annashay 
by Jude Cook
‘He’s up there watching us now, probably. With his binoculars.’
‘But you’ve got binoculars too, yeah?’
‘Of course, but just to keep an eye on old René.’
‘Not young René?’
‘No. Young René’s my neighbour. A good guy, mostly. Cuts back the bindweed with his scythe and tends the kitchen garden when I’m away. This is old René, up in the hills there…’
Marcus pointed to a house that stood in a gap between the deep mesh of pines and untamed ferns; a wilderness that wound around the mountain like a verdant green blanket, and probably had done for millennia. As a guest at Marcus’s Languedoc villa, on a month-long writing sabbatical, I had a duty to listen; though I wasn’t particularly interested in local sagas or soap-operas. Pages from my unfinished book stood on the table at which we both sat, and I was impatient to go over them. But something about this new information—that we might be observed—made me sit up. After all, I had been sunbathing in my polka-dot boxers during the dazed hour before his arrival.
‘How long’s he been there?’
‘Decades. Ever since I’ve had the place anyway…’
Marcus was a friend of my father’s, an old boy now, with papery skin and a mop of white hair. He had bought the place with his wife, and converted what was basically a barn into a sumptuous villa. A summer retreat until they separated, the house had enticed him back each year to tend his vines. He had become quite the paysan.
I looked across the valley with new eyes. An escarpment of gravel. A neat verandah shrouded with apple and pear trees. A glimpse of a beached farm truck or digger. Mysterious windows where the dazzle of a lens might’ve been discovered on a sunny day. But otherwise nothing. Not even a rustle from the wind, a force majeure that had died down after a week of taking up tablecloths and uprooting parapluies.
‘Keeps himself to himself?’
‘Now he does, after what occurred with Young René.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t think it to look at him, but Young René and his missus are secret tokers.’
I thought of my handful of encounters with the local couple: the husband a small but capable family man, with mischievous eyes behind thick lenses, made all the more impenetrable by the goggles he wore while hedge-strimming in the lane. His wife, Claire, usually swayed behind, heavy-hipped, sweeping up the debris. Sometimes he was there on his own, lugging a scythe. They had two small children, Eve and Denis, who drove their stabilized pushbikes up and down the tiny hamlet. They seemed respectable, hard-working, honest. Even though they’d been resident for almost ten years, they were still looked upon as newcomers.
Marcus continued: ‘They grew plants for a while, for recreational use only, of course. Everyone in the village knew, but turned a blind eye. Unfortunately, they had more than the allowable minimum, which is six or something daft. Exceed that and you’ve got a factory; you’re a dealer. They were okay until “someone” shopped them to the police.’
‘And that was the old man?’
Marcus smiled. ‘Who knows? Young René was suspended from his job in Narbonne; bringing shame on his family in Toulouse. Nothing could be done, though… He’s in with the police, Old René. That’s why I keep a watch on him when he’s here…’
‘What happened after the cops came?’
‘Well, that’s where it gets interesting, because in these woods you have wild boar. And as far as the village and the authorities are concerned, they belong to everyone and no-one. It’s the people’s birthright, you see, to hunt and kill boar.’
‘Unlike Henry the eighth’s deer, then, in the New Forest?’
‘Yeah, they’re allowed to slaughter everything but their young. The boar’s young, that is… But they have to be allowed to grow to maturity, to run free.’
I thought of the ancient country laws that the locals still secretly lived by. A system of barter was still operative in some areas. Impose all the sanctions you like, but the great hereditary system of internal governance, passed from father to son, will still prevail.
‘Did Young René ever get even?’
