Wild Life

by Liam Brown

  We gave a wild cheer, our faces glowing in the firelight.

  ‘Are you with me?’ he asked again.

  We grew louder still, beating our chests, howling at the moon.

  ‘Good,’ said Marshall once we had fallen quiet. ‘I knew I could count on you. But first there is business to attend to. Before we can build a brighter fire tomorrow, we must first sweep away the ashes of the past…’

  He paused and turned from us then, calling to the darkness outside the circle, speaking to the shadows and the trees. ‘Are you coming out then? Or do I drag you out myself?’

  Nobody spoke. The silence was so complete that for a moment I fancied my heartbeat was audible through my jacket. Everyone followed Marshall’s gaze, though nothing seemed to stir.

  And then, so slowly that at first I thought it was a trick of the light, a figure appeared. It was Sneed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  He looked different to how I remembered him. Shorter, but fatter too. Unlike the rest of us, he actually appeared to have a put on a significant amount of weight, his face bloated, his eyes puffy. As he shuffled towards the light, I saw he was no longer dressed in army surplus, but instead sported a grey tracksuit top and jogging bottoms, the tags still dangling on the outside. With his hair cut short to his head and skin scrubbed clean, he resembled a sort of oversized toddler. I remember thinking it was funny that someone so soft and inoffensive could have haunted my dreams for so long. In fact, he would almost have been unrecognisable, if it wasn’t for those enormous eyes bulging from his skull, the extra weight he’d piled on somehow rendering them bigger and more reptilian than ever. As he turned slightly, I saw that one of his eyes was underlined with a dark bruise, as if he’d been recently hit.

  There was a faint but perceptible ripple of movement among the crowd as Sneed drew closer, a silent bristling of muscles. Even Bruno seemed to sense it as he slunk back to Rusty’s side, a low growl catching at the back of his throat. To see the receptacle of our collective hatred in the flesh after all these months was a surreal experience. Sneed seemed to sense the animosity in the air. With each step towards us he grew visibly smaller, his hunch becoming more pronounced, as if he were attempting to climb inside his own body. Not once did he look up from his feet, which I noticed were also clad in a pair of new trainers. As he reached the far edge of the circle, he stopped, his shadow unravelling in the firelight, stretching out beneath him. With a solemn nod, Marshall turned back to us to speak.

  ‘What is it that makes a good leader?’ he began. ‘It’s a question I’ve asked myself constantly over the past few weeks. A question to which there are no easy answers. Lately though, I’ve come to the conclusion that one of the most important qualities of a good leader is the wisdom to admit when you’ve got something wrong, and, more importantly’ – and here he took a small but definite step towards Sneed – ‘the courage to put those things right.’

  We all nodded vigorously, bracing ourselves for the inevitable explosion of violence.

  ‘Before we get into that, however, I’d like to explain how it is I came to track down this slippery young fellow. Now, as I’m sure you all know, I’ve spent a good deal of my time recently engaged in a series of covert operations. It’s been a tough couple of months. But, after calling in a few favours with some former colleagues, I finally had a break through last week and made contact with Sneed, who I discovered has been staying in a hostel not two miles from this very spot.’

  We looked again in disgust at the flabby figure at the edge of the circle. That he had chosen walls and windows, a soft bed and a full belly, over life with us came as little surprise. As far as we were concerned, he deserved everything that was coming to him, though what form that punishment would take I couldn’t imagine. One thousand laps around the park would hardly scratch the surface, especially now there was no Tyrus to nip at his heels. Neither was cutting his rations an option, seeing as there were no longer any rations to cut. No, Sneed would have to find another, more substantial way to pay for his crimes. We turned back to Marshall, eager to hear the specific details of the penance that was to be handed down.

  ‘As you can imagine, he was more than a little surprised to see me. I admit we got off to a what you might call a bumpy start.’

  There was a dark gurgle of laughter as we glanced again at Sneed’s bruised eye.

  ‘But I’m a fair man. After we’d overcome our initial teething problems, we did manage to talk properly. Actually, we spoke for hours. And what I heard rocked me to my very core.’

