by Guy N Smith
‘Because,’ Rutter laughed, ‘he couldn't get anybody else to publish it, and if his literary work is as good as his criticism then it's no wonder. Don't listen to him. Finish the book, for God's sake.’
‘Are you sure? I mean … well, I'd written it off, started something else. I just let you see it because … I don't really know why.’
‘You let me see it,’ Rutter smiled softly through a haze of aromatic tobacco smoke, ‘because deep down, subconsciously, you knew it was OK. You've lost your confidence, Wes. This chap Hoyle has got under your skin and you're trying hard to convince yourself that his opinion matters. But I think this book - what you've done of it so far - is streets ahead of Whispers?’
‘Whispers!’ Wes Lansdale rolled the word out as though testing the pronunciation. ‘You mean to say you've actually read Whispers!’
‘I picked it up on a second-hand stall in the Narrows the other week,’ the zoologist held up a well-thumbed paperback which had been lying in one of the trays on his desk. ‘It's good for a first book but you've progressed since then. I just don't want you to slip back. Take a tip from me, if that fellow starts peering over your shoulder at the typewriter, tell him to mind his own business. I don't really think communes provide an atmosphere conducive to writing.’
‘I think you're right,’ Wes said. ‘Hell, I'd like to get out, so would Wendy. But it's not possible at the moment. One good, book would see to it, though. Maybe I'm trying too hard.’
‘And taking too many drugs,’ Colin Rutter's expression hardened. ‘It'll be tough, but you'll have to throw them over if you're going to make it, believe me. Tell you what …’ he paused as though temporarily uncertain. ‘I live here alone, and I'm often away for weeks at a time. The other room used to be my study until I moved in here. It's in a mess, but could soon be tidied up. Why don't you come up here to work? Neither of us would disturb the other - how about it?’
‘Thanks,’ Wes Lansdale hesitated. ‘I'd like to, but … really I would …’
‘But you're scared Hoyle might have something to say about it.’ A statement, not a question.
‘No … not entirely. Living in a commune isn't an idyllic existence, self-sufficiency and all that. It's squatting with a lot of lazy dropouts who leave everything to the next person and sneer at anybody who wants to work. They fight and squabble amongst themselves the whole time.’
‘I know. That's why I suggested you came up here to work.’
‘I … can think it over, let you know in a day or two?’
‘Of course. I don't want to push you into any decision … except about finishing your book. I expect I'll be staying on here for a few weeks, at least until this caracal business is cleared up. By the way, Wes, would you mind if I asked you a personal question? I won't be offended if you don't answer it.’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’ Wes's mouth had suddenly gone dry.
‘You've got a personal interest in the caracal for some reason, haven't you?’
‘I … no, not really.’
When he looked up Colin Rutter was busily shuffling some papers on his desk, his very actions saying ‘Liar!’
Wes stood up, ran his tongue round his lips. His trouble was that he never had been a good liar. Wendy always sensed immediately when he was lying, and so apparently did Colin Rutter.
‘Let me know when you've made up your mind,’ the zoologist suddenly smiled as though he had never asked the question.
Jack Evans had been Chief Forester on the Powys Border area for five years. A small bearded man with a strong Yorkshire accent, he still longed for the open moorlands where his father had been a beat keeper. Yet he had to admit that the Shropshire-Welsh border country was a fair substitute for his native county. Maureen liked it, too, and when a woman approaching forty says she likes a place then it's a good idea to stay there, but almost overnight his tranquil existence had disintegrated when his Divisional Officer had told him he was to be transferred to take over a larger area. A move to Yorkshire would have caused no more than a temporary domestic disturbance, but the thought of Lancashire was like the beginning of a new War of the Roses.
It had happened a week ago, and Jack thought that after a few days Maureen might have calmed down and accepted the situation, but he should have known that she was no fatalist. The depression which surrounded her had deepened with every passing day, which was one reason why he had brought little Eddie out with him in the Land-Rover today. It wasn't good for a four-year-old child to be left in the house all day with a mother who was perpetually weeping.
