by Guy N Smith
Voices. He lay low, peering over the edge of the miniature plateau. Two people were walking down one of the rides, youths dressed in jeans and denim jackets. One carried a gun, and Grayling's practised eye ran over it, identified it as being of Russian manufacture, solid but unwieldy, no grace or balance - all right for kids like these two, a loud bang and a bruised shoulder and they thought they'd had their money's worth. No good for large game … like caracals!
They passed below him and disappeared down another ride. Once or twice during the afternoon he heard voices and cursed to himself. These bloody idiots had no hope of even catching a glimpse of the cat. Worse, they might cause it to move away into thicker woods … unless it was desperately hungry!
The sun was dipping in the western sky when Tim Grayling saw Colin Rutter, Wes Lansdale and Wendy Drew. He watched them through his binoculars and their intentions were only too clear - they were going the whole hog, camping out, roughing it.
For one awful moment he thought that they had decided upon the rocky outcrop for their camping site, and shrank back, listening to their muffled voices a few feet below him. Much to his relief, their footsteps receded into the distance.
It was time to move and he picked up the crossbow, feeling its sheer power seeping into his own body. That was what it gave him, power! In the right hands it would have been capable of killing a much larger animal than the caracal … He suddenly realised that he hadn't even fired it yet. Damn, for all he knew the thing might be faulty. Too late in the day now, though. First thing tomorrow, he would try it out.
It was as he turned to leave that he first saw the caracal, and stared, wondering if his eyes deceived him. It stood sideways on in the ride below him, some fifty or sixty yards away, taut and alert, staring into the thicket as though it had scented prey. The dying sunlight glinted on its coat, making it appear jet black in colour.
The journalist's podgy hands trembled as they struggled to cock the crossbow, sweat standing out on his forehead. It was the caracal, no doubt about that. After weeks of ceaseless hunting it had virtually surrendered itself to him!
He stared. It hadn't seen him, had no idea of his presence. Christ, his big chance, fantasy suddenly becoming reality; like that time he had gone up to the Highlands on a stalking trip, primarily to provide material for a series of articles in the Gazette. MacDonald, the stalker, had counted the stag's points through his glass. Fourteen, an Imperial! The ghillie lying behind them in the heather had whistled soundlessly - the first Imperial to be seen on this forest for two years.
‘Aye, he's a beauty,’ MacDonald's usual dourness was replaced by enthusiasm. ‘Think you can manage him, sir?’
‘I reckon,’ Grayling hoped his nervousness didn't show.
His eyesight worried him, too. He only wore glasses in private, and had left them back at the hotel.
‘Good,’ the stalker handed him the rifle, a .240. ‘Take your time. He hasn't scented us yet. Go for a heart shot. Head's too risky, might result in him getting away with a smashed jawbone.’
Tension. Grayling felt the sweat running down his face in rivulets, his hands clammy as he took a sighting with the rifle. The 'scope seemed blurred, and it took him several seconds to realise that his eyes had misted up from the perspiration running down into them.
‘Go on, sir. He's starting to get restless. Might move off at any second.’
Shut your bloody mouth and let me concentrate! Got a bead, wavering, cursing his shaking hands. The stag moved a step forward, head erect, scenting humans but not knowing where, looking round.
Go for a heart shot. Jesus, the heart is shielded in this position. It'll have to be the head … can't keep steady … it's walking away …
‘Hold it, sir!’
Too late. The sharp report of the rifle shattered the moorland stillness.
‘Got him! He's down!’
‘Aye, and up again, sir!’
The beast was struggling to its feet, swaying, somehow managing to break into a canter. Another shot, too wild, the bullet screaming off over the glen below.
‘I said a heart shot, sir!’ Reprimand in MacDonald's tone, forcing himself to keep his temper with a client. ‘We'll have to follow him if it takes us a week.’
Grayling had staggered in the wake of stalker and ghillie, the rifle suddenly seeming much heavier. Trying to keep up, the other two disregarding him and showing their contempt by the way they hurried on.
