by Guy N Smith
‘Mind your own bloody business!’ he hissed beneath clenched teeth.
Ormerod stared, unable to believe what he had heard, the malice in the voice of this usually good-natured young man was so unexpected.
‘I … I'm sorry, young Paul … I …’
‘If I want to wear my shirt outside my trousers then that's my affair.’
A gust of wind tore at the trees and undergrowth. Roots and branches were strained. Ormerod held on to his hat, but his eyes were still on that flapping multi-coloured checked shirt of Pritchard's. As it flapped in the breeze bare flesh was exposed, weeping ulcers like clay models of volcanoes erupting their lava, molten puss that flowed down the fleshy landscape, thickening and congealing on the waistband of his trousers.
‘What … what you … done to yersel'?’ Ormerod pointed with a shaking bony finger, stepping back a pace.
Pritchard's face was a mask of unconcealed fury now. The itching had stopped, and in its place were sharp shooting pains like red-hot pins being thrust deep into his abdomen. His brain was crazed with the agony. A leering old man confronted him, rejoicing in his predicament. Possibly he was the cause of it.
Paul Pritchard leaped forward with a roar of pain and rage, a huge fist embedding itself in the other's face. Ormerod fell, his hooked nose shattered, nicotine-stained front teeth smashed. Blood trickled from his split lips and his eyes were dilated with fear as he looked up at the madman standing over him. He tried to speak, to plead, but could only manage a hoarse inarticulate croak.
Pritchard drew back a booted foot. The man on the ground saw what was about to happen and tried to protect his head with his arms. Bone splintered. Elbow and fingers were shattered as the steel-capped boot crashed through them to implant itself in the skull. The sinewy neck snapped as the head was thrown backwards.
A figure that seconds before had been stocky and powerful for its seventy years of age now lay frail and broken in the mud. Wide eyes stared sightlessly at the sky.
More blows - a frenzy - each one finding its mark, cutting open flesh and breaking bones, non-stop. Pritchard trampled the human debris to a pulp, clothes torn and bloody, the mud beneath turning to crimson.
Finally he stopped and, wheezing heavily, looked down on the results of his carnage. The figure on the ground was unrecognisable. He experienced no remorse: just pain, pain that robbed him of all reasoning and turned him into a savage animal.
He was in a world where every hand was against him. They haddone this to him. It was now a matter of escape and hiding if he was to survive. Strangely, his strength seemed to have increased rather than diminished, he noted as he dragged the remains of his victim off the path and flung them into a drainage ditch overgrown with nettles and briars.
He turned back and tried to contemplate his next move. He did not know where he was or why he was here. Away to the left he knew, instinctively, that there was water. Above him, to his right, unending acres of dark green fir trees, symmetrically planted. They promised warmth, shelter and a refuge.
Yet he found himself heading in the direction of the lake, bent low, shambling down the hedgerows. His face hurt. He touched it and when he drew his fingers away he saw that they were covered in thick yellow matter, oozed from his puffed lips and swollen tongue.
Water was all that mattered to him. The brutal killing was forgotten. He was a victim of the unquenchable thirst.
The ‘Rhayader Gang’ had unlawfully fished the Claerwen Reservoir for several seasons; poaching at dawn, and then disappearing with their haul of a few trout. The eldest of the five was just twenty years of age. Had they lived nearer to the larger towns of the Midlands they would have contented themselves with causing trouble at football matches on Saturday afternoon, giving vent to their violent dispositions.
Here in Wales their kicks were to be found in rural pursuits. But they were not averse to violence if the opportunity arose. Twice they had assaulted patrolling water bailiffs. They had also successfully eluded the efforts of the police to catch them.
They were on the shores of the Claerwen Reservoir before dawn had broken. Cheap PVC waterproof coats concealed their torn denim jackets with skull emblems, and their filthy jeans. Long, straggling, matted, unwashed hair adorned their cruel faces which bore the scars of motorcycle accidents. These characters were the scourge of the hills, the scum of Rhayader. In particular one: Maldwyn Evans.
Mal scowled in the darkness. He dug his dirty fingernails into the palms of his hands. This morning he was tense. After the recent events maybe they ought to have kept away. But why should they? Sod the police and the bailiffs. Anyway, everybody was far too interested in the accident to worry about poachers.
