by Guy N Smith
He paused, picked an overripe blackberry from a heavily-laden, cobweb-festooned clump of briars, chewed and spat out the seeds. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of dying bracken and wild willow herb. It was unnaturally clammy and mild for the time of year.
He couldn’t see the cattle, they were probably congregated down by the stream, trying to get a decent drink out of the shallow trickle that remained. He came to the patch of gorse, it encroached year by year, ate up what might have been good grazing land in a temperate climate. Even its spikey foliage was wilting, some of it had browned and died off. Nick thought about setting fire to it, it was the easiest way to clear it, didn’t cost more than the price of a match. It was risky, though, the wood was too close for comfort, he might find himself faced with a compensation claim for a forest fire.
He decided to take the shortcut this morning rather than walk the perimeter of the gorse, a twisting track that the cattle had forged through the bushes. Your legs got scratched through your frayed denim trousers but what the hell.
He was about midway through the gorse thicket when he came upon a woman lying there. Instinctively, Nick backed off, principally because she was stark naked. One didn’t expect to find a nude in the gorse at eight o’clock on a foggy morning, lying there with her legs lewdly spread, showing you her privates in what could only be interpreted as an invitation to screw her.
Her head was hidden by a clump of grass, her arms were by her side. Nick Holcroft swallowed, deliberated what to do. It could well be that there was a feller around somewhere, maybe he’d broken off in the middle of shagging her to go for a pee, and she was lying there waiting for him to return and carry on where he’d left off.
Nick didn’t want any trouble, he wasn’t that kind of a guy. He debated retracing his steps, going the long way round, leaving them to it. On the other hand, he was the landowner, so why the hell should he put himself out for a couple who’d decided on his patch for a screw? He cleared his throat, waited. The woman never moved, she probably hadn’t heard him, she was too far gone.
He stared, felt the beginnings of an arousal. Her pubic hair was trimmed discreetly, just let you see enough of what lay beneath it to have you panting for more. Slim, wide hips, small tits with big nipples. Christ, he could enjoy himself with all that! Perhaps her man had deserted her for some reason and she’d welcome an instant replacement.
“Excuse me …”
Still she didn’t move, not even a twitch of a leg muscle, no sudden scurry to cover up what was on show. If she had heard him, then she was a brazen hussy waiting to be shagged.
He took a pace closer, cleared his throat. Another step and he was standing right over her, looking down upon pock-marked features that didn’t do justice to the rest of her body. Her eyes remained closed, she was obviously asleep.
His erection was trying to burrow its way out of his trousers. Another notion; she had come here with a bloke in the night, they’d screwed and then had a row. He’d walked out on her, and, not knowing the way back to the road, she’d remained here, fallen asleep. She had to be bloody cold, in that case.
She was cold. His outstretched hand touched her leg, it felt like a pork chop just out of a butcher’s cold room. A sudden awful thought, and when Nick stroked the insides of her open thighs, he snatched his hand away with the awful realization.
The woman was dead.
Nick was scared to hell. More scared even than that day when he’d heard his father scream but had been unable to stop the old man from going up the baler chute. Because his father had been a bastard.
Nick didn’t mind this woman being dead, that didn’t worry him one iota, his only regret in that respect was that he hadn’t been able to give her a good shafting before she’d gone.
His fear stemmed from the fact that these policemen were virtually accusing him of killing her.
He’d run all the way back to the farmhouse, phoned the cops. A couple of uniformed officers in a red-and-white patrol car had arrived within ten minutes. Then they’d had to wait for the CID.
“Show us the body, Mister Holcroft.”
They had followed him all the way up to the furthest field, he’d led the single file through the gorse, the detective inspector on his heels, urging him on the whole time, cursing the spines that tore viciously at them.
It wasn’t an easy place to examine a corpse. Detective Inspector Raymond Barr wore a Barbour over his sweater and cords, such a skimpy bloke for a copper, Nick thought. He didn’t like the guy, eyes that darted everywhere, missed nothing, a moustache that added awe to his thin lips. Humourless, he spoke in clipped tones, everybody jumped to obey his orders.
