by Jess Smith
This was looking more like fun, but the fading light was creating shadows and obscurity. From her hidden spot she couldn’t make out who was who. The hand-held torches were dimming. ‘I’ll have to get down there,’ she thought, ‘I have to see who wins.’
Folding her petticoat and flowing dress over one arm she scrambled down the rough quarry wall. Halfway down she found a sturdy tree stump and twined her free arm around it. Resting her chin onto knees she waited with eager excitement. From this new vantage-point she saw every sinewy muscle of the caveman-like pair.
Bull, who’d been silent throughout Moses’ ranting and dancing, turned to his mate Hawen and stretched out an open hand. A hush spread within the crowd. Hawen pulled something from a bag and put it on the waiting hand; it was a curled-up hedgehog. As Bull grabbed it and pushed a fist into its belly, a great gasp of ‘Oooohhhh!’ came from the mesmerised crowd. The prickly little animal stretched its curled spine. Then, without warning, he sank his teeth into its nose. It squealed and he crunched into its head. He spat out an eye and cracked its skull between two rows of flashing white teeth. Looking around every single person—and by now there were dozens—he slowly sucked out the poor beast’s brains and swallowed them, then handed what remained back to Hawen.
Ruth had warned her. The yellow vomit came forth like a fountain, spattering the moss-covered tree stump. She felt faint, her grip weakened, and had it not been for Lucy who’d joined her she’d have fallen to the quarry floor, probably breaking a limb. ‘Stupid thing, why did you not go with the others? A fight with these pigs is never a sight for squeamish bellies.’
‘I haven’t got a sickly gut. I can take a lot, but not seeing an innocent animal being mauled for fun I can’t. It makes me ashamed of being related to gypsy origins if this is what’s done.’
‘This is not our ways, but there are evil types in every group. Those people down there are the dregs of society. You never see them until something like this brings them from beneath stones. Beggars, drunkards, thieves, murderers, they seem to crawl from the sewers. Surely you have them in Scotland?’
‘I think we do, but I never saw any, apart from a certain Irishman. I heard Mammy call them “blue bucks”.’
‘Never mind watching anymore, this will get worse. Come with me, I know of a narrow path just over here.’ She pointed to a shadowy corner concealed behind other tree stumps.
‘No, Lucy, you’d better get off and meet your Mr Newton, I’ll find the ledge path myself. I was born among mountains and rock faces. A small quarry wall is nothing to me, honest. No, I’m going to watch this fight, even if only this one time. I want to tell my Bruar all the gory bits when we next meet.’
‘Then I’ll keep you company, because we don’t meet until midnight.’
The pair snuggled closely, sharing a shawl, while down below the crowd was being roused to fever pitch by the brutal antics of both Bull and Moses.
‘The more they perform, the faster and heavier go the bets. Along with the rats, some men in that crowd are cattle-thieves, horse-dealers, true life outlaws. A lot of big money is being pushed back and forth,’ Lucy informed her.
‘Who would you back, Lucy, if you had the lowie, that is?’
‘Bull Buckley has the devil on his side and has never been beat. Moses is here like many more to take him out.’
‘Yes, but you haven’t said—who would you put money on?’
‘I pray both kill each other, then this quiet part of England will revert back to the peaceful place it once was. Ever since that beast has taken the road with us we’ve had nothing but a bad name. He brings the lawless with him, and nobody likes a hair on his head. I tell you, if I were a man he wouldn’t be standing there. He’d be six feet under.’
‘You really hate him that much? I heard it was Ruth he ill-treated.’
‘Ruth’s my full cousin, and if you’d seen her two eyes when he’d finished with her then you’d hate him too. Her Daddy and mine were killed by a runaway horse. They had spent days breaking a big red stallion. It was a rogue animal, had a brain sickness and couldn’t be trusted. Her mother never got over his death, so took a mixture of deadly nightshade and black throat mushrooms, witch poison, and died in total agony with her innards coming up her throat, dark green coloured. That’s what witch poison does to you, though.’ She began shaking, Megan held her close. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘My mother lives for me, that’s why she’ll go mental when she knows what I’m doing. But you promised not to say.’
