A Heart in the Right Place

by Heide Goody

“Where’s Stefan?” said Col.

  “They got him,” came a reply.

  “They?”

  “There was shooting. One of his grenades went off.”

  “Feck!”

  “We’re just mopping up the last of the pigs on the bridge,” came another voice.

  “Is pigs one of our feckin targets?” said Col.

  “They killed Fitzpatrick and Dempsey, sir.”

  “No, they didn’t,” said another voice.

  “Dempsey?”

  “Aye. I’m up in the trees. I think I’ve got eyes on the woman—”

  There was a pause. Both in his earpiece and out in the distance, Nick heard the sound of gunfire.

  “Dempsey?”

  There was no reply.

  “That feckin bitch!”

  “What’s going on?” asked Tony.

  “I think the woman and her boss have fallen out,” said Nick. “We’ve got six or so armed men out there, and one very angry werewolf.” He picked up a meat cleaver he had added to their haul. He gave it an experimental swish through the air. It didn’t feel like much of a match against the big automatics the men carried. “We’re seriously outnumbered and outgunned.”

  Tony held up a spool of wire. “We need to be sneakier than them. Sneakier and a little bit smarter. Watch.”

  Tony looped the wire around a twig. It looked to Nick like the crappiest twig in the whole forest. If they were relying on a twig to save their lives then this was not the one to choose. He swallowed the urge to voice his assessment and watched.

  “So we twist the wire back round itself to make it nice and secure. There.”

  The twig snapped. Tony held up the wire. “See? A nice secure eye for the trap we’re going to make.” Clearly the twig had just been a tool to form the little circle.

  “We’re making a trap?” said Nick.

  “Not just one. We’re going to make a whole bunch of them. Now, we thread the wire through the eye we made, and we have a loop snare that will tighten around something – a man’s ankle, hopefully. If we spring load it, with a bent sapling, then all sorts of cool things become possible. Ready?”

  Nick didn’t bother to suppress the huge grin on his face. “Oh, yes. Let’s make traps, dad.”

  Nick soon found a sapling of the right height and whip-like flexibility. Tony showed him how to suspend their wire loop on a nicely breakable frame, constructed from more crappy twigs. If someone trod in the right place, their foot would go right through.

  “Right, let’s notch these branches to control the spring mechanism. We carve a little piece out, make it like a tent peg.”

  Nick wondered where Tony’s casual reference to camping and survival techniques had come from. It seemed a bit advanced for Enid Blyton.

  “Where did you get all this from dad? Were you in the scouts?”

  “No. Off the telly, son. There are cable channels with no end of this stuff.”

  “Cool.” Nick watched as Tony dragged the sapling into place and tested the hook which would fasten it down to the snare. Once he was satisfied, he joined up the pieces. Nick was in awe of its simplicity.

  “Can I make the next one?” he asked.

  “Give it a try.”

  Pickles ran up and gave a little bark. Tony looked earnestly into the dog’s eyes and made some low yipping sounds. Pickles looked very excited and leaped up into the air.

  “She says all but one of the men are downhill from here,” said Tony. “Between us and the river.”

  “Oh, good,” said Nick, trying not to sound sarcastic.

  “I’ve also told her about the traps. We don’t want her getting caught. If we make a line of them, on the far side of this path, we might get a few gunmen as they come up here.”

  Nick nodded and set to work. They were on a path through the trees which looked well-used by the boars, with lots of churned-up mud. Despite the slippery conditions, Nick soon finished his own trap and presented it for his dad’s inspection.

  “Great work,” said Tony, slapping him on the shoulder. “To the next one. I reckon Pickles can probably get some of the men to walk into them, either by chasing them or doing the poorly paw routine.”

  Nick nodded, bemused. He dared to hope they might just make it out of here, though he wondered how on earth they were going to explain to his mom how Tony was fluent in dog language.

  “Pickles also told me the boars trampled a couple of the men on the bridge,” said Tony. “So that’s good news.”

  “Before the men slaughtered them all,” said Nick.

