My Big Find

Stephen Bullock

I found a hand under a bench in the park when I was ten. A dead one. A human one. Burnt crisp and orange and hollow, with a 3 inch steel nail through the palm. I wondered if someone had been crucified. Or been tied to the railway line only to have a passenger train cleave all four extremities from the flailing body. I imagined the still twitching and bleeding hand bouncing down the embankment, finding its way to some local kids who proceeded to torture, burn and scream like toddlers at the grim article as they kicked and flicked it at each other. My imagination burnt so fiercely with the mystery of where this thing that should never, ever be found in a playpark could have appeared from, that there was no time for repulsion or horror. Finding a dead hand, as it turned out, was cool.

In truth it was the dog who found it, but I told the story different ways to different people for maximum impact. I quickly became a master storyteller, moving facts around and building tension through the details. Our dog, who I always fancied was the result of a happy union between a Jack Russell and a Rottweiler, had ferreted underneath one of the solid park benches and dragged something out. My Mum launched herself at the dog, shouting 'Leave! Chas! Leave!' My Mum had always wanted a King Charles Spaniel but couldn't be doing with that much fur, so as the next best thing she bought a mongrel and called it Chas. It made sense at the time. We had been lectured again and again that Chas could die if he ate chicken bones as they have a tendency to splinter and a char-grilled chicken wing was the closest identifiable thing to what the dog now had between his saliva drenched fangs. He was hoiked by his choke chain into mid-air, legs dangling, whining in utter desolation that his newfound tasty-beautiful plaything was lost to him. It wasn't chicken, but there were bones, rattling about inside the fried skin that was frozen in position with fingers bent but not clenched. ... (continues)