The Running of the Deer

by Catriona King

The reply was a squeeze of his shoulder. It was Harry’s signal to go and he did so with a bang. He let out a roar that came from deep inside his stomach and charged the line, the blockaders’ stunned looks saying that they’d thought he would just give in. As Harry screamed so did Joey, in his still high-pitched little boy voice, then he threw himself crab-like at as many boys as he could stretch to, while with two swift kicks to the head Harry knocked a couple of them out.

  Now they were down to only four adversaries Harry almost rethought his plan, and he went to kick two others in the head. But they were ready for him this time and made a grab for his foot, making him swerve to avoid them and then long jump past them and out of the van, to hit the dry earth running. He’d always been a good sprinter, and he’d learned from the races he’d taken part in to never look back in case you fell.

  He shut his ears to the screams still coming from his ally and pumped his arms and legs rhythmically as fast as he could. Off the rough road and through a field, on to a dirt track and through a farmyard with no occupant, then through a high wheat field and on as far as he could go, until finally he sank down in the vegetation to take a well-earned rest. He breathed through his nose as quietly as he could and listened for steps and rustling, but the only movement he heard was a gentle swaying of the grass around him being generated by a breeze.

  After ten minutes recuperation the north Belfast boy raised himself up high enough to scan his surroundings, covering the four poles slowly, searching for his foes. But there was nothing to see but the sun and some faraway trees, and nothing to hear but the faint sighing of the wind and the distant baas of sheep. The teenager followed the animal sounds slowly on all fours, until he reached a small vegetable patch being tended by a dark-haired girl of around his own age.

  Harry rose up cautiously in the grass, performing his scrutiny again, then he approached the girl carefully, coughing in the hope that she would turn around. When she did, anxiously, he saw a long rake lifting up in her hand, and he knew that it would make a formidable weapon if she chose to use it against him.

  Her words were defiant but said in a quivering voice.

  “What do you want? You don’t come from round here!”

  Harry could have tried to challenge the statement, but he guessed that country people probably knew each other so his bluff would only have failed.

  “I don’t mean you no harm.”

  The girl’s brown eyes widened curiously. “You’re from Belfast!”

  He didn’t query how she knew, knowing that a hard Belfast accent like his was recognised worldwide, courtesy of their gobby politicians. He longed to move closer to her, to tell her what he’d been through and for comfort, but wisely he stayed where he was.

  “Do you have a phone? I need to call the cops.”

  Her immediate glance behind her drew his eyes further, and Harry saw there was a farmhouse behind the patch of earth.

  “I don’t have a phone here.”

  It was a lie and he knew it, but he had friends who were girls, so he also knew that he needed to make her feel safe.

  “I don’t need to come in, honest. You could phone nine-nine-nine fer me an’ I’ll just wait here.”

  The girl thought about it for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip.

  “What would I say?”

  “Say that me an’ my mate was kidnapped from Belfast. I got away, but they still have him.”

  ****

  The Lisburn Road, South Belfast. 2 p.m.

  John Winter crossed and uncrossed his long legs several times, sitting back and then forward again in his hard-backed chair, wondering when the legendary therapist’s couch had been phased out. Freud would be turning in his grave.

  Glancing longingly at a well-padded sofa across the room he went to rearrange his limbs once again but was thwarted by his wife’s small but powerful surgeon’s hand gripping his knee.

  “Sit still.”

  It was an order not an entreaty and hissed beneath her breath, as was John’s immediate retort.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  The exchange had been witnessed, inevitably, by the woman that they had come to see. It would have been impossible for Amanda Beresford to avoid it, short of opening the room’s only window and sticking her head outside. But rather than refer to the tenseness between the couple she relaxed in her, definitely not hard-backed, chair and smiled.

  “So, you have a one-year-old daughter, yes? Kit, isn’t it?”

  John nodded, smiling as an image of his curly-haired progeny sprang to mind, whilst Natalie’s narrowing eyes said that she already thought the therapist was an idiot.

  “And I gather there has been some disagreement about parenting approaches.”

  Natalie opened her mouth to object, but the psychologist raised her palm, so sharply that the surgeon’s mouth clamped shut again. John was impressed and wondered if he should try the technique at home, shooting his palm up when he’d had enough of an argument in a Pavlovian training sort of way.

  He decided against it, knowing that Natalie would probably bite his fingers off the first time that he tried it.

  “I was still speaking, Mrs Winter.”

  The appellation made John wince, knowing what was bound to come next. And after the therapist had started so well too.

  Natalie’s tone was arctic.

