At the sound of the screen-door slamming, six dogs sprang out from under bushes and chairs and came running towards their master with heads bowed low and tales wagging. Woody smiled at them and patted Mickey, the eldest.
“Are we taking the horses?” Woody asked.
“No, we’ll walk,” Harold said. “The sheep are only in the home paddock.”
Woody was disappointed. He always liked riding, especially at night. He walked alongside Harold and threw sticks for the dogs. His favourite was Snowy, who was in fact black. He also had a soft spot for Skunk, a grey and white streaked dog who was permanently chained at the back of the house. Skunk was a sheep killer and was very rarely let off his leash.
Ten minutes later and they were at the home paddock. Harold unlocked the gate and they all went through, the dogs getting excited when they saw the hundred or so sheep in the distance.
They walked to a large tree in the centre of the field. The tree had no leaves and the branches were wrinkled and crooked like the fingers of an old man. Hanging from one of the branches was a large hook and the bottom of the trunk was stained with dried blood. Harold left his bucket by the tree and called out to the dogs.
“Get back! Get back! Fetch ’em up! Fetch ’em up!”
The dogs ran towards the herd, some going right and some going left. They got right behind the sheep and barked at them and nipped their legs. The herd moved slowly forward.
Harold and Woody waited by the tree. The sun was almost down and soon it would be dark. Woody lit the lantern and hung it from a branch.
“Just watch what I do this time,” Harold said, “and next time you can have a go yourself. Just give me the knives when I tell you.”
Woody had only been working on the farm for six months. He’d been down on his luck, sitting in a bar in town, wondering where to go to next, when he’d overheard a conversation about work. He’d walked the five miles to the Kerren Ranch and started work straight away. He was the only person the Cutters employed.
Woody watched as the sheep came nearer and soon they were surrounding the tree with no escape, the dogs keeping them in a neat circle.
Harold walked into the middle of them still calling to the dogs, but not so loudly now. He pushed and prodded, looking for the right sheep, then grabbed one round the neck and dragged it over to the tree.
“Okay, Woody,” he said.
Woody took one of the large carving knives from the bucket and gave it to him. Harold had the sheep lying backwards between his legs with his strong hands around its neck. He took the knife and started cutting into its throat. It made a crunching noise as it cut through the main arteries and Woody winced as he saw the blood coming out. It ran dark red down the sheep’s stomach and then as the knife went deeper it started to bubble in the deep cut and now and then a small fountain would squirt on to the ground. The sheep’s eyes stayed open for what seemed like a long time and then they shut and Harold let the body fall. It lay on the ground with the blood spreading into the ground, and then its back legs twitched and then the animal was still.
Harold wiped his bloody hands on a tuft of grass and went back to find another sheep. He killed this one the same way and then he told the dogs to back away. The sheep slowly wandered back to where they had been before, minus their two friends that lay at the foot of the tree.
Woody watched Harold go to work on the sheep. His arms were now covered with blood as he chopped off the two heads. Then he skinned the two animals by slitting open their bellies. The dogs were sniffing and looking anxiously, eager for the innards that Harold would eventually give them.
“Give me a hand here, Woody,” Harold said. Together they lifted the first sheep and hung it upside down from the hanging hook. Woody turned away from the smell as Harold cut out the stomach, bright green chewed grass falling from a split. He threw it to the dogs along with the intestines. The dogs gathered around hungrily and ripped the flesh to bits. Woody was disappointed to see Snowy joining in the fun.
Harold continued cleaning out the carcass and took it off the hook and laid it out on an old rug that was lying behind the tree. Then they hooked up the second sheep and Harold went to work again.
“It’s pretty easy,” he said, “once you get used to the smell. The smell’s the worst bit.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t smell too good,” Woody said.
They took down the second sheep when the carcass was clean and placed it alongside the other one on the rug. They also placed the two skins on there. Although they were bloody and dirty they would be put on the shed roof and later on when they were dried out and stiff, they would be sold.
They each took a corner of the rug and started pulling it and the sheep back towards the farm. It was slow going and Harold kept shouting at the dogs to move away as they were now getting interested in the good meat.
“I usually just kill one sheep,” Harold said, “but with you here I can pull an extra one back. When we’ve eaten this lot I’ll let you kill the next two.”
Great, Woody thought to himself. I’ll be looking forward to that.
When they were back at the farm they lifted the carcasses on to one of the water tanks where they would be out of reach of the dogs. They would stay there until morning when Harold would cut them into smaller chunks and his wife Molly would then put them into storage.
From a tap in the garden the two of them washed their hands and shook them dry. They stood in the kitchen light that came across the veranda. The dogs had crept back to their bushes and chairs to sleep.
“You can knock off now, Woody,” said Harold. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Woody said okay, and tried to smile, but the dead sheep smell was still with him. Harold sensed how he was feeling and grinned.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, and patted him on the back.
Woody went back to his room, but before he reached it, he doubled over and puked in the bushes outside.
