Caracal

by Guy N Smith

  ‘What the hell d'you think you're bloody well doing?’

  Bilal stiffened. He didn't need to turn round to know that it was Lester Hoyle. There was hate and anger in the big man's voice; contempt for a race and colour other than European.

  ‘I … I have made a home for my caracal,’ Bilal spoke softly, his eyes on the ground. ‘Something more safe.’

  ‘You're supposed to be shelling beans, not buggering about with things you've no right to touch.’

  A snarl from the caracal answered him, starting deep down in its throat and rising to a high-pitched scream; it spat fury as it flung itself at the wire mesh, clinging there with its feet, jaws wide. Hoyle backed off, startled.

  ‘You can get rid of that bloody thing,’ he rasped. ‘Otherwise I'll put paid to it for you.’

  ‘I wish to keep it,’ Bilal replied. ‘It will not harm anybody. It is safe in there. But if I have to leave here, where can I go?’

  Hoyle had several ideas, but the Pakistani probably wouldn't understand them. He said, ‘We'll have to work something out. Make sure that animal stays in there. And get those beans shelled, we'll need some tonight.’

  Bilal watched him walk away, and the caracal mewed softly, the hairs on its back flat again. The eyes had lost their ferocity and were staring sadly up at the dark-skinned youth, a plea for freedom.

  ‘If you go, I go,’ Bilal said, wondering how much the animal understood. ‘I'll try to find you some food later.’

  He went back to his sacks of beans and began to shell them into a plastic bucket.

  That night Bilal slept on the board in the attic again. There was no question of him being allowed to share any of the bedrooms. He was even banned from the dining room, the fat girl who was called Trix allowing him to eat his food on an upturned orange crate in a corner of the filthy kitchen. It was some kind of vegetable goulash, heaped with the beans which he had harvested and highly spiced.

  He had counted the other members of the commune through the open door - sixteen in all. Most of them seemed to have found casual labour during the harvest on some of the surrounding farms. Apparently only Wes Lansdale, Lester Hoyle and Wendy remained behind during the day.

  He couldn't sleep. The atmosphere was almost stifling, the only ventilation being through the small hole in the roof, and the stale smell cloyed his nostrils. A sudden thought had him sitting up, every nerve taut - the caracal had not been fed!

  He sweated in his dilemma. Not only had Hoyle ordered him to remain in the attic until morning, but where could he find food for his pet at this hour of the night? Hoping there might be some scraps lying about in the kitchen, he got up and climbed across the rafters until he reached the open hatch. There was no sign of light below, so he crept down the ladder, testing each rung before putting his full weight on it. Somewhere bed springs were creaking noisily, someone was breathing heavily. Whoever it was, they wouldn't be interested in his activities at present!

  He crossed the landing and went down the uncarpeted stairs, past the first floor landing until he felt the flagged stones of the hallway beneath his feet. He groped his way across to the kitchen, when a sour smell mingled with the odours of stale cooking.

  He thought about switching on the light but decided it was too risky. There was always food left lying on the wooden working surface near the sink. Some bread, a bowl half full of uneaten vegetable goulash; the caracal would not be interested in either. Searching around, he finally found what felt like the carcass of a chicken. It was going off, but would be better than nothing.

  As Bilal let himself out of the door, a half-moon flooded the garden with enough silvery light to see by. He moved swiftly down the narrow winding path, anxious to feed the caracal and get back to the attic. He might be discovered out here, disobeying Hoyle's orders, and some form of punishment would surely follow.

  The poultry house loomed up, gaunt and silent in silhouette, the netting casting criss-cross shadows on the ground beyond it. He fumbled with the string that held the door, forced it open.

  ‘Here, I have brought the food I promised.’

  There was no response, and he hesitated, puzzled. Something was dreadfully wrong - the creature always came when called, especially when it was hungry.

  He did not need to look inside the sleeping quarters. The animal would have emerged by now had it been there. The jagged hole in the rusty wire netting told its own story, one of the places which he had attempted to repair.

