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.Rick has failed the year, and has not been sleeping well.Jason knows this but continues to nag him about the kitchen.Nightmares have left Rick reluctant to pursue the usual sixteen hours of sleep he has become accustomed to after a drink.The dodgy gear he scored in an Edinburgh club must be the cause of the dreadful imaginings that now seem to pounce every time he closes his eyes.There is plenty of bad acid around, but the shit he took in July was rancid.He's been off drugs since the nightmares began and, as an alternative, chooses to drink more heavily.Maybe he should try to get sleeping pills from the Yank sleep doctor, the quack who he's supposed to see tomorrow morning.Rick left the pub at nine-thirty, having expended the last of his parental contribution.He will have to borrow some money to phone home and ask his dad for more cash.But right now, all Rick can think about is a cigarette.He's desperate.Maybe he can ask Jason for a couple of fags – those cheap roll-ups he smokes.And then ask him for change to make the call home.But he must make sure to do it before they have the row.That will be more diplomatic.Rick grins.Turning a familiar corner on the path, he breathes a sigh of relief; this is the last leg of the tiresome walk from town to Fife Park.Something scuttles under the hedgerow next to his left foot.Rick flinches and then bends over to peer through dark leaves and bracken.A bright-red pheasant darts away through the undergrowth, its tiny head bobbing up and down above a bulbous body.'Fuck,' he says, before feeling the sudden rush of adrenaline dissolve in his muscles.He exhales noisily.It is vital he fights off the fatigue that immediately tries to establish itself, created by a lack of sleep and worsened by the effects of too much beer.He will have to be alert for Jason.He can take him though; the guy is soft.High above, the sound of a jet from the Leuchers airbase ripples across the horizon.As it is still light enough to catch a glimpse of the distant golf course and sea from the path he walks, he might be able to watch it fly over.Could be something more interesting than a Tornado.Usually, the planes come in pretty low from out at sea, practising bombing runs on Iraqi targets, and the noise is deafening.He turns and looks to the horizon, visible between and over the top of the dreary concrete of the North Haugh building and Andrew Melville Hall, arranged below the hill he crosses, on the summit of which the budget halls of residence, David Russell Hall and Fife Park, have been built.As he scans the purple expanse of darkening sky, something in the distance catches his eye.Rick stops, and looks across the dark-green leaves stretching across the furrowed acres of root crop to the distant wood.Is someone standing in the field? He screws up his eyes.In the dark, from this angle, it almost looks like a man standing up with his head bowed.But it would have to be a man on stilts because no one is that tall.Rick moves closer to the fence and places his hands on the top strand of wire.He's never seen anyone in the field before, not even a farmer.No, it can't possibly be a man.It is a tree, surely.The thin trunk only resembles a torso in poor light from a distance, and those other things that hang down like long arms must be the branches.It is just the black silhouette of a dying tree that he's never noticed before.But despite the cushion from fear that a belly full of alcohol provides, something about the distant shape makes him feel uneasy.It's not the kind of thing you would want to look at sober.The jet is coming closer now and, for a moment, Rick wishes he were in it.He carries on walking, and averts his eyes from the ugly thing perched in the field.But his senses stay alert.He has an acute notion of being watched.Impulsively, he looks back to the field.The tree has vanished.The field now resumes its natural appearance, empty except for a forest of root-crop and an occasional hovering seagull.Rick stops walking again and goes back to the fence to take a keener look.His eyes sweep across the field from left to right.Although his vision judders a little from the drink, he becomes absolutely certain that the figure has disappeared.It can't have been a tree in that case.It must have been a man.But no one can move that quickly.They were standing near the centre of the field and could not possibly have made it back to the trees in only a few seconds, or hidden in the crop, because it grows no higher than a man's ankle.The air seems colder now.But then he's stopped moving, and that would explain why he now shivers.Time to move on, because staring across the field, in the descending dark, hurts his eyes.He shakes his head and carries on
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