  Tony grunted. “Don’t like the idea of boars getting shot, but you’re happy to eat the sausages?”

  “I can be a meat-eater and believe in animal welfare, dad.”

  Tony tested the tensile strength of the latest trap. “There’s not going to be much in the way of human welfare when those boys run into our traps.”

  “Hey, you know what we need to do?” Nick said. “It’ll be perfect, really make us look the part.”

  Tony gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Look the part?”

  Nick reached down and rubbed his fingers in the mud and then smeared it down his cheeks and across his forehead.

  Tony smiled. “Rambo! Now there’s a narrative I can relate to.” He marked up his own face to match. There was bracken growing low to the ground. Nick shoved some into the end of his sleeves to camouflage his hands, immediately found it was quite irritating so he pulled it straight back out again.

  “Spikes,” he said.

  “What?”

  “In one of the Rambo films, he makes traps in the wood with spikes on.”

  “That’s the first film,” said Tony confidently.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a fifty-fifty guess. Unless you want to tell me they made more than two Rambo films.”

  “First Blood, parts one and two,” said Nick.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then Rambo III.”

  “Oh.”

  “And then Rambo.”

  “Rambo IV?”

  “I think it’s just called Rambo.”

  “Even though it’s the fourth one?”

  “I don’t make the rules, dad.”

  “It’s just messing about if you don’t number your films properly.”

  “I was going to say,” said Nick, “this path is really slippery. If we make it slippier, do you think it would be enough to send them skidding? Maybe put some spikes at the bottom there for when they lose their grip.”

  “And how do we make it slippier?”

  “Another tin of creosote might do the trick.”

  Tony grinned. “Great idea.”

  *

  In short order, the Carver men set several traps. The meat cleaver proved very effective at whittling dead branches into foot-long spikes to be set into the bank at the bottom of the slippery path.

  “How’s that for teamwork?” said Tony with no small amount of amusement.

  “This might yet trump the vase-hunt as my favourite father-son activity.”

  Tony wedged the final spike into place. “This one certainly has a higher body count.”

  “Only because mom never found out about the broken vase,” grinned Nick.

  Even through the graininess of night-vision goggles, Nick could see Tony’s dark expression.

  “Hey,” he said, squeezing his dad’s arm. “We’ll get out of this. We’ll see her soon enough. She’s expecting us back on Sunday, and we’ll be back on Sunday.”

  An odd barking sound came through the trees. Nick looked up, startled. “Is that Finn?”

  “No, that was Pickles,” said Tony. “We’ve got bad guys heading our way.”

  They’d discussed whether there was any point in trying to hide if the men had night vision goggles. They scuttled into a hidey-hole halfway up the path and ducked into the bushes. Nick pulled himself into the most boar-like shape he could manage, regretting it after a few uncomfortable minutes. He was about to relax int
o something more normal when he heard someone tramping along the trail. For them to have got this far, one of the snares must have failed to trigger. There were more. Plus, they had a backup plan for anyone who got to this point. Tony caught his eye.

  On three he mimed.

  Nick’s first thought was to launch into the Is that on three or after three? routine (which would lead to a discussion on which Lethal Weapon film it came from, and the his dad’s inevitable surprise at how many Lethal Weapon films there were). He pushed it from his mind and concentrated hard on the approaching footsteps. Tony held up one finger, then another and, as he raised the third finger, they both pulled on the length of wire lying between them, across the path. It worked perfectly. The tripwire sent their victim stumbling to the ground. By chance his chin slipped into one of the snares; the loop closed around his face. He was whipped straight back up again at great speed. He slid free of the snare as it reached its zenith, but the force had clearly broken his neck. He flopped lifelessly to the ground.

  “Frank?” hissed a voice nearby. “Frank, is that you?”

  “I’ve got the scent of him,” whispered Tony with a nod. “He’s over there.” He made a brief whimpering noise. “Pickles will help. She’s got quite a mean streak, if I’m honest.”

