by P. R. Black
‘Ah, you’re more than welcome here, son. We like new faces.’ And Seth might almost have believed him.
*
Seth did have to go for a pee, of course. A second pint had followed the first, and that treacherous, glowy-friendly feeling began to steal over Seth, until he remembered what he had to discuss with Vonny. Then followed his first walk home from the pub. The weather adopted the same theme as his bladder, and the day grew very dark, and very cool, before the clouds finally burst. Thankful for the heavy jacket buttoned up to his neck, Seth traced an unbroken flat line of green fringed by bracken and ancient, crumbled drystone walls. At one point he was sure he was looking at a golf course, until the land grew more uneven and unruly rhubarb crops left over from summer poked their heads above ground. He had an image of the Triffids for a moment, as he chanced a leak against a wall, cringing both at the idea of a car shrieking past, as well as Vonny’s imprecations over hygiene.
Somehow, Seth got lost. The road forked, and he chose the wrong one. He was sure he hadn’t gone past a huge barn or grain store on previous drives through, and the signposts pointed to places he didn’t know, their distance measured in quaint fractions and whole numbers. ‘Three and a half miles to Goldswick,’ he mused, as he considered turning on his heels, cutting his losses and going back the way he had come.
He was trudging over a sludgy overgrown patch on a fallow field when the gunshot rang out.
20
‘Jesus Christ!’ Had Seth not emptied his bladder, he might have done so now; he saw a figure emerging from the mist, shotgun raised at its shoulder. Seth sank to one knee, hand raised to ward off another shot.
Something flickered in the gloom over his shoulder, something that quaked and expelled feathers as it followed a distressed arc to the ground. Far enough away, Seth would suppose later, but close enough to make an interesting story. Bloodied feathers and a pink razor-topped saurian claw twitched as the figure strode through the mist.
Clive Fulton ran towards Seth, his nimble frame set hard against the wind. He carried the shotgun across his body, pointing down and away from him. ‘Seth?’ he said, in a high, terrible note – almost a screech.
‘What are you doing, man? Almost had my head off there!’ Seth got to his feet, knees unsteady. His head throbbed, close to the feeling of an advance hangover at bedtime.
Even through the steady drizzle, Fulton’s face was pale, tending to grey. ‘I was aiming for that bloody rook, absolute nuisance of a bird… Wasn’t aiming at ground level, not a chance. I would have hit a car, or someone going past. Are you all right?’
He caught up with Seth, taking him by the crook of the arm. Seth steadied himself against the drystone wall where he’d just peed, and allowed himself a laugh halfway through a cough. He waved Fulton away. ‘It’s all happening here, I’ve got to tell you. Hardly moved in and someone’s tried to shoot me!’
‘Honestly, you weren’t in any danger.’ But now that the situation had changed somewhat, and the only casualty was the knot of feathers at his feet, some steel reasserted itself in Fulton’s voice. ‘But you were trespassing. How did you get in here?’
‘The gap, just past the wall. I was at the station pub, and…’ Seth turned towards the wall. The section of it where he’d taken a leak was sheltered, which made it all too clear exactly why he’d been on Fulton’s land. ‘I had no idea it was your land. I’m sorry.’
Fulton relaxed a little. ‘Well, in times of desperate need…’ He chuckled. ‘Come on. I’ve got a shed a little bit further down. I was just out checking on the crop – you get some idiots coming through here on quad bikes. I was looking for tracks, believe it or not. I’ve got a decent malt hiding in there from the missus – take a drink. It’s the least I could do.’
‘No, mate – I have to be getting back. I’m already a bit late, have to head down to the house. I think all the soft furnishings were being delivered. Vonny wanted to push on…’
Fulton tipped back his cap, and a rill of water fell to the side, just missing the tip of his long nose. ‘In this weather? You sure? You’ve still got a good way to go.’
Seth considered the downpour, then grinned. ‘Come to think of it, a single malt doesn’t sound too bad an idea.’
*
‘Now, I thought I had a shed… But this is a shed.’
