{"id":422,"date":"2019-04-30T09:27:24","date_gmt":"2019-04-30T08:27:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/?page_id=422"},"modified":"2023-02-11T16:30:15","modified_gmt":"2023-02-11T16:30:15","slug":"little-red-running-hood","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/little-red-running-hood\/","title":{"rendered":"Little Red Running Hood"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Little Red Running Hood<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

a short story<\/p>\n\n\n\n

by<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kathryn Clark<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You wake up running. There\u2019s pain, heel to hip. But pain is good. You know you\u2019re still alive. It washes out the mind muck. Already everything is clearer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The nettles at the side of the path are\ntaller than your waist. The elder flowers are already gone, gathered by the\ncordial makers. In their place are infant berries, green, like baby peas. This\npath used to be the railway track. On one side is a stream, on the other, the\nroad beyond the trees. You are safe here, sure that if you run for long enough you\nwill catch up to that tiny dot on your horizon. Don\u2019t know what it is, except\nthat it\u2019s important. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trees weep green life all around. You could keep going forever, flying through the forest. But in the space between songs on your headphones something makes you stop. Press pause. There – the staccato sobs of a baby beyond distress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Look around. There\u2019s no one. No other\nrunner, no silent cyclist, no dog walker. You head towards the sound. There in\nthe velvety crook of a fallen tree lies a baby, naked, on a cushion of last\nseason\u2019s leaves. Face screwed up like a ball of unwanted paper, he\u2019s been crying\nso long there are no tears left. His legs are rigid with fury, and his hands\nare fists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You call out. There must be someone here. Someone\nhurt perhaps, taken ill.  But there\u2019s no\none, no sign of his mother, no pram, nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What can you do? You kneel before him. He\nneeds to be wrapped in something. All you have on under your top is an old\nsports bra. It\u2019s sludgy pink from badly managed washing, with elastic worn to silver\nstretch marks. But there\u2019s no choice. Your skin is sticky with salt as you pull\noff the hooded top. You wrap him in it. Pick him up. You call out again. Still\nno reply. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

