Angel Hunt

by Mike Ripley

  The saboteurs were greeting each other like long-lost friends, which they probably were. For many of them, it was the height of their social calendar. Some had placards, mostly homemade with a lot of red paint for effect. The best I saw said, ‘If you can’t eat it, don’t torture it,’ and the weirdest one said, ‘Librans Against Slaughter.’

  I caught snippets of conversation such as: ‘… did David ever get that hoof print out of his car door?’ and ‘… the hounds always go for salami if you can’t get authentic biltong …’ And several of them smiled at me and said hello. They all had bright, expectant eyes and shiny, excited faces. They at least were ready for the chase.

  Through the open front door, I saw two more bikes draw up, and these were The Business. One was a Harley, I could tell even from that distance, and the other a smaller BMW. Both riders dismounted and hung their helmets over their handlebars. Both had full leather riding gear and both wore balaclavas, which they stretched and pulled off as they walked to the door.

  Lara met them in the hall, and I watched in case she threw up at the sight of so much leather. She didn’t; instead she reached up and kissed the first one and then shook hands with the second as he was introduced to her. Then she led them into the milling throng.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, something that always turns my spine to jelly.

  ‘Roy! Good of you to make it. And thank you for bringing Lara.’

  It was Bell in full cleric gear, including dog-collar and cassock, which stopped just above his Doc Marten’s.

  ‘Did I have a choice?’ I asked cheekily.

  ‘Probably not. Lara is very single-minded. I see her friends have arrived.’ He didn’t sound too pleased about it.

  ‘Nice disguise,’ I said, indicating the cassock.

  ‘Even our boorish local hunters think twice about riding down a man of the cloth, especially if they have to come to see me next week about their daughters’ weddings or their grandchildren being christened. And anyway, it looks good on television when a vicar gets bullied.’

  He was serious about this.

  ‘Are you expecting a TV crew?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, not on Boxing Day. But we’ll be taking our own pictures.’

  ‘Billy’s video camera?’

  ‘Er … yes,’ he said, and flushed slightly. ‘Billy’s.’

  He caught someone’s eye across the room and headed off, saying, ‘Sandra, how nice of you to turn out.’ I shuffled over to where Lara was talking to the leather-clad Harley rider. His biker friend was busy introducing himself to a pair of pinch-faced young blondes, both wearing CND badge earrings.

  Lara glared at me as I approached, and not even my 100-watt smile melted her expression.

  ‘Hello, Roy,’ she said reluctantly, and as if it was at least a year since she’d seen me last. ‘Meet Tony.’

  Tony pulled off a gauntlet with his teeth and we shook hands.

  ‘Hi-de-hi,’ he said, in a voice that sounded as if he’d never had the silver spoon taken out of his mouth.

  ‘Nice bike,’ I said, watching Lara slide away towards Bell. ‘Touch of the Electra Glides.’

  He looked blank at that. ‘Oh, she shifts all right. Made it here in eight minutes under the hour. No traffic, of course.’

  ‘From where?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Ah-ha! Nice try.’ He tapped his nose with his forefinger. ‘But we mustn’t say, must we? Rules of the game, and all that. No surnames, no addresses. In case the Boys In Blue are around.’

  ‘Dead right. Just checking. First time?’

  He nodded and grinned inanely.

  ‘First time this side of the tracks,’ he whispered, touching his nose again. ‘To be truthful, I’ve changed sides today. My father does a spot of hunting in Leicestershire and I have been known to jog along behind. In my younger days, natch.’

  ‘Oh, natch.’

  If he’d told me his father owned Leicestershire, I wouldn’t have been surprised. From his age, accent, the haircut and the ‘eight minutes under the hour from here,’ I had him down as a newly-commissioned lieutenant, almost certainly based in Colchester (as Aldershot was too far), and I’d even guess at the regiment: Devon and Dorsets. That was a decent enough billet for someone whose dad hunted in Leicestershire.

