by Frazer Lee
He had made a good start by staying up late and only crawling upstairs to bed after he had nodded off for a while in the chair by the fire. He had found it difficult to navigate the steep, narrow stairs with so much whisky inside him, but at least he hadn’t woken Helen when he slid drunkenly under the covers beside her. She had still been sleeping when Alex woke him at seven that morning. Mike and Alex had both made coffee, wolfed down a couple of slices of hot, buttered toast, and managed to sneak out without waking Helen, Kay, or Meggie.
The two old men from Drinton village were waiting for them in a beaten-up old Land Rover at the lane that met the path to the cottage. The eldest man clambered out to greet them and finally introduced himself as Jamie. His friend, Edward, opened the passenger door and joined them.
Jamie took one look at Mike and cracked a sardonic smile, joking with Edward and Alex that he looked like he was sweating pure distillery water. Mike let it go. Truth was, a headache was forming between his temples that rivaled even the dark clouds brewing overhead in intensity. His stomach was gurgling, and his throat felt sore from the acid bile lapping there – an unwelcome tide on a sorry shore. He regretted drinking so much of the shopkeeper’s Death Juice, though it had tasted glorious at the time. He supposed he could always duck behind a tree or some scrubby grass to puke if he needed to, though he hoped he wouldn’t. He’d hate to give the wisecracking duo the chance to ridicule him some more. Mike swallowed down the acid sting at his throat and tried to soldier on as best he could.
Following the old men around to the back of their vehicle, he watched as they pulled back a heavy tarpaulin encrusted with dried mud to reveal a padlocked strongbox. They made a song and dance about which of them had the key before discovering neither did – it had been safely tucked away in the ashtray of the old Land Rover.
After unlocking the padlock and opening the lid of the strong box, Jamie revealed its contents with a grin. Four hunting shotguns were inside, along with a couple of air rifles that looked puny by comparison. Edward retrieved another padlocked box from the shadows deep inside the Land Rover and cracked that one open too. This box contained the ammunition. Mike tried to listen to the old men’s instructions as they talked him through the process of loading and carrying the shotguns. But their thick accents, and the howling headache making his brow furrow, made it difficult for him to concentrate. When it came to his turn to handle one of the shotguns, he almost dropped it. His hands were slick with cold sweat, and – try as he might to style it out – he really did have a bad case of the DTs. Jamie snorted with laughter at him as Mike swallowed dryly and tried to get a grip on both himself and the shotgun.
“Would you prefer one of the wee air rifles?” Alex asked mockingly.
“Piss off, Alex,” Mike said.
“He has…fired one of these before, hasn’t he?” Jamie asked.
Alex chuckled. “Only on the range with my dad. Hardly a crack shot, but he knows the basics, don’t you, Mikey?”
Mike didn’t like the way his friend was talking about him as if he wasn’t even there. He was about to say something he might regret – something involving the barrel of the shotgun and Alex’s arse – when Edward placed a paternal hand on his shoulder and began to talk him through the correct handling procedure for the shotgun.
“Ye’ll get the hang of it eventually, laddie,” Jamie said encouragingly when Edward was done with his lesson. “Though I would’ve thought you’d at least have bagged a bird or two for your table by now. Strapping, hungry young lad like yourself.”
“First time for everything,” Edward mused. “I remember my first kill like it was yesterday. Bloody well near blew my own foot off at one point, so I did.”
“First shoot? That must have been wi’ muskets or something,” Jamie joked.
“Fuck off, you old bastard, you’re one foot in the grave already,” Edward laughed.
“This is going to be a fun day,” Alex murmured.
“Don’t we…need a license or something?” Mike asked as he did his best to shoulder the shotgun and line up the sights just as Edward had shown him.
“Oh, no, you din’nae need to worry about anything like that,” Jamie said. “The beauty of it is, you see, the land out here is private. All we need is permission from the landowner to shoot here, and we’re good to go.”