Eddie liked Land-Rovers. He enjoyed the way they bumped their way over rough ground, jogging him up and down in his seat like the metal horse outside the chemist's shop when his mother dropped a 2p coin into the slot between its ears on their weekly visit.
Jack Evans drove up the rutted track to the top of Panpunton Hill. A thinning programme was in progress here and he should have checked on the contractors earlier in the week but had never got round to it, principally because that damned caracal had wasted everybody's time. Jesus, if only it hadn't showed itself on Saturday afternoon everything would have been fine. The doubters who had been saying all along that it was impossible for such an animal to be loose in Wales would have gone home satisfied. Better to lose a few sheep than have a constant army of reporters trampling through the woodlands and wasting the time of every forester they came across.
Evans pulled the Land-Rover to a halt on the summit, and switched off the engine. Silence everywhere, a tranquillity only known to foresters and sheep farmers in remote places. The fact that it was Sunday helped - no chainsaws whined, no bulldozers growled.
It was exceptionally warm for early October, clouds of flies buzzing and crawling on the windscreen, some finding their way inside through the open window in the driver's door.
‘See over there, Eddie,’ he attracted the child's attention and pointed in a south-easterly direction. ‘That clock tower is in Knighton. We've come all this way and you can still see your home.’
But Eddie wasn't listening. He was pointing in the opposite direction, spotting the low-flying aircraft and covering his ears in anticipation of the deafening noise which would follow hard on its tail. The plane passed over, fifty feet or so above the nearest trees, and then came the ear-splitting roar of its engines. Eddie clung to his father, sobbing with fright. Jack wanted to sympathise but the boy would have to get used to it. He hated these aircraft, too, felt sure that some of the pilots flew much lower than the legal limit. A couple of months ago he had written and complained to the Ministry of Defence about a particularly low plane, but three weeks later had received a reply to the effect that no plane was in the area at the time. He had written back that in that case it was an unauthorised aircraft and would they please investigate and let him know their findings. So far they hadn't replied to that one.
‘Come on, we'll go for a walk down that path,’ Jack Evans pointed to where a grassy ride disappeared into a belt of tall larch trees, ‘Daddy's got to look at some trees which the men are going to start cutting down tomorrow.’
‘No!’ Eddie screamed. The aircraft had obviously frightened him badly. ‘I don't want to go!’
Jack Evans sighed - if he forced the boy to come there would be an hysterical outburst the whole time and it wasn't worth it. He would only be gone ten minutes at the most, and Eddie had often stayed in the car while he popped into a shop in town. If anything, it was safer out here.
‘All right, you can stay away,’ he ruffled the boy's hair. ‘I won't be long.’
‘It's too hot.’
‘I'll leave the door open then. Now don't get out. Understand?’
Eddie nodded, still trembling, and Jack climbed down. The door of the Land-Rover swung shut and he had to hunt around until he found a stout stick to prop it open.
‘There,’ he smiled reassuringly at Eddie. ‘You'll be all right. Now, remember, don't get out or I shall be very cross when I get back.’
Eddie watc
hed his father walk across the clearing and disappear into the woodland. His tears had subsided, to be replaced by a sense of abandonment and infantile anger. He was in what his mother termed a ‘mardy mood’. He'd really wanted to accompany his father but sheer stubbornness had made him refuse. Now he was regretting it.
He kicked out in temper and gave a cry of pain as his plimsolled foot struck the gear lever. Then he looked around the vehicle for some means of revenge on the older generation, something which he could pretend had been pure accident. He tugged at the handbrake, but it wouldn't move.
His foot still ached and he swore, using a word which he had sometimes heard his father mutter. If only he could do something which would really inconvenience everybody, like letting the Land-Rover roll away and crash. But he wasn't strong enough, and didn't know whether he'd be able to jump out in time.
