Lie of the Land

by Michael F. Russell

  There was no obvious hole in the deer, but then Carl figured that the exit wound would be on the other side. Still, there was nothing on the chest or head. He stooped to look at the beast, the mound of breeze-ruffled, brown-grey fur, and the staring eyes.

  ‘Where did you get him?’

  ‘Base of the neck. Severs the spinal chord and windpipe. I couldn’t get a heart shot, and I knew he was turning for home. We were about to lose him.’

  Alec John laid his rifle on the rough grass and took off his wax jacket. From the inside pocket he pulled a sheathed knife, a silver seven-inch blade with a plain black handle.

  ‘We have to bleed him first,’ said Alec John. He knelt by the animal’s side. ‘Find the breastbone, you’re over the aorta, and then . . . in you go.’

  Alec John worked the knife a little and then pulled it out. Like a bottle of wine on its side, the blood poured out onto the grass. ‘That’ll take a few minutes.’

  Carl felt his knees weaken. ‘I didn’t know . . . Do you have to do it up here?’

  ‘Of course.’ Alec John squinted at him. ‘I thought you said you weren’t squeamish?’

  ‘Not when it’s . . . meat, no. But this is different. A few minutes ago this was alive, eating and walking around. Now it’s dead and we’re sticking knives into it.’

  At Alec John’s insistence, Carl helped to manoeuvre the carcass onto its back. The stag was a good eighteen stones.

  Finding his mark, Alec John set about the next part of the process. With a sound like tearing cloth, the knife was dragged along the deer’s belly, opening the hide from dick to sternum. Taking great care, next he unzipped the fine membrane that encased the viscera.

  ‘This is life,’ said Alec John. He rolled the stag onto its side, and a coil of tubing slopped out onto the rough grass.

  ‘All I can see is blood and death.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. This is life.’ He pointed in the direction of the village. ‘Our life. This is what’s true now.’ He continued to work the rest of the guts loose, switching knives to one with a curved blade.

  ‘People have lived around the River Lair for thousands of years. It’s only recently they started going to the supermarket. This is back to how it was. Help me or don’t, but realise that.’ He started to clean the knives with handfuls of grass. ‘You might, in the middle of January, after a few months of fish and turnip. Now, you stay here, and I’ll go and get the argocat.’

  Alec John left Carl alone on the damp hillside with the dead deer and a pile of steaming organs.

  •

  Everyone was pumped up. There was a frenetic energy inside the community centre: the release of tension through vicious enjoyment. The bride and groom had long since departed, leaving a few revellers to warm themselves with dancing, home-brew and the few bottles of wine George had conjured from what he had previously said was an empty cellar.

  Carl left the community centre, the sound of riotous fiddle, guitar and clapping following him into the fresh air. That kind of traditional dancing he’d never been able to master, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to try again. It was difficult for Carl not to view the whole event, both the ceremony and the dance, as some kind of hysterical, hallucinatory episode.

  The night air was cold, and it sobered him up. The rain was on, just spattering, not the horizontal stuff of the week before. He’d had too much to drink. Should never have had that whisky either. Time to blow home.

  ‘Home,’ he said to himself. Pissed again, home to Room 7. Not to his flat with all his own stuff, with lenses and other distractions and fighting the good-but-pointless fight. In a way, he still yearned for CivCon, and food riots, and Eric arguing with the PLC. All that business had kept him alive and kept him thinking. Now he had nothing to think about except that past.

  As he headed back to the hotel, he didn’t see the couple skulking around the side of the community centre. A girl was giggling. Carl swung round, focusing on where the noise had come from, but there was no sign of anyone. A fading sign above the doorway read: AUXILIARY HIGHLAND RATIONING CENTRE 102. Maybe George and the committee would get round to a renaming ceremony to boost morale. That would be another item discussed, and another step towards the new normality.

  He sucked in some cold, salty air to clear his head. Crossing the road, he leant on the seafront railing, nothing but the cold sea-night in front of him.

  He didn’t want to pick up a gun again. He didn’t want to learn how to shoot deer, to have something die at his hands. Never mind sins of omission – he wouldn’t go on with learning how to shoot and slicing animals open, and that was that. It was sickening.

