Benichtit / Benighted

Teepwriter

May 1

A short, dark farce of neighbourhood incompetence – Scots version on the left; English on the right

Cries and fitfaws ootside wauken me. Brainches snap and a tuil blatters aff the dounpipe. Some boy sweirs at the tuil's wielder.

Another boy, seemingly the tuil's wielder, dings ma windae and girns, "Whit're we huntin fur again?"

Whae are these unco fowk? Why the stramash? Ah keek at ma bedside clock: back ae wan.

Shouts and footfalls outside wake me. Branches snap and a tool clangs off the downpipe. Some guy curses the tool's wielder.

Another guy, seemingly the tool's wielder, clonks my window and moans, "Whit're we huntin' fur again?"

Who are these strange folk? Why the commotion? I glance at my bedside clock: back of one.

Mair reeshlin, then a female vyce: "How'm Ah s'posed tae see onyhin wi yeur airse bloackin the licht?"

The Boy-wi-the-Airse retorts, "Wheer d'ye want et, then?"

"Here! Naw, unner the bushes." Cuid this be Fran, ma new neebour? Christie acroass the wa tellt me somewan'd flittit. Bit suin fur a mairch threap.

The Tuil reprises, "Whit're we huntin fur?"

The Airse cries, "Body pairts."

Fran-mebbe skreichs, "Dinnae be daft! The pair ae ye! Jist onyhin at shouldnae be here."

More crashing, then a female voice: "How'm Ah s'posed tae see any'hin' wi' your airse blockin' the light?"

The Airse-guy retorts, "Wheer d'ye want et, then?"

"Here! Naw, unner the bushes." Could this be Fran, my new neighbour? Christie opposite told me she'd moved in. Bit soon for a boundary dispute.

The Tool reprises, "Whit're we huntin' fur?"

The Airse cries, "Body pairts."

Fran-maybe shrieks, "Dinnae be daft! The pair ae ye! Jist any'hin' at shouldnae be here."

Ah'm up fae ma bed, sweein at the hingins, picking a maument tae keek unsichtit.

The Tuil girns, "Whae's the boy ower yonder again?"

Aye, whae's the airchitect ae this stramash?

Fran-mebbe snashes, "Christie's brither."

Noo Ah'm afeart. Ah niver thocht ma laund wuid get sairched. Ah've even left the wires.

The Tuil sweirs and sooks his teeth. "There's a wire acroass here! Et's intae ma leg like a truckle cheddar!"

The Airse keckles, "Snared ye!"

Fran-mebbe snashes, "Whit d'ye expect, ye haiverel? Et hauds up the flooers."

Ah breithe again.

I'm up from my bed, teetering at the curtains, picking a moment to peek unseen.

The Tool moans, "Whae's the boy ower yonder again?"

Indeed, who's the architect of this commotion?

Fran-maybe snaps, "Christie's brother."

Now I'm rigid with tension. I never thought my premises would get searched. I've even left the wires.

The Tool swears and sucks his teeth. "There's a wire acroass here! Et's intae ma leg like a truckle cheddar!"

The Airse chuckles, "Snared ye!"

Fran-maybe retorts, "Whit d'ye expect, ye haiverel? Et hauds up the flooers."

I breathe again.

As thay stummle aboot, in the dairk, Ah cleek ma fit oan a lowse cable – mair dangerous than ye'd think, but Ah'll come tae at. Ah unloack the back door, wantin a naitural maument for ma entrance. Wid splinters, then a wheely bin cowps. The Tuil sweirs again. Ah snap oan the ootside licht and pou the door.

As they stumble about, in the dark, I catch my foot on a loose cable – more dangerous than you'd think, but I'll come to that. I unlock the back door, needing a natural moment for my entrance. Wood splinters, then a wheely bin falls. The Tool curses again. I snap on the outside light and yank the door.

Ah say nohin, jist casually pan the carfuffle wi ma ayephone video: twae bodies frozen in the shrubbery and wan numpty up tae his gunnels in compost, leukin tae powl-vault oot wi a howe.

Fran-mebbe finds wurds. "We thocht ye war awa." Then she realises this doesnae pit their efforts in a guid licht. She taks in ma oxter-powl, the surpreesing sicht ae ma missing leg – monstrous in this licht. Leuks like Fran kens tyned—ye're awa aheid ae me, eh?

Fae wi'in some whin, the Airse cries, "Body pairts."

Fran lounders him wi a brainch.

I say nothing, just casually pan the disorder with my ayephone video: two bodies frozen in the shrubbery and one numpty up to his gunnels in compost, trying to pole-vault out with a hoe.