  He dropped to his knees and pushed a hand through the opening as if trying to convince himself that it might be a trick of the moonlight. But the caracal had escaped. Ravenous, it had gone in search of its own food. And there was always the chance that it might not return.

  Chapter 2

  Bilal knew that he could not go back to the attic. Not only would he have been unable to sleep, but he would have to return at first light to see whether his pet had come back. So it was better to remain here, and if the caracal showed up then he could return to his sleeping quarters without any of the others knowing what had happened.

  He sat with his back against the crumbling stone wall, the poultry house in front of him bathed in soft moonlight. The night was warm, so despite his nakedness he did not feel chilled. His head drooped. Since his arrival in Britain he had not slept more than a few hours at a stretch, but now exhaustion threatened to engulf him. He tried to fight it off, but soon dropped into a troubled sleep.

  Something jerked him into wakefulness and he started, afraid that it might already be light. Away to the east the darkness was beginning to pale, and dawn was not far off.

  Bilal knew that something other than increasing fear had awoken him: a noise or movement of some kind. A faint feline cry had him on his feet, glancing round and peering into the shadows. He would recognise the cry of a caracal anywhere.

  The noise came again, louder, more of a whimper. And then he saw the caracal crouching on the edge of some long grass to his right, two green orbs reflecting the waning moonlight, mouth wide in a snarl.

  As Bilal moved towards it he realised that something was wrong with the creature. It drew back as though afraid of him, snarling and spitting.

  ‘What is the matter, my little one?’

  It moved, limped, flopped down on its belly. The mouth opened again and this time a loud mournful cry shattered the stillness of the night air, echoing across the expanse of Kinsley Wood and on to Lurkenhope. Birds in the surrounding trees and bushes fluttered and huddled together nervously.

  The caracal rolled on to one side, exhausted, and lay looking up at Bilal. He crouched down, suddenly afraid of the animal which he had nursed throughout his long journey. This was no longer a playful and mischievous kitten but a savage beast of the wild, returned from the first hunt and no longer dependent upon him for its food. And it was injured!

  He saw the paw for the first time now - bloody matted fur, claws torn and protruding at unnatural angles, the leg itself hanging uselessly and unable to support the weight of the body. The caracal snarled, tried to get up, but could not.

  ‘I will help you, little one.’

  Bilal snatched his fingers away, feeling the rush of air as the undamaged paw slashed at him. There was a whimpering snarl from the trembling animal, then it suddenly quietened as if recognising its master. He extended his hand again, nervously, and touched the sleek hair; it let him stroke it, shaking violently the whole time.

  ‘You need help,’ Bilal muttered. ‘I must take you into the house.’

  The caracal did not struggle when he picked it up, no longer attempting to scratch or bite. It seemed to realise that it was safe with Bilal. He went into the kitchen, cleared a space on the table, and put the animal down. It lay there, shivering, licking its wounded limb, raising its head every so often to watch him as he searched cupboards and drawers in an attempt to find something helpful - antiseptic, anything.

  Ten minutes' search revealed that the majority of kitchen space was taken up with rubbish, empty wra
ppers and tins pushed away out of sight, the overflowing dustbin outside not having been emptied for some time.

  ‘It's no good …’ Bilal sank his head in his hands in despair and then he heard somebody coming down the stairs. He tensed - Lester Hoyle would be angry, and then what would happen?

  ‘It's you, is it?’ Wendy appeared in the doorway, wearing the same crumpled jeans and striped blouse, the latter undone so that her breasts were partially visible. Hair awry and matted, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. ‘I wondered who the hell was raiding the kitchen. Hey, what's up with the caracal?’

  ‘His foot is hurt,’ Bilal relaxed, sensing an ally, someone who would show kindness, ‘He escaped and went hunting in the night. Somehow he has hurt his paw.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ Wendy approached the creature cautiously, and it tensed but made no move to attack. ‘My, that's nasty. I think the leg might be broken. We'll have to put it in splints.’

  Bilal stared blankly, not understanding; not even embarrassed at being naked in front of the girl.

  ‘Two pieces of stick bound tightly on to the leg to hold it in place whilst it mends,’ she explained. ‘I'll see what I can find. There's some TCP around somewhere, too.’

