Ill Will

by Michael Stewart

  ‘What do you mean, your knee’s giving you gyp? How old are you – ten, or ten and sixty?’

  ‘It keeps locking.’

  ‘It will be fine.’

  ‘Then why does it keep fucking clicking?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Why don’t we stick to the roads? It will be easier on our feet. This isn’t even a proper path. I don’t know what you’d call it, but not a path in any case.’

  ‘The roads aren’t safe. They’ll be on horseback. This is the only way we can be sure they won’t find us.’

  ‘Horses can travel across country, you know. We used to do it all the time, me and my dad.’

  ‘But not by choice,’ I said. ‘They won’t want to risk laming them.’

  ‘They could take it steady. They won’t lame them if they take it steady, not even on this route. I’m telling you, me and my dad travelled loads of miles over worse than this without laming the horses. You’ve just got to be careful how you go.’

  Past birch, beech, bracken and bog, black mounds of molehills. We saw a long wire between two posts and hanging from the wire were the moldwarp corpses, their velvet grey fur wet with mizzle. Their huge white teeth and claws, glittering. Waiting to be skinned.

  ‘My dad had a jerkin made from fifty moleskins. He got it off a nobleman. Lord so-and-so. Though he didn’t look noble standing in a ditch.’

  We walked through more fields until the moor opened out again and below us the river snaked and frothed.

  ‘You a gypsy?’ Emily said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look like a fucking gypsy to me.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  ‘My dad said that gypsies were thieves.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘And that they kidnap girls and eat babies.’

  ‘You’d better watch your step then.’

  ‘Thought you weren’t a gypsy?’

  ‘Look, just keep your mouth shut, right?’

  A white linnet settled on a prominent stoop about ten yards ahead of us. As we walked on, it took flight again, flitting down the path where it settled, bobbed its tail and watched us approach. As soon as we got within ten yards it flew onwards, and so on for half a mile or more.

  ‘What’s that bird doing?’ she said.

  ‘Showing us the way.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You don’t half talk some tiff.’

  We passed a post that a goshawk must have used as a plucking place. Beneath a scattering of feathers was the flesh and elastic of the meat membrane.

  ‘If you’re still hungry, you can eat that,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be disgusting.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘Yes, they can. I’m not eating that. I’m not that desperate.’

  In fact, I was only half-joking. The meat was fresh and likely to be better than any we got in the next town. We walked on in silence, past half-quarried boulders furry with green moss, abandoned slabs of granite slippery with mud, until we came to a working delph and we stopped and watched the bearers break stone. There were four men with pickaxes, wedges, chisels and hammers. I thought about Joseph and me up at Penistone Crag, him lecturing me on hell and damnation, and the sins of the flesh. But I had only ever experienced the pleasures of the flesh and the pain of boot and whip.

  ‘Do you think they get much money for breaking stone all day?’ Emily said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why do it?’

  ‘It’s honest toil.’

  ‘It’s a mug’s game, if you ask me.’

  ‘What other work is there?’

  ‘There’s lots of things you can do. I mean, you’ve got a choice. You don’t have to whack bits of rock all day. You’re not telling me that’s a good way to spend your time?’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it.’

  ‘That’s all well and dandy, William Lee, as long as that person isn’t me.’

  More farm buildings, old barrows, spades, shovels, hoes, pitchforks. Past fern and bramble. The rain was luttering above us. And a relentless patter on leaf and grass. The blades were lying flat.

  ‘My feet are hurting.’

  ‘I can’t do anything about that.’

  ‘Let’s just stop.’

  ‘We’re not stopping.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If you want to stop, you can stop, but I’m keeping on going.’

  ‘I need some boots,’ she said. ‘Ones with laces. Then my feet wouldn’t hurt. And I need stockings.’

  I ignored her. I had a blister but I didn’t say that my feet were hurting too, as I didn’t want to think about my own pain. Best to push it to one side. Ignore it and it would go away. Physical pain was easy to master. The pain inside was much harder to bridle.

