I KILL

by Lex Lander

  Moulay, Hordern, and the Gunner Major galloped their mounts after the biggest group, which contained at least a couple of prize specimens. Clair, whether of her own volition or her horse’s, took off after them. Others of our party were in motion in all directions. The forest resounded to cries of the chase.

  Lizzy and I were the last to get going.

  ‘Come on!’ she shouted. Standing agitatedly in her stirrups, circling her horse and pointing after a trio of stampeding boars that had split off from the rest of the herd.

  Away she bounded in pursuit, crouched over her horse’s neck like a jockey. A slap of heels against my mare’s flanks, and I accelerated after her, my contribution to speed and direction nil. Luckily the trees hereabouts were widely-spaced and the ground was ever firm, making a fast pace possible. Only the infrequent islands of scrub that clustered together in hidden hollows, as if to draw comfort from proximity, dictated caution. Lizzy by-passed two such obstacles but jumped a third, and my mare, not to be outdone, followed suit, almost unseating me. This kind of riding was far outside my ability. I clung on, all pretence at technique long gone.

  But we were overhauling the boars and would soon draw level with them. I judged the time ripe for a snap shot and urged my mare to greater feats of speed so as to bring me up alongside Lizzy, who was riding a parallel course ahead and to my right. Another patch of shrubbery loomed in her path. Predictably she aimed her mount at it, choosing to go over rather than round. So accomplished had been her performance until now I had no qualms as the game beast put on a spurt and gathered its haunches for the take-off, muscles bunching under the velvet coat. Only then, when rider and mount were committed beyond recall, did I see from my oblique viewpoint what Lizzy could not: this particular clump was not only much more extensive than even a trained steeplechaser could reasonably be expected to clear in a single bound, but the terrain dipped away sharply beneath it, forming a bowl. Lizzy would, in effect, be jumping downhill, without being aware of it until too late. A shouted warning would only spoil her concentration. Her only salvation lay in making a controlled crash- landing in the middle of the shrubbery, using it to cushion the shock.

  Up she went in a flawless lift-off, horse and rider rising in harmony, fused entities like a centaur. And to give Lizzy her due, no wail of panic escaped her when the lie of the land became apparent, which it would have done the minute she left the ground.

  I was already swerving towards the bushes when, with the delicate touch of a pilot setting down a battle-shattered warplane, Lizzy belly-flopped her horse into the densest part of the vegetation. Finally her nerve cracked, wrenching a yell from her lungs. Then horse and rider were gone, swallowed by the bushes, the smashing and splintering of twig and branch coinciding with a sickeningly abrupt termination of that yell.

  Seven

  The foliage closed over Lizzy in a heaving green sea, and the crashing went on and on. Now her horse was whickering, a high-pitched ululation. I tried not to picture four iron-shod, flailing hooves.

  I had reached the bottom of the dip and even as my mare slowed, was dismounting – falling off, rather. Lizzy was there ahead of me, of course. Far from being the broken, shattered figure I dreaded and expected to see, she was actually moving, albeit on all fours like a wounded animal, dragging herself to where the mare lay kicking and struggling to rise.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I called out as I rushed to her side, fearing some internal injury.

  ‘Yes … yes.’ A triangle of brown skin peeked through a new tear in the back of her tank top and a deep scratch ran diagonally across, oozing pustules of blood. Incredibly, apart from this, she had no visible injuries. Powdered with dust, hair matted, one tennis shoe missing, these were her only other scars.

  Her horse had quietened. She was on her side in the flattened shrubbery, flanks heaving, flashing the whites of her eyes and blowing wetly through dilated nostrils. Lizzy knelt beside her and spoke to her in a non-stop undertone while she explored her legs for fractures. Her touch was gentle yet expert. Her calm presence of mind and her concern for her mount over herself impressed me.

  ‘She’s good,’ she pronounced at length, and her relief was palpable. ‘Just winded, I think. C’mon, girl … hup!’ I stood back as, stage by stage, she cajoled and bullied the mare to an upright stance.

  ‘She’s fine.’ She patted the mare’s glossy neck, and received a nuzzle in return. Instant empathy.

  ‘We’d better get back to the others,’ I said.