  After considerable searching she found what she was looking for - the bottle of antiseptic, some sticks from the kindling box, and a piece of reasonably clean linen.

  ‘You'll have to hold him,’ she muttered nervously. ‘I think I can manage then.’

  It took Wendy less than five minutes to complete her first aid treatment. The caracal struggled but Bilal was holding it firmly by the head and the other front paw. When they had finished it licked and pulled at the bandage for a while, then gave up trying to remove it.

  Sounds came from upstairs; people were stirring, the casual labour force getting ready for another day in the fields.

  ‘I’ll start the breakfast,’ Wendy turned towards the cooker. ‘Knowing Trix, she won't be down just yet. You'd better put your pet back in its cage for the time being. I'll have another look at it later.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Bilal's eyes were misty as he lifted the caracal off the table, cradling it in his arms. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘Not much doubt about that,’ there was bitterness in Wendy's voice as she tried to explain. ‘There's an estate behind this place. The gamekeeper there, a chap named Hughes, doesn't give a damn for anything except his pheasants. We know he sets gin traps, old-fashioned steel traps with teeth. They're not legal, but he doesn't care how much a creature suffers so long as it doesn't harm his birds. Wes and I found a trap once, and threw it into a nearby pool. We should have told the police but …’ she smiled faintly, ‘the less we have to do with the police, the better.’

  Somebody was coming down the stairs, and through the half-open door Bilal recognised the short stocky figure of Ricky, with Lester Hoyle behind. Their eyes met and Bilal licked his lips nervously.

  ‘You're getting a regular bloody nuisance,’ Hoyle kicked the door wide. ‘I thought I'd made myself plain about that animal.’

  ‘He's been hurt,’ Wendy snapped. ‘Got caught in one of Melvyn Hughes' gin traps.’

  ‘Pity it didn't hold him,’ Hoyle grunted, ‘or chop his bloody head off.’

  ‘You're as bad as the gamekeeper. Anyway, it's going to live outside in the pen. Bilal will look after it, and so will I.’

  Lester checked his rising anger, glancing from Wendy to Bilal and back again. Without the girl interfering he could have sorted things out - now it was difficult.

  ‘OK,’ he sighed, ‘but don't bring it indoors.’

  Bilal was glad to get outside. The sun's reddish glow was spreading into the eastern sky; everything smelled fresh and sweet. Somewhere a curlew warbled, and rooks were cawing in Kinsley Wood.

  Suddenly the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by a loud report that echoed through the hills. The corvines called angrily, wheeling high into the sky, circling. Some wild duck lifted off the river, and a cock pheasant voiced its disapproval loudly from some thick hedgerow.

  The small stone cottage was situated halfway up the steep hillside, its narrow garden sloping and tapering to a sheer drop at the front boundary. The slate roof was patched and repaired, a trellis porch hung precariously on the wall, supported mainly by the mass of climbing roses. Once the home of a generation of farmworkers employed on the estate, shortly before the boom in property it had been sold off as a weekend residence for two thousand pounds. A year later the panoramic views had trebled its value, but Colin Rutter wasn't interested in selling in spite of numerous exorbitant offers.

  ‘Not for fifty thousand,’ he told one interested party, determination and stubbornness in his steely blue eyes, the long grey hair giving him a wild appearance. ‘Not for a hundred thousand.’

  At first the locals regarded Rutter with suspicion, which changed to respect when it was clear that his regular stays at his weekend residence had no ulterior motive. Tall and gaunt, he looked like a retired professor, they decided in the early years. A rumour which began in the Horse and Jockey placed him as a zoologist, something to do with animals. That seemed fairly accurate, for he was constantly seen roaming the hills and forests with camera and binoculars. More important, though, he troubled nobody and kept very much to himself.

  Melvyn Hughes was the first to strike up any kind of acquaintance with Rutter, a relationship which puzzled the scattered community. Hughes was disliked, a blustering individual who delighted in exerting his authority on the estate, evicting harmless trespassers with torrents of abuse. Dogs, too; had mysteriously disappeared, and there had been an outcry when Mrs Tomkinson's Jack Russell terrier had wandered from home and not returned. Of course, the keeper had shot it because it had wandered too close to his rearing pens; maybe it had got caught in one of his abominable traps or snares set for foxes.

