Provocative Publishing

featuring the work of Carole Hayman

Hard Choices

© Carole Hayman

Prologue

The piercing October sunlight struck Imre full in the face as he panted out of the copse. He winced and screwed up his eyes, momentarily blinded after the resinous gloom. Across the field, the distinct howls of the pursuing pack indicated the hunt was not far away and after a brief gasp at the stabbing stitch in his side, he set off in a stumbling run towards the bramble hedge beyond which , he hoped, was a road.

His back was to the sun now and his vision cleared enough for him to see the frost of his breath on the still, blue air. In the distance he could make out the the splendid spires of Lord Ransome's mansion. Sunbeams blessed the gothic grey with a touch of Camelot. In the other direction reared the chimneys of the Ossophate factory; a white cloud of smoke puffed innocently above them, as if from a picture-book train.

The field he crossed was sprout green from recent rain. A cow, munching, raised her soft head and gave him an unconcerned glance, as though accustomed to seeing a man in fox skin, brush dangling, speeding by in the muddy grass. Raucous barks and the sound of hooves churning the sodden turf , urged him on. The bramble hedge, still blackberried and spotted here and there with bright splashes of poppy, offered dense sanctuary. Imre threw himself head-long into the tangle and, oblivious to scratches and snags, crashed through to the other side. A little further up the narrow lane, a chain-gang was working. With dull regularity their pick-axes rose and fell, scattering chips as they hacked into the surface. A large hole had already opened and the leader stopped to wipe his brow. He and Imre made eye contact. Not so much as a flicker visibly passed between them, but a moment later Imre dived into the hole and the gang, without pause in their automatic labour, covered him with rubble. The pointed snout of his fox-head disappeared, just as the first foaming horse cleared the hedge and clattered onto the tarmac. Through a mosaic of chinks Imre watched the hunt dither, the flecked horses snorting and stamping, the dogs winding in and out, whining. Then with a great bellow of the horn, the Master gestured onwards. His chestnut leapt the gate opposite and in seconds, the whole heaving, halloo-ing mob had followed. When all sound of it had gone and the day had settled back into a calm broken only by a skylark and the occasional weary grunt from a worker, Imre thrust an arm through the rubble and with the help of the leader's sinewy grip, clambered out of the hole. No words were spoken, but the leader dragged off Imre's pelt and offered him a tattered denim jacket and a bit of bread. Imre tried to say thankyou… that, at least, he knew in English, but his throat was choked with tears. The leader nodded and thumped his shoulder, then watched as the refugee set off up the road. Where, he wondered was he going? Imre too was wondering. His plan was to get to someone who would believe his story. Grace Fry, the Government Minister who'd recently opened the Re-location Centre, might. She'd seemed friendly, had taken his hand in a firm grip, but he had no idea how to find her. The air had warmed a little now and the sky turned deep cornflower. The sun filtered through the russet hedgerows and cast charming, lace-like patterns on the empty road ahead. Even in his despair, Imre could not help noticing that October was particularly beautiful that year. A thrush clucked. A church clock struck the hour. One might almost think all was right with the world…

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