Dr Jimmy’s been digging ever since the banners changed in town and the soldiers came. His hole was a curlew’s scrape, then a ditch, then a grave. His neighbours wondered if he’d stop there, if the grave were for his wife who refused to stop protesting, even as the mob grew, even as the first stone came flying from the sky.
He didn’t stop. The hands which used to press their bellies and dispense vaccines are now blistered and cracked, his smart white shirt is patched in dirt. His surgery is closed to him because, under the new rules, he doesn’t have a license, and now a Faithful fellow who used to be a trainee vet sits behind his desk. ‘Faith won’t cure my boy’s measles,’ someone mutters, and one of his neighbours hurries to note down the criticism – just in case.
‘Jimmy,’ his wife would have said. ‘Stop.’ But she’s not here any more.
Dr Jimmy’s crater becomes so large it attracts interest. A small TV crew arrives, a crowd of Faithful gathers to jeer and mock. But, at nighttime, other people bring fresh lemonade, leave flowers in his porch. Still Jimmy digs, muscles bunching, sweat roiling.
The Party rule book’s an unwieldy thing with new leaves pasted in every day. There are rules about words. Friendships. Sexual practices. Many details about racial hierarchies and employment law. But property is sacrosanct and there are no rules about digging holes.
The next hole starts two streets away. Then another right across town, then there’s one in the next county. They spread like a virus. Some people say the Diggers are burying their heads in the sand, others joke that it’s a poor way to escape now the borders are closed. Still they dig, into the earth, into themselves. They dig.
Abby Williams writes flash, short stories and longer form fiction. She lives in Devon with her family and her wayward hound.
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