  Nick crept forward and looked down the path. The second man was twenty feet away, his back to them. A shape slunk toward him: the unmistakeable outline of a dog. It bounded up and leapt, shoving him over. Pickles pushed the man onto their mud-flume; judging by the speed with which he sped away, it had worked a treat. There was a scream of intense pain.

  “I think we got him,” hissed Nick.

  They hurried through the trees to take a look over the ridge and the spike-lined bank below. The man was indeed impaled. Both feet had spikes jutting through his boots, sticking up through the tops. He writhed in pain, screaming continuously. Nick looked on in dismay. Somehow it was worse to injure someone in such a gruesome and agonising way than to actually kill them.

  “I’m not sure I’m a fan of this violence malarkey,” he said. “Do we help him?”

  “We walk away,” said Tony. “If we get out we can always send help later. Right now we just rejoice there’s one less bad guy on our tail.”

  Nick was slightly unhappy about the situation, but they moved away into the trees, while the man hollered. At some point, he remembered his radio. Nick got the shouting at full volume in his earpiece.

  “I’m coming to your position,” said Col.

  “Ah, Jesus, but I’m hurt, Col!”

  “I’m coming to your position!” Col repeated.

  “Col’s coming to us,” said Nick. “Are you ready?”

  Tony nudged his son with his shoulder. “Would it be inappropriate to say I’m really starting to enjoy myself?”

  Nick gave his dad a look. “Well,” he said, generously, “that’s what this weekend’s meant to be about.”

  63

  Finn crouched in the boughs of a high tree for a long time, watching Col direct his men. It amused her to see how quickly a team of ten had been reduced to less than a handful by bad tactics, accidents and a little light intervention by herself. Col clearly wanted to locate and kill any residual threat before he lost any more, but she was having too much fun. She had spent fifteen minutes distributing the innards of a stupid sod called Taylor around the tops of a fir tree. It didn’t look much now but she was sure, come the dawn, her grisly Christmas tree decorating skills would give the authorities something to admire and puzzle over.

  She’d momentarily lost Col. His scent went somewhere over the river and up toward the farm house, but exactly where wasn’t clear. There was another merc right nearby though, stinking of nervousness and making as much noise as a drunk in tap shoes. Apart from Col, he might be the last man on the ground. By the smell of him, he probably knew it.

  She swung down silently - she only had the use of her left hand: her right hand was full – but she descended silently nonetheless. She landed two feet behind the man and he still didn’t hear her.

  She coughed politely.

  He whirled, raising his MP9, but he was too close. Finn grabbed the barrel and pushed it aside as he fired. She wrenched it from his grip, smashed him in the face with the stock, and kicked him to the ground. If it wasn’t for his body armour, her toe claws would have disembowelled him. He went down hard, scrabbling for a handgun on his belt. She took that away from him too.

  “Don’t … don’t…” he whimpered, squirming among the muck and pine needles. With trembling fingers, he reached for his throat mic. “Man down. Man down. Anybody—”

  Finn ripped away his mic and earpiece. She also ripped most of his ear and a fleshy part from his cheek. She was still getting used to having claws.

  He screamed. She put a foot on his chest to keep him still and shushed him. “Sshut up. I’m not going to kill you.”

  The words, mangled though they were by fangs, cut through his pain and fear. He looked up at her. She suddenly wanted to see his eyes and tore away his goggles.

  “There,” she said. “I can shee you properly now.” His eyes were wide, panicked, blinking with tears and trickles of mud. “I won’t kill you if you do azh I ashk. Hand.”

  “What?” he said.

  “Hold out your hand.”

  Trembling, he held it out. Finn leaned down and placed the heart she was carrying in his open palm. He flinched at the touch. She didn’t let him let go.

  “It’s jusht a heart,” she said. “Boar’zh heart.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What’sh your name?”

  “Ciamh.”

  “Kweeve?”

  “Ciamh.”

  “What kind of shtupid name ish that?”

  “The one me mam gave me,” he said and gave a sudden sob. “I’m sorry. I just want to go home.”

