Jake Trelease: 'The Sons'

Somewhere high up on a mountain north of Coniston the sons are murdering sheep. This is what the imagination tells us. That’s what the history books say. What they’d became occurred gradually between school and serious living but the change was felt in the heart as sudden. They’d watched people become sons themselves, without the foresight to frame it as such. But they were now that. Sons. And no matter what people said about hard graft or making difficult decisions to change the scope of your life, they never believed you when you said you’d done everything and it hadn’t worked. They pointed out what you hadn’t done. What they hadn’t did. They couldn’t believe you when you said the things that’d worked for them hadn’t worked for you. They didn’t care. They could never see it happening to their sons. 

The transition was confusing and many sons fell away. Some moved to chase different lifestyles and jobs, often at short notice, plastered to the back of a forced hand disguised as a golden opportunity. To places like Runcorn and Whitehaven, or a six-month stint laying cable off the coast of Aberdeen. Other sons stayed to carve lives in the places they’d grown, got mortgages and had sons all the same, daughters who’d become versions of sons, and followed football teams to towns in Lancashire and Humberside. Had this been any other pursuit, the ceremony of these loyalties would’ve been considered folkloric and studied. Between the sons who’d stayed and the who’d left, there was an unspoken mistrust of the lifestyles they’d chosen.

What could this possible change about the place the sons held in each other’s lives at the foot of a mountain the day after heavy rain? They drove from their coastal town past Scotch Corner and across the Pennine Hills, drank their coffees and discussed the trivialities of their lives; football scores and testicular lumps treated with equality. They wore borrowed boots and second-hand Gore-Tex, left the heaters behind and began their ascent.

Where’s Liam? Pat said.

Topped himself the reckon.

There was no history of suicide in Liam’s family. No depression bar the uncles deemed not right. Only the time he’d confided in a doctor to say he’d considered it if it meant an easy life. Liam surfaced from the ditch where he’d been pissing and caught up with the sons. He kept it to himself that he’d seen a frog. Three hours up and three hours down according to me map, said a son. You shag dogs according to mine, said another.

The gravel turned to grass. Fields were dissected by stiles constructed of fresh, factory-cut larch with leave no trace notices. Beyond these, older stiles made of darker, ageing wood, wilted and seized between drystone and slate. The sons were silent as they walked, knowing the pictures would betray the reality. Spring rain flooded streams drenching thick bouncy moss. Skiddaw, it could’ve been. Scafell Pike. Nobody had seen each other in months bar the two who’d seen each other last night and the sons pushed on, so far happy with their weekend off the drink.

Better than sitting in the pub this eh, Pat said. The sons said nowt and kept walking. As nourishing as it was, the combination of drink and sniff across extended weekends had seen many son come a cropper. It was a lifestyle that turned friendships into risk. The sons had watched people go down these paths and followed them, careful to turn back before disaster struck. Where’ve you been the past few weeks? Liam said to Pat. You knew I was back and you didn’t even bother. The pair had known each other long enough to know what needed to be said but there was a lot of stuff that had waited years and would have to wait longer.

To be a son was to be someone who put their vices behind them and built a relationship to something palatable. Replace amphetamines with running. Anger with self-reflection. Disciplined gambling with 10-folds backing Motherwell and Genk. To be a son was to believe wholeheartedly in your own alienation whether it was self-deceit or truth. It felt good to hold beliefs, to blame the right people. It made it easier to accept that certain worlds were off limits. Safer to believe in your alienation than to stop and think: what’s that over there? Could that unimagined, malformed thing be mine?

Rarely though had the sons been told their problems in life weren’t down to them. That lad doesn’t help himself was a common phrase. Knowing this the sons could progress, knowing that everything that’d came before had occurred without, or in spite of, the influence of external forces. Negative outcomes were orchestrated by naïve people living partial lives with partial thoughts who weren’t willing to work hard. Personal failure was the core belief. No systematic or economic constraints, no confusion or fear, no too tireds after work, no prioritising children, just wrong decisions.