Two hours of sheer hell labouring for breath. Chest bursting, his companions constantly topping the rise ahead of him. He had to go on, though; the reputation of the Sporting Gazette was at stake, not to mention his own.
In the evening they found the stag at bay at the foot of a corrie. It looked at them and for a fleeting second there was a plea in its large eyes - kill me, quick!
MacDonald glanced at Grayling - the journalist turned his head away, closed his eyes and braced himself. The shot jarred him, vibrated in every nerve, echoed in his brain. My fault, I fucked it up. He would never forget that awful moment when he'd known deep inside him that he'd never find his mark. It had haunted his dreams ever since. And now it was back again, only this time it was reality personified in the form of a caracal.
The crossbow was cocked. Hell, his hands were shaking again. Take your time. Go for a heart shot. Head's too risky. Might result in a … For Christ's sake, shut up!
‘Go on, sir. He's starting to get restless. Might move off at any second …’
The caracal's head was up. It had got a human scent, was tensing, aware, starting to move away.
‘Hold it, sir!’
Grayling felt the bolt go, staggered forward, almost stumbled headlong. He heard the sound of steel on stone and saw a shower of sparks. Then nothing - not even a caracal.
Jesus God! He stood there, crossbow clutched in one hand, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the other. Not even a smashed jawbone to show for his unsteady marksmanship this time.
‘We'll have to follow if it takes us a week.’ Not bloody likely! Grayling glanced around. It would soon be dark, and the sooner he was back in the bar at the Norton Arms, the better. Nobody had seen him come except that soldier. He could pretend it had been a photographic expedition. There would be nobody to tell tales, nobody to report that ‘TG’ of the Sporting Gazette had missed a sitter with the very weapon he had decried in the pages of his own journal.
He climbed down on to the ride and began to head back the way he had come, forcing himself to walk quickly in spite of his dejection. Success had been within his grasp and he had let it slip away. The most hunted animal in Britain had virtually surrendered to him and he had …
He heard the long drawn-out spitting roar but had no time to turn before the big cat landed on his shoulders. A claw raked the side of his neck; another ripped the flesh from his arm as he flung it up to protect himself.
Man and beast landed on the ground. As Grayling opened his mouth to scream, a claw ripped it into a hideous, slitted, bloody grin the length of his cheeks. His tongue was severed, blood pouring from the wound and filling his mouth.
The caracal snarled in fury, and Grayling heaved with the foul stench of his attacker's breath, vomiting, spewing blood. Their eyes met for the first time, the cat's glinting with lust and hate, savouring the kill. The journalist pleaded mutely. Kill me … quick!
Suddenly the caracal went into a frenzy, a windmill of claws that tore and shredded flesh oblivious of the blood that sprayed up from its victim.
Grayling hovered between life and death for a second, seeing the stag again, experiencing the agony of its shattered jawbone, drowning in blood … Then it was over.
Chapter 10
The three of them had remained around the campsite throughout the day. As Rutter emphasised, their objective was not to seek out the caracal - it had to come to them! With the approach of dusk Wendy began to prepare the evening meal. Wes Lansdale had already lit a small brushwood fire, and the yellow flames were crackling and dancing. T
here was nothing to be gained by stealth; the creature had to know they were here.
‘It'll come,’ Rutter was confident but for the girl's sake did not add ‘because it now has a Craving for human flesh.’
Within a quarter of an hour the food was ready, and the three of them sat round the fire as darkness closed in. New potatoes out of a can, baked beans, some tinned meat and toast.
Lansdale couldn't help feeling they were sitting ducks, that the caracal could jump them without warning. He looked round for the gun, saw it lying at Rutter's side, hammers down. He ate quickly, wiped his hands on his jeans and reached for the weapon.
‘I'll take the first watch,’ he said. ‘You can wake me sometime after two, Colin.’
‘No,’ Rutter's hand dropped to the shotgun. ‘I'll go first, as we arranged. Relax, Wes.’
Lansdale sighed. If it wasn't for Wendy's presence things might be a lot easier. To reduce the tension he said, ‘I expect it's miles away from here, so what the hell?’