Each member of the gang carried a crude home-made gaff, an ash staff with a three-pronged steel head fixed into the end. Effective, if used properly. And the Rhayader Gang had had plenty of practice. A trout lying close to the bank had to move quickly in order to escape a cruel death by tearing barbs.
‘Soon be light,’ somebody muttered.
‘Shaddup!’ Mal growled. ‘No talking, or I'll be shovin' me fist in somebody's gob!’
The others fell silent. Their leader did not make idle threats.
Dawn came slowly. The darkness turned to murky grey and with the daylight the mist began to seep up from the damp ground,
‘As thick as a fucking November fog,’ Reuben Lewis grunted.
‘So what?’ There was a leer on Mal Evans' face. ‘Just what we want. The bleedin' bailiffs won't see us this mornin', and if they do it'll be their bad luck because they'll be too close to us!’
They began to move forward, with Evans in the lead, half-crouching, listening every few seconds: nothing. The only sound was the soft soughing of the wind in the trees on the steep hillsides above. But down in the valley all was still.
Through the mist they saw the water, and they also saw that something was wrong. It should have been clear and pure, just an odd patch of weed around the edges. Instead, objects floated on it - indiscernible masses.
‘Jesus!’ Maldwyn Evans whistled. ‘Just look at that.’
Through the swirling grey vapour the others squinted at the Claerwen Reservoir. From where they stood it resembled some gigantic water-filled stagnant marl hole. A grotesque refuse dump for the local population.
‘What … what's happened?’ Reuben Lewis muttered.
‘Them're trout,’ Evans pointed, a sweeping gesture which incorporated the whole of the lake. ‘Brown and Rainbow. Hundreds. Thousands of 'em. Jest lyin' there. Dead.’
‘But why?’
‘Poachers I'd say. Large scale organised poaching. The kind you read about. They've used explosives. Killed every fuckin' fish in the lake.’
‘But … why haven't they hauld ‘em in?’
‘Too many. You'd need a convoy of lorries to take that lot away. Once you got it ashore, that is. Probably they used too much explosive. Amateurs, maybe. And when they realised just what they'd done they got shit scared and scarpered.’
‘But … but there ain't no bailiffs about.’
‘We ain't goin' to complain about that. Not with all them fish just waitin' to be picked up.’
‘Jesus Christ, you ain't goin' to … ?’
‘Shut your trap. We can pick up as many fish in an hour as we'd get in a whole season by gaffin'.’
‘Somebody might come, and then they'd think that it was us that'd blasted the lake …’
‘Look, you mugs.’ Mal Evans turned to face the others, an expression of mingled greed and contempt on his broad features. ‘We ain't runnin' out on this one. It's too good to be true. But we ain't got no time to waste. If anybody's chicken, then fuck off now and get out o' the way. Otherwise, get pickin' up all these trout which have drifted into the side.’
An awkward silence followed. The Rhayader Gang looked at each other. Things did not happen this way. It was unnatural. You gaffed a trout and made tracks. Poaching for kicks. Now it was suddenly different. The fish were there f
or the taking. There was money to be made. But why?
‘Well? Make your minds up.’
‘OK, OK,’ Roddy Price nodded nervously, knowing that he was speaking for the other three as well. ‘Let's get cracking and then get away.’
‘Not so much of a hurry. We've only got one sack. Never needed more'n one before. Dick, get off back home and find as many empty plastic fertilizer bags as you can in your old man's barn. Then get back here with ‘em at the double.’
The youngest member of the gang was already moving away. Temporary relief flooded over him. There was definitely something uncanny about this whole business. As he retraced his steps through the mist he almost considered not returning. Just a passing thought. He shivered uncontrollably, and knew full well that he would be coming back to rejoin the others. Because if he didn't Big Mal would come looking for him. A length of chain or a crowbar in some deserted place … Dick Llewellyn began to hurry. He knew he was not the only one who was scared of that bastard …
‘Now start gettin' these fish ashore,’ Mal Evans was growling standing up to the tops of his wellington boots in the water. ‘Put 'em in piles so that all we've got to do is fill the sacks when Dick gets back. And work as quietly as you can. If this mist'll just hold for another hour or so …’
The four youths worked diligently, grabbing the slippery fish and tossing them on to the bank. No gaff wounds to lower the value of their haul. Still, the trout had an unusual dullness about them. The Rainbows did not scintillate and glisten like they usually did when they were pulled from the water. But who cared about that?