It wasn’t just the sons who maintained their illusions. Others had their illusions too. Theirs were built on ostracism and saving face. When the illusions of the sons crossed paths with the illusions of others there was dissonance. The problem was that the illusions of others were considered ascendent or superior to the illusions of the sons: something the sons should aspire towards. It fooled many and some sons chose to adopt these illusions, sometimes by finding salvation in obscene capitalist ventures that exploited the shortcomings of others. The cure to their alienation was becoming a landlord. Transforming a two-bed semi into a five-bed property suitable for eight marine students from Bengal. Sertraline? Nah bro, just creatine and graft.

Those who’d succeeded spoke about risk without defining what risk was. The sons knew it was financial risk that they were talking about. Fifty quid on the early kick-off wasn’t risk. It was stupidity. So was packing in a job to pursue a dream without savings. How many of the others had truly taken risks, or rather exercised stupidity with support? True risk was about looking at yourself long enough to understand you were wrong. To understand just how big the sons lives could be.

The sons pushed on up the mountain straining groins awa wet stone. Blencathra, it could’ve been. They appreciated how nature made them feel small. Or was it big? Something greater than self-belief and perspective shifting. What good was a perspective shifter when you had work on Monday? It was easier to have your perspectives remain unchanged than deal with the consequences of an untimely shift. Nobody had taught the sons to recognise these shifts for what they were: opportunities to kick on. They were useless against elements of life deemed static, resigned for use in football stadiums and days when the sons had forgotten how to think. 

Pat put forward a theory: Yena, I reckon it’s impossible to make a decent wage, enjoy your job and have a personality. You can only have two. Make decent money and love your job and you’re probably a boring cunt. Love your job and have a personality and you’re probably earning nowt. Make money and have a personality and you can be sure that that job and the people you work with will make you wish you were dead.

I reckon I’ve got all three, said Liam.

Aye, but you’re a boring cunt. 

Both Liam and the sons knew Liam wasn’t a boring cunt but it didn’t stop them second-guessing themselves and the choices they’d made. The sons done jobs they hated to earn a living or chose something that aligned to a vocation to warp them instead. Some sons convinced themselves they enjoyed the jobs they hated and told themselves they were pursuing dreams.

Is that the reason your lass left you like? Liam said. Because you’re a boring cunt or coz you’ve got nee money?

Pat had just been finished by his girlfriend of five years. The relationship had died because they both hated their jobs and took it home with them. In another life they’d still be together.

I’ve considered weaponising me own suicide yena, Pat said. That’s how bad I feel.

The sons knew that to say anything from the vantage point of comfort was of no consolation to anyone. One kind hearted sentence could make all the difference but it took time to find the right words. It took time to want to be nice.

You’ll be sound, Liam said. Be shite for a while but ana you’re too much of a coward to kill yasell.

Nah ana. I’d never do that.

Champion.

The sons laughed knowing they could never truly understand how anyone was feeling. There was a duty of care not to blag each other’s heads. The sons only needed tertiary support from other sons. It felt easier talking to someone you’d known two minutes than a lifelong friend. Real emotional support came from the women in their lives who had zero problems of their own. Without them the sons would have to practice vulnerability alone.

People assumed vulnerability was the ability to cry but there was a difference between vulnerability and talking shite. Half the time these masters of vulnerability never listened to the nuances of what the sons had to say. Vulnerability was only healthy in accordance with their social norms and whenever the sons confronted this in a calm and transparent manner, the masters of vulnerability told them they were sensing a lot of unprocessed pain. Had they been dogs, they would’ve put the sons down.

The sons pushed on up the mountain knowing there was a time and place for shame. Bowfell, it could’ve been. What’s your da doing awa there Pat said, nodding towards the back end of a decrepit awld sheep. The animal looked as if it hadn’t moved for a thousand year as it stood there chewing the cud. It’d seen it all, the changing of the light on the mountainside a million times, been sheered and dipped, molested by an 18^th century lunatic in the interests of fertility. This is what the imagination tells us. That’s what the history books say. Nowt ever happened in the past for no reason, it was all part of a wider cultural trend.