Megan promised, but wasn’t paying much attention, for down below things were turning uglier as the two fighters were by now eye to eye, hissing and spitting. ‘He’s like that mad horse.’ Megan’s heart was beating fast.
‘What horse? Who?’
‘The one who killed your and Ruth’s fathers; him, Bull Buckley.’ Without realising it, her voice had carried to the crowd below.
Bull looked up and for a moment she froze in terror as their eyes met. Never had a man’s eyes held such evil. She turned away, closing out the stare. Then, as if hypnotised, she found her face being drawn back, back to stare into those pools of sheer wickedness.
A right hook from Moses’ clenched fist broke the spell. The ground shook along with Bull’s jaw. Pieces of hedgehog brains spewed into the crowd. The fight had begun in earnest.
Bull lunged forward, then putting one foot back threw a punch that caught Moses square on. His head dropped to the left, Bull straightened it with a hard right elbow; teeth and blood spurted from his half-open mouth. He fell. Bull picked him up with two punches below the ribs. Moses teetered for a moment, then over he went. Clouds of still warm fire ash spiralled in the air. Punters began choking on it, while others rubbed their eyes. It made the crowd’s fury worse. The boxing ring got flattened, and soon Moses, not getting to his feet, began to feel theirs.
‘No!’ roared Bull, ‘he’s mine.’ Like rag dolls he threw aside the fired-up spectators until a form of calm was regained. The crowd spaced themselves and waited for Bull Buckley’s special ending. ‘Wait, boys, now he be a dead man,’ someone dared whisper. Buckley grabbed the offender by the neck. Hissing like a viper, he asked through clenched teeth, ‘Who be a dead man, then?’
The one who had dared to open his mouth was left with no choice as Bull’s grip tightened on the grimy muffler around his neck. ‘Bloody big Moses Durin, that’s who,’ he said, gasping for air, then scurried away on all fours between fire ash and trouser-legs, like a terrified rat, when Bull loosened his vice-like grip.
Moses began to stir and slowly rose on hands and knees, when Bull let out a scream, drew back his right leg and with inhuman ferocity let his opponent take its full force to his stomach. Bull growled, ripping his shirt off at the same time. Megan was gripping at Lucy’s arm, wondering what manner of end was coming Moses’ way. It surely was coming. Bull Buckley was holding every card. Lucy began to shake. She rose to her feet from her precarious seat and screamed. All eyes looked upwards. ‘You wicked bastard, Buckley. Don’t you go and kill him, bringing the muskries [police] here, because you’ll shoot with the crows, leaving your mess on our backs.’
Megan yanked her down and whispered, ‘Why should you worry, are you not this night deserting everyone?’
‘I’m thinking on you all—me Mam, Mother Foy, the children, Ruth, Anna, the old ones. Moses ain’t a gypsy; he’s a godger. If Bull kills him the wagons will be broke to smithereens by those searching for that hound from hell. Oh, it don’t matter if us gypsies kill each other, but lay a wrong hand on a godger, then every law officer in the shire will be on us.’
Bull Buckley couldn’t hear them speak, but he had heard Lucy shout. He sneered while he lifted the limp head of an almost comatose Moses and called up, ‘Look, little Lucy, see how a fool meets his maker.’ He drew in a deep breath, laid the head down in a gentle fashion, like a cat teasing a mouse, and bestriding his prey he fixed a steely gaze on the man lying below him in the dirty ash. If a leaf had f
allen it would have been heard, such was the silence of the crowd. For the last time of his wild existence, Moses Durin opened dazed eyes.
‘You’ve breathed the same air as me for too long.’ Like a sledgehammer splitting rock, Bull’s metal capped boot thudded in, and the skull made a gruesome popping sound. But that didn’t satisfy Bull, he had to finish the job. ‘Get me a hatchet Hawen,’ he called out. Hawen seemed to live for every command from his friend and soon stood at his side, holding out a big butcher’s hatchet. ‘There ye go, bully boy,’ he said, like a teacher’s pet offering an apple
‘Don’t do it,’ someone screamed from the crowd. ‘Leave ’im for the muskries to find, Bull,’ another voice called out. ‘Come on now, Bull, that’s a good lad; King of the Gypsies forever, eh Bull?’