“Mind where you’re putting those clodhopper feet of yours, Mister Holcroft, you could be obliterating vital footprints. If there are any other than your own!”
The other policemen jumped to obey their superior’s commands, one returning to the vehicles to call up the forensic experts. Barr examined the body, fired his questions as he conducted his own post-mortem.
“Do you know this woman, Holcroft?” He dropped the “mister” now, he meant business, there was no time for formalities.
“No, sir.”
“I see. Where were you last evening?”
“At the pub, sir. Till ten-thirty. Then I came home, went straight to bed.”
“I see. We can check your movements out easily enough, I’ve no doubt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rubber boots, diamond patterns, size nines, the size is even imprinted in the mark,” Barr chuckled his satisfaction. “What size do you wear, Holcroft?”
“Size ten … sir.”
“Hmm,” the detective leaned over the body, they all heard a belch of trapped wind released from the dead throat, a sound like the girl had vomited. Nick started, backed away, bumped into a uniformed constable.
“Steady, Mister Holcroft.”
“Tell me, Holcroft,” the inspector turned his head, his eyes were like chips of blue ice, “how far is the nearest water from here?”
“Water, sir?”
“Yes, water. Clear liquid. H2O in technical terms.” Brusque, he did not suffer fools gladly and this farmer was certainly one. “A river. A stream. A lake. Even just a muddy pond in the corner of a field. Well?”
“There’s a stream down the bottom of this field, sir. You can’t see it from here for the mist, it’s about a couple of hundred yards but it’s virtually dried up. The river and the canal are a good mile, as the crow flies. There ain’t any thing else that I can think of.”
“Strange,” the inspector straightened up, turned to his plainclothes colleague. “Very strange, Eric. There’s no water worth talking about within a mile of here except a dried-up stream. We’ll have to check that out carefully, just to make sure there isn’t a pond somewhere around.” And to see if this farmer is talking the truth. “But we’ll probably do that after the PM, I’m just a layman in that field but even so, I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
“What’s the problem, Ray?” The sergeant glanced down at the body.
“No water,” Barr smiled humourlessly, “but unless I’m very much mistaken, this woman died from drowning!”
Nine
The stubble had all been ploughed in and the ducks and geese no longer flew in to feed on the fields beyond the Lady Walk. Apart from the occasional mallard to be found on the algae-covered pond in the deep woods, and a pheasant returning at dusk to roost in the thick pines, Maddox now hunted only rabbits and woodpigeons which were to be found in abundance. His meat larder was seldom empty.
With the absence of gleanings among the stubble, the rabbits also deserted the lower fields. Lately, they had been mostly feeding inside the reservoir enclosure; there was lush grass to graze here whereas in the woods, where they had their warrens, little undergrowth grew due to the lack of sunlight. Also, the elevated position enabled them to see if danger approached.
They would bolt for safety at the first sign of a predator, whether
it was fox or Man. Only stoats were able to stalk them successfully, the fiercest creatures in the land, in spite of their smallness, crept upon an unwary rabbit. For some reason, known only to Nature, the victim seldom tried to escape. Terrified, hypnotized by an enemy only half its own size, the rabbit offered no resistance, squealed pitifully when the stoat bit the back of its neck and began to suck its blood. Its struggles were feeble, it was dead within a minute. Often a fox, upon hearing its death cries, hastened to the scene for stoats were only interested in the blood of their prey and there would be a freshly killed corpse there for the taking.
The rabbits mostly fed at night and were difficult to approach. On moonless nights, without the aid of a powerful lamp, which Maddox did not possess, it was impossible to see them. Even when the moon was full it was no easy accomplishment to creep within shotgun range for the surrounding woodland was littered with fallen branches and dead twigs.