  ‘No boar’s head to put in the pot,’ she said with a wry grin.

  She was a fast recoverer. While she made some adjustment to her stirrups I went to retrieve my own horse, patiently waiting under a cedar tree. Lizzy started foraging around in the undergrowth, presumably for her missing shoe. It was in this state of unpreparedness that our forgotten prey found us.

  I had been witness to the speed at which boars were capable of moving, so no surprises there. A soft tattoo, an asthmatic snuffling, these were the only danger signals; these and Lizzy’s squeal that spun me round like a whipped top. Her mare had bolted, reins flying free, leaving her helpless before the oncoming monstrosity, a nightmare of a boar, bigger and uglier than any I had encountered in my years of hunting in the Dordogne. Its hideous head was held low, positioned for the upward slash, its tiny eyes glowed like live embers, and it was out to kill.

  My mare, thank God, had not imitated Lizzy’s. I caught her reins and dragged the Ruger from its scabbard, clasping the walnut stock, jabbing at the safety catch. Both barrels were charged, and Moulay’s injunction was never more justified than at this moment, for the boar, its snuffles becoming snorts in anticipation of the kill, was almost upon Lizzy as I fired.

  In my urgency my aim was a shade low. The cartridge being solid, there was no spread of shot. It chewed a lump out of the earth under the boar’s sagging belly, causing it to stop dead. Its braking was as efficient as its acceleration.

  ‘Run!’ I yelled at Lizzy, though it was too late for that. An aimed shot was therefore an unaffordable luxury for the second barrel. I just fired and hoped.

  Maybe the fact that Lizzy’s life hung on my accuracy, maybe it was the sweat blurring my vision; whatever the cause, I, André Warner, supposed marksman with handgun and rifle, fluffed that easiest of shots. The massive cylinder of lead, capable of inflicting enormous damage, carved a bloody groove across the boar’s back, setting off a screech of pain and outrage. And that was all.

  But at least the boar lost interest in Lizzy, or perhaps decided she was best left for dessert. It wheeled round to confront me and I was reminded of the hippo I had slain in Angola, in self defence. The difference then was that I’d faced that hippo with a loaded rifle.

  The boar came hurtling at me, fast as a greyhound. Only half-aware of Lizzy’s squealed ‘Alan!’ I stepped out of its path an instant before contact, like a matador dodging a bull, and brought the double barrels of the Ruger down on the torn and bleeding back as it passed to the side of me. This had no effect on the boar’s motivation or its mobility. All I gained, as it turned within its own length, was a heartbeat of a respite. Just long enough to allow me to reverse my hold on the gun and to bring the stock down on the flat part of that ugly skull, between the ears, my arms powered by that superhuman strength all of us tap perhaps once or twice in a lifetime. I hit Brother Boar so hard the stock snapped off behind the trigger guard. But it was the heavy monobloc breech that did the damage, splitting the beast’s frontal bone cleanly from side to side. Goo fountained nauseatingly from the fissure. The boar crashed to earth, almost taking me with it.

  Lizzy stopped screaming, not at once, but gradually, the scream tapering off to a whimper, letting the silence filter back into the sunlit forest. A prolonged wheeze of air escaped from the great black brute. It seemed to deflate, like a punctured ball, and the tiny glowing amber eyes dimmed, becoming opaque and blind. Saliva dribbled from the gaping jaw. A fly zipped past and homed in on the carcass. Scavengers are ne
ver slow to move in.

  Lizzy ran to me. It was only natural that she should come into my arms, cling to me, and push her face into my chest. Wanting comfort, perhaps as a daughter from the father she had lost.

  ‘Oh, Alan,’ she cried, muffled by my shirt front. ‘I thought you were going to be killed.’

  No concern for her own near-miss.

  ‘Who, me? I wrestle with a boar a day just to keep in shape.’

  She burrowed into me, trembling a little. I stroked her hair and murmured consolation. I don’t know how long we stood there like that, as close as lovers, the hiss of the trees overhead and the ever more frantic whirr of flies arriving for the banquet, the only sounds. A spell of sorts had been woven around us and I was somehow immobilised by it.