‘Where the fuckin' hell's Dick got to?’ Mal's coarse whisper broke the silence. ‘ 'E's been gone over half an hour. It's only ten minutes back to 'is place. If 'e doesn't get a move on the sun will shift this mist.’
Already beams of sunlight were infiltrating the opaque vapour, dispersing it, playing on the water and the rafts of dead fish that floated beyond the reach of the youths. The higher ground was clear. Soon the lower reaches would be visible from above.
‘Listen!’
Everybody listened. Somewhere above the mountain forests a buzzard was mewing. A raven croaked its disapproval at the presence of the large regal bird of prey. Deadly enemies, they tolerated each other. A car was moving on the road - climbing. Changing down and slowing on the dangerous bends, the driver was probably curious about the smashed and temporarily repaired barriers, or maybe even knowing the story.
The four youths strained their ears.
‘I can't 'ear nothin',’ Reuben breathed.
‘Just bloody listen then.’
Footsteps. A heavy measured tread, mud squelching. Somebody was coming towards them.
‘This'll be Dick with the sacks,’ Vic Jones muttered.
‘Too heavy for Dick. More like a soddin' hippo coming down to its water 'ole.’ Mal frowned and stepped ashore, picking up his gaff. ‘Quiet. Just in case. If it's a bailiff I don't 'ave to tell you what to do.’
They waited tensely, three in the water, one on the grass, poised expectantly. The footsteps were louder now - hurrying. They could hear whoever it was wheezing, gasping for breath.
A shape materialised out of the mist: a man, in silhouette, the details obscured. But the figure was bent double, lurching, in pain.
Then they saw him: horribly unrecognisable beneath the weeping ulcers. A bestial puffed face, ulcerated lips drawn back in a snarl, eyes bulging. And the whole of the body was naked except for one solitary shirt neck, the garment seemingly having been torn from the bulky frame in shreds.
‘Jesus wept!’
The four youths stood rigidly, unable to comprehend. An apparition! It could not exist. The demented creature halted as it saw them, swollen tongue licking the bleeding lips. Surprise, then hate, appeared in those eyes.
The newcomer lurched forward, arms outstretched as though to grasp Mal Evans. The men stumbled, and almost fell. A yard separated the two of them.
Fear lent speed to Evans' reactions. His numbed brain could not take in the situation. Yet it knew danger and acted accordingly. The arm holding the gaff went back, poised for balance, then shot forward.
Cruel barbs glinted in the early morning sunlight. Then they were tearing at the flesh, burying the three prongs deep in the throat of the man who had emerged from the fog.
Evans still held the shaft, his fingers seemingly paralysed around it. The other was jerked upright, balanced on the balls of his feet, then swaying back on his heels, held by the gaff so that he could not fall.
Paul Pritchard's arms beat feebly in the air, fingers flexing. Inarticulate sounds came from his throat, gurglings such as a drowning man might make. Indeed, he was drowning: in the gush of blood that spurted from his punctured jugular vein.
Scarlet blood jettisoned over Maldwyn Evans. He turned his head in repugnance, vomiting down the front of his jacket. Terror refused to relinquish its petrifying effect. He wanted to loose the gaff. To run. But he could not. The living and the dying faced each other, frozen in a tableau of blood and vomit and death.
It was the corpse which finally broke the hold, sinking down, wrenching the bloody shaft of the weapon from the fingers of the killer, lying back in the mud as though reposing in sleep, the gaff quivering vertically, the barbs maintaining its point of balance.
‘Fucking hell!’
Roddy Price, Vic Jones and Reuben Lewis were out of the water, staring at the thing which lay only a few yards away, the gush of throaty blood now subsiding to a steady flow. For once Big Mal was forgotten.
Incomprehensible grunts and gestures were the only means of communication. Articulate speech was forgotten in their horror. Then, slowly, reasoning returned to their stupefied minds.
‘Let's get away from here.’ Mal Evans spoke as he sidestepped the bloody corpse, averting his gaze as he did so. The others followed. A stumbling procession made its way through the thinning mist. All four were sick with revulsion and fear.
