The opening behind the trap was beyond my reach. It was already open and even if I could have reached to pull up the flap it could only have been locked from outside. The trap itself offered only partial cover. Frantically I tried to pick up a carton of clays in the hope of building some sort of barrier. But with my hands only separating for a few inches I could not take hold. And already I was too late. I tried to reach the knots with my teeth. The rope tasted like garage sweepings.
Alistair Wyman’s face appeared in the opening. He had to crouch to look through, but even if that accounted for some of his flush I was still shaken by his expression. I could not have believed that I would ever see such concentrated venom in a human face. I tucked as much of me as I could behind the trap. Mum’s nice clothes were being ruined but she would probably forgive me. Even if she didn’t, I would rather be alive.
‘Come out,’ he said, ‘or I’ll kill you where you are. I’ve only got to shoot into the magazine and the bits of clay will knock you down.’
That was probably true. But I could hear something. ‘There’s a car coming,’ I said.
‘They won’t pay much heed to a shot from a gun club. Are you coming out?’
I didn’t answer. The longer he waited the better my chances.
He only gave me a few seconds’ grace. Then, without another word, he pushed the muzzles of his gun into the opening.
The trap had been left switched on all night. In addition to the remote control there was a release button on the side and my groping fingers found it.
My vague and frantic hope was that the firing of a clay pigeon every second or so at high velocity through the opening might buy me a delay or even hit him where it hurt. But the arm of the trap, coming round with ferocious energy, caught his barrels and smacked them against the steel side of the opening. He pulled back, but not before I saw that his barrels were pinched and badly bent. Only a maniac would try to shoot that gun. If he went back to the clubhouse for a change of weapon I might have a chance to run.
A man disarmed feels castrated, Dad told me once. The ruination of his treasured shotgun wiped all sensible thought from his mind. ‘I paid six grand for this gun!’ he protested.
‘You want me to quote you for sleeving it?’ I asked. In the stress of the moment, we were both babbling.
I heard the tyres of a vehicle slide on the gravel as somebody braked violently.
It seemed a good moment to forget about icy self-control. I screamed and I went on screaming. When I paused for breath, feet were running across the gravel and I could hear another car approaching. ‘He’s trying to kill me,’ I yelled.
The footsteps were silenced as they ran onto grass. Wyman, in a shrill voice, cried, ‘Get back!’
‘Awa’ tae hell, ye bogger!’ said Ronnie. There was a smack which made me think of a side of beef landing on concrete. Then silence.
I unlatched the door with fumbling fingers and pushed it open. I had to walk round the safety wall before I could take in the scene. Alistair Wyman was neatly laid out beside Station Six, his jaw at a strange angle to his face. Uncle Ronnie was seated comfortably, his back against the safety wall, drinking whisky straight from a bottle.
The second car had arrived. The Sergeant, dear Sergeant Fellowes, was running across the grass. He looked at me and at my wrists. He looked at Ronnie who belched, covering his mouth politely. And he took a good look at Alistair Wyman.
‘He was trying to kill me,’ I babbled. ‘Mr Wyman, I mean.’
The Sergeant looked severely at Ronnie. ‘Has he been driving around in that condition?’ he asked.
The tension was leaving me. I wanted to laugh and cry. I began by laughing. ‘He saved my life,’ I said, exaggerating a little. ‘Do you really want an answer?’
‘Not really.’ He looked at me again and saw that the tears were not far away. The knots at my wrists defeated him. ‘I’ll get a knife,’ he said. Instead, he folded me in his arms. My tied hands got in the way so he lifted them over his head.
My wrists were burning but I would not have broken the moment for the world. I was not yet ready to say, ‘I’ll love you forever,’ but the moment was not very far away.
‘It was Douglas Pender who killed Mr Tullos,’ I said. ‘This one told me about it.’ I bit off the rest of what I wanted to say. Men do not like being reminded that you told them so.
The Sergeant thought it over and then pronounced judgement. ‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
If I could have got my hands down I would have hit him. ‘But it’s true,’ I said. ‘Look at me when I’m shouting at you!’
If you enjoyed A Brace of Skeet, please share your thoughts by leaving a review on Amazon and Goodreads.
For more discounted reads and a free eBook when you join, sign up to our newsletter.
And why not follow us on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram for more great book news.
A Brace of Skeet Page 19