  When, still embracing her, I did at last look up, hoping for a glimpse of one or both of our horses, I was startled to discover we were no longer alone. At the top of the incline, near the spot where Lizzy had commenced her leap, was a man on horseback, sitting as still as a sphinx. The orb of the sun was directly behind him, and he, blotting it out, was no more than a silhouette. Releasing Lizzy, I waved to him.

  ‘Give us a hand, will you? We’ve lost our horses.’

  The stranger made no reply. Nor did he show any inclination to help.

  ‘Who is it?’ Lizzy whispered.

  Slightly spooked, I shook my head and took a pace forward. The mysterious rider made no corresponding advance to meet me.

  ‘Wait there,’ I ordered Lizzy, and went up the slope at a jog. Still the rider didn’t move; his head, dead centre of the sun, appeared featureless. I recognised the shoulders and the clothes before the man: olive-green shirt and pants, patchworked with external button-down pockets like mine.

  ‘Is close enough.’ The clipped speech was loud in the windless air. He shifted his position, bringing into view the muzzle of his shotgun. After my workout with the boar I was in no shape to tackle Rik de Bruin, even without a shotgun.

  ‘Look, de Bruin …’ I made a supplicatory handspread. ‘We’ve just been attacked by a boar … our horses bolted.’ I spoke slowly, distinctly, so there should be no misunderstanding.

  ‘There is a matter you and I must speak about,’ he said.

  ‘You think this is the right time and the place?’

  ‘Is exactly the time and the place.’ The muzzle watched me, a dead eye-socket. ‘You keep away from them, that is all I wish to say.’

  ‘Keep away from who?’ Then it clicked. ‘You mean Clair Power?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘What she does, who she sees, is her decision, not mine.’

  ‘I say no more.’

  ‘Now just a minute, de Bruin.’ I took a pace towards him.

  ‘Stop!’ The gun was centred on my chest. ‘Believe me, Melville, I could very easily pull this trigger.’

  The guy was barking mad, no question of it.

  ‘Alan!’ Lizzy yelled from down in the gully. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Keep away from them,’ de Bruin repeated, and his words were controlled, measured. No froth at the mouth, no hysterics. ‘That is my final warning.’

  On that note he dragged his horse around, dug in his heels, and was away in a flurry of hooves.

  Perplexed and frustrated, I lingered at the top of the rise until the hoof beats faded, then called Lizzy to join me.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked, as she came up, slightly out of breath. ‘Has he gone to fetch help?’

  ‘No,’ I said shortly, and she didn’t pursue it.

  We stayed put, taking it in turns to yell. Twenty minutes later, leading our runaway mounts, Moulay, Hordern and a distraught Clair found us.

  Eight

  The sand, white and fine as salt, was hot to the touch. I scooped out a handful and let it trickle through my fingers. An analogy for the passing years, the sense of time dribbling away, of life passing me by. Thirty-nine years old and all I had to show was a dead wife, a string of corpses, and a heap of dollars. No achievements to look back on with pride. No good deeds done. A big part of me still wanted to reform, to opt out from the killing. But I had already tried that and it hadn’t worked. Until I found something to replace it I was jammed in the groove.

  Unless …

  ‘Penny for them?’ the woman sitting beside me said.

  ‘Not worth it.’ I rolled onto my side and smiled up at Clair.

  Her return smile was warm, sincere. She reached out and twined a lock of my hair around her finger.

  ‘Has your hair always been this colour?’

  ‘Course it has. D’you think it comes out of a bottle?’

  ‘It’s almost yellow. Unusual.’

  ‘Let’s change the subject. Me bores me. Tell me about you. Everything.’

  A mischievous light flared in the blue-grey eyes.

  ‘Everything? My vital statistics included?’

  If that wasn’t an invitation to get personal the Warner nose for matters of the flesh wasn’t what it used to be. I hesitated though. Clair was class, not some strumpet I had picked up at a boozy bash.

  It was Monday and July was upon us. It was also the fifth day running spent, to a lesser or greater extent, in Clair’s company. Five days idly fraternizing when I should have been earning my living.