  ‘So why are you turning traitor?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, Harry and I –’ he indicated his companion now deep in discussion with the CND ladies ‘– thought it might be a giggle.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘Couldn’t give a tinker’s toss about old Brer Fox if truth were known, but it’s a good way to bugger up the fat Burghers of Cambridge, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely. All good, clean fun.’

  He looked at me like a fellow conspirator.

  ‘Lara said you were the chap with the taxi. Bet you’ve had some laughs in that, eh?’

  He flapped his gauntlet against my chest. I was having trouble taking this guy for real.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve got to up in that old bus,’ I said, and meant it. ‘The number of women who flag you down begging for a lift is incredible.’

  I said it with as much corny innuendo as I thought I could get away with, and he lapped it up.

  ‘Have you managed to get Lara in the back seat yet?’

  ‘One of my regular rides, you might say.’

  I thought he might seize up at that. He giggled and nudged me with his elbow, then punched me lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Good man. Never dared myself, though always fancied her. But not good form to mess with a chap’s …’

  ‘Sister?’

  ‘Peter’s sister, of course. Don’t tell me you don’t know Peter?’

  ‘Okay, I won’t tell you, but I don’t. Is he here?’

  Tony didn’t need to look around.

  ‘Uh-huh. Lara says he’s away for a few weeks. We don’t see him much these days, of course, but it’s not like him to miss a shindig like this. O-oh, watch out. Stand by your beds. Looks like the Vicar-General is calling us to order.’

  ‘That was very good,’ I said.

  ‘What was?’ asked Tony, bemused.

  ‘Vicar-General. Wish I’d thought of that.’

  ‘Really?’ He was genuinely taken aback. ‘Oh, thanks. I’ll tell Harry.’

  I left him to it and shuffled off to the side. If the defence of our realm was being left to Tony and Harry, I’d better learn Russian fast.

  Bell moved into the centre of the room and clapped his hands twice for order.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he boomed in his best pulpit voice. ‘At this very moment, our local worthies are stretching last year’s red coats over yesterday’s turkey and plum pudding.’ There was a ripple of polite laughter. ‘Some of our less worthy locals will be getting their horses ready for them, and within an hour they’ll assemble at Caxton Gibbet for the traditional Stirrup Cup. That will almost certainly go on for another hour. They need Dutch Courage to do what they do.’

  Murmurs of approval at this as well as more laughter.

  ‘So we’ve plenty of time to get in position. The word in the village is that there are foxes in Knapworth Woods. That means the hunt will come towards us on the Elsworth road and then go into one of the fields to their right, over towards Cambridge. Everyone with banners will concentrate on blocking the road. But be careful. There will be police on duty, and remember, we’re not out to hurt the dogs, and if you frighten the horses, they could hurt you.

  ‘Lara here will be in charge of scenting the gateways and the entrances to the field to confuse the hounds. Do we have any volunteer runners this year?’

  A pair of gangling hippie types – authentic ones, not the fashion crazed ‘New Hippies’ doing the rounds of the acid house parties in London – stepped forward.

  ‘We’ve left our bait outside,’
said the tallest, in a West Country burr. ‘It’s mostly pretty high pheasant, and it makes us not very pleasant to be near to.’

  ‘We haven’t washed for weeks in honour of the occasion,’ said the other, scratching his beard.

  More laughter.

  ‘Well done, you two,’ smiled Bell. ‘Now then, Edna and Albert – ‘ he indicated the couple I’d identified with the Morris Minor ‘ – have the boot of their car absolutely stuffed with anti-hunt literature. Anyone who wants an armful of pamphlets, please see them before we set out.

  ‘Remember, there will be lots of spectators there and we just might make a few converts. But no aggro, please. No pushing things down people’s throats.

  ‘Lastly, we have two newcomers in the shape of Harry and Tony, or maybe it’s Tony and Harry. They’ll have the video camera with them and they’ll be filming us. But please – don’t provoke anything violent just because the camera’s there. Tony will be on the large motorbike, so he can make a quick getaway.’

  More laughter, including a guffaw from Tony.