The next day Woody was back in the field fixing fences again. He was wearing a hat to keep the sun off his face. Just last year, on one of the other farms he’d worked on, he’d been digging a ditch all day and telling the time by looking at the sun. When he’d returned to his lodgings he’d had a terrible pain in his eyes, like someone had thrown sand in them. Much to the amusement of the other workers he’d spent the whole of the next day lying in a darkened room. They’d told him he had sunstroke. Eventually the pain had disappeared, but he’d learnt his lesson.
At lunchtime, Woody saw a horse approaching, and as it came nearer, he was pleased to see the rider was Harold’s daughter Jane. She was fifteen years old, pretty, with long blonde hair. She climbed down off her small horse, and carried over a bag of lunch for him.
“Hello,” Woody said shyly. “How are you?”
“Fine, Woody,” said Jane. “Have you recovered from last night?”
Woody decided to play it dumb. “Recovered from what?”
Jane handed him the bag of food. She was wearing a white dress with a flower pattern on it, a straw hat on her head. “The killing of the sheep. I heard you puking after.”
Woody felt embarrassed. Jane’s room was just behind his. He shrugged. “So I puked. So what?”
“You’ll never be a farmer if you can’t kill a sheep.”
“Who says I want to be a farmer?”
“What are you doing here if you don’t want to be a farmer?”
“I need the money. When I’ve saved a bit I’ll do something else. Like maybe rustle cattle. Or rob trains.”
Jane laughed. “Just keep dreaming, Woody. We all need our dreams. I have to get back. My dad said to come straight home.”
Woody watched Jane walk back to her horse and climb on. He looked down at the lunch bag and started opening it.
“Woody?”
He looked up and Jane was still sitting on her horse. Only now she had her skirt pulled high up on her thigh and she was rubbing her leg. “Do you think I have nice legs?” she asked.
“If you kill a sheep for me, Woody, I’ll let you see more,” and then her dress fell back into place and she was riding away.
Woody was stunned. He looked at Jane until she was almost out of sight. Then he looked down at his lunch bag but he didn’t feel so hungry any more.
Woody kept thinking about Jane’s leg for the rest of the day. What did she mean exactly by saying she’d let him see more? Was she going to let him go the whole way? He was still a virgin and wasn’t sure he knew exactly what to do. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing. Maybe she was just leading him on. And what did she mean by “kill a sheep for me”? Was this some kind of test of his manliness? Or was she trying to lead him into trouble?
Woody worked hard on the fence and then started walking home. At the dinner table that night he couldn’t keep his eyes off Jane. She kept smiling at him and even winked one time. Her younger brother Billy did most of the talking, so Harold and Molly were easily distracted.
When the dishes were done Woody went back to his room. Evening times always passed slowly. His room was only big enough for a bed and a wardrobe and was right next to the back veranda. On the other side of the veranda was the washer room, and several times he had watched Jane in there, washing clothes in the sink.
He still thought of her words. “Kill a sheep for me.” What was that meant to mean? Was he meant to bring the body back to her room and lay it out in front of her? What kind of a sick person was she? Or would just the head be enough? Bring me the head of a sheep and I’ll let you see my body. He wished she’d been clearer in her intentions. He lay on his bed and looked at the ceiling.
After an hour of turmoil he could wait no longer. He left his room and edged round to the veranda. He crept on to it and looked into the kitchen. It was empty. He eased open the screen-door and crept into the pantry. He took a large knife and slid it under his shirt. Then he crept outside.
His heart was pounding with excitement as he made the short walk to the home paddock, the carving knife now stuck down the belt of his jeans. He had decided to kill a sheep and bring the head to Jane. Then she would show him her body. Then he would see what would happen next. He quickened up his pace.
He found the herd easily, a grey moving shape in the dark. He walked slowly up to them, but they heard him coming and moved away. He tried running at them but they ran away, faster than he’d thought they could be. He stopped to catch his breath. He tried again. They ran away.
It took him ten minutes to finally catch one, and he was so angry and frustrated he just plunged the knife straight into the sheep’s chest. It seemed to have little effect, so he stabbed it in the neck and then stabbed it again. Eventually the bleating animal was still.
Woody sat on the grass next to it, catching his breath. Sweat was pouring off him and he was covered in blood. He looked at the sheep and immediately felt guilty. Why was he doing this? Taking away a life just so he could see Jane naked? He felt the same revulsion he’d felt last night. He felt his supper starting to come into his throat. He moved away from the sheep and sat down again. Then he lay on the grass and looked at the stars. He waited until he’d cooled down. There was no way he could cut off the sheep’s head. He would just make his way home and forget the whole thing. He would have to throw his blood-stained clothes away.
He left the sheep where it lay. When Harold found it tomorrow maybe he would think a wolf had done it. Woody left the paddock and made the walk home, the knife stuck down into the belt of his jeans once again.
He approached his room from the privy side, where no one could see him. He walked on the path where Skunk was tied up, but as he approached Skunk began to growl.
“It’s only me, Skunk,” Woody said softly.
But then Skunk barked loudly and ran straight for him, his chain rattling as it took up the strain. Woody took a step backwards and then Skunk made another charge. This time, to Woody’s horror, the chain broke and Skunk was on top of him. He wrestled with the dog as it went for his throat. Skunk was going berserk and Woody didn’t know why. Then he thought that maybe it was the smell of the sheep’s blood. Then he remembered the knife in his belt. He managed to get it free and he slammed it into Skunk’s side. The dog whimpered and fell off him on to the dirt. Then Woody passed out.
