The bent prongs of the fencing birthed modern sculpture. Functional metal twisted into aggressive, blunt artworks. Something powerful against a smooth, white floor.
I tried to convince myself that looking through the window was important to ensure no-one was hurt. To ensure a burglar was not helping themselves to screws and old corporate furniture. Not that I had a plan if someone was rooting about. But curiosity overruled fear.
Broken glass dusted the window pane, denying any chance of lifting myself up. However, a grit box sat close enough to allow the possibility of leaning over. I hopped up onto the receptacle, my walking boots providing extra grip, and stretched across. One foot dangled in the air.
A line of meat lockers studded the far wall. The kind with huge silver doors locked tight with a finger thick bolt. Each would tower over me if I was inside. Three remained shut tight. But the closest hung open like a broken wardrobe.
Silver hooks pierced the tops of icy meat from the top of this former freezing space. Tears and rips ran through each carcass like someone had attacked them with a pair of scissors. A few were bare ribs and hanging scraps of pink. Sheared bone smothered the floor, a pool of water the single reminder of the previous temperature.
Foxes was the word I used to process the situation. Glistening eyes by food waste bins. Yet this was chaos on a scale beyond garden wildlife. Hinges lay on the floor in corkscrews of gleaming steel. Scars ran up the doors. This was somewhere between an explosion and a massacre.
Full disclosure. I called the police. Although the damage appeared a few days old, it was not my place to assume someone else had taken responsibility. The words made no sense in my mouth to the woman on the phone, but she assured me someone would investigate. That I did not need to worry.
I hesitated about walking further down the path. I know this is illogical, but it made me feel like if I kept going I would find another scene of destruction. Only this one would still be in progress, with streams of blood dribbling into the undergrowth.
I found a set of battered teps around the side of the building, and prayed they lead me to the main road. Brambles tore at my arms in a gap between two hedgerows not much bigger than my waist. But at last the thick white line on tarmac appeared through a gap in the thorns.
The moon offers no answers to what happened. Let's hope the police can make more sense of the carnage.
It makes me wonder what could be around any corner on the walks ahead. But then I suppose that is the point of this book.
::Nuts, Barbara. Nuts. Yet I cannot lie. My first thought was what a perfect anecdote this was. But why on Earth was no-one around?
Perhaps this is countryside life. You accept that wild creatures take your food. That pile of burnt rubbish sticks with me. Were they trying to push something away?
I’ve highlighted where the undergrowth has collapsed in my photo near the steps. Perhaps this is where the creature came from::
