“It’s happened; Ian’s met Mister Fox.”

“About time,” she replied.

THE END