Caracal
Page 16
His second shot was meant to go clean between the eyes but instead had penetrated the top of the muzzle simply because his hands were shaking so much. Suffering needlessly inflicted by himself, carelessness and bad shooting, first with the snare and then the gun. It had relegated him to the status of an amateur bungler, let alone a keeper, and somehow he felt the vixen had known that; its eyes turned to hate after the first shot but after the second it was pleading mutely - finish me, quickly! He hardly trusted himself a third time, but somehow the bullet found its mark in the brain and she rolled back down the bank, hideously held upright by the wire around her body.
God, that had really upset him. It had taken him days to get over it. No, that wasn't right - he would never get over it. You killed either for sport or because it was necessary in the interests of that sport to exterminate a predator. Either way you tried to kill quickly, painlessly - that was what it was all about.
He stared at the caracal down the barrels of his gun, tried to steady them. It was looking right at him, the two greeny-yellow orbs seeming to glaze over.
Oh, Jesus Christ, why me! Hundreds of cat hunters and it has to be me! Out in the open with the animal bounding for freedom or leaping in to the attack it might have been different. A split-second decision that you didn't have time to think about, and by the time the sound of the shot had died away it was all over. You hoped.
Hughes half-lowered his gun. Get up and run, you bugger. At least make it respectable for both of us!
‘Skat!’ he spoke sharply. ‘Go on, get going. I'm giving you a chance, you stupid bastard. Run, out there through the hedge, let one of these fancy police marksmen try his luck, see how good he really is.’
The caracal did not move. Just the flick of an ear.
Look, if you don't scarper I'm going to have to blast you right there, both barrels so there'll be nothing left of you when they pick you up. But I don't want to do it. God believe me, I don't bloody well want to do it!
The caracal bent and licked at its wounds. Melvyn Hughes took a fresh sighting. Quick, now, before it stares me in the face again. Not even pleading, neither for freedom nor death.
The gamekeeper squeezed the front trigger, felt the bucking stock before he heard the crashing report; instinctively dropped his finger to the second trigger, knowing that he was shaking too much to fire accurately. Oh, Christ, that vixen, he couldn't shut out the scene.
Shouts from all around.
‘It's the keeper fellow. He's shot at something.’
‘Any luck, Melvyn?’ Hidderley-Walker's voice from over by the far hedge.
Any luck? He dared not look, felt sick, the smell of burnt powder almost making him vomit. Got to face up to it, though. It'll be all right this time. I was using the rifle on the vixen; this cat couldn't live after a double blast of number fours at ten yards.
But the caracal was still alive!
The keeper stared in disbelief. The first charge had been too low, blown off a paw and caught it in the side. The second had peppered its pointed ears so that you could see daylight through the gaping holes. Lying on its side, head uplifted, it was looking directly at him. The fangs should have been bared, hissing hate, a maneater to the last breath. Instead, the animal pleading, asking for death, looking at him … Oh, Jesus God!
‘Go on, give it another barrel quickly,’ Hidderley-Walker was first on the scene, his Purdey half-raised. ‘Well done, Melvyn, you got him. Now finish him!’
No! I can't. Somebody else do it. Please!
The keeper tried to tear his gaze from the wounded creature but couldn't. There was no vestige of hate or fury, just an acceptance of death.
Hughes saw the other's shot charge hit the caracal before he was aware of the explosion, saw the feline face disintegrate into a crimson morass, the body go limp and roll over.
For the caracal it was ended. For him, it would go on for the rest of his life.
‘Well,’ Wendy sighed with contentment and nestled up to Wes in the warmth and comfort of the three-quarter bed, ‘we've got a house to ourselves for the first time ever.’
‘Only until Colin comes back,’ he reminded her as he kissed her, ‘although God knows when that'll be. This caracal business seems to have really upset him. He said he wouldn't be returning for some time. Like me, he wanted the cat killed but in the end you couldn't help sympathising with it. Everybody was against it, so no wonder it turned into a killer. What an inglorious end, though: running the gauntlet throughout its life, then blown to bits by Hughes and Hidderley-Walker so that it was virtually unrecognisable. With the injuries it already had, it would probably have died within a few hours, anyway. What a pity it didn't head back to the hills and die in peace in some secret place. It was a killer but it deserved a better fate than that. Colin was disgusted, especially when he heard that old Walker was going to take the remains and try to get a taxidermist to do a repair job so that he could have it hung up on the wall of his lounge.’
‘Disgusting!’ she replied. ‘But let's forget the caracal now. And Pentre. With three grand on its way, you can leave commune life behind for good.’
‘And drugs,’ there was a note of triumph in his voice. ‘I haven't had a fix for over a fortnight now.’
She was going to say, ‘We've both got a lot to thank the caracal for,’ but changed her mind. Violent death was something best forgotten - right now she was in the mood for love.
Epilogue
The obituary of Timothy Grayling, OBE, replaced the editorial in the 6 December issue of the Sporting Gazette, the relevant page carrying a narrow black border. The cover picture was, however, as colourful as ever, reproduced from a well-known painting depicting a fox at bay, a pack of hounds bunching for the kill, the scarlet-coated huntsmen topping the distant horizon. The pursued creature gave the impression that it was almost relieved now that the end was insight.
As reported in a previous issue, Mr Timothy Grayling, OBE, a correspondent of this journal for the past fifteen years, was savaged and killed by the ‘Black Beast of Radnor’ during a hunt for this man-eating creature. Tim Grayling, an unselfish campaigner for field sports, was endeavouring to obtain a photograph of the caracal for the Sporting Gazette when the animal attacked him.
We can only pay tribute to his bravery and extend bur sympathy to his widow and family. He will be sadly missed by a great number of friends and readers.
On another page was a photograph of the caracal displaying the talents of an unknown taxidermist. In a crouched position, ready to spring, massive fangs bared, the glass eyes were a mockery of the species.
The caption read: The man-eating caracal which was shot by Mr Keith Hidderley-Walker as it stood at bay after a prolonged hunt. Mr Hidderley-Walker is currently advertising for a single-handed gamekeeper to replace Mr Melvyn Hughes, who has recently retired from the profession.’
The End
Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.
This ebook is the fourteenth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2012.
The list of books so far published is :
1. Werewolf by Moonlight.
2. The Sucking Pit.
3. The Slime Beast.
4. Night of the Crabs.
5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.
6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.
7. Return of the Werewolf.
8. Bamboo Guerillas.
9. Killer Crabs.
10. Bats Out of Hell.
11. The Son of the Werewolf.
12. Locusts.
13. The Origin of the Crabs.
14. Caracal.
The next book will be :
15. Thirst.
"Mel Timberley, professional lorry driver, swerves to avoid a hare and crashes into Claerwen Reservoir, polluting the entire water supply of Birmingham
with the most deadly weedkiller ever created. Ron Blythe was the chemist who helped to create the spray and now, with thousands of people suffering and dying, his conscience forces him to try to work to find an antidote. Unfortunately, he gets stranded inside Birmingham, now sealed off, and full of anarchists, escape criminals and weedkiller-poisoned sufferers from the Thirst, all of which turn the city into a hell inside England."
To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue
Best regards,
Guy and all at Black Hill Books.