  Marshall took another step towards Sneed. Close enough to crush his windpipe, or bury a blade in his chest.

  ‘That’s why,’ he continued, ‘in front of all of you gathered here tonight, I would like to prove my leadership once and for all, by making amends for the biggest mistake I’ve made since I arrived here. Perhaps the biggest mistake of my life full stop.’

  We watched as Marshall’s hand snaked out, closing the distance between him and Sneed. Rather than grabbing him by the throat, however, it rested gently on his shoulder.

  ‘On behalf of everyone here, I’d like to apologise,’ Marshall said. ‘We got it wrong. I got it wrong. I know now you’ve done nothing wrong and, if you’re interested, you’re more than welcome to take your place alongside us, here in the park.’

  Sneed finally lifted his head. To my surprise, I saw what looked like tears shimmering in those bulging, alien eyes.

  At this point, Rusty could contain himself no longer. Breaking rank, he took one lurching footstep over the fire, so that he was stood directly between the two men. ‘What the bleedin’ heck are you talkin’ about? What about the chickens? What about Tyrus?’

  Marshall smiled generously. ‘Ah, Rusty. I was just getting to that. You see, once Sneed and I had a chance to talk, I realised it was all just an unfortunate misunderstanding.’

  ‘Misunderstanding? He murdered my bloody birds!’

  ‘No, he didn’t. Your birds were killed. No one’s disputing that. But there’s not one shred of evidence to suggest that Sneed was involved. In fact, I’ve seen evidence to the contrary. Hostel records, dated and stamped. He wasn’t here, Rust. Now, maybe those bloody foxes got in again, or…’

  ‘Foxes!’ Rusty interrupted. ‘Bleedin’ foxes? Will you listen to yourself, boss? It doesn’t even begin to make sense. Now I suppose you’re going to try and convince me that foxes upped and poisoned Tyrus too, did they?’

  Marshall’s smile remained, yet his eyes were cold. ‘I’m not here to argue with you Rusty. I’m here to tell you we got the wrong man. Now, in the spirit of reconciliation, I’d like the two of you to shake hands so we can draw a line under this and move on. Okay?’

  Rusty didn’t move. From my spot on the far side of the fire I was unable to see his face, but his shoulders seemed frozen around his ears.

  ‘RUSTY!’ Marshall barked.

  This time Rusty did move, his arm coming up in slow motion.

  Only he didn’t shake Sneed’s hand.

  Instead he reached up and grabbed Sneed by each of his ears. A look of realisation, then horror flashed across Sneed’s face.

  There was a sound like wet fabric being ripped as Rusty yanked his hands away. At the same time Sneed’s eyes bulged wider than ever and he made an ‘o’ shape with his mouth, though no sound came out. To his left, Marshall raised both his hands in the air and held them there, as if unsure whether to reach for Rusty or Sneed, and instead did neither. For a moment nobody moved or said anything, the three of them frozen together in a strange tableau. Finally, Rusty turned back to face us. Pinched between each of his thumbs and forefingers was a bloody ear, looking oddly limp and shrivelled now they were no longer connected to Sneed’s head. He considered them for a moment and then, with a grim nod of satisfaction, he tossed them to Bruno, who leapt up and swallowed them both in one spluttering bite.

  Bruno’s jaws snapping shut acted like a starting gun. At once Sneed let out a horrifying scream, clutching the
side of his head as he attempted to stem the blood that was steadily streaming down the side of his neck, staining the collar of his new tracksuit. Marshall too started shouting, though he was too shocked to either form proper words or move. Instead he stood rooted to the spot, barking a stream of nonsensical threats and curses. Rusty merely shook his head though. He was a weary workman now, no more, no less. Here was a problem. Here was a solution. From somewhere in his jacket a tool was fetched. Then, with an almost bored expression on his face, he turned to the still squealing Sneed, slashed, and then did the same to Marshall. The entire operation was over in less than two seconds. When he stepped back both men’s throats gaped open.