“That’ll be his da’,” Edward added, nodding at Alex.
Mike still felt a little uncertain, and the old men’s disingenuous smiles were doing absolutely nothing to put that feeling to rest.
Jamie took Mike’s hand and helped adjust his grip, and then he tapped Mike on the shoulder, prompting him to improve his posture with the shotgun.
“That’s better,” Jamie said. “We may make a country squire of you yet.”
Mike wasn’t so sure about that. Looking up at the gathering clouds, he felt the first cold kiss of drizzle on his face. Great, it was going to piss it down while they staggered around in the wet countryside, trying not to shoot their own feet off. Mike wanted nothing more right now than a good fry up and another few hours – if not an entire day – in bed.
“Righto, that’s us ready then,” Jamie said chirpily. “Shall we be for the off then, lads?”
Mike declined to answer, sliding the shotgun’s carry strap over his shoulder as instructed by Edward.
“What are we going to be shooting at, exactly?” Mike asked.
He realized as soon as he said it how green he must sound, but right now he didn’t give a shit. It was more important that he keep talking, to keep his mind distracted from giving in to the nausea making his brain swim, and to keep his body distracted from puking.
“Red grouse would be our primary target,” Jamie said, sounding sage-like and clearly relishing his role as shooting soothsayer. “They’re difficult buggers to bag, though. They can fly up to seventy miles per hour. Quick on the wing, from land to air and out of range within a matter of seconds.”
“Have you ever shot any?”
“Oh, aye. It just takes a bit of practice, like most things. The younger birds are the ones to bag, to be honest. They’re the ones you want on your table.”
Edward smacked his lips. “They’re bloody delicious.”
“There’s black grouse out here too, though they’re the rarer bird,” Jamie went on. “Numbers are down in Scotland because of interference with their habitat.”
“Interference how?” Mike asked.
“Oh, you know, deforestation and all that. Wetland drainage. Population explosion, all kinds of things.”
“But not around here.”
“No, not around here, laddie. Thanks to gentlemen like Alex’s father.”
“Because he’s the landowner, you mean?”
“Not only that. The company he works for built a series of dams in the Highlands. One not far from here. Did’nae he tell you anything about it? Well, some parts that were dry now have a good supply of water running through them.…”
“And some parts that were wet have more fields for growing crops, and trees for paper mills,” Edward added.
Mike frowned. “That sounds like interference with habitat to me,” he said.
“Aye, it does,” Jamie said, “but it does’nae always mean it’s a bad thing.”
Mike thought about this for a few moments. He had always thought of his and Alex’s fathers’ jobs as being confined to the cities. Luxury hotels and shiny new office blocks seemed to be their thing. It was a surprise to Mike to hear they had real-world impact on the countryside and wildlife with their projects too. But he also knew it was a matter of some resentment that Alex’s father had been rewarded with the cottage and land as a sizeable bonus package for sealing the Kintail dam deal. Mike’s father had often complained about it at the time, believing that without his work in Biz Dev, Alex’s father wouldn’t have any contracts to draw up in the first place. Mike had
broached the subject once with Alex, who said that his own father had told him Mike’s dad had fucked up the terms of the deal with the local authorities, almost jeopardizing the project – until Alex’s father had stepped in to play legal eagle and save the day. It was still the source of much friction between their fathers, to that day, and Mike’s father had given him disapproving looks when he had mentioned he was planning a fishing holiday with Alex at the cottage.
“Should be ours, that place, Mikey. Ours by rights. But who am I to argue with the bloody Buchanans of this world? Even after all the hours of overtime I put in. He swans in, like a typical bloody lawyer. Robbed, we were. Still, we’ve got our timeshare on the Costa del Crime, I suppose.…”
“All right, laddies,” Jamie said, “time to get along with business. We’ll walk up the high path, circle round behind the line of trees over there. That’s where they’re most likely to be roosting. When we get near to the loch, we’ll have to cut the chatter. The wee beasties will take to the wing fast, just as soon as they’ve heard us. We’ll only have a few seconds to bag a couple of birds.”