‘Could be,’ Rutter scraped the remnants from his plate and reached for his pipe. ‘Like you say, we're probably wasting our time, but we mustn't be lulled into a false sense of security.’
‘It's out there,’ Wendy stared, white-faced. ‘I just know it - I don't know why, but I do.’
‘I'm glad you finished Pawns of Time’ Colin Rutter changed the subject. ‘I'm sure somebody will buy it.’
‘Maybe,’ Wes was too tense for casual conversation, ‘There's certainly a chance. About the same as of the caracal leaping in to join the dinner party.’
‘We'll turn in then,’ Rutter got the message, and suddenly found himself wanting the night to pass. ‘We'll have to get used to this idea of early nights. Primitive man used to sleep when it got dark and wake up with the dawn. A nice idea, but it wouldn't be easy where there's artificial light available. We really ought to have brought two tents, you know.’
Wes smiled, detecting an undercurrent of embarrassment in the older man. It was something they would have to overcome - they might be out here for a week, perhaps longer. The only time limit set for their return had been the death of the man-eating beast.
‘Don't worry,’ Wendy smiled. ‘I'm so shattered I'll be away the moment I get my head down. You get used to all sorts of company living in a commune.’
Wendy crawled into the tent and the two men heard the rustle of nylon as she sorted out her sleeping bag. They sat in silence by the fire, each busy with his own thoughts, the only common link being the caracal and the girl.
Rutter ran his fingers along the cold steel of the gun's Damascus barrels. It brought back memories: a smell of heather and the sharp odour of samphire on a distant foreshore, where geese gaggled out on the mudflats awaiting the dawn so that they could flight inland to feed on the golden barley stubble.
Lansdale's train of thought led from the caracal to Lester Hoyle. The cat and the commune leader had something in common - an inbred hatred of people in general. There was an almost animal-like ferocity in the big man, a loner who distrusted everyone but could not survive outside the commune. He had to have others around on whom to vent his dislike, and unlike the caracal would never make it on his own.
He tried to push the commune leader out of his thoughts. Lester depressed him, but he didn't know why. Perhaps because the man was a failure and tried to make others feel the same. He had to admit, if only to himself, that Lester unnerved him, mostly because of Wendy; like the beast they were hunting, one never knew when Lester might erupt, do something drastic.
‘I'll turn in,’ Rutter spoke at last. ‘I'll leave the rest up to you, Wes. Keep the fire going, not that it will frighten the caracal away but without its light you won't see to shoot. Stay awake, keep the gun on half-cock, but for God's sake make sure what you're shooting at. These woods are full of people crawling about trying to make a name for themselves. We don't want to face a manslaughter charge just because some Peeping Tom thinks he'll creep up and have a gander at us.’
‘Don't worry,’ Wes picked up the gun, hefting its balanced weight. ‘Get your head down and I'll call you at two.’
‘Make sure you do. No nonsense about seeing it through till dawn.’
Wes Lansdale settled down, his back against a rotted tree stump, the shotgun resting across his knees, hammers drawn back to half-cock. The long night had begun.
It was after eleven when he jerked into wakefulness, suddenly aware of his heavy eyelids and the insidious way his body had started to relax. The night was cold in spite of the fire which still blazed only a couple of yards away from where he sat. Earlier he had mentally scoffed at Rutter's warning, but now the prospect of dropping off and being taken unawares terrified him.
His thoughts turned to Wendy again. Between them they could make it. He was bucking the drugs for her sake, whereas without her he would just have drifted, eventually becoming submerged. Even if he never sold another book they could live in a tent out in the wilds like this if necessary. Anything was better than pigging it in a commune, though maybe without Lester Hoyle the place wouldn't seem so bad.
But neither of them was going back. This was the break they had been looking for. In the morning he would tell Wendy.
A twig cracked somewhere in the shadows on the opposite side of the clearing, and Lansdale tensed instinctively, bringing the gun barrels to bear on the direction of the sound, cocking the hammers as his forefinger rested on the front trigger, waiting to take a full pressure.
