Moon Country

by Peter Arnott

  It was time to consider, Ronnie thought, that seeing as he had been removed by force at gunpoint from the Dryry Street hostel, they might be expecting a little attention from the powers that be and that quite shortly given that the manner in which she’d departed from HER work had been a bit unorthodox as well. Janette looked then at the face of a passing fellow camper who she thought was looking at her curiously and, a bit thrilled at the thought, Janette decided she’d better check online on her phone to see if there was anything about them on the Internet. Having googled around a little, she told Ronnie with a gasp about the hostel burning down and held her phone out and showed him the pictures and it has to be said neither of them got too sentimental about the old homestead. But it did make them think, even though there was nothing on the news yet that named any of them, that their situation did need some consideration between the pair of them especially as their Dad, immersed in his own crisis, had left them alone to talk, though Janette did remark to Ronnie that he was keeping an eye on them … that his peregrination of the campsite perimeter never went as far as him actually losing his direct line of sight.

  “There he is there. He’s still watching us.”

  “What does he really want?” Janette asked her brother. “I mean, he was going on about Mum and going on holiday and stuff; do you suppose he’s just mental? I mean, do you think he might hurt us.”

  They both thought about that for a minute. Ronnie asked her if Hunter’d told her about the money: “He’s got thousands of pounds … and a gun … I mean what is he gonnae do with it and what are we supposed to do?”

  “I told him Mum might be dead,” said Janette.

  “Everyone knows that,” said Ronnie

  “Except she isn’t,” Janette told him, not looking at him. Rather ashamed of herself. “She’s not dead.”

  Ronnie stared at her. Rather than let him ask her anything, she went on as if this information she was sharing was of less than paradigm-shattering significance.

  “But if I tell him that, if I tell him I think I know where she is he’ll just want to go there and he’ll keep us with him. What do you think we should do? Should we tell him we want away from him or what?”

  And he looks at her still, and understands that she’s out of her depth. She’s not asking him this question like she usually asks him questions: like she already knows the answer and she’s waiting for him to say something stupid so she can tell him he’s said something stupid. No. She genuinely doesn’t know what to do.

  Had she now gone even further, and told him that not only had she a pretty good idea as to where to find their absent mother, but that her choice of tourist destinations and itinerary had in fact been points on a journey towards where she had reason to suppose her mother might be, and that right now her mother was quite possibly less than ten miles away as the crow flew … there would potentially have been a series of consequences that she hesitated to confront, which explains why she didn’t tell Ronnie those things yet. Had she told him everything she knew or thought she knew, everything might have turned out differently. But she didn’t, so it didn’t, the world being only everything that is the case.

  “What do you think,” she asked him. “Should you and me not try to get out of here? Should we say to him, ‘Come on now, you’ve got to let us go’ … I mean, I thought when I told him she was dead that he’d let us go anyway. That’s why I told him that.”

  “My mum’s not dead?” said Ronnie.

  “I was gonnae tell you,” she said.

  He looked away, not sure how he should feel, not sure if he really felt anything.

  “Ronnie …?”

  He turned on her angrily.

  “You never fuckin change do you?” he said. “You’ve always got to know everything and …” he struggled for words and breath … “be fucking smart …”

  “Ronnie …” she said again. Really sorry, and really not telling him that she only did what she did because she didn’t know what else to do.

  (She wasn’t going to tell him that. She was his big sister, after all.)

  And Ronnie was looking at her now in bewilderment and hurt, and thinking again, maybe, about how she’d left him, she’d abandoned him the moment she could, when she was sixteen she’d just upped and left him to fend for himself, and now it seems that that’s exactly what his mother had done to him as well, that she had escaped from whatever shit he and his sister and his father were in that night on this same narrow road into the deep north, so maybe it was him, it was something irredeemable in Ronnie himself that was simply so disgusting that no one could bear to be near him and look after him and love him. And who needed any of them anyway? He’d be fine, he didn’t need his father, who, now he thought of it, had come to get him from Dryry Street but as soon as Janette came into the picture had only been interested in her, the bitch, who’d betrayed him like everyone betrayed him and how he didn’t care because he knew better now, he knew now that the only people you can trust are the people who you know in advance you can’t trust, and having thought all this through in the time it took to look down at the grass and look back up at her, Ronnie was smiling strangely, crookedly, duplicitously now and thinking as he looked at his sister’s anxious face in the fading light, well see how you and him and everybody think you know so much … maybe there’s some things that I know that you don’t.