Maddox had long mastered the art of stalking. The absence of his hearing had increased his other senses; his eyesight was second to none, he could scent almost as well as the beasts of the forest. Nostrils flared, he smelled both foxes and rabbits if they were upwind of him. And as he crept through the woods with the silence of a wraith, his outstretched booted feet warned him of obstacles that would make a noise, a twig that would snap loudly or a discarded can that would rattle and clink as it rolled. Each foot was lowered carefully, probing the dark track ahead of him, carefully brushing aside or stepping over anything which might give the alarm, before lowering his full weight.
Tonight there was a half moon, just enough light to discern silhouettes and movements, and that was all that Maddox asked or needed. His stealth and marksmanship would do for the rest.
He was running low on shells, the one commodity which was outside his field of self-sufficiency. Even money alone would not buy ammunition for his old gun; the gun shop in town insisted upon the production of a shotgun certificate before they even unlocked the steel cabinet which housed their stock of shells. A carton of twenty-five cost three pounds, more than his wages for a day’s log splitting.
There was a means, however, whereby the old hermit was able to procure cartridges. The butcher on the market stall on Wednesdays would generally do a deal for freshly killed rabbits; he preferred them trapped or snared rather than splattered with a charge of shot. He paid less for shot rabbits; a mere pittance where Maddox was concerned for the vagrant was in no position to negotiate. However, the stocky red-bearded man in his striped apron was always prepared to barter; many of his suppliers were poachers who had no certification for their weapons, so the butcher kept a stock of shells in his van. The price came down even lower for a swap deal; a box of shells for every ten rabbits. Take it or leave it, no bargaining. Maddox always took it because he would not have been able to survive without cartridges. Tigerish whiskered grins were exchanged; the rabbits were hung up on the front of the stall, Maddox was handed a plastic carrier bag with a cardboard box inside it. On one occasion there had only been twenty shells in the box, he had returned on the following Wednesday to complain; the butcher had shouted abuse, waved him away, pointed to a sign pinned to the trestle table. Had Maddox been able to read he would have seen, CHECK YOUR CHANGE. MISTAKES CANNOT BE RECTIFIED AFTERWARDS.
There was nobody else willing to exchange shells for rabbits so the market butcher had the monopoly. Tomorrow Maddox would take into town those which he shot tonight, and he would check that the box of cartridges given to him in exchange was full.
There were rabbits feeding inside the enclosure, he stood watching them from the larches on the upper slope of the wood above the reservoir. With the same difficulty with which he counted shells in a carton, he counted the dark blobs out there that moved as they grazed. Eighteen. Or thereabouts.
He eased back the hammers on the gun. But the range was too great, eighty, maybe ninety, yards. And the intervening ground between the larches and the reservoir was bare, littered with twigs which had been snapped from their branches by a devastating gale last winter, tinder dry after the drought. Just one loud crack and every rabbit on that raised mound would dart for cover.
An impossible stalk. For anybody other than Maddox the vagrant. Maddox, the hunter.
He dropped into a half crouch, a posture that looked ungainly, ridiculous, in the half moonlight. Yet he moved silently, slowly, when it seemed that he would overbalance his foot found a hold devoid of tree debris. The long barrelled gun was switched from hand to hand, balancing his lithe body as he navigated the many obstacles.
His experienced judgement estimated the range between himself and the nearest rabbit at fifty yards. He could have rolled it over but the others would have dispersed at the report. He wasn’t looking for singles, rather a cluster when one rabbit had found a particularly tasty clump of grass and been joined by three or four of its companions.
There was a trio beyond, he would need to be close to the barbed wire fence to take them. Another crouched stride, he averted his eyes from his chosen prey; long ago he had learned that some kind of telepathy existed between hunter and quarry, intense concentration by the former triggered off a warning to the latter.
Sweeping footsteps that avoided twigs; he had to make a detour to avoid a large branch. The nearest rabbit was still oblivious of danger.