The sheep was hunched to the right of the footpath seeking shelter against a drystone sheepfold. From the angle of the sons its prolapsed arse held the depth of a Rothko. The abstract sentiment of a Cilla Black melody. Its wool was matted and overgrown concealing chocolate eyes and regret. It’s body possessed an aura. A dullness cast onto it by the sons. A thirty year layer of something, like a man who has not yet accepted he has given up. There would be no sheep heaven for the animal. No pro-life abattoir to slaughter it with respect. Here was a Herdwick presented by nature, not a cartoon or a photograph, just an animal, merciless, a few days shy of death.

I hope you’ll leave that poor thing alone a voice in the distance said. Don’t be setting any fires now. The sons looked to see a woman with two hiking poles perched like a ghost on the adjacent scree. They couldn’t be sure whether she was real or a memory. Don’t worry, Liam shouted back. I’m only planning on scranning its arse. The ghost shook her head and moved with aggression up the mountain, making no serious ground. She could never understand the stoic, avant-garde pursuit that was taking the piss. She might have called on the sons to develop a more refined outlook but she’d be missing the point. All said, there was nowt wrong with a few terse words at the expense of a geriatric sheep if it kept you from sexually assaulting your own species.

Them with the hiking poles symbolised something much darker to the sons than any dying sheep. They controlled their tone to limit their violence and set the moral standard with their elaborate ways of saying no. They placed the land at the heart of their liberal philosophy like it was theirs to police, over-extending themselves and eager to shit outdoors in view of the footpath. It’s perfectly natural they’d say, while wiping their arse with a homemade flapjack. The type of woman to bully children her like, Pat said, as he watched her disappear through the mist. Sees kids thirsty at parties and gives them a thimble of juice but their own sons a full measure.

When the parents of the juiceless questioned this, them with the hiking poles would protect each other. They’d suspect foul play. Don’t be so ridiculous. Do you really want to cause a fuss at a child’s birthday party? They’d say. Then the mams of the juiceless sons would back down to give their sons an easy life, meanwhile convincing themselves that their son’s lack of juice was justified. That any juice was given out the kindness of the heart and it was ungrateful to say otherwise. It was a form of freemasonry but for women who bought cushions from Laura Ashley in 2002.

Them with the hiking poles were glad their sons weren’t like other sons. Even when they were called into school because their sons had been nipping little girls they’d defend them: he’s never like this at home they’d say, knowing one day they’d leave it all behind as was always meant to be and find their way into good universities and jobs and never outgrow how their mothers gave them juice. They’d smirk if they seen you now, your face a reminder of how far they’d come. They call it the politics of envy, your critique of their violence.

The words of the ghost triggered something in Liam. A feeling he hadn't been able to exercise as a child. He left the footpath and walked towards the sheep, now unable to feel the ghost’s presence or acting in spite of it. At ten paces he entered the sheep’s blind spot and started into a jog: vaudevillian and nimble. For the first time he understood what those cunts were talking about when they talked about liminal space. A shortcut for a whole depth of expression. A feeling that had no place being articulated and never would if approached logically. To understand you’d have to strip back your life and put it back together, approach the sheep from a whole new angle. Akin to a wrong move in Solitaire. Failing to notice the six of hearts could be moved below the seven of clubs and now it’s too late.

The sheep feigned ignorance as Liam vaulted towards it. It’s destitute face concealing intent like a marching Jarrovian welder. Liam smelt the animal in real life, the last pretender on an ancient mountain, manky like the gusset of a pensioner. The farmer would not be happy knowing these urbanites were tormenting his livestock the same way he tormented his wife with what he couldn’t let go. Not while he was sat drinking two pound casks beside a bag full of mastics. At a quarter pace the sheep whipped its skull into Liam’s groin, sending him off balance and backwards into a stream. The stream came down from the mountain in rivulets and collected in clear pools where Liam’s head was now submerged. The sheep mounted him instantly and kneaded its hooves with aggression into his jowls. Had the sheep had thumbs, it would’ve took a kitchen knife and stabbed Liam to death, 27 times, a daft amount, like a holidaymaker in Turkey. It was a surreal feeling. Still submerged, Liam grasped at its fleece then grasped through the stream and the soil around him. His hand landed on a piece of slate that he angled against the streambed to gain the necessary purchase. Still submerged, he swung his slate-wielding arm towards the animal to omit a hollow yellow thud. The sheep was undeterred. 