He crawled to the edge of the seat, braced himself, and then leaped out into space, hitting the parched brown grass and rolling over. He remembered his father's last words, and smiled. It was always something of a victory to disobey.
It was too hot to do anything energetic but it would be cooler beneath the trees, so Eddie got up and began to walk across the clearing. He looked down the track where his father had gone, but there was no sign of him. If he went after his father he would probably be scolded at first, then petted and carried back like a two-year-old. But if he went off elsewhere …
This was an intriguing thought, and a bit frightening too, but might have a very satisfying outcome. Certainly he'd get his bottom smacked, but it would be well worth the discomfort when they got home. His mother would blame his father for leaving him on his own in the forest, and they'd have one of their big rows like he'd heard a few weeks ago when Jack had come home in the early hours of the morning and found the front door locked. He had lain in bed listening as his father hammered on the door, and his mother yelled down from the bedroom window.
His father's words were muffled, but his mother's had been clear enough. ‘You've been with that Cynthia again, Jack. Don't make an even bigger fool of yourself by denying it. Sure Ben'll back you up, he's as bad as you are, probably had her as well. Jesus, there's something wrong with you going with the likes of her!’
Eddie wondered who Cynthia was. The only Cynthia he knew had long straw-coloured straggling hair, wore a frayed and stained coat reaching almost to her bare ankles, and always had ash falling from a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She mooched round the streets gazing vacantly into shop windows but never going inside. She smelled, too. He'd caught a whiff as his mother had hurried him past her one day.’
He remembered how his parents hadn't spoken to each other for days after the row. Young as he was, he sensed that when it came to the crunch his mother was the boss. And he benefited by it. For a few days she had made a great fuss of him, buying him sweets and small toys every time they went into town. But it hadn't lasted, and things were soon back to normal.
Another ride led off to the right of the one his father had taken, and Eddie began to walk down it, slowly, nervously, picking his way around trailing briars. The entwining branches overhead shut out most of the sunlight, and the narrow avenue of gigantic larches reminded him of a story his mother had read to him once about a little boy who had wandered off into a wood and eventually arrived in fairyland. But the little people weren't all kind fairies; some of them were wicked gnomes and goblins who had captured the intruder and made him do all their everyday chores.
As he turned a bend in the path, it got even darker. His fear rose and he began to tremble. Any moment now goblins might appear from behind the trunks of trees, cackling, rushing to cut off his retreat. Then he would be a prisoner for ever, and never see his parents again. He turned to run back the way he had come, when he heard a stealthy rustling in the undergrowth. He stiffened, trembling violently, his limbs frozen with the paralysis of sheer terror, his eyes rolling.
And then he saw the animal, which seemed to materialise out of the gloom a few yards ahead of him. Eddie knew that it was some kind of cat, although it was much bigger than the one that came across from Radnor Drive every morning and messed on their doorstep. Almost black in colour, with enormous green-yellow eyes that shone and flickered as it watched him, its pointed ears were erect, and back arched as though it was angry. It was purring, but not a nice sound, more of a menacing noise.
Eddie's first thought was that only a witch could own such a large ferocious creature, and any moment she might appear, an evil wizened face beneath her pointed hat, lips drawn back to expose toothless gums, hooked forefinger beckoning him. ‘Come here, little boy, I am going to take you back to my cottage where you will clean and do jobs for me. Sometimes I eat young children.’
A voice inside him screamed:
‘Run … run … RUN!’
But there was no place to run, only back down the dark narrowing tunnel which ended in the land of goblins! He opened his mouth to yell for his father but no sounds came out.
The cat was coming closer, stepping daintily and cautiously, its huge eyes malevolent. Then it stopped, crouched, uttered one shrill screech, and sprang.
Eddie Evans' heart stopped a split second before the creature's vicious claws shredded his shirt and ripped through the tender skin, gouging his features beyond recognition. Mercifully he was spared those terrible minutes as the caracal vented its fury on him, ripping the skin in strips from his body, peeling it off in scarlet ribbons, then sinking its fangs into the bloodied flesh beneath.