‘More than even. Let me tell you how Young René got his own back. It’s not without some terrible scenes, I should warn you. It all began one autumn, about three years ago. The dope-smoking paterfamilias had just got his job back and things seemed to return to normal. Then they were woken up one night by this terrible sound. A kind of distressed honking; an animal certainly, but not obvious as to what animal until the morning. Turned out it was a donkey, and it belonged to Old René. Had it tied to a post up there, God knows for what purpose. But braying didn’t seem to describe the incredible racket it kept up all night. The word derives from the Old French brait, to shriek. A unique verb, I think, in that it was invented especially for a species. Anyway, the damn thing kept it up nearly every night. Some in the village were up in arms, especially Young René and his wife. Others though, after a week, claimed they had become used to it; that it was only another ‘country sound’, like the squawk of a cockerel or the coo of a woodpigeon.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘So young René goes up there, to the house on the hill, to confront the old man. He’s resolved to say nothing about blowing the whistle on the dope plants, as he wants a quiet life. Plus, he has no proof. But immediately when the old buzzard comes to the door, a row develops—’
‘I’m not surprised. What does Old René do for a living, by the way? Is he a farmer?’
‘Used to be. He gets by on mysterious means now. On rare sightings, he’s always dressed superbly; manicured, tall, gaunt, with this big Gallic nose that wouldn’t be out of place on a coin… Anyhow, when Young René comes to complain about the donkey, the old fella immediately lays down the law about his rights as a gentleman landowner, et cetera. At which point, Young René, still in his tatty work clothes, begins shouting about how Old René shopped him to the cops. Old René holds up his hands in denial. He had nothing to do with it, he protests. They must have been dealing drugs: and judging by Young René’s appearance, that’s exactly what his real occupation is, where his real income originates. And how long had his family been in the village anyway? Ten minutes? He’s been there a lifetime, as had his father and his father before that.
‘Fuming, vowing murder, Young René descends the mountain and calls his wife and kids for a conference. Sitting down in his big kitchen, which is always a mess of saucisse skins and children’s toys, he declares war on Old René. Claire supports him, as does his son, Denis. Little Eve starts crying. That night the donkey seems louder than ever, as if the old man had somehow turned up its volume control. The braying seemed to be in their very bedrooms, if not inside their minds…’
‘These squabbles always blow over in the end,’ I sighed, trying to imagine what the nightly braying of an ass would do to my nerves. The quality of silence at Marcus’ villa—a deep, pindrop solitude—had been restorative to the soul. It had enabled me to write much; to concentrate fully after the chaos of my London life.
‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? After all, Old René was right. In many ways, he’s the village elder. Newcomers should respect his seniority or accept the consequences. But noise pollution has a way of getting under the skin, of turning people crazy…
‘So Young René finally hits on his method of revenge when boar hunting season comes around. He had been taught to hunt as a child and was confident he could bag his first kill in the surrounding woods. A big female had been on the rampage for weeks, obviously on the lookout for food for her young. So René goes out with half the village, and by sundown he’s trapped the mother boar and discovered the litter. Four pups, or boarlets—which he takes back. Two die, two survive. Eve and Denis end up with one each. Strictly against local custom, of course. You can’t rear boar pups to eat. You can only hunt them when they reach maturity— that way it’s fair for everyone, and the old ways prevail. It’s all goes back to the Revolution: before that, only nobles were allowed to hunt; afterwards, everyone suddenly had the right. Old René, fancying himself a bit of a nobleman, was livid when he found out—which he only did when he saw the boar’s feet nailed to Young René’s front door, another ancient custom. Then, to taunt the old boy further, the following week there’s a big party to cook the mother boar. Ten courses! I was done after the second. Went on till six am, drinking and dancing—and weed-smoking—with the youth of the nearby town invited. Drowned out the noise of the donkey at least. Of course, everyone was invited except Old René—even the pedzouille you get to never get to see.’
‘The Bumpkins?’ Pedzouille were yokels, or hicks, an expression Marcus had used more than once to describe the local populace. ‘What happened to the pups?’