Fran-maybe finds words. "We thought you were away." Then she realises this doesn't put their efforts in a good light. She takes in my crutch, the surprising sight of my missing leg – monstrous in this light. Looks like Fran kens tyned [knows lost]—you're away ahead of me, eh?

From within some gorse, the Airse calls, "Body pairts."

Fran thrashes him with a branch.

Ower in the compost, The Tuil birls his howe wi the elegance ae a fiddler crab. Ah pan tae this man-midden wi his ane clood ae midges, and perfectly capture the maument he heuks the no-cowpit wheely bin. As he pous hissel up, it skites awa and cowps, drushin a fawen bird-box, bowkin jaggy cans ower his bluidy leg.

Tae skewl attention, he manes, "Shuirly a cat can leuk efter itsel?"

Haudit and Daudit in the shrubbery are tae donnert tae respond.

Ah'm saying nohin: a gairden wire garrotte is a challenge, even fur the maist canny feline. Fair daes, mebbe, fur peltin heidlang at gorblins then jist playing wi thaim.

Over in the compost, The Tool birls his hoe with the elegance of a fiddler crab. I pan to this man-midden with his own cloud of flies, and perfectly capture the moment he hooks the standing wheely bin. As he pulls himself up, it slips away and falls over, crushing a fallen bird-box, vomiting jagged cans over his bloodied leg.

To deflect attention, he moans, "Surely a cat can look efter itsel'?"

The other pair in the shrubbery are too transfixed to respond.

I'm saying nothing: a garden wire garrotte is a challenge, even for the most resourceful feline. Fair dos, maybe, for diving headlong at fledgelings then just playing with them.

Mair fitfaws oan the path. The Tuil thraws his airms oot. "Here's oor man!"

A peakit character enters the spotlicht. He taks in the reivers and the slauchter, shakkin his heid. "I think we've haed a misunnerstaundin. I wis ony askin the neebours tae help me check ma sister's gairden – thereaboots – in case she's stammert and stotted her heid aff somehin or... I didnae mean—" He gestures the cluster-bourach, then depairts, owercome.

Steps approach on the path. The Tool flings his arms wide. "Here's oor man!"

A gaunt character enters the spotlight. He takes in the ransackers and the carnage, shaking his head. "I think we've had a misunderstanding. I was only asking the neighbours to help me check my sister's garden – thereabouts – in case she's tripped and smacked her head off something or... I didn't mean—" He gestures the cluster-shambles, then retreats, overcome.

Sae, at's Christie's brither, the airchitect, and Christie's AWOL, like the cat. Mebbe met wi misanter, like the cat. Ma boss nips. Mebbe guilt. Wis she sae attached tae thon malevolent 'malkin? Or mebbe jist ma phone airm's tirin.

So, that's Christie's brother, the architect, and Christie's AWOL, like the cat. Maybe met with misadventure, like the cat. My chest aches. Maybe guilt. Was she so attached to that malevolent 'malkin? Or maybe just my phone arm's tiring.

Fou ae seempathy, The Tuil sneers. "Weel, this wis a waste ae time!" He hirples affstage, trailing bluid and howe.

Fran draps haunfous ae fulyerie, gies me a couthie nod, and follaes.

The Airse winks at me. "We'll lauch aboot this wan dae."

Full of sympathy, The Tool exhales. "Weel, this wis a waste ae time!" He hirples offstage, trailing blood and hoe.

Fran drops handfuls of foliage, gives me a cordial nod and follows.

The Airse winks at me. "We'll laugh aboot this wan dae."

Ah pan the eftercast ae the bison migration. Whit tae dae wi hings aw agley at hauf-wan? Ah'll think oan Christie's weird and the identity ae the reivers. Mebbe Ah'll redd ma cables; sauf masel the irony ae ony mair wire incidents.

I pan the aftermath of the bison migration. What to do with things all awry at half-one? I'll think on Christie's fate and the identity of the marauders. Maybe I'll tidy my cables; save myself the irony of any more wire incidents.

Whan daelicht retours, Ah stairt pittin the gairden tae richts.

Fitfaws oan the path: the Peakit Character kythes, noo puggelt. "Ma sister jis cam hame in a taxi, sauf and weel."