Having feasted, it loped away into the gloom of the deep forest.
Chapter 5
Wendy was in bed but not asleep when Wes Lansdale returned to Pentre. She heard him moving about, undressing, but only when she felt his naked body slide beneath the blankets did she speak,
‘You lied when you said you were going to Shrewsbury, Wes,’ there was hurt and bitterness in her low whisper. She hoped that Trix and Jon in the adjoining cubicle were asleep. Earlier she had heard them making love, but for the past half-hour the only sound had been deep heavy breathing, It was unlikely they were pretending - they had no reason to eavesdrop,
‘What makes you think I lied?’ He gave a sharp intake of breath.
‘I can tell. I know you too well, Wes. You didn't go to Shrewsbury, you went somewhere else.’
‘It doesn't really matter. I didn't go anywhere important.’
‘Then why make such a secret of it?’
‘Because,’ he hesitated, ‘I did something I've always preached against. I went on a hunt, joined the bloodthirsty throng with their guns and dogs.’
‘Oh!’ Sudden relief surged over her. So simple, but somehow typical of Wes and his strange ideals.
‘But why did you go?’
‘A number of reasons, some that I don't even understand myself. I wanted to see the caracal get away, although there was no way I could have stopped them from killing it. They flushed it near the end of the day, and one guy claims he hit it, but he's either a liar or a fool - I saw the shot charge kick up way behind. Then I did something that I've not done since I was a kid. Wendy, I prayed, prayed to God that it would get away, and my prayers were answered.’
Her fingers sought his and squeezed. For some reason she felt her eyes flooding with tears and was glad that it was too dark for him to see her.
‘Another reason I went was because of Colin Rutter,’ he went on. ‘He certainly didn't expect me to turn up, but in a strange way I felt I owed it to him. He doesn't really want the caracal killed either although he realises the danger it presents. By the way, he's offered me a room in his cottage to work in.’
‘Hoyle knows you're friendly with him,’ she couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘While you've been away I've had some bother.’
She told him briefly what had happened between Lester and herself, feeling the tension and anger building up inside him.
‘The bastard!’ he breathed. ‘I'll have it out with him tomorrow!’
> ‘No, Wes, please don't. I've shattered his fantasies, and now he hates me too much to pester me again, I'm sure of that. I don't know how much longer we can go on living here.’
‘We'll stick it out. Sod Lester! He only runs this commune because everybody lets him, a façade that he's gradually built up. We voted him down over the caracal and he had to accept our decision. Anyway, Colin thinks my manuscript is OK, and I'm going to work at it up at his place, away from Lester. If I can make it, then we can get out of here.’
‘What's going to happen to the caracal?’
‘I don't know,’ he replied. ‘It's only a matter of time before somebody gets him, Every farmer and gamekeeper from here to the furthest boundary of Radnor Forest is keeping a gun in readiness. On the other hand, that puma down south several years ago just vanished into thin air. Maybe it died of old age in some secret lair and was never found. The same could happen to King.’
They lay in an embrace that would last until morning, dozing and content with each other's company. The air had been cleared between them - only one problem remained: King, the escaped caracal.
Tuesday, 3 October.
The Divisional Officer's room in the local area headquarters of the Forestry Commission was crowded, the atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke in spite of the open window. The sun shone warmly as the Indian Summer continued.
Baldwin, the Divisional Officer, stroked his moustache nervously, cleared his throat and glanced around at the others: the Chief Constable, stoic faced, steel-grey eyes, waiting for somebody to speak; Hidderley-Walker, wearing a Norfolk jacket and tweed trousers, a deerstalker hat on his knees; Melvyn Hughes, the gamekeeper; Colin Rutter; Joe Simmons, the Forest Ranger, lean and wiry, his weather-beaten complexion paler than usual under the fluorescent lighting; PC Calvin Jones; five beat foresters in all. Outside the Press waited in their cars - this was a day that Powys would remember for many years.