  Only he didn’t say any of that. Especially that last bit. He just asked her if he could look at her phone … Janette’s own guilt stopped her thinking anything of this request other than that he was pining for YouTube so Janette said okay and she was going to talk to Dad and ask him what the hell was going on and she walked away; that’s when Ronnie unrolled the wee tube he had made of Frank Wheen’s card with his phone number on and while she was walking over to talk to Hunter, Ronnie went behind the van out of their sight. And he called Frank Wheen.

  I told you he was going to do something stupid.

  12.2

  Now the Wheens weren’t the Sopranos. They didn’t own a salumiere where they could chop dead bodies up. They didn’t even own pigs they could feed them to. In fact, for all of their fearsome reputations, this was only the third unlawful corpse they’d ever had to deal with. Fourth, if you count Agnes, which niether of them did.

  Frank was a wee bit squeamish as you’ve heard earlier, and though the sight of Jack’s mashed-up face and concave skull weren’t quite as disturbing as Agnes’s puddle of putridness had been, the soft grittiness of shattered bone inside the burst bag of Jack’s cranium and the leak of grey matter on to Frank’s shoes and trousers had made Frank even more miserable than he’d expected as they lugged the clumsy, heavy thing that had been poor Jack Webster on to the path and then carried him into the woods and the peat bog they’d located.

  Frank and Joe didn’t do any of that professional mafia stuff like wash the body or bury the head and hands separately. They didn’t have the gear, or, frankly, the stomach for that kind of thing. While the light lasted, they did search Jack’s clothes for identifying papers, and Joe smashed up his teeth with his heel and Frank’s snow shovel. But that was more because he thought that might be a good idea than it actually was a good idea. Jack’s DNA was all over the car boot and their clothes and they were stuck changing either of these for a while. But for the Wheen brothers, I suppose, Perthshire was the back end of beyond where no bugger ever came anyway, so to their way of thinking, just off the A9 was the far edge of the universe and they probably hoped that they’d be safe enough.

  They took turns digging one at a time in the bog with the wee snow shovel, ruining their shoes and suits in the sucking black peat, while the other one held the tiny map-reading torch. They didn’t do very well. They worked for an hour nearly, and it seemed like the hole never got any deeper. Frank got more and more depressed, and Joe was still humming and chortling to himself like he didn’t care at all what a nightmare this was. Thing is, that though they were making a bit of a cunt of this whole badass number they
were running here, Joe was still finding his brother’s discomfiture more amusing than he was embarrassed by his own lack of skill and judgement. They were both, as their aunty might have put it, on a shoogly peg. But Joe, holding the torch at the moment, didn’t seem to mind a bit.

  “Ah doano whit you’re makin the fuckin face fer,” he was saying. “I’d nae choice.”

  “Ye just had tae put him in my fucking CAR, did ye?” said Frank, slipping and going down in one knee in the freezing stinky swamp.

  “Fuck!” he said, and the phone in the breast pocket of his jacket that was hanging on a branch started singing “Nessun Dorma”. Joe didn’t move.

  “Ye gonnae fucking get that?” yelled Frank, who was expecting, or rather hoping for a call from Eleanor enquiring after him, a call conspicuously, he had not received all day.

  Joe took the torch beam off him just as Frank was lifting one leg out of the suction pump that passed for ground around here and Frank went face first into the hole he was digging that kept filling up with water. Joe laughed and pointed the torch back at him and Pavarotti stopped singing.