You take the next path out of the forest toward the roaring road. You pull the baby close to your chest, try to cover the jelly ring of stomach hanging over your leggings. The sunlight dazzles you. The cars are driving fast. No one notices a half naked woman with a baby standing on the pavement. So you step out into the road. A car stops. The smell of burning rubber hits your nose before the screech of tyres even ends. A man gets out. He\u2019s wearing sunglasses. His dark hair\u2019s a mess, like he\u2019s just got out of bed, and there\u2019s a shadow along his jaw. He stays on his side of the car and puts his hands on the roof.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Are you okay?\u2019 he asks. Horns bleat as\ncars veer round him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I found this baby in the wood.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He nods as if it\u2019s perfectly normal. No\ncause for alarm. \u2018Is the baby hurt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You shake your head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Are you hurt?\u2019 he asks<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Would you like to sit in the car?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You glance through the car window and see\na booster seat in the back. A family man. Safe. Your legs are feeling weak so you\nsay yes, then: \u2018Should we call the police?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Get in,\u2019 he says, \u2018I\u2019ll phone them.\u2019  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another driver jams a hand on the horn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I should get off the main road,\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every noise makes the baby quiver. You try\nto pull the seat belt around you both but it gets stuck. The man helps. There\nare dark brown hairs on the backs of his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018He seems to have calmed down,\u2019 the man says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You look down at the baby, sleeping now, eye\nlashes curling on the pillow of his cheek. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The car turns off into a shady lane. The\nman inspects his phone. \u2018No signal. Look, my house is just up the hill. I\u2019ll go\nand try on the landline,\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You feel uneasy now, but he\u2019s already set\noff again. You should have brought your mobile. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stops the car in a parking space\nsurrounded by trees. There\u2019s an old stone cottage. No other house in sight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Back in a minute,\u2019 he says, and he\u2019s out\nof the car. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s quiet except for the rustle of silver\nbirches, like soft rain falling. Through the window of the cottage you see him rush\nover to an old woman. She\u2019s holding a small child. The man takes his dark\nglasses off and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. The woman\ncomes over to the window and stares out at you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The baby in your arms snorts so you look\ndown. He\u2019s awake. For the first time you see his eyes. Shocking eyes for a\nbaby, not blue or brown, but a strange and beautiful amber. They gaze up at you.\nThere\u2019s a tap on the driver\u2019s window. You look up and see the same eyes in the\nface of the man. He opens the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Won\u2019t you come in?\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019re not sure. Something doesn\u2019t feel\nright, but then the baby, who has already pissed on you, starts to grunt and\nwrithe. You know what\u2019s coming next so you get out of the car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018My mother\u2019s here, too,\u2019 says the man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You can\u2019t tell if it\u2019s reassurance or a warning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kitchen is warm and tidy. He passes you\na nappy from a well-stocked changing bag. Just in time. His mother bustles into\nthe room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I\u2019ll take him.\u2019 She\u2019s brusque, efficient.\n                                                        <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But you hold the baby closer, unwilling to\ngive him up. With a sigh she goes to the fridge, takes out a bottle of formula\nmilk and puts it in the microwave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018You really shouldn\u2019t heat milk for a baby\nin that,\u2019 you say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018He\u2019s starving. This is the quickest way,\u2019\nshe says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man sits opposite you. The microwave beeps and the old lady fetches the bottle. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Will you feed him?\u2019 she asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You take the milk and flick a drop onto\nthe back of your hand. Not too hot. The baby is beside himself, twitching and\nmaking desperate noises, so you stick the bottle in his mouth, cooing at him, before\nyou wonder how you knew to do all that. The man is wiping his strange amber eyes.\nThe old lady is standing behind him, a piece of granite, hand on his shoulder,\nwatching you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Is this your baby?\u2019 you ask the man. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Where\u2019s his mother?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He swallows hard. Perhaps she\u2019s dead, you\nthink. Perhaps he\u2019s killed her. No, he doesn\u2019t seem the type. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Lost,\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What do you mean?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018There was an accident. Just after the\nbaby was born.\u2019  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What happened?\u2019 you ask.                                        <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018A fall. Head injuries. Some long-term\neffects. They may never go away. Intermittent memory loss. One minute everything\u2019s\nfine. The next it\u2019s not. I never know what I\u2019m going to find.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reaches into his jacket pocket and\nslides a piece of paper over the table to you. He\u2019s in the photo, younger, less\ncrumpled, wearing a suit and a smile. Next to him, his bride, fresh and slim,\nhappiness hovering like a halo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Is it?  Could it be? \nIs it you?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You have no memory of it, no memory of him.\nBut there\u2019s something \u2026 That dot in the distance. You stand up and pass the\nbaby across the table to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I need to go,\u2019 you say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Where?\u2019 he asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Back to the forest. Finish my run.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The forest is safe. The forest has the\nanswer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Don\u2019t go, Red,\u2019 he whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You move quickly to the front door, past the small boy sitting on the stairs. He runs to you, crushing your thighs in a man trap hug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u2018Don\u2019t\ngo away again, Mummy. Stay. Stay.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why is he calling you mummy?  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looks up at you, a smaller version of the man who brought you here. You have no memory of him either. You crouch down trying to release his grip and he frowns. That\u2019s when you see it, the crease between his eyebrows, like on your sister\u2019s face. It makes you pause, and he smiles. You see a flicker of your mother in there, too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Life floods back. The wet grass beneath bare feet on your wedding day. Your husband, the man in the kitchen. He smells of outside, fresh and green, wild garlic, oaky smoke. Eyes the colour of autumn leaves. He works in the woods. A forester. You remember your sons, two of them. Their damp hay scent when they sleep. It rushes back in, all of it. Even the accident.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You are on your haunches now arms around\nyour cub. The old woman has come out silently from the kitchen. Grandma, with\nher grim face, steel hair, ball bearing eyes. Her arms stretch out to your son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Come here,\u2019 she says to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But he won\u2019t. He won\u2019t go to her. He was\nthere the day you fell. He remembers too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kitchen door opens and there is your\nhusband holding the baby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Paul,\u2019 you say to him. That\u2019s his name,\nPaul. \u2018I remember. I remember everything.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018She\u2019s crazy,\u2019 says the old woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018It wasn\u2019t an accident,\u2019 you say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You remember the conversation in the\nhospital when he\u2019d told you his mother had come to stay, offered to help. You\ndidn\u2019t like the idea, but you could see he was sinking. It had been a long hard\nbirth after a difficult pregnancy. Then back and forth to the hospital, one\ncomplication after another. So you smiled and said it was fine. It would be\ngood to have some help. Only she had never left. Even when you felt better, and\nlife was back to normal, she stayed. She liked being Grandma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That morning, Paul had already gone to\nwork. You came down the stairs carrying the baby. On the little landing half\nway down, you turned when she said your name. Her closeness surprised you. She\nmust have been creeping. She took the baby from your arms and \u2013<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You don\u2019t tell Paul. You don\u2019t have to. It\u2019s\nyour son who says it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Mummy didn\u2019t fall. Grandma pushed her.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Paul! It\u2019s not true.\u2019 The old lady sounds shocked. She\u2019s masterful, but a three-year-old makes a fine witness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Paul turns from his mother and comes to\nyou. He puts the baby in your arms, crouches down with you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018You\u2019re really back?\u2019 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

You smile at him and nod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018You\u2019ll have to go, Mother.\u2019 He stands, turns to face her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the door slams. She\u2019s already gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The end<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Little Red Running Hood a short story by Kathryn Clark You wake up running. There\u2019s pain, heel to hip. But pain is good. You know you\u2019re still alive. It washes out the mind muck. Already everything is clearer. The nettles at the side of the path are taller than your waist. The elder flowers are … Continue reading “Little Red Running Hood”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-422","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/422","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=422"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/422\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/kathrynclarkwriter.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=422"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}