Silence. Fully awake now, he continued to stare into the blackness. Nothing moved. The fire could do with a few more branches from the pile in front of him but that would have to wait a minute or two.
A scurrying died away amongst the undergrowth. Relieved, his finger eased off the trigger. Probably just a hedgehog - they moved faster than most people thought.
The weather forecasters had been right about a frost. Wes noticed his breath vaporising as he rekindled the blaze. Overhead the clear night sky was a myriad of stars.
He wondered idly how Grayling was getting on. The fellow had got something more than just a camera in that case, probably a repeating shotgun. Wes didn't blame him for trying, but his slyness over a matter that could have been carried out openly didn't add up. The journalist was not the type to dodge publicity. Probably didn't give much for his chances though and couldn't bear the thought of being just another also-ran amongst the hunters,
A vixen screeched two or three times but there was no answering bark from her mate. Lansdale didn't hear her again, either she had given up or moved further afield. The thought of mating led him back to Wendy. Pleasant exciting thoughts, but hardly conducive to staying alert.
A glance at his watch showed him that it was 2.25 a.m. He opened the flap of the tent and gently shook the sleeping Colin Rutter by the shoulder.
‘It's your turn to take over, Colin,’ he whispered. The gun changed hands and Wes eased himself into the sleeping bag alongside Wendy, trying not to wake her.
Colin Rutter squatted on his haunches, staring into the leaping flames as he felt for his pipe. An inveterate smoker, he could not face a long vigil without the companionship of tobacco. Using a blazing twig to light his pipe, he drew the smoke deep down into his lungs.
In the early stages an expedition like this was fun, but by tomorrow they would be more aware of the discomforts. The day after that they might even start to argue over something trivial, and by the end of the week they would be getting on one another's nerves. This wasn't always the case, but many zoological expeditions in the past had turned out that way.
He lapsed into meditation, only stirring from his thoughts when the fire burned low. With a start he leaned forward and picked up some dead fir branches, flung them on to the glowing embers. The dry wood caught immediately, crackling, flaring up in a shower of sparks, driving back the encroaching shadows.
It was then that he saw the caracal, standing some fifteen yards to his left, watching him with an expression of curiosity rather than hate
, the firelight seeming to enlarge its yellow-green eyes.
For some seconds man and beast stared at each other, Rutter aware of his heartbeat speeding up, his pulses racing, his mouth suddenly dry. The gun lay on the ground only a couple of feet away: so easy - in a few seconds the events of the past few weeks could be brought to a conclusion.
His fingers slowly stretched out towards the weapon. It was loaded, an SSG in either chamber, the hammers still resting on half-cock. Take it steady. Full cock, up to the shoulder, a bead on those eyes, squeeze; a second shot just to be certain. Slow down, take your time.
His hand closed over the gun and he lifted it quietly, still watching the cat. Any second it might sense what he was doing and spring back into the safety of the protecting darkness. But it was just watching. Puzzled, maybe trying to work out whether or not he was alone.
Now he had the gun in both hands, easing the hammers back, his breathing barely perceptible. Up to the shoulder, even slower; staring down the barrels, seeing those glowing orbs like cardboard cats' eyes at a fairground shooting gallery.
The barrels trembled slightly. He took a deep breath, held it, steadied the gun. The first trigger pressure and a silent garbled prayer. Now!
A stab of orange flame, the stock kicking against his shoulder. A moment of mingled jubilation and panic, temporarily blinded by the flash. Then a second shot, the crashing report blending with the first, trapped by the surrounding tall trees. He stared hard into the darkness, as afraid to go and look as he had been the time he'd shot his first rabbit, blasting into long grass at a pair of protruding grey ears.
‘What's happening?’ Wes Lansdale burst from the tent with Wendy close behind, both struggling to shake off the mental confusion of exhausted slumber.
‘Caracal!’ Rutter pointed with the smoking barrels of the shotgun. ‘I got him … I think so, anyway.’
Lansdale ran across the clearing, while Wendy found herself clinging to Rutter's hand.