Year's Best SF 3

by David G. Hartwell

  Allie hugged Pansy, her favorite, and brushed flies away from the cow's gummy eyes.

  “I won't let them hurt you,” she vowed.

  But what could she do?

  Depressed, she trudged down to the house.

  Lytton was sitting up on the cot in the living room, with his shirt off and a clean white bandage tight around his arm. Allie saw he had older scars. This was not the first time he'd been shot. He was sipping a mug of hot tea. Susan, bustling furiously, tidied up around him. When he saw Allie, Lytton smiled.

  “Susan's been telling me about this Maskell character. He seems to like to have things his way.”

  The door opened and Squire Maskell stepped in.

  “That I do, sir.”

  He was dressed for church, in a dark suit and kipper tie. He knew enough not to wear a gunbelt on Gosmore Farm, though Allie guessed he was carrying a small pistol in his armpit. He had shot Allie's Dad with such a gun, in a dispute over wages. Allie barely remembered her father, who had been indentured on Maskell's farm before the War and an NFU rep afterwards.

  “I don't remember extending an invitation, Squire,” Susan said evenly.

  “Susan, Susan, things could be so much more pleasant between us. We are neighbors.”

  “In the same way a pack of dogs are neighbors to a fox gone to earth.”

  Maskell laughed without humor.

  “I've come to extend an offer of help.”

  Susan snorted. Lytton said nothing but looked Maskell over with eyes that saw the gun under the hankie-pocket and the knife in the boot.

  “I understand you have BSE problems? My condolences.”

  “There's no mad cow disease in my herd.”

  “It's hardly a herd, Susan. It's a gaggle. But without them, where would you be?”

  Maskell spread empty hands.

  “This place is hardly worth the upkeep, Susan. You're only sticking at it because you have a nasty case of Stubborn Fever. The land is worthless to anyone but me. Gosmore Farm is a wedge in my own holdings. It would be so convenient if I could take down your fences, if I could incorporate your few acres into the Maskell farm.”

  “Now tell me something I don't know.”

  “I can either buy from you now above the market value, or wait a while and buy from the bank at a knock-down price. I'm making an offer now purely out of neighborly charity. The old ways may have changed, but as Squire I still feel an obligation to all who live within my bailiwick.”

  “The only obligation your forefathers felt was to sweat the serfs into early graves and beget illegitimate cretins on terrorized girls. Have you noticed how the Maskell chin shows up on those Gilpin creatures?”

  Maskell was angry now, but trying to keep calm. A vein throbbed by his eye.

  “Susan, you're upset, I see that. But you must be realistic. Despite what you think, I don't want to see you on the mercy of the parish. Robert Ames was a good friend to me, and…”

  “You can fuck off, Maskell,” Susan spat. “Fuck rightoff.”

  The Squire's smile drained away. He was close to sputtering. His Maskell chin wobbled.

  “Don't ever mention my husband again. And now leave.”

  “Susan,” he pleaded.

  “I think Goodwife Ames made herself understood,” Lytton said.

  Maskell looked at the wounded man. Lytton eased himself gingerly off the cot, expanding his chest, and stood. He was tall enough to have to bow his head under the beamed ceiling.

  “I don't believe I've had…”

  “Lytton,” he introduced himself.

  “And you would be…?”

  “I would be grateful if you left the house as Goodwife Ames wishes. And fasten the gate on your way out. There's a Country Code, you know.”

  “Good day,” Maskell said, not meaning it, and left.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “That's the second time you've taken it on yourself to act for me,” Susan said, angrily. “Have I asked your help?”

  Lytton smiled. His hard look faded and he seemed almost mischievous.

  “I beg pardon, Goodwife.”

  “Dont't do it again, Lytton.”

  By the next day, Lytton was well enough to walk. But he couldn't ride: if he tried to grip the Norton's left handlebar, it was as if a redhot poker were pressed to his bicep. They were stuck with him.

  “You can do odd jobs for your keep,” Susan allowed. “Allie will show you how.”

  “Can he come feed the chickens?” Allie asked, excited despite herself. “I can get the eggs.”

  “That'll be a start.”