They emerged from the mist on to sunlit grassland. Sheep grazed peacefully around them.
‘What's that?’ Roddy Price pointed ahead of them with a trembling outstretched hand.
The others looked. But nobody replied. They just stared. There was no mistaking the object which lay in the sheep track some thirty yards ahead of them. A huddled, lifeless, human form; clad in jeans and a black PVC jacket, head twisted at an unnatural angle. Long chestnut hair fell over the face, but even so they recognised Dick Llewellyn.
They advanced fearfully, huddling together. No longer was Maldwyn Evans the undisputed leader, urging violence, exhorting them to crime and vandalism. They were four very frightened adolescents, now beginning to sob with fear.
‘It's Dick!’
‘What … what's happening?’
Nobody answered. Nobody was expected to. Nobody could.
The freshening breeze dispersed the remnants of the early morning autumnal mist. It also wafted the hair of the dead youth, lifting the strands so that the horrified watchers could gaze on his sightless staring eyes. The shirt collar had been torn from the twisted broken neck. And flapping on the ground all around were empty polythene sacks.
‘Somebodys … somebody's … killed 'im!’ Vic Jones was the first to gain control of his power of speech, stating the obvious.
‘Course they 'ave,’ Mal Evans hissed. ‘That crazy nude geezer.’
‘But … but who was 'e?’
‘That was … Paul Pritchard … the diver bloke. Dunno what was up with 'im, though. Looked like 'e'd got some kinda cancer.’
‘What are we goin' to do, Mal?’ The plea came from Reuben. ‘We'll 'ave to tell the police.’
‘Like fuck!’ Mal Evans turned, and the other noticed that some colour was creeping back into the whiteness of his face. ‘Never tell the cops anythin' 'cause you only make it worse for yourselves. The first thing we gotta do is get away from 'ere, and let's 'ope nobody connects us with it. We'll 'ave to swear blind that we were never 'ere. Maybe they'll thin
k that Dick killed Pritchard. Pick 'is gaff up, Reuben. Good job we're all wearin' gloves. There won't be any fingerprints, and with a bit o' luck the cops'll think that's Dick's gaff in Pritchard's throat. Come on, the sooner we aren't 'ere, the better.’
It was after dark when the Rhayader Gang rendezvoused. Three of them sat astride their powerful motorcycles in a woodland clearing some three miles north of Rhayader. The wind had dropped, and with nightfall had come an eerie calm. Somewhere a brown owl hooted repeatedly in anticipation of a night's hunting and its subsequent reward.
Vic Jones, Roddy Price and Reuben Lewis looked at each other in the faint starlight. There was no sign of Maldwyn Evans. And they knew, furthermore, that he would not be coming.
‘They got Big Mal,’ Vic Jones muttered for the third time. ‘The fucking cops came for 'im before midday. If we 'adn't made ourselves scarce they'd've 'ad us, too.’
‘What the hell are we goin' to do?’ There was the beginning of panic in Roddy Price's voice. ‘We can't live wild in the hills. We can't go anywhere, either. They'll 'ave our numbers, and by now they've probably circulated our descriptions. Maybe even set up road blocks.’
‘But we ain't done anything,’ Reuben Lewis spat with contempt and indignation. ‘Nothin' apart from a bit o' poachin', anyway, and the cops won't be much interested in that with all that's goin' on at present.’
‘They'll 'ave us as accessories to murder, or whatever they term it,’ Jones groaned.
‘They can't, because we didn't do nothing. Mal shoved 'is gaff into that guv's throat of 'is own accord. Nothing to do wi' us. We didn't tell 'im to. We never even touched the fucker. And even if we 'ad, it'd been self-defence. 'E was ravin' mad. A nut case.’
‘Try tellin' that to the fuzz. We was there, and that'd be enough for them. And, anyway, we don't know what Mal's told 'em.’
‘It's our word against 'is. Three to one.’ Reuben licked his lips nervously. ‘The best thing we can do is go and give ourselves up.’
‘Don't be bloody stupid.’
The discussion was becoming more heated by the second. Panic was growing amongst the youths with the rapidity of docks growing after a May shower. Now it was every man for himself.