Mike shouldered his shotgun and followed the others up the path toward the lower slopes of the hillside to the east of the loch. The dark clouds had smothered the tops of the distant mountains, choking the day of some of its light. By the time they passed the loch, a fine mist had begun to gather above the water, shrouding the reflective surface as though it were protecting a secret hidden there. The air became cooler and damper the farther they walked, and Mike pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his throat. He wished he was wearing waterproofs like the old-timers. Once or twice he caught them giving him and Alex a backward glance, after which they chuckled together quietly. No doubt these experienced hunters thought it was hilarious dragging two city boys out on a drab day like this, to get them cold, wet and muddy and to return to the cottage with nothing but head colds to speak of the experience.
Mike rubbed his hands together, trying to bring them back to life. They were becoming numb from the cold. What he wouldn’t do for a nice hot toddy made from the whisky he had bought at the shop, followed by a nice, long smoke and then a doze by the fire. He wondered what the girls were up to back at the cottage. Probably warming themselves by the hearth, reading and chatting and eating together, he thought longingly.
As he trudged on along the path, becoming irritated by his own repetitive footfalls, Mike began to wonder if all holidays ultimately ended like this, with the happy campers splitting into groups before each individual then withdrew into himself or herself. He remembered a family holiday that had gone particularly pear-shaped when he was in his early teens. His mother had booked a ten-day package deal on a Greek island as a surprise for Mike’s dad. His dad was certainly surprised – he had never been on holiday for longer than a week. Mike recalled how quiet his dad had been during the flight and then the boat trip to the island. His father had only started speaking to his family during the drive to their rented villa, and even then he had seemed subdued. Mike remembered his mother’s face, reflected in the rearview mirror of the hire car. She had looked terrified. Mike still wondered if his dad had driven too close to the sheer edges of the winding road on purpose to teach them all a lesson. His father had spent the next ten days sleeping by the pool or answering work calls. On one occasion he even slipped into the little town nearby to receive a fax, since their internet connection was down. His mum had tried to organize them into a schedule of family activities, including boat trips and beach picnics, but after a few days even she gave up the pretense and allowed everyone to follow their own agenda. Mike’s dad took to sleeping late, then eating his meals separately, often at a taverna a short walk away. The family settled into a pattern of occupying separate spaces within the holiday villa – one in the pool, another indoors, while Mike was off exploring the coastline. Mike’s mother had driven them back to the harbor when the holiday was over. She scraped the paintwork of the hire car by driving too far from the edges of the vertiginous roads. They had never taken a holiday together after that. Mike guessed they had all learned their lesson.
“I hear them,” Jamie announced in an urgent whisper, bringing Mike back to the present.
Mike stopped walking, glad to take a breather. The two old men surveyed the line of trees from beneath their flat caps. Edward rummaged in the pockets of his voluminous waxed jacket and moments later produced and unfolded a compact pair of binoculars.
“It’s the grouse, all right,” Edward whispered, licking his spittle-flecked lips.
“All right, laddies, we’ll walk close to the loch, but under the cover of those trees.” Jamie pointed in the direction of the same woodland path he and Alex had followed to rejoin the girls after they had buried the dog.
“Keep as quiet as you can. Don’t spook the birds.”
Alex went on ahead, and Mike took a few breaths before setting off again. He was so intent on watching where the two old men were leading him that he wandered slightly from the path without even realizing it. His foot snapped a thick twig as he trod on it. With a flurry of noise and feathers, an enormous flock of birds flapped from the bushes beside Mike. They were so close that he felt the air from their wings against his face. The noise they made was frightening. He stumbled back and cried out in alarm, his shotgun tilting up as he regained his footing.
But his finger was on the trigger.