‘They became special property of the kids. They doted on them. Gave them names, dressed them up in the yard, fed them a special maize. They loved to stroke their striped backs, which had the same colouring as the brown seams on a humbug. They’d have taken them to bed instead of their teddy bears if Young René had allowed it. Then something terrible happened. I told you the story wasn’t without crazy scenes. One morning, little Eve comes down to check on her boar pup—terribly excited; you know how kids are; up before anyone else, in her nightgown. And what does she find when she gets to the pen? Both the young pups lying on their side in the straw, their throats cut. She’s hysterical, as you can imagine. The way René tells it, she walked into the marital bedroom with a pup under each arm, sobbing wildly, her nightgown covered in blood, like a mini-Medea.’
‘Jesus…’
‘Yeah. Claire nearly had a heart attack. Thought her daughter had been stabbed, until the girl dropped the pups on the floor. A bloodbath.’
‘What did Young René do?’
‘He runs straight up there to confront the old man, knocking the apples and pears off the old boy’s precious trees as he goes. Old René answers the door, impeccably dressed, like Victor Hugo, and pleads innocence. It was news to him, apparently. If he’d crept in during the night he must’ve have changed, as his clothes would’ve have been drenched in gore. So Young René leaves, able to do murder himself, and catches a glimpse, for the first time of the donkey. It’s smaller than he imagined: female, a squat grey thing, seemingly as ancient as the old boy himself. Amazing that such a small, desiccated nag could keep up such a racket all night. A fine couple they make, thinks René, and goes back to comfort his family.
‘The following day, the pups get a decent burial in Young René’s yard, after which he broods, torn up with vengeful thoughts, for a full week. Denis and Eve are traumatized. They think the old bogey man will sneak in at any moment and slice their throats too. Seven long nights pass, in which the honk of the donkey seems to be louder, if possible, than before.
‘And then, on the eighth night, it just stops. No one knows why. It’s as if a shadow has been lifted from the whole village. It’s miraculous. Immediately, rumours start to circulate. Then they discover that the old man has vanished too. That fires have been lit, to burn unknown substances in the night. That the police have intervened.’
‘Why did the donkey stop?’ I asked. ‘Did you ever find out?’
Marcus narrowed his eyes, looking directly at me. ‘Young René told me one night after we’d downed a couple of bottles of Minervois. He’d been unable to stand the sound any longer, so he’d gone up there in the middle of the night with his scythe and lopped the donkey’s head off… Left it on Old René’s doorstep. He knew the bastard tended to his fruit trees every morning, so the old boy would’ve tripped over it, ruining his fine velvet trousers…’
I was speechless. I had seen this scythe before; remembered it well. Young René used it to cut back the paths next to Marcus’ villa—it was old, rusty, magnificent; but daunting, almost too big to wield.
‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing. The old man disappeared, but he’s back in the house now. Nobody sees him anymore. Just the glint of his binoculars. However, now none of the kids in the village can sleep at night, understandably. Despite the new silence, or maybe because of it, they fear their tender throats might be next…’
And here Marcus pulled a finger quickly across his neck, making a harsh zipping sound. I looked about me, thinking, paradoxically, of London and its multitudes. Even with all this untrammelled space, this freedom, this great godlike silence, people couldn’t live in close proximity, couldn’t learn to love their neighbour. I looked up at Old René’s vacant house, and then at the ancient hills. Two buzzards had started to swoop and slice the summer air above the verdant, vine-plotted valley. At that moment, the wind, at bay all day, took on the corners of my manuscript and swept it from the table.
oOo
Jude Cook is the author of the novels Byron Easy (2013) and Jacob’s Advice (2020). In 2025, he launched a new press, Conduit Books. He reviews fiction for The Guardian, The Spectator, Literary Review, The TLS, and his short fiction has appeared in The Moth and The Tangerine. In 2017, he was longlisted for the Pin Drop RA Short Story Award, and in 2018 for the Colm Tóibín International Short Story Award. He is an Associate Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Westminster, and in 2025 was a judge for the Republic of Consciousness Prize for small presses.
Connect at www.judecook.com @judecook.