It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Seth, given that Fulton seemed posher than Porsche, but his shed was more like a second home. It was twice the size of the caravan. It was furnished. The table and chairs would have looked good in any farmhouse kitchen. It was fully wired and had a bigger fridge than Seth had ever had in any house. A tiny, lacquered cupboard next to the window contained the goods: Lagavulin. The very name had an effect on Seth’s taste buds; a DJ he’d worked with in the past had raved about it, and left him a bottle as a present one time. Knowing it was The Good Stuff, Seth had left it in the back of a cupboard, only getting it out when people came around. It was like a nippy sweetie Seth hadn’t been sure he liked or not as a kid, but was compelled to eat anyway. That was, until the sweet fire broke out in his tummy.
‘Have a seat,’ Fulton said. He crossed over to a case mounted on the far wall, unlocked it and placed the shotgun carefully inside, after checking the breech. Seth saw a box with gleaming brass shells in a corner of the cabinet, just before Fulton closed and locked it smartly.
Fulton poured them both a dram. ‘Well, here’s to property values,’ he said, raising a toast.
Seth wasn’t sure he liked this, but raised the glass anyway. ‘And to good neighbours.’
‘Heh.’ They let the liquor settle in their veins, listening to the rain patter on the roof. ‘Well, once again, let me apologise for giving you a scare. I’m well aware of people passing by on the main road – I never shoot at something that isn’t flying through the air.’
‘Glad I left my wings at home. For the record, Clive, I’m sorry I pissed on your wall.’
‘Consider us even.’ They clinked glasses.
‘You must be pretty good with it – I didn’t even know there was a bird flying out there, until it was spitting lead as well as feathers.’
‘You get a knack for it. My dad used to take me clay pigeon shooting.’
‘Always fancied that, you know. Looked the business. How do you get a permit for it, or whatever?’
‘You need a licence to carry shotguns. It’s easier for a farmer, obviously – I need them to get rid of pests, as you’ve just seen. Sometimes scarecrows don’t work. I have a humane deterrent; sets off a charge whenever birds fly near the crops.’
‘I’ve heard that – I did wonder if someone was shooting. Vonny calls it the One O’Clock Gun.’
‘Just a harmless charge that goes off. Smoke and mirrors, really. But they’re quite effective – except for the corvids. They’re some tricky buggers. Something to do with the ratio of brain to body, or something. Encephalization quotient, that’s the phrase. Smarter than the average bear, or bird. They’ll probably succeed us after the apocalypse, rather than the cockroaches and rats. They understand that the scarecrows are inanimate. Some of them, I swear to you, understand that the sound of the charge isn’t actually a threat. That’s why I need to bring them down. Not a pleasant business, really,’ he said, looking strangely melancholic. ‘I used to enjoy it when I was younger. Not now.’
‘Not a hunter, then?’
‘I’ve shot for the pot,’ he said, frankly. ‘I think sometimes you’d be a hypocrite otherwise. You eat something, you should be prepared to kill something, at some point in your life. Otherwise you’re just shuffling protein. I don’t think that’s too controversial, do you?’
‘I like a good steak as much as anyone. But I don’t fancy taking on a bull in single combat.’
‘Very true. A bull might be more of a challenge. I might need the twelve-bore for that. But you see my point. On the other side of the farm I’ve got sheep, and those lovely spring lambs end up on someone’s plate. So I have take
n down the odd pheasant, and enjoyed eating them, too. But in my old age, it’s not so much of a pleasure. We need the guns to keep dogs away from the flock. I’ve got some lads help out, and one of them killed a dog, one time. One of Dan Grainger’s.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yes. Curious business.’ Fulton took a sip of the whisky, and considered his words carefully. ‘I think at one point he bred dogs on his property – your property, now – as well as horses. Ugly things. Fighting dogs. Gangster’s dogs, was the term I heard used. This enterprise didn’t last long. I think it literally spooked the horses. Plus, there isn’t much market for Japanese fighting dogs around here. I don’t think there’s been any badger baiting for about forty years. This is more of an Irish setters and poodles area. A few people keep guard dogs, but they’re genteel, if that makes sense. Not the sort of dog you’d see being led on a string outside a bookmaker’s. Anyway, one of them got on our property and disturbed the sheep. The lad, Gordon his name was, did the right thing.’