  ‘I need a new frock too,’ she said. ‘They’ve wrecked this one.’

  ‘I need lots of things,’ I said. ‘Need doesn’t get.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to wear this stinking shirt all the time. It doesn’t even fit. I mean, where did you even get it from? It’s falling to bits. Look, the stitching is coming away at the sleeve.’

  I thought, there’s nothing wrong with this girl that a few good clouts around the ears wouldn’t fix. But hadn’t I been clouted often enough? And what good had it done me?

  Beneath our feet the earth yielded to our tread. I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to go barefoot but I didn’t say anything. The moss tramped down and the grass gave in. We ploughed on. We came across a heap of sticks, twigs and branches. Someone was going to have a fire tonight if the pile dried. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, it seemed like an odd spot. Perhaps it was for two lovers, who came to the moors to escape.

  The rain fell in angry drops. I thought about God in his heaven, looking down on us, and how he was lauded, but it was the devil beneath us who had a nice fire to keep us warm.

  Emily stopped and rubbed her feet.

  ‘I’m wet,’ she said. ‘And cold. My feet are sore.’

  ‘Keep walking. It’s only water.’

  We trudged on and as we did the rain slowed to a patter, then stopped altogether. I could feel the heat creep from behind the clouds. I thought about your sweet breath on my neck, Cathy. I thought about when we put our lips together and you passed the air from inside you into me. You said, ‘That’s us.’ It’s true, Cathy, I missed you. I missed your caresses and your soft kisses. But fuck you, you bitch.

  I tried not to think of that cunt Linton writhing naked on top of you, like some sick worm, kissing you, fucking you, his cock inside you. I looked around instead and tried to forget you. Puttock, twite-finch and white-crow. I listened to the whooping call of the whaap. I focused on the black-and-white flash of the sea-pie, and the ragged flapping of peewit. And in this way I extricated you from my thoughts.

  Above us, the high-pitched screech of the peewit heightened with the ragged flapping of their wings. Around us, the green fern, the purple heather, the ripple of the wind on the surface of peaty puddles. Then our view opened out onto a bigger moor, but not our moor, Cathy, one far more bleak and barren. It was black. Broken only by the heavens above, and the majestic flight of a heron, its head tucked into its neck like a bib. Its beak like a spear. Our feet squelched where the sheep had churned up the ground beneath us.

  ‘This bit reminds me of the moors past Pickering,’ Emily said. ‘You been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You ride out of Pickering to Cropton Forest. Or in your case, walk. We spent the night there once, me and my dad. It’s a nice forest. You come out the other side and you get onto a Roman road. My dad said it was nearly two thousand years old. It’s as straight as a washing line. Takes you all the way to Goathland. There’s a big waterfall there. We stopped at a tavern one time. There was a billiard table but we didn’t play. My dad got the cards from behind the bar, and we played noddy all night . . . Ow! I think I’ve broke my ankle.’

  She was limping. We stopped. She sat down on a boulder.
I took her foot in my hand and turned it around. I’d seen more meat on a wren. And the bones were nearly as delicate as that tiny bird. I could crush her foot in my fist.

  ‘It’s not broken,’ I said, ‘just sprained. Best thing to do with a sprain is to keep on walking.’

  ‘What do you know?’ she said. ‘Are you a doctor now?’

  ‘I’ve had sprains before. I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘If I had boots they’d support my ankle. I could tighten the laces. How far do you think we’ve walked?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe five or six miles.’

  ‘It must be further than that.’

  We carried on walking, with Emily, still limping, just behind me.

  ‘How far is Manchester?’

  ‘Maybe ten miles or maybe forty.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’

  I had no real idea, Cathy. I just knew that Mr Earnshaw had walked to Liverpool and back in three days. It might be just over the hill for all I knew, or several days away.

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll find a stream.’

  ‘Where’s the flask?’

  ‘It’s empty.’

  We walked downwards, over tussock grass until we came to running water. We stopped and I stooped down, making a cup with my hands. I drank. The water was fresh and cool.