  Susan walked across to the stone sheds where the cows spent the night, to do the milking. Allie took Lytton by the hand and led him round to the chicken coop.

  “Maskell keeps his chickens in a gurt prison,” Allie told him. “Clips their beaks with pliers, packs them in alive like sardines. If one dies, t'others eat her. They'm cannibal chickens…”

  They turned round the corner.

  The chicken coop was silent. Tears pricked the backs of Allie's eyes. Lumps of feathery matter lay in the scarlet-stained straw.

  Her first thought was that a fox had got in.

  Lytton lifted up a flap of chicken wire. It had been cut cleanly.

  The coop was a lean-to, a chickenwire frame built against the house. On the stone wall was daubed a sign in blood, an upside-down tricorn fork in a circle.

  “Travelers,” Allie spat.

  There was a big Gypsy Site at Glastonbury. Since the War, Travelers were supposed to stay on the sites, living off the dole. But they were called Travelers because they didn't like to keep to one place. They were always escaping from sites and raiding farms and villages.

  Lytton shook his head.

  “Hippies are hungry. They'd never have killed and left the chickens. And smashed the eggs.”

  The eggs had been gathered and carefully stamped on.

  “Some hippies be veggie.”

  The blood was still fresh. Allie didn't see how this could have been done while they were asleep. The killers must have struck fast, or the chickens would have squawked.

  “Where's your vegetable garden?” Lytton asked.

  Allie's heart pounded like a fist.

  She showed him the path to the garden, which was separated from the orchard by a thick hedge. Beanpoles had been wrenched from the earth and used to batter and gouge the rest of the crops. Cabbages were squashed, young carrots pulped by boot heels, marrows exploded. The greenhouse was a skeleton, every pane of glass broken, tomato plants strewn and flattened inside. Even the tiny herb patch Allie had been given for herself was dug up and scattered.

  Allie sobbed. Liquid squirted from her eyes and nose. Hundreds of hours of work destroyed.

  There was a twist of cloth on the frame of the green-house. Lytton examined it: a tie-dyed poncho, dotted with emblem badges of marijuana leaves, multi-colored swirls and cartoon cats.

  “Hippies,” Allie yelled. “Fuckin’ hippies.”

  Susan appeared at the gate. She swayed, almost in a swoon, and held the gate to stay standing.

  “Hippies didn't do this,” Lytton said.

  He lifted a broken tomato plant from the paved area by the greenhouse door and pointed at a splashed yellow stain.

  “Allie, where've you seen something like this recently?”

  It came to her.

  “Terry Gilpin. When he spat at thic letter.”

  “He has better aim with his mouth than his gun,” Lytton commented, wincing. “Thankfully.”

  Lytton stood by his Norton, lifting his gauntlets out of the pannier.

  “Are you leaving?” Allie asked.

  “No,” Lytton said, taking his gunbelt, “I'm going down to the pub.”

  He settled the guns on his hips and fastened the buckle. The belt seemed to give him strength, to make him stand straighter.

  Susan, still shocked, didn't protest.

  “Are you'm going to shoot Squire Maskell?�
�� Allie asked.

  That snapped Susan out of it. She took Allie and shook her by the shoulders, keening wordlessly.

  “I'm just going to have a lunchtime drink.”

  Allie hugged Susan fiercely. They were on the point of losing everything, but gave each other the last of their strength. There was something Maskell couldn't touch.

  Lytton strolled towards the front gate.

  Allie pulled away from Susan. For a moment, Susan wouldn't let her go. Then, without words, she gave her blessing. Allie knew she was to look after Lytton.

  He was halfway down the street, passing the bus shelter, disused since the service was cut, when Allie caught up with him. At the fork in the road where the village oak stood was The Valiant Soldier.

  They walked on.

  “I hope you do shoot him,” she said.

  “I just want to find out why he's so obsessed with Gosmore Farm, Allie. Men like Maskell always have reasons. That's why they're pathetic. You should only be afraid of men without reasons.”

  Lytton pushed open the door, and stepped into the public bar. This early, there were few drinkers. Danny Keogh sat in his usual seat, wooden leg unslung on the floor beside him. Teddy Gilpin was swearing at the Trivial Pursuit machine, and his brother was nursing a half of scrumpy and a packet of crisps, ogling the Tiller Girl in UI.