Seth put an imaginary gun to his head. ‘Goodnight, Vienna?’
‘Indeed. He put it down. He has a legal right, and he was right to do so. Dan Grainger and his son, the eldest one, paid him a visit when he found out. Gordon left the farm not long after.’
‘They put the frighteners on him?’
‘That’s the right term. Curious thing… they didn’t lay a finger on him. But he handed in his notice, then didn’t serve it. He would not say a word. I think he works at a butcher’s, somewhere in Lincolnshire.’
‘They sound like nasty pieces of work.’
‘They were.’ Fulton drained his glass. ‘Another?’
‘Sure, why not?’
After Fulton topped them both up, he went on: ‘There was a strange aftermath in that. I knew the man’s reputation and I wasn’t about to go throwing around accusations. He let one of his dogs get loose, and it ended up being shot. It happens out here. More than you’d think. I was angry about Gordon, but considered the matter closed. Grainger came over a day or so afterwards. I was expecting some sort of confrontation. You know…’ here he began to laugh ‘…my other half was the big problem. She advocated taking a shotgun out to the meeting. I had to make sure she was out shopping when I met him. I wasn’t duly concerned. Used to box for a while when I was younger.’
Seth believed it. The older man was fit, and confident, that was for sure.
‘However, I wasn’t the one who brought a shotgun. He did.’
‘You’re kidding. Jeez.’
‘Then, you could say he disarmed me. He was very friendly. Said there had been a misunderstanding. He understood what had happened, though he was upset about it, as it was his prize dog. Called it Gogmagog, in fact. Then he said that the dog was worth a thousand pounds. I told him that my flock was worth tens of thousands of pounds, and he might have put that at risk. He said that our lawyers might argue the toss over that and cost us all many more thousands of pounds. So, he told me, he had a proposition.’ Here, Fulton got up, and crossed over to another cabinet, also under lock and key. He selected the right key from the ring in moments and then opened it up. He produced a shotgun much like the one he carried, and laid it on the table in front of Seth.
‘What? He gave it to you?’
‘Yes. For safekeeping, he said.’
‘Weird.’
‘I wonder if, in his own way, he was making a statement of some kind, as well as making an offer.’
Seth studied the gun. ‘It must be red hot.’
‘I believe it may have been used for something unpleasant. He said he was loath to part with it, but he needed it off his property for a while. It had some sentimental value. He said that if I could hold on to it, in escrow, then he would consider our dispute settled.’
‘I’m not sure I’d have done it,’ Seth said. The stock looked pristine, until the light caught the edges and showed places where it had been badly stored, or handled. The staining and the grain of it reminded Seth of looking at his own irises in close-up. The metal was dull, not so well-kept. A working weapon, perhaps. ‘It’s clearly dodgy. Used in a robbery, or… something else.’
‘We’re of the same mind,’ Fulton said. ‘Against my better judgement, I agreed to it. We crossed swords once or twice, particularly over the raves he used to have, back when they were in fashion. But I knew he wasn’t a man to cross. His son in particular, the elder one… he was the one to watch. Grainger had something badly missing – you have to understand. He was always perfectly civil, but I was aware this was not a normal man, capable of a normal life. His eldest son was less restrained. They were a bad lot.’
‘And he never asked for the gun back?’
‘He never really got the chance. About three weeks later, it was all over for them.’
‘Murder-suicide, I heard,’ Seth said, quietly.
‘Indeed. So the police say. I told them about a few things I’d seen and heard around about the farm. People I saw late at night. Cars going past, quietly.’
‘You reckon someone did them in?’
‘I can’t prove anything, and I couldn’t really say anything that would count as evidence. The coroner was quite clear about how they both died. Anyway… against my better judgement, I hid the shotgun. I should have tossed it into the tarn, or given it to one of the other farmers I know, but… there it is. There’s a box of shells, too.’