The sons watched from the footpath as Liam swung again, living with a sense that life was bored. Again and again Liam swung, stabbing at the sheep’s core, before finally gouging the slate into its eye. Still submerged, Liam felt the weight of the hooves release and the sheep’s droning primal bleat. It’s eye and skull were concaved where the slate had hit, a five-inch gouge splitting the sheep’s face apart to release a blood-tinged effluent.

The sheep retreated without emotion back to the assumed safety of the sheepfold. The rest of the herd looked to the sons for help, bleating bleats of helplessness like oppressed countrymen without the tools to fight. The sons were pissing themselves as Liam staggered back to the footpath, drenched and holding his groin. Pain was one of the few things that seemed to unify the sons. Laughter was a tonic but it made the sons think. In that second they wanted nothing more than to be home, safe to think with little threat of interruption. 

The sons pushed on as if nothing had happened. High Stile, it could’ve been. The footpath plateaued three or four more times before reaching the summit, lulling the sons into a false sense of accomplishment with each. When the mountain thirst gripped, the sons assumed the position of dogs and drank from the stream as the hydrated sons kicked sheep shit into the water and watched it float out of view. At the summit the wind smoked their tabs as they gathered around a stone temple. The temple was nowt more than a windbreak to accompany a mountain cairn laid by every man, woman, child and dog who’d ascended the peak and left a single stone.

Surely more have been up it than that? Liam said.

Aye, your da climbed up it three times in a day coz he reckoned they were selling hot dogs.

The sons sat with their backs to the temple looking out across the peaks and thinking about Donald Campbell’s son. They passed around a packet of sliced ham and remembered the times they’d spent together as young and innocent men. The days of setting fires on beaches were gone. Now the dimmed square that held those memories was a reminder: don’t let it shape whole lives. Innocence was not to be trusted knowing how sinister their naivety and lack of fear had been. It was important to remember how they’d felt when they looked in the mirror back then.

They could’ve stayed there years. One son pointed to Blackpool Tower while another son began building a smaller, replica temple to conceal his head while he smoked. Liam sat away from the group rubbing his groin. He mentioned an expatriated son who all the sons agreed were glad wasn’t there. He’ll end up dead or in prison him Pat said, while chucking stones towards Liam. What had started with Hitler impressions gradually turned into racial antagonism in nightclubs and the more beatings he got for this behaviour, the more he seemed to enjoy it. Many sons had called him a friend because the majority of the time he was. They were happy to sit there knowing their violence revealed itself in less sinister ways. Once the ship had turned, despite any kind manner they knew this son to possess, he had to be left to die.

The sons peeled themselves from the summit and began the descent. Liam trudged along the footpath ahead of the group, careful to choose the route of least resistance. The wounding of the sheep was not part of any wider pathology he told himself. No inherent badness or lack of common sense. It was a necessary action; a setback that would allow time to unravel. Setbacks of this nature occurred less and less as the sons got older but whenever they did they always felt worse.

The descent was tougher on the thighs. Soon the car park would come into view and with it thoughts of how the rest of the day would be spent. To the left of the footpath the same herd were grazing, concealing the injured sheep in a loose circular formation. The sheep was lying on its side, its graffitied abdomen swelling with its dying breaths. The closer the sons got the more the herd dispersed, bleating as they revealed their martyr in the bog. Liam ignored the sheep at first but soon saw this second meeting as an opportunity to put things right. Against the wishes of the sons he left the footpath and made his way towards the dying sheep. He crouched beside it with caution and breathed gently into its good eye. Sorry sonna he said, while running his hands through its fleece. The sheep looked back lacking the cognition to understand. Liam turned to the sons and shook his head, just thankful it’d be a peaceful death.

The gorse trembled in the wind as the sons watched Liam scan the vicinity. They watched as his eyes landed about four yards beyond the sheep on a rusty gate pole half-submerged in the sheepfold bog. Liam walked over and began levering the pole back and forth, applying his whole bodyweight to ensure the bog released its grip. With each push and pull the bog spat back a sulphurous odour, but eventually Liam managed and returned to the sheep and rested the muddy pole against its brain. It seemed to enjoy the sensation of the cool steel against its wound. Before the sons could act Liam withdrew his arm and brought the pole down with force. The bleating stopped instantly but it would take a further seven blows for the sheep to die.