  Again the tableau was fixed: Rusty holding the knife by his side, Sneed and Marshall too stunned to react. A dark fountain cascaded down their chests as their tongues attempted to escape their mouths. While Sneed clutched his neck, I saw Marshall struggling to make sense of the situation. Somewhere along the line he’d lost his sunglasses, and I watched as his face cycled rapidly through a range of emotions: disbelief, anger, self-pity and, finally, resignation. His eyes rolled white in their sockets. And then, as if by some prior agreement, the pair of them crumpled in tandem, an oddly graceful movement. They knelt for a moment, tottered, and then fell face first into the dirt, close enough to kiss. They twitch-twitch-twitched. And then they twitched no more.

  We didn’t move.

  ‘He had it comin’,’ Rusty said eventually, though he didn’t specify which of the dead men he was referring to.

  Still no one moved.

  After a while I caught the scent of smoke on the breeze. Singed hair, with an undertone of burnt bacon. I looked down and saw Marshall’s arm had somehow landed in the fire, his sleeve now silently smouldering, the tips of his fingers already turning black in the flames. Another moment passed and the smell grew stronger, turning my stomach. It was so bad I was about to step forwards and kick the arm free, when Fingers spoke out. ‘Well, I suppose we should bury them then?’

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘We can’t just leave them here, can we?’

  At last Rusty turned to face us. He was still holding the knife, a military-style dagger I’d never seen before, its serrated blade engineered to inflict the maximum possible damage to its victims. ‘I’m not sure that is the best idea, actually,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘I mean, it seems a cryin’ shame to let good meat go to waste, eh?’

  I looked around at the men to try and gauge whether Rusty was joking, but they had already begun to move, shoving and jostling each other to claim their place around the bodies. Even Zebee looked re-energised, clawing his way between Ox and Butcher to get to Rusty, who by then had knelt alongside Marshall and begun to hack at the charred arm. At the sight of more blood they fell on him, moving as a pack, snorting and grunting as they tore into the flesh.

  I stayed where I was for a moment, watching the scene. Someone had hacked off the rest of Sneed’s head and tossed it into the fire. He stared out at me from the flames until his eyeballs began to melt. It was time to leave.

  I started to back away. The men were too busy on the floor to notice me. I kept walking, the coolness of the night a relief as I dissolved into the shadows.

  And then I stopped.

  Rusty had stood up and was peering in my direction, his hand cupped to his eyes, his white beard smeared red. For a moment I wasn’t sure if he could see me. And then he spoke.

  ‘And where do you think you’re goin’?’

  WINTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  At first light the men blinked and looked up at each other. The carnival had lasted all night. For hours, the dancing and screaming had hardly let up. They had decorated the trees with entrails. They had painted their faces with gore. All of the petrol had been used up to keep the fire going. For the most part I had sat motionless beside Rusty, having feigned illness as an excuse for my lack of appetite. Every now and then I would glance upwards, trying to distract myself from the constant crunching of gristle, the slurping of marrow. The sky though was black and unknowable, not a single star penetrating the darkness. I felt as if a bag had been forced over my head, as if I had been kidnapped and bundled into a speeding car. I stayed still and tried to say as little as possible, weighing up whether or not I should stay put or risk making a break for it. Either way, I realised, I was probably dead.

  Just after dawn, when the fire had eventually burnt itself down to a black smudge on the grass, there was a lull in the madness. The men seemed stoned from the meat and sat dazed and awkward, avoiding eye contact with each other. Whereas only an hour earlier they had howled and hollered songs with their arms around each other’s necks, daybreak had shrouded everything in shame. The spell was broken, and now they seemed embarrassed by the bloody remains that surrounded them. Without speaking, a few of the men got up and began to gather up the inedible parts – the clothing, boots, a length of shinbone, Marshall’s charred skull – and piled them together next to the fire.

  ‘What’re you doin’?’ Rusty asked.

  Ox shrugged. ‘Thought maybe we could burn it? Can’t leave it around here, can we? What if someone came?’

  ‘Who’s gonna come round ’ere?’ Rusty snapped. ‘Besides we’re out of petrol. You won’t get that lot lit. Even if you did it wouldn’t be hot enough. Them crematoriums get up to about a thousand degrees. Nah. I say we dig a hole and bury him next to his dog. He’d have liked that.’