‘Shut your coward mouths and watch how I does me work.’
Rays from the rising moon caught the blade for an instant as it sliced into the exposed neck. Like a stone the head wobbled and rolled to rest awkwardly at Bull’s feet. He lifted it up, blood dripping from the gaping neck. ‘Look, the lot of ye, this is what makes me King. I does what I likes, to whoever I want!’
Megan buried her head into Lucy’s chest. ‘Please tell me that’s a trick, and Durin will get up and both take a bow.’
‘What ye saw was what ye got, but try to blot it out. The only good thing is, Bull will not hang around, there’ll be a big price on him after this. But Mother Foy might decide it best to move away from here anyway. I’ll have to go myself, it must be nearing midnight.’
‘Lucy, take care of yourself. I don’t want to stay here now, so in the morning I’ll take my chances alone on the road.’ She watched as Lucy disappeared up the quarryside. Down below the crowd had gone, including Bull and Hawen, leaving Moses’ body and his head for the resident gypsies to dispose of. She felt disgusted and sick. One by one she watched the other women return, then silently followed them down.
Old Mother Foy opened her wagon door. Her guests walked past Moses’ remains, shaking their heads as if they had seen it all before. Ruth and Anna called up to her, ‘Megan, give us a hand to bury big Moses before word reaches the law.’
‘No,’ she screamed. ‘I want no part in that. I’m away tomorrow, hell to the lot of you.’
Her words trailed off as she ran away and onto the moor. Tears welled in her young eyes. ‘I want my Bruar,’ she called inwardly, ‘I want my man.’
She seemed to wander the moorland for ages, the earlier horrors bursting into her innermost thoughts. That awful demon that derived such pleasure from sucking hedgehog’s brains and severing heads was stalking the depth of her troubled mind. If she fell blindly into heather clumps once, she fell a dozen times. How could such a peaceful day have so bitter an ending, she told herself, hardly believing the sick events she had witnessed. Then, while lying in the undergrowth she heard raised voices, men shouting, and a woman too. How close they were she had no idea, and with only the odd glimpse of moonlight peeping through an ever-thickening cloudy sky, it was difficult to see anything. Still, she had to get nearer. With her knowledge of moor terrain, she knew how to slither through thick heather. Soon a narrow sheep track could be felt beneath her feet, and she edged closer to the raised voices. ‘Lucy—that’s Lucy,’ she thought.
The wind rose and whistled around her; suddenly the track lost itself, pushing a spur of rock in her way. She huddled behind it. The voices grew louder, but so did the night wind. Apart from Lucy, she couldn’t make out who the others were. Mr Newton would no doubt be there, but who were the others, and why the arguing? Someone was full of rage, that was certain.
‘You pay up, or else I tell the madam everything, do you hear me?’
‘Tell her, if that’s all you’re good for. I’ve parted with enough money and won’t pay you a single penny more. Now get out of our way, you filthy dog.’
‘That must be Lucy’s man friend,’ she thought. Clear moonlight scattered yellow light across the sky. Now she saw four figures: Lucy and three others.
‘Get him,’ shouted one.
‘Don’t hurt her. Lucy run home, save yourself, don’t worry about me.’
Megan held her breath, heart beating like a drum. There was something terrible taking place, but earlier events had taken their toll and she curled back behind her rock, too afraid to look. Noises indicated a fight, she could hear thudding, shouting, and then silence.
‘Did you kill ’im?’ some one asked, panting.
‘Sure as stone I did. What about her?’
‘Consider it done, easy as snaring a rabbit it’ll be.’
‘Good, now strip him, there’s bound to be a few shillings. When ye kill the girl, take the cases and meet me up at Stropet. We’ll head to York from there. I’ve to meet up with some men and get me winnings from the fight.’
Megan covered her mouth with both hands, felt her face set hard like stone: it was Buckley. The other man obviously was his sidekick, Hawen Collins.