  Alec John would have to be told in the morning. Giving him a hand was one thing, but no way was he going to put a bullet in anything. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.

  Inside the community centre, the music started up again. Feet stamped and hands clapped, noises that indicated enjoyment. Not everyone, though. There were a few who wouldn’t dance, who sat in corners, grimly sipping the rations the committee had released for the occasion. There were folk who hadn’t turned up at all, not because they didn’t like the bride and groom or hadn’t been invited, but because they thought having fun wasn’t right. Isn’t that what some religious zealots thought, anyway?

  Carl’s dead editor had liked to dance.

  What a colour piece I’ve got for you here, Eric, Carl thought. The resilience and resourcefulness of a community pulling together. Leadership in a time of hardship. It’s all here. He spat into the sea. And just as much bullshit as you’ll find anywhere else.

  He stood on the pier for a while then went back along the shorefront, leaving the lights of the community centre behind. An owl hooted. Carl felt hungry.

  There were footsteps behind him on the road. He turned.

  Someone was there, coming closer in the darkness with the light behind.

  ‘That you, Terry?’

  The silent figure came closer without speaking.

  Carl waited for a response. ‘What’re you creeping about for?’ he said, relieved.

  ‘Just heading home,’ said Terry.

  ‘Likewise. I’ve given up. Pretending to have fun is hard work.’

  Terry walked away into the dark, switching on his torch. ‘See you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ breathed Carl, watching the narrow beam of light move away along the shorefront. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Mañana.’

  The ticking clock was the only sound in the dark hotel lobby. Carl stretched out his hand to feel the wall and the doorway to the residents’ lounge, brushing his fingers over the framed photos. The place still smelled of fried fish from dinnertime. As he felt his way into the kitchen, he almost forgot to curse the darkness; he was getting used to moving about like this at night.

  The wind was picking up now, pushing at the windows in gusts, getting stronger. Maybe it would clobber the hotel like it did the other night. Carl stood in the darkened kitchen. There was bound to be some fish, maybe some of that mayonnaise George had made, and a few bottles of lime-green fizz to wash it all down, if there were any left.

  Standing in the lobby, Carl heard voices in the street, and footsteps running past the front door. A guy shouting, sounding none too pleased about something. Then silence. Some drunken rumpus. Ordinary aggression. He fumbled his way to steal more of George’s booze.

  •

  Tongue: the wrong size and dust-dry. Throat: painful proof that he had, in fact, vomited until there was nothing else inside him to come out. Sitting up caused a bowling ball to shift position inside his head. At least there was no sign of puke anywhere near the bed, or on the bed, or on him.

  Let’s hear it for the committee, and their morale-boosting largesse. The wagon he’d been steering more or less on the straight and narrow was well and truly off the road now. Mixing different types of booze will do it every time, except there wouldn’t be a next time, for a long time.

  Alec John was expecting him today, though there was f
lexibility as far as clocking-in was concerned. Clouds were dark over the bay and it looked like it might rain. Maybe a hurricane would arrive and give him reason to lie, inert and suffering, for several more hours. He was going to call it a day with Alec John anyway. Enough with blood.

  Tongue and throat demanded moisture. Carl sat up, groaning as the room spun and his head pulsed. Maybe he could ask at the community centre for some paracetamol. This time, the committee might take a kinder view of self-inflicted pain, given that its own generosity had been the cause. They might break out the painkillers. Maybe Terry would do him a fried egg. Eggs were good for hangovers – in the absence of any synthetic remedy.

  With sledgehammer intensity, there was a sharp knocking at the room door.

  He jerked himself upright, wished he hadn’t, and quickly checked to see he was decently clothed, rubbing his face and smoothing his hair.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Alec John.

  ‘I didn’t expect a personal wake-up call,’ said Carl, swinging his feet onto the floor. He steeled himself for what he had to say.

  Closing the door, Alec John stood, grim-faced. ‘Something horrible happened last night,’ he said. ‘To Terry.’