  ‘So, good luck, everyone. Let’s go make ourselves heard.’ A wave of applause started, but Bell held it down. ‘And then back here this afternoon for baked potatoes, roast chestnuts and soup. Not necessarily in that order, of course.’

  Bell came through the massed ranks, being patted on the back and having his hand shaken and giving the thumbs-up sign, until he got to me.

  ‘Roy, could we borrow you to transport the advance party?’

  ‘Certainly. What do I have to do?’

  Lara appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘Get me and two or three others and our stuff as close to the meet as possible,’ she said.

  ‘Won’t I be a bit obvious?’

  ‘Pretend we’ve taken a cab out of Cambridge. They have black cabs there. We’ll just be spectators and we’ll mingle in. When we see which way the hunt sets off, then we’ll know which fields to scent and we can zip on ahead.’

  She’d got it all thought out, I had to give her that.

  ‘Won’t people be a wee bit suspicious if a taxi-load of people like that turn up?’

  I pointed to the two girls with CND earrings who were helping each other into Margaret Thatcher rubber masks.

  ‘We’ll crouch down in the back,’ said Lara, bristling.

  ‘So how are you going to mingle with the spectators?’

  Lara’s eyebrows came together in a frown so hard it must have hurt. Behind her, Stephanie mouthed ‘me’ and pointed a finger at her chest.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘why don’t Stephie and I mingle and see what we can find out? If I’m on my own, I’m not a threat to anybody, and Stephie knows her way around the area.’

  Stephanie beamed in malicious triumph at the back of Lara’s head.

  ‘Okay, but –’ she looked around ‘– me, Tania, Jim and Lee stay in the back.’

  That seemed to settle it, not that I had any further say in the matter.

  I nodded to Stephie to follow and headed for Armstrong, only to run into Tony the army type in the hallway. He was emerging from the cellar door under the staircase with Billy Tuckett’s video camera under his arm.

  ‘I say,’ he grinned, ‘jolly good plan, isn’t it? Tactically very well thought out.’

  I just smiled at him and didn’t say that as far as I was concerned, the Stirrup Cup had sounded the best bit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There were more spectators than I’d imagined, and more police. Whole families had turned out to see the hunt off, because it was exactly the sort of thing they’d seen on Christmas cards and calendars for years and years. It was traditional; it was British. Show them a fox after a successful hunt, and they’d probably say that wasn’t what they had come for. But they never saw that; they were home cracking walnuts and watching White Christmas or Casablanca by then. But who was I to judge? Let’s face it, that many people gathered on the street at one time in Hackney meant there was a race riot going on.

  A brace of traffic cops – you can tell by the chequerboard pattern round their hats – waved me over and told me to park where I could off the road. They were worried about double parking, not looking for hunt saboteurs.

  I pulled over onto the verge of the lane, about 300 yards from the famous hangman’s gibbet itself. I left enough space between Armstrong and a Ford Sierra so that I could turn him on his lock if need be. As I wasn’t sure which way we would leave, I couldn’t do my usual and park in the optimum getaway position (Rule of Life No 277). Behind me, a Volvo estate car – the only vehicle less aerodynamic than the London black cab – pulled in and disgorged a youngish couple and six kids, four of which were two sets of twins. It must be something in the water, I thought.

  I let them troop by, the two sets of twins wearing either red or green coats depending on their age. Well, if you can’t tell them apart, why not colour-code them?

  ‘All clear,’ I said through the glass partition.

  Lara’s task force, crouched down on the floor, looked as if they were practising for an orgy. Stephie, the only one sitting upright and comfortable, smiled a smug smile down at them.

  ‘I’m ready, Roy. Let’s go,’ she said, like she was leading the local Brownie pack on manoeuvres. And I’ll swear she deliberately trod on Lara’s leg as she climbed out.

  I got out and almost fell down some sort of drainage ditch – that’s the trouble with the countryside, there’s grass everywhere so you can’t see where you’re putting your feet – but luckily no-one was watching. As cool as if nothing had happened, I pretended to lock the driver’s door and hop-skipped to catch up with Stephie.