  Behind the bar, Janet Speke admired her piled-up hair in the long mirror. She saw Lytton and displayed immediate interest, squirming tightly in an odd way Allie almost understood.

  Terry's mouth sagged open, giving an unprepossessing view of streaky-bacon-flavor mulch. The Triv machine fell silent, and Teddy's hands twitched away from the buttons to his gun-handle. Allie enjoyed the moment, knowing everyone in the pub was knotted inside, wondering what the stranger—her friend, she realized—would do next. Gary Chilcot, a weaselly little Maskell hand, slipped away, into the back bar where the Squire usually drank.

  “How d'ye do, Goodman,” said Janet, stretching thin red lips around dazzling teeth in a fox smile. “What can I do you for?”

  “Bells. And Tizer for Allie here.”

  “She'm underage.”

  “Maskell won't mind. We're old friends.”

  Janet fetched the whisky and the soft drink. Lytton looked at the exposed nape of her neck, where wisps of hair escaped, and caught the barmaid smiling in the mirror, eyes fixed on his even though he was standing behind her.

  Lytton sipped his whisky, registering the sting in his eyes.

  Janet went to the jukebox and put on Portishead. She walked back to the bar, almost dancing, hips in exaggerated motion. Music insinuated into the spaces between them all, blotting out their silent messages.

  The door opened and Reeve Draper came in, out of breath. He had obviously been summoned.

  “I've been meaning to call again on Goodwife Ames,” he said to Lytton, not mentioning that when last he had seen Lytton the newcomer was on the ground with a bullethole in his shoulder put there by the Reeve's Constable. “Tony Jago, the Traveler Chieftain, has escaped from Glastonbury with a band of sheep-shaggin’, drug-takin’ gyppos. We'm expecting raids on farms. Susan should watch out for them. Bad lot, gyppos. No respect for property. They'm so stoned on dope they'm dont't know what they'm doin’”

  Lytton took a marijuana leaf badge from his pocket. One of the emblems pinned to the poncho left in the ravaged garden. He tossed it into Terry Gilpin's scrumpy.

  “Oops, sorry,” he said.

  This time, Terry went for his gun and fumbled. Lytton kicked the stool from under him. Terry sprawled, choking on crisps, on the floor. With a boot-toe, Lytton pinned Terry's wrist. He nodded to Allie, and she took the gun away. Terry swore, brow dotted with ciderstinking sweat bullets.

  Allie had held guns before, but not since Susan took her in. She had forgotten how heavy they were. The barrel drooped even though she held the gun two-handed, and accidentally happened to point at Terry's gut.

  “If I made a complaint against this man, I don't suppose much would happen.”

  Draper said nothing. His face was as red as strawberry jam.

  “I thought not.”

  Terry squirmed. Teddy gawped down at his brother.

  Lytton took out his gun, pointed it at Teddy, said “pop,” and put it back in its holster, all in one movement, between one heartbeat and the next. Teddy goggled, hand hovering inches away from his own gun.

  “That was a fair fight,” Lytton said. “Do you want to try it again?”

  He let Terry go. Rubbing his reddened wrist, the Maskell man scurried away and stood up.

  “If'n you gents got an argument, take it outside,” Janet said. “I've got regulars who don't take to ruckus.”

  Lytton strolled across the room, toward the back bar. He pushed a door with frosted glass panels, and disclosed a small room with heavily-upholstered settees, horse-brasses on beams and faded hunt scenes on the wallpaper.

  The Squire sat at a table with papers and maps spread out on it. A man Allie didn't know, who wore a collar and tie, sat with him. Erskine was there too, listening to Gary Chilcot, who had been talking since he left the bar.

  The Squire was too annoyed to fake congeniality.

  “We'd like privacy, if you please.”

  Lytton looked over the table. There was a large-scale survey map of the area, with red lines dotted across it. The corners were held down by ashtrays and empty glasses. The Squire had been illustrating some point by tapping the map, and his well-dressed guest was frozen in mid-nod.