  ‘Here, have some.’

  She stooped where I had stooped and did the same. I looked down at the spiky green moss all around us. I reached for it and plucked a stem. Despite its spiky appearance, it was soft. You called it star moss, Cathy. I recalled you picking some and saying that it looked fierce but that the things that look fierce are often gentle. I filled the flask and corked it. We carried on our way.

  ‘This is boring. Why won’t you talk to me?’ she said.

  ‘Talk to you about what?’

  ‘Anything. Just say something.’

  I’ve really got to get rid of this brat, I thought. The next place I could drop her, I would.

  ‘Tell me who you are, where you came from. I don’t know – anything.’

  But Cathy, how could I tell her that when I didn’t know myself?

  ‘You tell me your story. If it’s good, I’ll tell you mine,’ I said at last.

  ‘Right then.’

  She paused before commencing.

  ‘My dad was a highwayman.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He was hanged by the neck last year. Knavesmire gallows. He hung for three days, shrieking in pain. A kind gentleman came in a passing carriage. He stopped and took out a pistol. Shot him through the brains.’

  What would you make of this girl, Cathy? She could certainly tell a tale.

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘My mother was a whore. She died giving birth to me.’

  ‘And was it your dad who taught you that trick?’

  ‘What trick?’

  ‘The dead-people-talk-through-me trick.’

  ‘It’s not a trick.’

  ‘No, course it’s not.’

  Although not fully credulous, I did think, Cathy, that it might have been a trick, but it might also have been witchcraft, or demonic possession. You’d told me once that the devil could possess the mouths of mortals. And make the sounds of others.

  ‘And was he always a highwayman?’

  ‘He was not, no. We had our land stolen from us and we were made outlaws. At first we tried to live by honest crust. We found work in a coal mine. I was employed to drag bunches of furze along the galleries to send off the choke damp. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. The fire damp was dealt with by the fireman, who was my father. He wore wet leathers. Didn’t half look funny in them. He carried a pole with a lighted candle at the end, with which he exploded the gas. It was a risky job. Water was the next problem. We lined the shafts with sheepskins and wooden tubbing. When the water drained into the sump of the pit bottom, we had to set up a chain of buckets. It was a right pain in the arse. We rode the shafts by clinging to a winding rope. I saw heads split in two and young’uns fall from the ropes to the bottom of the shaft. They never bothered to shift the corpses. Left them down there to rot. We moved the coal by panniers, slung across the backs of horses, or wagons moving along ill-made roads. Horse gins drew the coves to the top shaft. It was hard slog. I tell yer, you think farm labour is tough, but it’s nothing compared with mine labour.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘If you were in regular employment, the two of you, how did he end up an outlaw?’

  ‘They say he was a bad’un. That he had bad blood running in his veins. They said even his bones were bad. That he had badness in the marrow. He didn’t like the work. It was dicing with death, he said. He didn’t want me down the pit. Said it was no work for a girl. Least not his girl. He had higher hopes for me, he said. He got into an argument about pay. The gaffer was trying to dock his wages over something or other. Said he’d been shirking.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘The gaffer ended up down the bottom of the shaft with the young’uns. That’s all I know. We had to make a run for it. He said it was good riddance. No better than the workhouse. One night we kipped at an inn and we came across a counting clerk in a drunken stupor. My dad stole some keys to the man’s strongbox and rifled it. That were two hundred pounds and after that my father got a taste for fine living. He bought a prize mare and saddled her. He purchased a sword and a good set of pistols. He got me a fine frock and some leather boots. We worked the Great North Road. There were regular stagecoaches. And mail coaches. He felt no guilt about it. He said the rich had stolen his land from him and now he was taking from them. He was only getting what was his.’