Liam said nothing as the sons degraded him from the footpath. Pat was the most incensed and could think of nowt else but to throw stones and stems of bracken towards Liam. What the fuck you doing? He said. You stupid cunt you’ve killed it. Liam ignored the missiles as he checked the sheep’s ankle for a pulse. He confirmed its time of death by checking his phone, then feigning military solemnity, stood, walked back a few yards and bowed before returning to the animal. He pursed its legs together and hoisted it onto his back, adjusting his swing a few times to ensure the momentum was right. He stumbled as he made his way back to the footpath, the weight of the animal dragging him backwards towards the bog, where he fell to the ground, further crushing the sheep beneath him.

Stupid cunt, Pat shouted. Put it down for fuck’s sake. 

We can’t leave it here man. The hawks will get it.

Hawks?

Aye, birds of prey—Looka, a take full responsibility but we’re fucked if the farmer sees it. Either help is or fuck off.

Liam was right. The farmer would not be bothering with any polis or judiciary. He’d sooner batter the sons to death with his farmer mates than enact the full justice of the law.

We’ll stick it in the boot and chuck it in a layby or summit. Be bones by the time anyone finds it. The farmer will just think it’s gotten lost. Happens all the time man.

Whada yee kna bout what gans on in the country?

Look mate if you’re not willing to help is you can gan curl up behind that rock like you always do. Make yasell a nice little bed too coz you’re forgetting I’m your lift hyem.

Who said owt about curling up behind rocks man? How we gana grow as men if we’re pissing about cowering behind rocks? I said nowt about not helping ye. Doesn’t mean you’re not a fucking lunatic, gan on like you’re at the fucking cenotaph.

Liam said nowt as Pat left the sons and galloped down the footpath to prepare the boot for the carcass. As the path levelled his legs ran away from him, sending him headfirst into a bouldery ditch. The others continued beside Liam, doing their best to conceal the animal. They looked towards the surrounding fells and considered the elite stamina of the fell runner. The ghost was nowhere to be seen. Bar the sons the mountain was dead. It wasn’t too hard to imagine this land before time. Glaciers looming down to the seafront over slabs of lichenised granite.

Who was to say there wasn’t a man watching from an adjacent fell? An Edwardian scrambler painting a watercolour of purples and browns. It felt almost supernatural to see the sheep this close. How could they be certain it wasn’t god? Or that when darkness fell the sheep wouldn’t transform itself into its human form? Some might argue there were people who’d watched and studied sheep for centuries, both vocationally and academically, but why should we believe the experts have to say? How do we know they weren’t just lying to prove a point?

Back at the car the sons slapped the sheep down and wrapped it in coats. The carcass met the upholstery with a thud and looked uncomfortable beside damp trainers and muddy paper. They laughed as it lay there, its body concealed in Berghaus. Liam sorted the directions as the sons settled into their seats. We could just torch the car he said while releasing the handbrake. The sons argued about how best to dispose of the animal, each suggestion bringing responses that concealed some deeper personal antagonism.

Once the mountain tiredness hit the arguments ceased. The stink of the sheep was present and the sons agreed that a pint was necessary. Liam sat behind the wheel occupied by worry, pointing to lonesome cows and reading road signs aloud. Seven mile to Scotch Corner he said as Pat dozed in the passenger seat, nodding towards the outside blur. Liam asked him questions about his life. About his pregnant fiancé and his job, hoping these gestures would offset his behaviour and convince the sons of his kindness.

Not far from home one of the sons asked to be dropped on a stretch of duel carriageway just outside the town. The son was only after a shower but everyone knew he’d not be seen for a fortnight. You’d think I’d know him better by now Liam said once the son had got out. Always feels strained for some reason. The remaining sons said nowt as the car continued to the pub. As much as they recognised Liam’s issues, they envied his approach to life. His idiocy disguised as curiosity. How he’d find himself helping an old man clear a shed because he couldn’t say no. Stuff like this rarely happened to the sons and whenever it did it always left them doubtful about what had allowed the events to take shape. What had made them a good person today and not the day before?