  Carl’s hangover loosened its hooks. ‘What do you mean – horrible? Is he okay?’

  ‘Well, I heard different versions of what happened, but . . . it looks as if he’s lost an eye.’

  Carl mouth fell open. ‘What?’

  Alec John nodded. ‘He’s at Dr Morgan’s now.’

  ‘An eye?’ Carl searched for his shoes. ‘For fuck’s sake. I saw him, I think, after the reception. What happened?’

  ‘No one’s sure. There was some kind of scuffle. It was pitch black and they ended up in the pine trees near the old bus stop. Casper says it was a branch.’

  ‘Casper? You mean it wasn’t an accident?’

  Alec John shook his head, without any real conviction. ‘I don’t know the details.’

  Carl pulled on his shoes, all trace of hangover purged by adrenaline. ‘A fucking branch? Come on. Did Casper attack him?’

  Alec John shrugged. He looked at Carl. ‘Casper’s cousin, this girl, Gemma, said that Terry raped her.’

  Carl stopped tying his laces. He looked at his left shoe. The sole was starting to come loose near the ball of his foot. Maybe someone would have the right kind of glue to fix it, or any kind. Maybe there was some kind of plant resin . . .

  ‘Who says it was rape?’

  ‘The girl.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  Alec John squinted at him. ‘Not as far as I know, no.’

  ‘Right,’ said Carl. ‘So this girl says she was raped by Terry. There are no witnesses – but Casper attacks Terry anyway.’

  ‘She’s not known as a liar, Carl.’

  ‘No one is. But everyone lies.’

  Alec John got to his feet. ‘I’m only going by what I hear. Terry’s a nice guy but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. These are . . . different times.’

  Carl finished tying his shoes and grabbed his jacket. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered, opening the room door. ‘But maybe not that different after all.’

  •

  Treating injured drunks wasn’t that unusual for Dr Morgan, and she’d seen a lot worse than this during various stints in A&E. But it had been a long time since the last bad one in Inverlair, maybe three years or so. There was always booze involved and nearly always a fight between young men, though girls could be just as bad. And here it was again: the same ingredients in the same bloody mess, even after all that had happened. The disease had erupted again.

  Dr Morgan gave Terry another shot of diamorphine. Not much left now. The orbital muscle in his right eye had been all but severed; sclera and cornea were in shreds. She pulled off her bloodied latex gloves and opened the pedal bin to drop them in.

  She stopped. Maybe it wouldn’t do to be so fussy about hygiene any more; there was probably no infection in Terry’s eye, so the latex gloves could be saved, cleaned, for another time. She threw them in the sink instead.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘What’s happened to Terry?’ asked Carl, as soon as Dr Morgan opened the door.

  ‘He’s resting,’ she said. ‘He’s in shock, so it’s for the best if he gets some sleep.’

  ‘Is it true? Has he lost an eye?’

  Dr Morgan hesitated. She considered inviting them inside, decided against it. Before she could answer, Carl said, ‘Was it a knife?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Dr Morgan, folding her thin arms. ‘It could have been anything. Whatever it was, I had to take the eye out. I couldn’t see any wood fibres, but that doesn’t rule out . . .’ She smoothed her greying hair. ‘It was something sharp, that’s all I can say.’

  Carl sighed. He glanced at Alec John. ‘Can we see him?’

  ‘You can,’ said Dr Morgan. ‘But please don’t wake him up. He also cracked a couple of ribs, and dislocated his right shoulder.’ She stiffened. ‘I’ve also examined the girl, Gemma. P.C. Gibbs will interview her soon.’

  ‘How is she?’

  Everything was overlapping. Due process had no chance in this situation . . . Carl and Terry were friends, and Dr Morgan’s examination would, ordinarily, have formed the case for the prosecution. Yet here was the prime suspect’s associate asking how the victim was.

  Dr Morgan shook her head and closed the door.

  28

  From within the broch’s low walls, Carl watched the village. A roiling bank of cloud was swelling out over the Atlantic, threatening. It was bitterly cold, and he’d not put on a jumper under his Gore-Tex. Just his luck if he fell ill again. His lungs had been clear for weeks now. He wouldn’t want to clog them up again with a cold, or worse.