With a sharp bang, the shotgun let loose a shot. It made a sound like a purse full of pennies exploding. The thunderous recoil slammed into Mike’s arm, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled back with such force that he fell fully over and dropped the shotgun. Alex reached out and tried to grab his arm, to break his fall. Mike clawed wildly at the air, his fingertips finding the sleeve of Alex’s jacket. Mike dug his fingers into the fabric, trying to remain upright, but all he succeeded in doing was to pull Alex down with him, face-first into the bushes. A whirlwind of panicked birds circled above him, loose feathers falling like autumn leaves.
“What the fucking hell are you doing?” Alex coughed through a mouthful of foliage.
As the frightened birds escaped into the branches above their heads, Mike saw at once that they were not grouse but wood pigeons. He had managed to startle them from their hiding place in the bushes when his foot had snapped the twig, but his accidental gunshot had sent them into a frenzy.
He felt like such an idiot.
Mike’s eyes widened as he looked up at yet more birds now flapping terrified above the trees. His impulsive shot at the pigeons had scared the grouse – their actual prey – from their branches. Mike saw the exasperated look on Jamie’s face before the old man lurched into action, cocking and aiming his shotgun into the sky. Edward followed suit, cursing under his breath as he did so. Jamie’s shotgun boomed, followed by Edward’s.
Mike watched the grouse disappear over the treetops. When the two old men lowered their weapons, all their good humor had disappeared too.
“You bloody fool,” Edward growled.
“I’m – I’m sorry,” Mike said. “The birds startled me and.…”
Jamie just shook his head slowly, emptying the spent cartridges from his weapon onto the ground. He and Edward whispered something to each other. Edward then took a hip flask from his jacket pocket, and the two old friends took a drink.
“I guess that’s the shoot bloody well over for today then,” Alex said. He got to his feet, leaving Mike flat on his back in the bush.
“Hey, I said I was sorry,” Mike protested.
Jamie wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and gave the hip flask back to Edward. “Dry your eyes, laddie,” he said. “There’ll be more wee birdies to shoot at today. Perhaps leave the actual shooting to us grown-ups this time.”
Mike wriggled out from the tangle of bushy branches. He dusted himself down and picked up his shotgun. Alex snatched it from him and shouldered it with his own.
“Where are we going?” Mike asked.
“We follow the birds,” Edward muttered.
“Really? How far?”
“All day if we have to,” came the reply.
Mike glanced back at the mist curling over the loch. It had thickened into a bank of fog that was rolling their way. He pulled a dry twig from his tousled hair and walked on, eager to catch up to the others.
* * *
By the time they broke the tree line, a heavy bank of fog had enveloped them. Mike’s feet made distant and muffled footfalls. Alex’s voice urging him to keep up was muted. It was as though all the sound had been sucked out of the world by the fog. It was blanket-thick now, and Mike could scarcely see a few feet in front of him. He called out to Alex, careless of spooking the birds again, but no reply came. The sweat at the nape of his neck felt cold as it trickled down between his shoulder blades. He turned his head this way and that, disoriented by the white wall of vapor that had anonymized the landscape, and looked for any kind of a landmark that he could get a fix on.
After a few frantic minutes, he saw a couple of dark shapes in the fog. They couldn’t be more than twenty feet away – or could they? He thought perhaps the fog was lifting, giving him a reassuring glimpse of Alex and the others, but then thicker fog rolled in and obscured the shapes from his view. He prayed that the breeze, or whatever had momentarily cleared his vision, would come back again, and soon. Feeling utterly lost, he stopped walking. Looking down, he could not even see past his knees. The ground felt wet beneath the soles of his walking shoes. He pushed down with his weight and felt the uneven terrain give way slightly beneath his feet. Starting at a faint sucking noise, Mike began to wonder if he would be swallowed up by the boggy soil, lost to the fog forever. He felt panic seizing at his throat, his hungover head dizzy from the effort of trying to orientate his position in the gray void.