There’s got to be more to life than this Liam said while sitting at a red light.

More to life than killing sheep?

The sons forgot the sheep for the duration of a pint and settled into the pub. The pub was hidden away on a section of river known as the Mill Dam, situated beside a 19^th century Customs House and a Masonic Lodge. The pub was favoured by the middle-aged because it was the oldest in the town and that meant something. Stale beer had permanently altered the red velvet upholstery and maritime paraphernalia adorned the walls: photos of the river, life rings and seaman’s knots mounted behind glass. Dust rays floated across a telly showing Final Score. How many Saturday afternoons had been spent thinking of other things as the Scottish results rolled in? A late goal for Arbroath. A red card for Cowdenbeath. The background music for more pressing matters.

This pint tastes of copper, Pat said. The mustn’t clean their lines.

Whada yee kna bout looking after beer?

To understand how beer was ‘looked after’ was a notch on the belt. The sons took their pints outside and stood around the car as the dying light brought warmth to the river. It was recognisable as a purely Saturday night light for the town, not far off a Thursday evening light but both bringing warmth nonetheless. Some lights were better than others. There was plenty to be said about the after heavy rain light on an autumnal Tuesday. How it brought electricity and new perspectives. The sons wondered if these same lights were present in small towns in Senegal and Brazil and if they were framed differently by the lives that’d seen them.

So where we chucking it then? Liam asked, while necking the rest of his Guinness.

We? You were the one who killed it.

Liam accepted Pat’s semantic argument and opened the boot. The sheep looked obscure in its urban setting.

We could just chop it up? One son suggested.

What about the river? The fish’ll eat it no bother.

Nah, Liam said. The current’ll have it and it’ll end up on the beach.

Whada yee kna about currents man?

Liam rubbed his brow and stepped away from the boot.

What’s the matter with yee? Pat asked.

Liam undone his jeans to reveal his injury. This is what’s the matter. Look at the state of it, he said, as one son squirted beer through his teeth onto the graze. 

Aye you want to look after that. Me granda knew a lad who got mud in his knee playing football. Few days later he had to have it off. Had trials for Grimsby anarl, back when Grimsby were serious crack.

It’s all because of yous this, Liam said. Every time I come out I end up losing the plot. I just gan home and slag yous off. I can’t stand yous man.

The sons looked at each other then back to Liam. They could accept a lot of shite for the sake of peace but it wasn’t lost on them that Liam’s words were designed to conceal some other, deeper emotion.

You were the cunt who lost the plot and killed it, Pat said. If you daint like us then why the fuck you here? You’re just the same as any cunt man. One day you’ll accept we like ye for the misery that you are.

Liam went to speak then stopped. Wey there’s neyone else is there? All we do is get pissed. The amount of time we’ve spent together and I can’t be mesel. Yous talk the same shite day in, day out. None of us even like each other man.

You reckon you cannit Pat said. But I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re being yourself and you killing that fucking sheep was you being yourself. Just coz you daint like how your life’s gan doesn’t mean you can take it out on us. We’re sound us man.

Ah fuck off yee can talk. Gan on about how long we’ve known each other. Ye make no effort with anyone man. Would you rather I take it out on my lass like you?

The argument met its natural end as the sons stood for a minute to take in the river. The ferry had just brought in a new battalion of drinkers who’d soon arrive at the pub. Yous wanting out? Liam said, before wandering back inside. Aye, a Guinness please, Pat replied. Liam stood at the bar waiting for his pints, missing the brass footrest with his foot. He looked about at the faces in the alcoves. Some of his mam’s friends were drinking in the corner but he was too wound up for conversation. A timid man in a butcher’s apron done his best to sell whelks but he wasn’t timid at all. Two coppers scanned the room then left. Liam took his pints off the drainage mat and went outside. The sons were speaking to a woman in grey skinny jeans and muddy hiking shoes who was gesturing wildly towards the river. Even though the boot was closed, Liam could’ve swore he’d seen her mouth the words ‘you killed that poor animal. I saw you. We’re up there every weekend and it’s always your lot who ruin it for everyone’. Once back with the group he dished out the pints and was happy to here the tail end of some directions to a nearby restaurant.