When he came to, Woody didn’t know where he was. He was lying on his back on something hard and he didn’t recognize the ceiling. He turned his head and looked around. A sofa and some armchairs. A chest of drawers. A cabinet for plates and cutlery. He was in Harold’s living room.
He was lying on a table. He had an incredible pain in his left arm. He looked down and wondered if he was imagining things. He looked down again. His left arm was covered in a white bandage but it was much shorter than it used to be. He tried to wriggle his fingers but he didn’t seem to have any. His hand just wasn’t there any more.
Feeling a panic sweep over him he rolled off the table and put his feet on the floor. He held his two arms out in front of him but the left one was nearly a foot shorter.
“NO!” he screamed, and staggered out of the room.
He was in his own room now. Sedated.
He stayed there for a week while the pain in his arm lessened and his neck healed. But he wasn’t too worried about his neck, he was worried about his missing hand. How was he going to get work now? No one would employ a one-armed man. Maybe Harold would be kind and keep him on. He would have to have a talk with him real soon.
Molly brought him his meals. He hadn’t seen Jane at all. He tried talking to Molly as she fed him, but all she would say was that his hand had been mangled by Skunk. Skunk was dead, of course. She didn’t mention the dead sheep.
Another week passed before Harold came to his room. Woody was sitting up in bed and Harold pulled up a chair and sat down.
“How’s it going, Woody?” he asked.
“Not too good,” Woody said. “What happened to my hand?”
Harold looked down at the floor and didn’t meet his eyes. “Skunk got a hold of it. Chewed it all up. The doc said he couldn’t save it.”
“Are you sure?”
Harold looked up. “Sure about what?”
“Sure that he couldn’t save it.”
“Sure I’m sure. I saw it myself. It’s just bad luck, that’s all.”
“Shit,” Woody said. “I don’t even remember Skunk attacking my hand. All I remember is him going for my throat.”
“Well, it probably happened too quickly for you to remember. You probably passed out before he did it.”
“Maybe,” Woody said.
They were silent for a minute and then Harold cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to let you go, Woody.”
Woody had suspected as much. He nodded.
“After all,” Harold continued. “You won’t be able to do much with one hand.”
“I know,” Woody said. “I’m no use to anybody now.”
They were silent again.
“Sorry,” Harold said, and then he stood up and reached for the door.
The day before he left Woody asked Harold for just one thing. He asked him for a pistol with just one bullet in it.
Harold said okay, but asked him why just one bullet?
Woody said, “Eventually I’ll probably have to shoot myself because I won’t be able to get any work. When I do it though, I want to be sure that I’m doing the right thing. If I have six bullets I’m likely to do it when I’m drunk. If I only have one bullet I won’t know which chamber it’s in when I’m drunk and the feeling will pass. If I kill myself I want to be sober, just so I’m sure that’s really what I want to do.”
Harold had looked at him with a little respect in his eyes. “That’s a good idea Woody, a good idea.”
Woody walked down the road away from the farm, his few belongings in a bag over his shoulder. From the front veranda Harold and Molly watched.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Mo
lly asked.
“I don’t know,” Harold said. “I really don’t know.”
“He was a nice boy,” Molly said. “I wish you hadn’t cut off his hand.”
Harold didn’t look at her. “He shouldn’t have killed that sheep. I can’t afford to have sheep killed for nothin’.”
“Oh, I think you know very well it wasn’t for nothin’.”
Harold looked at her. “In some countries they cut off your hand if you steal something, you know. He killed a sheep. I don’t see what the difference is.”
Molly gave him a scornful look. “In some countries. But we’re not in those countries. We don’t have to do things those ways.”
“The real problem,” Harold said, “is that daughter of yours. That makes three we’ve had to get rid of because of her. This can’t go on forever. We’re gonna have to talk to her again.”
And then he walked back inside the kitchen.
BRYANT AND MAY’S MYSTERY TOUR
Christopher Fowler
“Mr Bryant is so old that most of his lifetime subscriptions have run out.” Leslie Faraday, the Home Office crime liaison officer, poked about on his biscuit tray looking for a Custard Cream. “He’s far beyond the statutory working age limit, but no one has the heart to broach the matter with him.”
“Sentimentality can’t be allowed to stand in the way of modern policing procedures,” replied Oskar Kasavian, peering from the window into the tiled Whitehall courtyard. Faraday took a quick peek to see if the new supervisor in charge of Internal Security cast a shadow, as his cadaverous pale form created office rumours of supernatural lineage. “We’re not here to provide the inefficient with a living.”
This last remark confused Faraday, who believed that this was precisely the purpose for which Whitehall had been created. “Quite,” he replied, “but surely we must take into account his long and illustrious career working with the Peculiar Crimes Unit. He and his partner pioneered research in the field. One doesn’t force admirals into retirement simply because they no longer go to sea. We benefit from their experience.”
The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries Page 59