  Everyone agreed this was the best solution. And, taking off his poncho and using it as a makeshift sack, Ox began to clear the body parts and clothing away. As he reached Sneed’s tracksuit however, Rusty stopped him again.

  ‘Now what the bleedin’ hell are you doin’?’

  Ox looked up, confused. ‘What?’

  ‘I said we’d bury the gaffer. I didn’t say nothin’ about bringing that treacherous scumbag up to the farm. I won’t have his decomposin’ whatsits pollutin’ my land. Our vegetables grow in that soil. You want to be eatin’ that muck?’

  Ox hesitated, the bloodstained jacket still in his hand. For a second I thought he might point out the bits of Sneed that were still stuck in Rusty’s beard, but in the end he simply nodded and tossed the jacket to the floor. ‘So what do you want us to do with him then?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Rusty shrugged. ‘Leave him for the rats.’

  *

  We stood around the grave, peering down. It was a grim sight. Although situated next to the mounds that contained Tyrus and the chickens, it was only about half their length, on account of there being so little left of Marshall to bury. Ox had carved out the hole with a few quick slices of the soil and then stood back as Butcher dumped the whole poncho inside. Bruno let out a couple of quick barks, earning him a sharp slap on the snout, before we all leant forward and peered down. A couple of pieces had slopped out as the poncho had hit the bottom, including a pale hand, severed just below the wrist. It looked faintly absurd lying there like that, dirt still visible under the yellowing nails, a gold signet ring glistening on the little finger. I found myself wondering who had given him the ring, and when. Was it a gift from a lover? An inheritance from a parent? I’d never thought to ask. Now I never would.

  I looked down. My own fingernails we equally filthy, though my platinum wedding band still gleamed in defiance. Burying my hand in my pocket, I felt a sharp bulge in my stomach, remembering for the first time the bag containing Olivia’s birthday card and gifts, tucked into the top of my trousers. I decided then and there that no matter what happened, I would not end up in the ground alongside Marshall. I would not be the fourth mound. I would see my daughter again.

  When I looked up, Rusty was staring at me. For a moment I thought I’d given myself away, that he was going to challenge me. Instead he opened his arms in a wide, Marshall-like gesture and addressed us all.

  ‘I’ve never liked funerals, me. Nah, miserable business, ain’t they? No wonder everyone has to go and get themse
lves steamin’ drunk right away afterwards so they can try and forget about it.’ He paused, allowing himself a little chuckle, before growing serious again. ‘But I know they’re important too. You’ve got to say goodbye, haven’t you? So you can move on. They’re also a good chance to get things off your chest I find. Clear the air and whatnot. Therefore, if anyone’s got anythin’ they’ve been wantin’ to say, either to me or the gaffer, I’d suggest this is the time to say it, or for ever shut their gob…’

  I felt Rusty’s gaze once again burning into me, challenging me to open my mouth. In the end, however, it was not me but Hopper who spoke.

  ‘Do you think we did the right thing?’

  There was a rustling as everyone turned round to look at him. Like the rest of the men, his beard and lips were stained red. His voice sounded weak, his eyes squinting with worry.

  ‘What’s that then?’ Rusty snapped.

  ‘I just mean with the gaffer. With the whole… With everything that happened.’

  Rusty nodded. ‘I see what you mean, sonny. And I want you to know somethin’. I want you all to know somethin’. We didn’t kill the gaffer. Not on your nelly. If it was anyone who put a knife to his throat, it was that freak Sneed. Fillin’ his head with all that guff about foxes and whatnot. He should have finished him off the second he got a chance instead of sittin’ there listenin’ to him. ’Course, I wouldn’t be surprised if Sneed slipped a little somethin’ in his tea to make him a little more suggestible.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Hopper.

  ‘I dunno. I just read somethin’ about herbal preparations that can do that to a man. Voodoo, I mean. Like them Haitian witchdoctors use. Else he could’ve been hypnotised…’

  ‘You really think Sneed knew about that stuff?’ Fingers asked.

  Rusty shrugged. ‘All I’m sayin’ is it wouldn’t surprise me is all. And we all know the gaffer was a little… sensitive about things.’