Ah nod wi relief. Ah wunner whit tryst—

"At least, she wis weel till she heard aboot last nicht's... activity s'posedly oan her behauf. Gey affrontit, puir sowel. Whit happened wis, she wis at a private hoaspital fur a minor cosmetic operation—"

Ma een biggen. Whae'd hae—

He gaes oan. "—jist tae hae a mole remuived. She haednae telt me – she didnae think I'd notice she wis awa." He scances ma malafoustert gairden. "I ower-reacted; I'm sae sorry—"

Ah dismiss it coorteously. A video ae evidence tampering oan ma laund is shuirly wurth twae. .. er... ill-daeins in the bushes.

He asks, "Whae war thay?"

Ah shak ma heid. "A stravaigin flash-clamjamfrie?"

He smirks. "Thair unnerstaundin was kindae shoogly. Whan I says aboot sairchin fur Kitty—"

Daelicht dings baith oor nappers: a pet name. At's wan fickle redd up.

Ah says, "At pit the cat amang the—" Ah gesture a pyit alichtin oan a wee, thrawn sallow. Ah'm awmaist lauchin but— Whit fur did Ah huv tae bring the cat intae it? Guilt aw ower ma physog like a chocolate-kivert wean. "Ony sign?"

Christie's brither leuks intently at the burd then me.

Ma bluid rins cauld: he kens.

"Cui bono?"

Bones!? Ah'm swachtin.

"Whae benefits?"

The airchitect is the polis noo. Whit's'is mean? He kens but he'll no clype? Ah'm thirlt tae Christie's brither noo? Ah dinnae even ken the man's name! Ah'm oot ma deepth in twae inches ae dairk humus.

He leuks ower the carse. "Kitty—Christie thoucht it haed been fechtin snares ower yonder – mebbe wan tae many. She's wantin tae gae efter thaim."

Eebrous up.

"Ken, the straucht-edges fowk whae want thair rabbits, foxes and moles remuived."

The pyit brattles awa, gaun oan wi its life. Christie's brither thochtfully strauchtens the sallow, then nods fareweel and daunders awa.

When daylight returns, I start putting the garden to rights.

Steps approach on the path: the Gaunt Character appears, now weary. "My sister just came home in a taxi, safe and well."

I nod with relief. I wonder what tryst—

"At least, she was well until she heard about last night's... activity ostensibly on her behalf. Rather embarrassed, poor thing. What happened was, she was at a private hospital for a minor cosmetic operation—"

My eyes widen. Who'd have—

He hurries on. "—just to get a mole removed. She hadn't told me – she didn't think I'd notice she was away." He scans the remains of my garden. "I over-reacted; I do apologise—"

I dismiss it graciously. A video of evidence tampering on my land is surely worth two... er... misdemeanours in the bushes.

He asks, "Who were they?"

I shake my head. "A roving flash-mob?"

He smiles. "Their understanding was somewhat vague. When I said about searching for Kitty—"

Daylight hits both our heads: a pet name. That's one puzzle figured.

I say, "That set the cat among the—" I gesture a magpie alighting on a small, twisted willow. I'm almost laughing but— Why did I have to bring the cat into it? Guilt all over my face like a chocolate-covered child. "Any sign?"

Christie's brother looks intently at the bird then me.

My blood runs cold: he knows.

"Cui bono?"

Bones!? I'm sweating.

"Who benefits?"

The architect is the police now. What's this mean? He knows but he'll not tell? I'm bound to Christie's brother now? I don't even know the man's name! I'm out of my depth in two inches of dark humus.

He looks over the carse. "Kitty—Christie thought it had been fighting snares over yonder – maybe one too many. She's wanting to go after them."

Eyebrows up.

"You know, the straight-edges folk who want their rabbits, foxes and moles removed."

The magpie rattles away, going on with its life. Christie's brother thoughtfully straightens the willow then nods farewell and saunters away.

Ah fouter at the compost. Kindae waurie noo, stottery oan ma shanks, whit wi new speirins and new prosthetic. How'd Ah get intae this fankle? Ah've hauf a mind tae saunt masel.

I fouter at the compost. Kinda wary now, unsteady on my shanks, what with new information and new prosthetic. How'd I get into this mess? I've half a mind to disappear myself.

Some merle ahint me bursts intae a leid. Ah nearlins cowp and yird masel alangside... Weel, let's jist say, twae inches forder in and the umwhile community forensics team, whaeiver thay war, micht indeed hae foun somehin at shouldnae be here. Aw ae thaim best left in the dairk.

Some blackbird behind me bursts into a song. I nearly fall and inhume myself alongside... Well, let's just say, two inches further in and the erstwhile community forensics team, whoever they were, might indeed have found somehin that shouldnae be here. All of them best left in the dark.