  With his binoculars, he saw Gibbs walk round to Gemma’s parents’, then to Dr Morgan’s, and then round to Casper’s house.

  Different rules. That’s what Gibbs had told him, making all the right noises about procedure and a thorough investigation. And then what?

  Maybe the girl wasn’t entirely blameless. He remembered the glint in her eye when she came round for Terry’s dope . . . maybe it had just got out of hand. It felt plausible. But he felt uneasy with the thought. If Terry had raped her, he must be punished. That’s what should happen.

  Simone. How much interest would she expect him to take? What did she want? Carl couldn’t conceive any answer that would make sense to him. There’s nothing, physically, to be done about any of it, he figured. The other day she had asked him if he wondered if it would be born healthy or not, or if it would be a boy or a girl. He was finding it difficult to care about any of it.

  She was having his kid, he wasn’t about to run away anywhere, and there was zero chance of a relationship. All the salient facts covered, and there was no need to keep going over them.

  ‘Different times, different rules,’ Carl said out loud, blinking as the Atlantic air surged over him. No white boat was going to come. Howard’s friends – what a fantasy that had been. No matter when SCOPE packed in, he would remain adrift and unrescued, and there was no point in believing anything else. He was a refugee.

  Down in the village: a figure near the boatyard, just a glimpse of form. Carl lifted the binoculars again, but the person was now inside the boatyard. He cursed his wandering attention.

  Maybe the figure had been a paunchy fifty-year-old copper on his way for a friendly chat. Maybe it was justice, hot-footing it to apprehend a lynch mob.

  This is life, Carl thought. This is what’s true now.

  •

  ‘Are you going to charge any of us, Mr Gibbs?’

  Work came to a halt in the boatyard. Gibbs managed, just about, to project a gruff professionalism from inside his uniform. Cutler’s greeting had made a civilian of him, but Gibbs ignored the provocation.

  ‘Terry Noble lost an eye last night, Adam.’

  ‘That’s careless of him. We’ll help him look for it.’

  One of the work c
rew suppressed a snort.

  ‘I would like to ask a few questions,’ said Gibbs, who leant against a workbench with his arms and feet crossed. ‘Just to clear up a few loose ends. Surely that can’t do any harm.’

  Adam nodded to himself, scuffed the ground with his work boots. Casper and the other guys exchanged glances, said nothing. Apparently deep in thought, Adam studied the concrete floor, considered the rafters and the tin roof.

  Gibbs waited.

  ‘Suppose,’ began Adam at last, ‘just suppose, that none of us want to answer any of your questions, then what?’

  The men looked at Gibbs.

  ‘That might mean you’ve got something to hide.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Would it now.’ He fell silent again, then went over and continued to load ten-gallon biofuel drums onto a trailer. The first drum crashed down heavily on the trailer’s metal floor.

  ‘You sorted the chain on that saw yet, Gav?’ said Adam.

  Gav was in his mid-twenties, gold-stud earring; blond streaks in a mop of scruffy hair. He smirked at Gibbs. ‘Fully operational, boss.’

  Everyone except Casper went back to work. He didn’t look too pleased with the situation.

  ‘Come on, Brian,’ said Gibbs quietly, dropping the nickname. ‘Just a few questions.’

  Casper pursed his lips. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said, frowning. ‘I pushed him, I think. That’s all . . . I was pissed.’

  ‘Don’t let him confuse you, Casper,’ shouted Adam. ‘That’s how these bastards work. None of us want to answer any questions, Gibbs.’ He stepped towards the door. ‘If you want to pull us in, why don’t you phone the nearest station for back-up?’ He grinned, and went on with his work. ‘Looks like it’s all down to you, Cuntstable, and if you don’t mind, given the circumstances, I don’t think any of us are going to come quietly.’

  Gibbs moved towards Adam. ‘You’re being very stupid, Adam.’

  ‘Leave him,’ growled Casper.

  ‘There’s fuck all you can do about it, Gibbs,’ shouted Gav, tensing himself. He picked up a spanner.