Bridging the gaps between contemporary gothic fiction, queer fiction and magical realism, Genevieve Jagger’s Fragile Animals lures readers into Noelle’s loose grasp on her world and immerses them in some of Scotland’s most harsh and claustrophobic environments.

Fragile Animals
By Genevieve Jagger
Published by 404 Ink

I have many wounds from the cold thing called claustrophobia. Bruises on my thighs, lungs that cottonise in the winter, a myriad of snippeting scars, hidden in creative and domestic places across my body: the armpit, the back of the knee, the groin. None of them are sincere, none gouged too deep; most unclear how they even came to be. Standing at the edge of the harbour I am inclined to wonder if whatever mark coming will be more of the same. This trip, a little nick, a short bleed, before heading home again. 

The ferry leaves me behind, travels homewards to the mainland, cracking the glass of the water as it goes. After some time, the fog intervenes and the entire hulking force of the boat is eaten by the sky’s grey mouth. I once read somewhere that winter does not officially begin until December 21st, but in Scotland we are barely past the first blows of November and the clouds in their closeness have descended. The wind on my bare skin feels like white alcohol and teeth. I slip my hands beneath my jumper, press my fingertips between my ribs. It’s shivering season. My mood shivers too. 

I had a brief flash of decisiveness last night. Of course, I knew what I was doing, when in the drunk depths of the smallest hours, my fingers typed in ‘travel’, and all the websites with their slot machine buttons appeared. My mattress and breath were beginning to smell the same and the disgusting fact of that had galvanised me. It was 3am and God had left his post. I spun the wheel of possibilities. It landed on the Isle of Bute. Little island. Clean winds. A quieter place. I threw up my room trying to pack, took my notebook from my nightstand, spent an hour searching for a pen, then walked to the 24-hour shop to buy a new toothbrush, passed out with it still cupped in my palm. 

Now, my hands, of their own accord, are excavating my pockets. No cigarettes. No phone, because I left it where I’d thrown it, lying reproachfully beneath the radiator in the corner of my room. No sense of direction because I’ve never had that. Creeping up my spine, the feeling of a blunt knife is edging from vertebrae to vertebrae, anxiety threatening to cleave my muscles apart. 

The harbour ground is sodden from the air itself, which is cold, penetrative to the bones of my fingers. I stare out at the water for so long – not an ocean, yet still undulating
and dark. In this time the sky observes me then shakes its disinterested head. Finally, my stiff feet turn from the water to face the town, the craggy, old stone buildings. Rothesay, the bleak button nose of the Isle of Bute. 

First foot, then the second. Inched with force. Aching. Moving. It takes more than a moment, but eventually I am walking normally – or how I think normal people walk. It has something to do with the swing of the arms maybe, a certain pace that is not skittering nor hunched. The small shape of this world is a decision I have made for myself. 

In the sunshine, the town could be sweet, with boutiques and chip shops lining a brief promenade and houses mounted like paper crowns on the unassuming peaks of hills, but the sky is stony and low, and almost everything fits within the width of my peripheral vision. The place is small. Small enough that everything closes on a Sunday, a fact enforced by the church bells that clang dimly through the muffle of the fog. That sound… Big He is at his watching post again today. Overseeing through the haze of His clouds. None of the people wandering down the wide flat streets seem to mind. They keep their heads bent as the tolling of bells fades out. 

I realise with some horror that without a map and a phone (a phone), I am going to have to ask someone for directions. Bakery, bus stop, baby boutique. Closed. Most people are friendly in a rude way, keen to ask questions, to stare with open suspicion at my unfamiliar face. They offer little and linger long, keeping me standing, nodding, then giving no information. Eventually I walk through an open door, the only one open along the street. A bell jingles. The rusty smell of blood engulfs me.

‘Yer staying at Baywood?’ the butcher asks. He’s bald and sweet-faced, with a little white cap upon his pockmarked head, peppered hair tufting out the sides. ‘That’s away into the hills. Are ye walking?’ 

He eyes my suitcase as I nod, then shakes his head in a way that irritates me. A silence draws out long and terminal until I ask, ‘Is there a bus?’ 

‘Nah, ye’ve missed it,’ he says, and walks round the counter, flips the open sign on the door to closed. Does not actually close the door. 

‘I’ll give ye a lift.’ 

Fragile Animals by Genevieve Jagger is published by 404 Ink, priced £10.99.