Seth didn’t pick up on what Fulton was saying until the silence dragged on. ‘Are you giving this to me?’
‘Not exactly. I want to put it back to where it came from. Your property. You’ve found a few things on the plot already that were never picked up on the survey, such as the car. You could say you found it, hand it in to the police, then the matter is over.’
‘The matter is over for you, you mean,’ Seth said, quietly.
‘I think it would bring the whole business to a neat conclusion.’
Seth looked out the window. ‘Looks like the rain’s eased off.’
‘Indeed. I was going to call the other half – see if she’d bring round the quad bike and trailer. Take you back to your place in style.’
‘Have you got a spare half an hour, mate?’
Fulton frowned. ‘For what?’
Seth grinned, nodding towards the shotgun. ‘Training. If I’ve got a weapon like that on my property, I’m thinking I should be able to use it, no?’
Fulton tapped a fingernail against his tumbler. ‘I’m not comfortable with that. It’s an unlicensed weapon…’
‘Which you want to pass on to me to take care of a problem. That’s fine. You could consider this your way of providing an incentive.’ Seth grinned. ‘Totally up to you, though.’
21
Vonny put the phone down after her conversation with Seth while he was on the train, and bit her lip in frustration. She could see Seth getting involved, all right. He sounded like he’d had a couple of drinks in him – usually this portended nothing more annoying than a late night with his headphones on. But she hadn’t expected him back until Sunday. He’d sounded unusually stressed – even the act of talking on the phone on a busy train carriage seemed utterly incongruous for her husband.
‘He’s had a row with someone,’ she declared. ‘Probably with Jake. Idiot.’
As she said this, she noticed a flicker of hi-vis yellow through the window. Devin Marshall’s familiar face darted past; she waved, but he didn’t respond.
Opening the door, she saw that the boys on the site were all here, utterly mob-handed. The flatbed truck that held them was big enough for heavy plant equipment.
Devin wasn’t wearing his hard hat, but he was wearing large, Bono-style sunglasses that didn’t suit his face at all. Vonny was reminded of a mad auntie at her friend’s wedding who wore gigantic glasses that appeared to be a prank of some kind, until you got up close.
She sensed there was something wrong long before she made out his face. ‘Hi… It’s your day off today, isn’t it? Have I got my diary wrong?’
Devin the foreman cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan, Vonny.’
‘How do you mean?’
He cleared his throat again. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to complete our contract with you.’
‘I don’t understand… You only have a few bits and pieces still to do?’
‘It’s really unusual circumstances, and I can only apologise. We’ll give you a discount for the final snagging – if you call the office, we’ll go through it and come to a reasonable figure.’
Vonny looked beyond him, to the anxious faces peering out of the flatbed truck’s window. The biggest lad – Vonny had referred to him as Butterbean, given his soft, infant-like face and cheeks, on the frame of a gridiron star – didn’t quite look the same as he usually did. Vonny made out something brilliant white somewhere in the picture – a plaster cast.
Then she stared hard into Devin’s sunglasses.
‘Devin… Has something happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened.’
She came a step or two towards him; he drew back, but not fast enough. Vonny reached forward and plucked the sunglasses off his head. Then she gasped. ‘What’s going on? Have you guys been in an accident?’ Then something more ludicrous still: ‘Have you been fighting?’
‘No, no fighting,’ Devin said. Or the creature that looked like Devin. With the shades off, she could see two horrendous black eyes – two plummy mounds that all but closed both eyes, with swellings up and around the right-hand side. His nose had been broken, and quite high up. Someone had smacked him, hard. ‘It’s just one of those things.’
‘Did it happen here?’
‘It’s one of those things, I said.’
‘Your nose is broken.’ For an insane second or two, she almost reached out to touch it. He might have screamed if she did. As it was, he backtracked quickly.
‘Please, can I have my sunglasses?’
Vonny handed them back. ‘Whatever it is… Is it something to do with us? The house? If there’s been an accident, we’ll have to speak to insurance. Good God, you could have been blinded.’