  After a few more grim capers getting out of the swamp, and not recognising the number when he finally looked at his phone, his shirt and underpants now full of slimy grit, Frank called the number back and Ronnie answered instantly, telling Frank the name of the caravan site, and no he didn’t know where it WAS he wasn’t David fucking Attenborough but they were in for the night and driving a shitey wee blue van honest to God it looks like a toy or something. Hi Ace van or something … and at that point he rang off as he saw Janette and his father approaching.

  In Laggan Wood, his face dripping, Frank looked up at his brother. Joe had picked up Jack’s body by the armpits.

  “Mebbe it’ll just fucking sink?” he suggested. And Frank went through a variety of things he’d like to do and the order in which he’d like to do them.

  12.3

  INT. CAMPER VAN – LATER THAT NIGHT

  Ronnie lies awake looking up. He listens to the silence. He sits up and looks over to where Hunter is asleep. The gun is beside Hunter’s hand. Gingerly Ronnie swings out of bed, and, as silently as he can, tiptoes in stocking feet towards Hunter and picks up the carpet bag from where Hunter sleeps, still with shirt and tie on. He reaches over for the gun, watching his father’s sleeping face. His hand closes round cold metal. He puts the gun into the bag.

  CUT TO:

  Janette. Asleep. Ronnie, a jumper on now, comes over to her. He looks into her face. Is there something like regret in his silent farewell?

  12.3.1

  EXT. VAN – NIGHT

  The rain is teeming down. The door opens gently, and Ronnie emerges, his shoes in his hands, as well as the gun and carpet bag. The caravan park is still dimly lit by floodlights down to half power so you can see your way to the toilet bloc. But there’s no one else out. Happy families in caravans and tents and campers are either asleep by now or up late whispering over games of German Whist. Ronnie can see warm light from their windows and through tent walls. He shrugs inwardly. He has made his choice. He is going to be a free man, free of all that, free of family life, free of any demands on him but those made by his own being. He is wearing the bright-orange pacamac his dad got him in the outdoor-wear shop. He sits on a stone to tie his new shoes. He looks around him wondering which way it is to the main road. His shoes tied, he takes the gun from the bag, picks a direction and sets off. But he neglects to shut the camper van door properly.

  12.3.2

  INT. VAN – NIGHT

  Some moments after Ronnie’s departure, stirred by the breeze, by the change in temperature and sound picture, Janette’s eyes flicker open. She sits up. She sees the open door. She finds herself yelling.

  JANETTE

  Ronnie!

  Hunter awakes with a start.

  12.3.2.1

  EXT. VAN – NIGHT

  Ronnie is already running, panicked by the shout he’s heard from Janette, bag in one hand, gun in the other.

  CUT TO:

  INT. VAN – NIGHT

  Hunter is up, pulling on his trousers, looking for the gun, the bag.

  HUNTER

  (to Janette)

  Where’s he gaun? He’s got the gun!

  CUT TO:

  EXT. WOODS – NIGHT

  Ronnie, not seeing the road, running hard, is heading for a path out of the campsite that leads into the woods.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. VAN – NIGHT

  Hunter, yelling back at Janette as he leaves the van.

  HUNTER

  (finishing tying his own shoes)

  Stay there!

  But Janette is already putting her boots on as Hunter sets out after Ronnie.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. WOODS – NIGHT

  Ronnie, looking back from the dark path, sees Hunter in the lights in the campsite heading straight for him. He thought he’d seen the entrance to the campsite. He’d thought it was this way!

  HUNTER

  (in the distance)

  Ronnie!

  Ronnie turns and plunges off the path into the dark woods to his left. Ronnie, of course, is a city boy, so he’s never been in dark like this before. He didn’t even know that it could get this dark! He sounds like an elephant to himself. Everything is louder and smellier suddenly. Soon, he’s stumbling blindly. He trips over something and recovers, pulling a muscle slightly. He limps on.

  CUT TO:

  Hunter reaching the path, plunging straight down it … then stopping, hearing noise to his left. He walks steadily into the trees and looks into the darkest darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust, his training serving him.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. CAMPSITE – NIGHT

  Janette, moving more cautiously through the last of the campsite light, heading for the path.