  Mrs Tomkinson had complained to the police, and the slow-thinking, easy-going PC Calvin Jones had gone up to see Hughes. That in itself was a waste of time, for Hughes was hardly likely to confess and even offered an explanation. There were some old-established badger setts in the oak plantation on Panpunton Hill, he said. The dog could have gone there and been killed below ground by an angry badger. There was no way of retrieving the corpse, for the underground tunnels covered almost an acre beneath the large spreading tree roots.

  Neither Mrs Tomkinson nor PC Jones were convinced, but there was nothing further that could be done except to advise the locals to prevent their dogs from straying on to the estate. As the vengeful Mrs Tomkinson continually pointed out to fellow members of the local Women's Institute, Hughes wasn't a proper gamekeeper. He didn't even dress in the customary plus fours and polished leather gaiters like his predecessor, the ageing Parsons. Old trousers and a ragged pullover were not in harmony with his rural status; and he might have been any one of a dozen farm labourers. They all agreed it was a sign of the times, a decline in standards. The Earl of Powis would not have allowed one of his gamekeepers to dress or behave in such a fashion, but the old estate was split up now into separate farms, the shooting rights rented by syndicates. The old days were gone, never to return.

  Melvyn Hughes took his time climbing the steep hillside. In spite of an outdoor life he was two stone overweight, his ruddy complexion indicating high blood pressure as well as exposure to all weathers. He was seldom seen without his shapeless deerstalker-style hat, worn principally to cover a steadily spreading bald patch. A bushy moustache shielded a weak mouth. He had considered growing a beard, but his wife had objected to the idea - a tyrant around the game preserves, his aggressive manner disappeared once inside his own house.

  He paused at the gate of the small stone cottage, laid his gun down in the bracken, and lifted the latch. Colin Rutter did not like guns and abhorred killing in any form. That was one point they would never agree upon.

  The door opened when Hughes was halfway down the path, and Rutter emerged to stand on the step. The gamekeeper knew the sig
ns. Rutter was busy, probably working on his book, and today there would be no invitation to go indoors and discuss the habits of the creatures of the wild. Hospitality, where the zoologist was concerned, was as uncertain as the barometer.

  The gamekeeper pushed his hat on to the back of his head and wiped his forehead with his band. ‘It's warm,’ he muttered ‘Too warm.’

  Rutter scrutinised his visitor closely and detected an air of uneasiness beneath the bluff exterior. This wasn't just a casual call. If only it had been at some other time! Right now he was very busy.

  ‘I saw a polecat this morning,’ the grey-haired man's stubby blackened pipe wobbled unsteadily between his stained and broken teeth as he spoke. ‘Up on Panpunton. I got the picture I've been after for weeks.’

  ‘Good,’ Hughes nodded and made a mental note to set a trap up there. ‘There's … there's something else about, too.’

  ‘What d'you mean, something else?’

  ‘I'm not sure,’ uncertainty again, tracing patterns in the dusty soil with the toe of his wellington boot. ‘It got free of a trap the other night, but not before it'd broken the mesh into one of the release pens and killed a dozen poults.’

  ‘A fox, doubtless. And you've been setting those infernal gins again.’

  ‘It wasn't a fox,’ Hughes ignored the reference to his traps. ‘I think we've got a wild cat in the area.’

  ‘A feral domestic cat, almost certainly.’

  ‘No, it was too big, too strong. I reckon it's a true wild cat.’

  ‘Oh, that's nonsense,’ Rutter could not restrain his impatience. ‘There are none existing south of Perth.’

  ‘There was a sighting in Radnor Forest a year or two ago.’

  ‘Pure speculation. People always see what they want to see. The size and thick ringed tail do not prove it was a true wild cat - those features are often also found in the domestic species. Many cats desert farm buildings, preferring to live in the wild away from human interference. Doubtless you have come across them … and dealt with them accordingly!’