  ‘‘Morning, Mrs Jones. Hello, Fiona, I can see what you got for Christmas! Hi, Desmond, how’s things?’ yelled Stephie as we marched down the middle of the traffic-free lane.

  ‘Hey, keep it down,’ I snarled. ‘We’re not supposed to attract attention.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, stupid. They know me. It would look really punk if I didn’t say anything to them. Hello, Donna!’ She shouted this to a girl her age standing forlorn in anorak and gumboots with a younger brother stuck on each hand as if she’d arrested them. ‘I see you got more zits for Christmas.’

  I hunched down into my coat and tried to pretend she wasn’t with me. If she’d been three years older, or I’d been ten years less clever …

  Near the gibbet, the hunters had gathered in a semi-circle, their coats bright and shiny, their nostrils flaring and their breath frosting on the crisp morning air. And the horses were quite impressive too.

  And they were so big. Okay, some of the younger riders had ponies that could have stepped out of Thelwell cartoons, but most of the riders were mounted on huge, muscular beasts that I would have needed a ladder to get on. I have to admit to being impressed by all that power and strength, and yet they had such tiny brains. They reminded me of a lot of people I knew in the East End. The sort of people who stood outside the rougher clubs wearing dinner jackets.

  I had decided that the horses must be stupid, because they allowed such a bunch of nerds to dress up in red coats and top hats and sit on their backs. But then I realised that the nerds in question had organised a Range-Rover full of iced champagne and orange juice and were giving it away in liberal quantities. By the second glass they didn’t seem such a bad bunch, and by the third I was positively warming to them. Though I couldn’t for the life of me see why they wanted to leave the party and go haring off over a muddy field with a bunch of noisy dogs.

  And the dogs were noisy, barking and howling from the big horsebox transporter they were kept in. A huntsman without a horse, their equivalent of a beat policeman, I suppose, emerged from the cab of the transporter with one of the hounds leaping down out of the cab and coming to heel behind him.

  ‘That the top dog, huh?’ I asked Stephanie, glancing round for the nice maternal-lo
oking lady with the tray of champagne I’d chatted to a few minutes before.

  ‘He’s called Rex. Leader of the pack,’ she said, sipping her well-spiked orange juice.

  ‘From the size of the footprints, Miss Baskerville, I’d have hoped for something bigger.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Let it go.’

  The whipper-in, or whatever he was called, led the dog Rex into the middle of the semi-circle of mounted huntsmen. Someone produced a plastic bowl and put it on the ground, and then a red-coated, top-hatted, pink-faced old buffer called for champagne and a bottle was produced and Rex washed down his morning Winalot with Moet & Chandon. I took another glass from a passing tray to keep him company. I wouldn’t let a dog drink alone.

  A horse breathed noisily in my right ear, and I turned to look up into its frantic eyeball.

  What are you doing here? it seemed to say.

  ‘Christ, that’s clever,’ I said to myself.

  ‘Hello, Father,’ said Stephanie.

  If I’d been expecting a red-faced Colonel, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Stephie’s dad didn’t look much older than me, was about six foot four (though it’s difficult to tell when the horse he was sitting on seemed to go up forever), bronzed and clean-shaven. Just the sort of guy you’d have on the front of paperback romantic novel. I bet myself that his tailored hunting gear cost nearly as much as the horse.

  He leaned forward in his saddle and pointed his riding whip at his daughter, the leather thong bit at the end dangling about two inches in front of my nose.

  ‘Stay away from your bolshie vicar friend, Steph. If he starts any trouble, someone’ll get hurt.’

  ‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ Stephie came back, thrusting her bottom lip out at him.

  ‘Neither,’ he said quietly. My head flicked between them like a spectator at Wimbledon. ‘Half these grockles can’t handle a horse at the best of times. When they’re half-pissed and people are yelling and screaming, they’re bound to get out of control, and somebody will get hurt.’