  ‘Don’t rush this job,’ Giorgy had cautioned. Sound advice. As far as the job was concerned, I was doing like he said. If I was involved in any rush at all it was to consolidate the bond between Clair and me before she resumed her journey to the States. For her, if I was any judge, such consolidation would arise out of the giving of her body. She was conventional in that respect. For me, the physical element carried little weight. The real commitment would have to come from inside. Rik de Bruin’s threat was not a factor in the decision-making. When Clair and Lizzy left for America, whether or not their exit from my life was permanent, he was unlikely to follow them. Meanwhile, I had no doubts about my ability to keep him at bay. I would almost welcome a showdown, whatever the risks.

  ‘Up until now,’ I said, belatedly to Clair’s unprecedented tease, ‘you’ve only shown me the parts that stick out of your swimsuit.’ Today’s costume was a black one-piece with broad white edging and cut ultra-high in the leg, a style that did marvels for her long legs and slender thighs.

  ‘Up until now?’ she echoed, lightly mocking. ‘That’s a rather provocative remark, Mr Melville.’

  Provocative? Hell, I hadn’t even kissed her properly yet. My restraint was the stuff world records are made of.

  She sat up, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of sun oil.

  ‘Be a darling and do my back.’

  I positioned myself cross-legged behind her and squirted amber liquid into my cupped palm.

  ‘We’ll be leaving soon, Lizzy and I,’ she said, looking out to sea – a sea of humanity as much as water, bathing vacationers packed tighter than spectators at Wimbledon on the last day. Lizzy was someplace in amongst them, swimming the way she rode, like a champion.

  ‘I know.’ I wanted to express regret but my tongue was gummed to the roof of my mouth. I went on stolidly working oil into Clair’s copper-hued skin. ‘Not on my account, I hope.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  As I reached the base of her spine, a tremor passed through her.

  ‘Stay on then,’ I said tentatively.

  ‘I sure would like to, but there are a million arguments against it.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Money. This was supposed to be the vacation to end all vacations. We won’t be able to afford another like it for a long time.’

  ‘Let me …’ I stopped. I had been about to offer to foot the bill, but gut feeling cautioned me against it. Some women take offence at that sort of thing.

  As it happened she guessed the part I left unsaid.

  ‘That’s kind of you, but I couldn’t.’ She rotated on her bottom to face me. ‘It’s not pride, don’t think that, or moral scruples. We just have so much to do.
There’s Lizzy’s schooling, for instance, I want her to enrol for university. Not only that, we need to find someplace to live …’ She laughed, but without joy. ‘We haven’t even decided which state we prefer. Probably Massachusetts, where I lived before my marriage.’

  The opportunity to propose an alternative would never be riper. To take a giant step into the future with this woman – and her daughter. A ready-made family. If nothing else it would serve to drag me off my bloodstained treadmill.

  I came close to crossing the divide. Closer than at any time since my abortive venture into a marriage that, thanks to Her Majesty’s Secret Fucking Service, had lasted a bare eighteen months. Set against the canvas of purest blue, Clair was at her loveliest. Even with only minimal make-up her principal features – eyes, lips, prominent cheekbones – were as bold as Van Gogh’s brush strokes. Her chestnut brown hair, tousled, dried by wind and sun after our earlier swim, made a scalloped setting for them. Looks, a sense of humour, intelligence, she was well endowed. Why seek further?

  Yet, like a timid poker player, I let the opportunity slip. I let my future die at birth, my red rose turn to brown, the petals wilting and falling to earth one by one, there to curl and rot and become dust.

  ‘I do want to see you again,’ I said feebly. ‘After you go to America, that is.’

  She smiled at my faint heart’s jargon, though it was a smile tinged with sorrow.

  ‘Dear Alan.’ She stroked my cheek with long, cool fingers, holding my eyes with hers. ‘I could so easily love you.’

  Moved, I drew her to me. Our mouths came together in a coalescence of flesh and breath, a clash of gouging teeth and probing, teasing tongues; our bodies enmeshed, thigh to groin, chest to breasts.

  Among the other beach users were doubtless those who did not approve of this immodest display of amour from a mature couple. Nevertheless, we let no inhibitions rule us. In full public view, encircled by the cries and chatter of vacationers, we made love in all senses but the physical.