Maddox was within a foot of the sagging barbed wire. He dropped to one knee, cautiously poked the twin barrels through the strands. The browning of Damascus barrels eliminated the tell-tale glint of bright light, no sudden shine would give away his presence.
It must have been an exceptionally luscious tussock of grass because another couple of rabbits had hopped across to join the others. The five bunched close, the old man’s breath clouded but his hands were steady, not so much as a tremor as he took a sighting. A knobbly finger took the first trigger pressure. Squeezed.
A stab of flame, the shotgun bucked, clinked on the wire. A melee of rabbits squirmed and rolled, caught by the full pattern of the shot blast; one jumped, dropped back. But Maddox ignored them, the wounded would not crawl far and it was open ground, anyway; there were no hiding places. The other rabbits were darting in all directions, white tails bobbing.
One panicked, headed for the topside of the enclosure, unaware from which direction sudden death had spat fire and lead. Maddox dropped it in mid-flight, it somersaulted twice, lay still, did not even twitch.
He grunted his satisfaction, used the gun to lift the barbed wire while he squeezed through. His long coat snagged but he ripped it free. Six rabbits at the onset of a moonlit foray was almost too good to be true.
He picked up the nearest rabbit, shook it and dropped it into the capacious pocket of his coat, quickened his walk to where the others lay. Two were stretched out motionless, another twitched. He caught one that tried to drag itself away on its forelegs; both its hind legs were smashed. He held it aloft, a swift downward blow with the flat of his land killed it instantly.
The last one was running and rolling, it dodged him the first time. He laid down his gun, and with an agility that defied both age and arthritis, dived on it. It squealed just once as he held its neck, jerked on its back legs, broke its vertebra.
Maddox lay on the spongy grass amidst the ugly lines of concrete inspection hatches. Elated, out of breath, he savoured a moment or two of euphoric satisfaction. The light was still young, with luck he might shoot another four rabbits if he huddled up against one of these squat pillars, bided his time. The creatures had a remarkably short memory, within half an hour they would venture out to feed again.
Another four would guarantee him a renewed supply of shells; five would be a bonus, a meal into the bargain. He gathered up the furry corpses, heaped them, settled down with his back against cold concrete, the reloaded gun across his bony knees. His sweat chilled. He would wait, patience was one of his few virtues.
Perhaps it was the pounding of his heart and temple that masked a faint vibration of the ground beneath him which other
wise he would surely have noticed. Or the distraction of a rare hunting success. A cloud passing across the face of the moon deprived him of a warning shadow that might have fallen across him.
A combination of factors temporarily dulled that wariness which had been the key to his survival in these woodlands. Maddox had no idea that anybody had crept upon him until strong hands seized him from behind.
An inarticulate roar of surprised anger was silenced as one of those hands clapped over his mouth. Strong arms lifted him, wrested the shotgun from his grasp, carried him.
He kicked out, twisted and struggled, had a terrifying glimpse of his attackers as the cloud drifted away from the moon. Men and women, as naked as the day they were born, their features enshrouded in shadow.
There was a frightening purposefulness as they bore him towards that squat building. No anger at having encountered a trespasser, one perhaps intent upon spying upon whatever they were doing; in his terror Maddox recalled those who had visited this same place earlier in the autumn when the wildfowl were fighting to feed on the stubble before it was ploughed.
His eyes rolled, he mumbled his terror into the cold suffocating hand that gagged him. His instinct was to bite the flesh with his blackened teeth but he feared retribution.
Darkness, a claustrophobic stench of dank wetness. He felt them carrying him down steps, a jerkiness, a slowing of their movements as they began to labour beneath his weight.
A soft light, but it wasn’t moonlight, more of a greenish glow. He smelled the water before he saw it shimmering beneath him, blackness streaked with a luminosity. Rippling.
Then, suddenly, his captors had released their hold upon him. He managed just one scream before the water closed over him, tugged at his clothing, dragged him down into its stygian depths.