The moon seemed sickened by the night’s events and shrouded itself with cloud. How long she sat with her head in cold hands, in pitch dark, was anybody’s guess. Only when she’d mustered enough courage, and with eyes become accustomed to the dark, did she rise to view the scene of murder. Her worst fears were confirmed. The corpse of a man lay face down among the heather. Blood had already congealed on small rocks by its side. Rory’s stiff form flashed into her mind. Far off in the distance she thought she heard a scream, but perhaps not. Maybe an owl had misjudged its prey and taken a large rabbit. Slowly she walked away, glancing backward. The plot was all too obvious. Bull Buckley was the blackmailer. How could she tell on him, though? He’d kill her, suck out her eyes and feast on her brains. She had to get away, and hoped poor, broken-hearted Lucy had done the same.
Back at Mother Foy’s a hush had fallen. There was no sign of Moses or his head; they’d sufficiently cleaned up. A fire was blazing where hours earlier a baying mob stood circling a horror unequalled in her eyes. She sat on an empty seat and warmed herself. Should she tell the old woman about Mr Newton? No, she’d let Lucy do that when she came home, if she came home. She put more sticks on the fire and waited on the coming dawn. What would it bring?
‘Everybody get up, quick now, come on, let’s be having ye.’
She’d fallen asleep at the fire. In a daze she watched black uniformed men banging on doors and shouting. They were kicking dogs, knocking over water cans, throwing seats and benches all across the quarry floor. ‘Get out of your flea-pits, bloody gyppo killers.’
Quickly she stood up and composed herself. Either Moses’ murder had reached the ears of the police or Mr Newton’s body had been discovered.
Mother Foy threw open her half-door, fear etched on her old face. It had turned her lantern jaws white and drawn. ‘What’s wrong, girlie?’ she asked, seeing her standing fully-clothed by the fire.
‘The muskries must think someone’s been murdered, they are acting right mean and angry.’
The old woman stepped slowly down the wagon steps, shaking her head, ‘Bull Buckley, blast him to kingdom come, he never fails to get us the bad name. I knew the minute big Moses Durin walked upon our peaceful ground that the devil would be at his heels, and he’d come in the guise of that goblin from hell, bloody Buckley!’
Megan stretched out a helping hand to steady Mother Foy, avoiding eye contact as best she could, the previous night’s terrors tearing inside her brain.
‘Girlie,’ she said, ‘I get the feeling something mighty bad has come upon us.’
Her words made Megan tremble. She whispered, ‘I never seen a man’s head come rolling off his body before, I ran up onto the moor last night to escape this place. This very fire we heat ourselves at was probably built on a pool of blood. Now I’m going to fill the kettle, I think a cup of tea will be all we’ll get this day.’ She righted a water can that had been kicked over and went off to fill it at the stream. However, before she could go, a thin-faced copper grabbed her arm and told her to
stay put. She sat the can down and walked over by Mother Foy, who was being spoken to by another policeman. The elderly lady was shaking, eyes glazed and staring.
‘What’s the matter? Surely a dozen or so muskries are a common sight to you?’
‘They’ve found a body on the moor. It be our dear Mr Newton. He’s been murdered! Whoever brought this on our heads will bring our destruction. Oh God, that nice Mr Newton, and him happily married with two good children. Who could have done such a thing? Four generations of his family line have given us freedom to roam on their land. This be a bad day, oh a bad day.’
Megan wrapped her arms around the visibly frightened old lady, lest she fall from shock. Soon the police made their way round to them. She prayed the awful scene from the previous night’s grisly happening wouldn’t show up in her face. It would be hard, though; she wasn’t one to lie.
A thick-set middle-aged man dressed in plain clothes walked over. She’d watched him poking under canvases, lifting baskets, going in and out of vardas. He said very little, but by the slit-eyed look on his rugged face she could tell he was a thinker. He was taking everything in, and it would be hard to pull wool over those eyes.
‘Well then, I suppose you both saw nothing, heard nothing, and like the rest slept peaceful in your beds.’
‘I heard the wind get up in the night, a pair o’ owls took to fighting. Blasted tree branch scraping agin the varda roof put paid to a good night’s slumber, but other than that we heard nothing.’ Mother Foy had composed herself to appear almost normal.