  JANETTE

  Ronnie!

  CUT TO:

  EXT. WOODS – NIGHT

  Ronnie. He’s only yards off the path. He might as well be on the moon. He’s already entirely lost. He stops, breathing hard, staying still, and listening. He hears the sound of a stream somewhere to his left, he heads for it, more slowly now.

  CUT TO:

  Hunter, also in the dark, also moving slowly. But implacable. In his primitive element. Lord of the Jungle.

  CUT TO:

  Ronnie, stumbling noisily into the stream. The rain is clearing. The moon is peeking from behind a cloud affording some silver glimmers on the water. Ronnie splashes through the stream.

  CUT TO:

  Close on Hunter, his face dripping, listening to the splashing sounds. Then he’s on the move, swift, silent.

  CUT TO:

  Janette, staring into the dark forest.

  JANETTE

  DAD!

  CUT TO:

  Ronnie, on the riverbank, taking shelter in the roots of a fallen tree. He crouches, waiting.

  CUT TO:

  Janette. Blue light bathes her face. She looks up. In the sky, the moon is breaking strongly, full, through the clouds.

  CUT TO:

  Hunter, in the coming moonlight, by the river. He sees a flash of orange twenty yards or so away.

  CUT TO:

  Ronnie, watching his father being lit up. Seeing Hunter turn, seeing him … and moving towards him.

  The light goes out again.

  CUT TO:

  Janette, her face going into darkness.

  CUT TO:

  Ronnie, getting up, running, tripping, falling, going headlong into the shallow water. He scrambles to his feet. He’s dropped the carpet bag. He’s terrified. He can hear the splashing of his father’s feet. He sees nothing.

  RONNIE

  (terrified)

  Get AWAY fae me!

  He falls again, stumbles up. His foot goes into something soft. The moon breaks through again, and Ronnie finds he is standing in a sheep. Sodden, rotten, a week dead in the river. At that moment, Hunter speaks, close to him.

  HUNTER
>
  Ronnie.

  And Ronnie spins and fires the gun wildly and repeatedly.

  CUT TO:

  Hunter, standing in the river, as a bullet hits his hand and spins him, dropping him to his knees in the water. Janette is near now, she runs towards Hunter and Ronnie.

  JANETTE

  Ronnie!

  Ronnie stares, gun in hand, at Janette trying to lift Hunter. He yells at Janette, extremity finding the little lost boy in him.

  RONNIE

  Ah found him first.

  Hunter raises his injured hand to look at it. He’s lost a finger on his left hand. Blood is pumping steadily from the stump. He’s going into abstracted shock. Janette grabs the gun from Ronnie and flings it away into the darkness.

  Hey!

  HUNTER

  Sorry. It’s aw my fault.

  JANETTE

  Aw, Jesus …

  HUNTER

  Ah shouldnae have showed ye the money.

  Ronnie looks around him, suddenly struck by something.

  RONNIE

  The money? Where’s the fucking money?

  I’ve lost the fuckin MONEY.

  Ronnie scrabbles about looking, ignoring Hunter.

  HUNTER

  I wanted ye tae COME wi us, I couldnae …

  Hunter raises the carpet bag in his good hand.

  Ye dropped this.

  Ronnie grabs the bag from his father, clinging to the course he chose. Janette screeches her frustrated rage and goes for him, struggling with him. He shoves her away. Hunter watches, swaying on his knees in the stream as Ronnie scrabbles through the bag, strewing out empty white envelopes. Ronnie throws the bag down and grabs his swaying father.

  RONNIE

  (with strangled fury)

  You CUNT! It’s not in there.

  HUNTER

  (smiling, his speech slurring like he’s drunk or having a stroke, repeating Ronnie’s intonation exactly)

  It’s not in there.

  Ronnie stares at him.

  RONNIE

  What?

  JANETTE

  What?

  Hunter smiles still, his eyes closing. Ronnie throws the bag at Hunter. Hunter CHUCKLES and sways, and picks up the bag.

  HUNTER

  (fondly)