  Lytton, stepping back from the back bar, let the door swing closed in the face of Erskine, who was rushing out. A panel cracked and the Constable went down on his knees.

  Allie felt excitement in her water.

  Terry charged but Lytton stepped aside and lifted the Maskell man by the seat of his britches, heaving him up over the bar and barreling him into the long mirror. Glass shattered.

  Janet Speke, incandescent with proprietary fury, brought out a shotgun, which Lytton pinned to the bar with his arm.

  “My apologies, Goodwife. He'll make up the damage.”

  There was nothing in the barmaid's pale blue eyes but hate. Impulsively, Lytton craned across and kissed her full on the lips. Hot angry spots appeared on her cheeks as he let her go. He detached her from the shotgun.

  “You should be careful with these things,” he said. “They're apt to discharge inconveniently if mishandled.”

  He fired both barrels at a framed photograph of Alder's victorious skittles team of '66. The noise was an astounding crash. Lytton broke the gun and dropped it. Erskine, nose bloody in his handkerchief, came out of the back bar with his Webley out and cocked.

  This time, it was different. Lytton was armed.

  Despite the hurt in his left shoulder, Lytton drew both his pistols in an instant and, at close range, shot off Erskine's ears. The Constable stood, appalled, blood pouring from fleshy nubs that would no longer hold his helmet up.

  Erskine's shot went wild.

  Lytton took cool aim and told the Constable to drop his Webley.

  Erskine saw sense. The revolver clumped on the floor.

  In an instant, Lytton holstered his pistols. The music came back, filling the quiet that followed the crashes and shots. Terry moaned in a heap behind the bar. Janet kicked him out. Erskine looked for his ears.

  Lytton took another sip of Bells.

  “Very fine,” he commented.

  Janet, lipstick smeared, touched her hair, deprived of her mirror, not knowing where free strands hung.

  Lytton slipped a copper-colored ten shilling note onto the bar.

  “A round of drinks, I think,” he said.

  Danny Keough smiled and shook an empty glass.

  Outside, in the car park of The Valiant Soldier, Allie bubbled over. It was the most thrilling thing. To see Terry hit the mirror, Teddy staring at a draw he'd never beat, the Reeve helpless, Janet Speke and the Squire in impotent rage and, best of all, Barry Erskine with his helmet
-brim on his nose and blood gushing onto his shoulders. For a moment, Alder was like The Archers, and the villains were seen off.

  Lytton was somber, cold, bravado gone.

  “It was just a moment, Allie. An early fluke goal for our side. They still have the referee in their back pocket and fifteen extra players.”

  He looked around the car park.

  “Any of these vehicles unfamiliar?”

  Maskell's ostentatious Range Rover was parked by Janet's pink Vauxhall Mustang. The Morris pick-up was the Gilpins'. The Reeve's panda car was on the street. That left an Austin Maverick Allie had never seen before. She pointed it out.

  “Company car,” he said, tapping the windshield.

  The front passenger seat was piled with glossy folders that had “GREAT WESTERN RAILWAYS” embossed on their jackets.

  “The clouds of mystery clear,” he mused. “Do you have one of your nails?”

  Puzzled, she took a nail from her purse and handed it over.

  “Perfect,” he said, crouching by the car door, working the nail into the lock. “This is a neat trick you shouldn't learn, Allie. There, my old sapper sergeant would be proud of me.”

  He got the door open, snatched one of the folders, and had the door shut again.

  They left in a hurry, but slowed by the bus stop. The rusting shelter was fly-posted with car-boot sale announcements. Lytton sagged. His shirt-shoulder spotted where his wound had opened again. Still, he was better off than Earless Erskine.

  “It's choo-choos, I'll be bound,” he said. “The track they run on is always blooded.”

  There was activity at the pub as Maskell's party loped past the village oak into the car park. Maskell was in the center, paying embarrassed attention to his guest, who presumably hadn't expected a bar brawl and an ear-shooting to go with his ploughman's lunch and a lecture on local geography.

  The outsider got into his Maverick and Maskell waved him off. Then, he started shouting at his men. Allie smiled to hear him so angry, but Lytton looked grim.