  You’d told me about the outlaws and highwaymen of this land, Cathy, and I have to say, we both had a sneaking admiration for them. I remembered you reading out stories from the local paper that Mr Earnshaw would bring back on market day, of the outlaws of the road and of the riches they had acquired. It was rare that anyone got hurt and it all seemed like harmless fun to us. Listening to the girl recount her story, I became fascinated by a life of crime once again. In truth, the highwayman was a man of my own heart. He was a freebooter, a libertarian, a don’t-give-a-fuck bastard, who scorned conventions. Why should life be lived as a crushing tedium and unrewarded toil? Why should the haves live in splendour and the have-nots in squalor? Although I did not envy the highwayman his vices – neither drinking, gambling nor whoring were my game – I did envy his freedom. But here I was now, on the open road, as free as any highwayman. I loved the stories you told me of Robin Hood. Of how, not by force but by cunning, he had outwitted his enemies. In this man who haunted the thickets and forests of England, I saw myself, and we talked about how we could live on the moors, feasting on its bounty of rabbit, hare and grouse. We wouldn’t need society or any of its laws. We wouldn’t need anyone, just us.

  ‘It wasn’t all stealing though,’ Emily said. ‘One time we came across a farmer who’d had fifty pounds robbed off him, and my dad said to him, show me the way the robber went and I’ll get the money back for you. So the farmer did and my dad went after the robber. The thief denied having stolen the money until my dad put a pistol to his head. He bloody well coughed up then, I’ll tell you. True to his word, my dad handed the fifty pounds back to the farmer. You see, the farmer wasn’t a rich man and my dad only stole from them that deserved it. He hated thieves who stole from their own. The farmer only had that money because he’d just sold his cattle at the market. He needed that money to prevent his family from being homeless. He had to raise enough money to pay his rent. Not only that, a few nights later, my dad went to the farmer’s house when he and his family were sleeping and placed a bag of gold on his doorstep. Imagine that, going to bed poor and waking up rich.’

  As Emily chattered away we walked across some of the most barren moors I have yet seen, where not even a stunted hawthorn could find purchase. There was darkness at
the heart of this moor, that I could feel creep under my skin and seep into my bones. I found Emily’s stories helped, not only to pass the time, but also to soften the feelings of melancholy that the landscape evoked. The wind picked up and the sky darkened. We could see black rain fall like rods in the distance. Then sheet lightning and thunder so loud it sounded as though the sky was cracking open. Thankfully, the storm soon passed over, leaving a shower in its wake. Even this dried up.

  For many miles we walked where there was nothing of any significance to note. Then we came to huge grey boulders strewn here and thereabouts, as though they were giant dice tossed by a gambling god. We passed over a part of the moor that was covered in grass so white that it was almost like bone. And I thought about the straw in the stables where I’d been locked from time to time when Hindley got it into his head that beating me senseless was insufficient punishment. I thought about turning to Emily and recounting the stories of Hindley’s whip and boot and the outbuildings that were so often my prison, but she had plenty on her plate and the land was bleak enough without making it bleaker.

  Fortunately the view changed. The black barren peat moor softened as heather sprouted. Then all we could see for miles around was purple. The heather blooming in every direction, alive with bees collecting nectar from the cups of the flowers. Dropping down off the moor, we could see around us, in every direction, farm buildings, fields, coppices and forests. The beck below. I remember when we talked about how the moors were really the scars left from the trees that had been cut down and uprooted. What we were looking at was a once-fresh wound now hardened. If the trees were still here, we would have no sense of the landscape at all, and no moor. We came to a cobbled path. More fields, fences, walls and hedges. The hoarse rattle of a long tail. The path opened out onto a bridleway with steep stone walls either side. The ground now was sandstone and grit. The wall was covered in moss and the path stretched out above us back onto the moors.

  ‘On another occasion,’ Emily said, ‘we overheard a conversation at a village pub where we were staying. There was talk of a wealthy bailiff who’d made a lot of money by extracting it from the poor. We went to bed that night, letting the landlord lead the way with his lamp, then we climbed out of the window. We pursued the bailiff, who gave us every farthing. My dad returned the money to those that deserved it. He liked to rob usurers and lords and any other cunt that had wealth that wasn’t theirs.’