  “Eat up, Ciamh,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Eat.” She nudged his heart-holding hand with her hairy knee. “Eat up. It’sh good for you.”

  Seeing surprise on a man’s face in pitch darkness was a beautiful thing. Robbed of light, blinded, there was an extra level of honesty in the expression.

  “Eat it and you’ll let me go?” he said.

  “Eat.”

  His lips trembled as he brought the heart close. “It’s still warm.”

  “Shertain tribezh ushed to eat the heartsh of their defeated enemiezh,” she said, smiling as he took the first tentative nibble. “Shome think there’zh shpecial power in the heart. Your bossh doezh.”

  Ciamh swallowed the first sliver and then took a larger, more desperate bite.

  “It’sh jusht mushle really,” she said. “Nothing shpecial. It’sh not the sheat of conshioushnesh – shit, that’sh not eazhy to shay with a mouth full of fangzh. You don’t feel nothing with your heart.”

  “No,” said Ciamh, ripping another chunk with his incisors.

  “But we shay he wazh big-hearted or she’s a heartlesh bitch like it actually meanzh shomething.”

  Ciamh gulped. Blood smeared his chin.

  “Shometimezh,” Finn said, “I wonder if we are thinking creaturezh at all.” She crouched over him. “At momentsh like thezhe I try to connect with people, get a glimpshe of the person within, you know?”

  She waved a claw in front of his eyes even though he couldn’t see it. He was just an animal chewing and gulping and thinking of nothing at all but his slim chances of getting out of this alive.

  “I think I might be the only real pershon in the world,” she said. “I can’t find a glimmer of real thought, real feeling, in any of the people I kill. They’re jusht like robotsh. You take them apart, looking for the real them… They’re jusht imagezh of people. Photographsh. You know what I mean?”

  “I feel sick,” said Ciamh, putting blood-slicked fingers to his mouth.

  “I don’t think you feel anything. Animalzh, people. There’zh no difference.”

  Ciamh gulped for air,
gagging on the last of the heart.

  She leaned in close. “You think you would be able to tell the difference between a boar’zh heart and a human heart?”

  The look in his eyes sent a thrill through her. “Oh, God,” he grunted, retching. “Oh, God…”

  She ripped out his throat with her teeth. He spasmed beneath her as he died.

  “Nice chat,” she said and stood up. “Ciamh with the shtupid fucking name.”

  With ill-suited claw-hands, she pushed Ciamh’s radio earpiece into her cavernous wolf’s ear.

  “Col,” she said, tapping the mic button. “Col.”

  “Who…” The voice on the line paused. “Finn. Still alive there, now?”

  “Guessh sho.”

  “And which of my boys did you steal the radio from?”

  “Ciamh. He wasn’t using it.”

  “Uh-huh.” He tried to sound casual, but there was frustration in his voice.

  “Izh it jusht you and me now?” she said.

  He forced a laugh. “Hardly. The feckin gang’s all here, Finn. We’re just getting started.”

  “Liar.”

  “And I’ve realised something, too,” said Col.

  “What?”

  “I don’t need your feckin heart, Finn. I don’t need your heart at all.”

  64

  “What does he mean by that?” said Nick, listening in.

  “What does who mean by what?” said Tony.

  “Ssh, he’s coming.”

  There was a rustle in the far off undergrowth and the man with spiked feet stopped crying and moaning. “Thank fuck you’re here, mate,” he said.

  “How are you now?” asked Col.

  “I need evac. I can’t walk.”

  A single shot rang out. The injured man made no further sound.

  Nick and Tony slid back and stood silently. “Shit, that’s cold,” hissed Nick. “One of his own men!”

  “You’re never going to properly motivate your workforce if that’s how you treat them,” said Tony.

  “Not exactly what I was thinking, dad.”

  “Come on, we’re going to have to deal with Col.”

  Nick peered out. “Can’t see any sign of him.” Nick felt very exposed. He might have been carrying a stolen handgun in his belt but it did nothing to add to his confidence.