NEW WRITING
uncomfortably between the ridges but never sinks far enough to experience flatness. The sheep chip, chip away paint from metal as the van moves. If you were to lift up a corner, you would wonder how a floor could get like that; constellations of chips where feet have tried to find balance. I look through the square opening in the wood, separating me from the ewe. I see dirty, clumpy fleece. I see movement but nothing distinguishable. Not an eye or mouth or even the tight skin by its jowls. A corner of the blanket has been ruffled. Just a corner. I am thankful for this. Maybe the animal will realise it is in its own best interests to be calm and lie still. I swivel back round in my seat and stare out towards the motionless wind turbines on the moor. My gum still pulses but the bandage has made a difference to my arm. The strain in the tendons feels deeper and more contained. I knead the area with my thumb, balling and releasing the fingers. I take a breath and turn the engine on. We pass through Spean Bridge. A roadside board says: hot bacon rolls. The roll is painted yellow, with alarmed lines denoting either steam or stink. The slake of ketchup has been turned pink by rain. I slow the van down. God, I am starving. If this sheep keeps still enough, there is a possibility I can nip in, maybe get a couple of them bacon rolls and a Guardian and be back out. Some animals calm down when the engine dies. I’ve seen it happen, but not all do. I’ve known some to use the vehicle walls to scratch. Animals of questionable self-respect. Some you pick up and the wool around their arse is matted and caked with shit. You can tell by the different hues that it is shit upon old shit, like a hard paddle of crap right up the back. Must itch like nothing imaginable. It’s enough to make you cowk but, as I say, I am immune to this now. I bump the van up onto the kerb. The closer I get, the better chance 5