Once it got dark the sons returned inside and sat drinking for a further seven pints. Gradually each son entered his own stupor and conversation was reduced to a few words either side of a piss. When the worry swept in the affected son would peel himself away with a handshake and the sons would carry on. It didn’t matter how many pints you drank next to someone new, you never got a broader sense of who they were outside those rooms. Despite the problems drinking caused it still felt worthwhile. The sons had too much practice showing their faces in these bygone haunts. Too experienced looking normal after ten pints in places youth shouldn’t venture. Soon ten pints came to be more of an excavation than four, more so than meditation or temperance.

What lessons had the sons learnt as they learnt to behave themselves in the public house? Watching their das carry the pints back and the patter when the sat down. An uncle with his mates before the smoking ban. Sitting eating sausage and chips at their grandas wake as their mams cried in the corner. It didn’t matter after ten pints, once the atmosphere of the British Legion took hold and the pensioners marched to Penny Arcade, lost in a sea of glass and tin as the old ladies wiggled and danced. If any song could make the sons question contentment it’d be this. Had it been the right decade they would’ve joined the IRA. As time went on the image of contentment looked more and more like stasis: open fields with distant fences. Long periods off work to regain a sense of humour. All this was tied up in the glory and ruination of drink. They could spend years deceiving themselves with it, blocking off the other side. You could never blame the killing of a sheep on it, the courts wouldn’t have it, but there was value in knowing how to behave.

The mountain was ancient history as the sons drank towards the health of the sheep. Liam spoke to a pensioner whose son and grandkids had just moved to start a new life in Dubai. She held his hand as she told him and he expressed he wasn’t feeling too good either. Why’s that? She asked. You’ve got nowt to worry about, handsome lad like you. He never mentioned the sheep, not even when he saw it perched against the jukebox queuing up Slipknot.

The next morning Liam woke up groggy, drank a pint of water and thought it best to retrieve his car and take the air. He walked through industrial estates home to pet shops and took the scenic route towards the river, past the high walls of former shipyards and the facades of former pubs, paying no heed to any contextualisation of light. He prayed his car had been stolen and prayed the smell of cooked dinners was roast mutton with a side of petrol gravy but it wasn’t to be, the car was there as he’d left it. The olfactory reality of the killing struck him as he drove, too sickened to even check in the boot for the carcass.

From then on the sons saw less and less of Liam. His absence was notable from group chats and real life. The killing of the sheep had been a watershed moment for men’s mental health. This is what the imagination tell us. That’s what the history books will say. Sometimes the sons would see him out and about paying for parking and he’d be happy to chat but give little away. They’d mentioned the mountain and the sheep and he’d laugh, but it was clear Liam was attempting to live his life through a new light. They couldn’t deny there was a lightness about him. His hair and beard were longer. His figure ropier, his skin healthier. Once the ship had turned it’d turned.

As time went on the sons grew distant from Liam and felt less comfortable making their enquiries. Liam knew he couldn’t trust himself to behave around the sons and placed the blame for this on both sides. Even as those days with the sons slipped further into memory, the anger still seemed to fall out of him wherever it could, targeting whoever like water from a rusty bucket. He saw no use in finding a correlation between then and now, not anymore, not if it was never going to account for the split-second breakthroughs, lost then found, seeping in and out.

As time went on the sons changed too and their absences in each other’s lives became less important. Still they maintained their outings, still drinking too much but gradually opening up and taking on new kindnesses learnt through each other. They stopped seeing each other through the lens of the person they’d previously known. Some sons would return to the mountain, this time with wives, husbands and children and remember the goodness of Liam. They’d climb over the same decaying stiles and walk past the same sheepfold bog and the more they looked back, the more they understood how whole lives were lived; appreciating today tomorrow, knowing they’d enjoy it soon. It was never one thing that made the difference, it all seemed to unravel whether you applied yourself or not. But that was no reason not to try. Soon they’d find meaning elsewhere and move into new lives they weren’t quite sure of, all the time wondering if Liam felt the same.

Jake Trelease is a writer from South Shields who runs 'Tales About Nowt', a monthly show about North East literature on Slacks Radio. He is currently working on a collection of short stories covering themes of regional identity.