  “Doctor Ingrams, or Ms Ingrams.”

  The Doctor of Psychology leaned forward on her desk and gazed at Natalie over her designer frames, in a way that said she would like to dissect her brain to see what lay inside, survival optional.

  “May I ask… did you take your husband’s name upon marriage? Not that you should or shouldn’t, I didn’t myself, but it could be important to the therapy to know.”

  The question caught Natalie on the hop and she started to say, “that’s very personal”, only to be cut off halfway through by Beresford’s nod.

  “Yes, it is. But then personal relationships are why we’re here today, aren’t they? So, did you?”

  John was mesmerised by the back and forth between the two women, and truth be known he was rather enjoying the bout, although he was careful not to show it; Natalie had a scalpel and she might decide to use it on him.

  The surgeon ground her teeth as she answered grudgingly, “Yes, I took his name”, adding hastily, “But I never use it at work.”

  “Ah, but we’re not at work, and we’re not discussing work.”

  Before Natalie could object again Beresford had moved on.

  “And your daughter, Kit. Is she Kit Winter, Ingrams, or Ingrams-Winter?”

  The reply nearly scorched Natalie’s tongue. “Winter.”

  The therapist nodded slowly. “I see… So… you are Mrs Natalie Winter privately, your child is Kit Winter, and this is your husband John Winter. The family unit.”

  Natalie had had enough. She lurched forward with a teeth-baring smile that was an animal’s equivalent of showing its fangs.

  “What’s your point?”

  The psychologist smiled. Not smugly or challengingly but warmly, as if she loved the whole world.

  “My point is that you are part of a couple and a family unit, you are no longer the two single people who functioned alone for years. That can take considerable adjustment. No longer just Natalie Ingrams and John Winter, professionals who lead teams, but mother and father to an infant who needs you to work as one and give her direction in the world. If you walk in different directions she’s going to become confused and troubled.”

  She sat back and folded her hands. “So. Now you both have a decision to make.”

  John was sitting forward now as well as his wife, but his posture indicated fascination not the urge for a fight.

  “What is it?”

  “You both need to decide whether it’s more important for you to move forward in life together with a well-balanced child, which will require compromises, or if you’ll each insist on getting everything your own way and risk messing her up.”r />
  John was still on ‘mess’, wondering if it was standard therapy language, when Beresford rose to her feet. He gawped at her.

  “The session’s over already?”

  She shook her dark head. “This was just a hello and how are you, to see if I could work with you. I can. Now you two must go away and think about what I said, and I’ll see you again with your answers in three hours.”

  The psychologist opened the door cheerfully, waiting until the shocked medics had stumbled and grumbled their ways through. Then she closed it firmly behind them and walked across to her percolator, pouring herself a coffee with a smile.

  ****

  The Northern Ireland Science Labs. Saintfield Road, Belfast. 4 p.m.

  The two men and Miranda had returned to Belfast together in Des’ car. Mike in the back seat, which he’d eventually managed to clear of the detritus of the forensic lead’s two sons, who seemed to share an obsession with tractors, cars and trains. Chivalry had made him refuse the Tyrone inspector’s immediate assumption that he should ride shotgun, his only regret being that he’d been too far away to change the CD player, Des meandering up the motorway at a speed that varied according to which track it was on. As both of the albums he’d favoured were country and western, that meant that they’d been going nowhere fast.

  They had finally reached the labs thirty minutes before, just in time to grab the last few curled-up sandwiches from the vending machine, deposit the policewoman in the staff-room, and then retreat to their respective fiefdoms to collate their findings in advance of the briefing at The C.C.U.

  The lengthy journey hadn’t been completely frustrating though, as it had given them time to discuss how they’d both reached the same conclusion, which was that all the stones used to crush their victim had been smooth. Mike had come at it logically e.g. that the boy’s body hadn’t had one cut on it, not even a small laceration, which would have been impossible unless the stones that had crushed him hadn’t had a single sharp edge. There was a second feature about the death that had intrigued the pathologist too, namely that the boy’s skin hadn’t split in a single place. If a heavy stone, even the smoothest possible, had been dropped on him, even from a relatively low height of four or five feet to allow for his attackers being short, then he should have suffered at least one split or tear over a bony prominence.

  It told Mike clearly that not only had the stones used been smooth, but that they’d been laid on the youth carefully one by one, not dropped. The boy’s killers had taken considerable time over their task, and that meant they’d been confident that they weren’t going to be disturbed.

  Des had approached the issue practically, from the absence of blood at the scene; Luminol spray liberally distributed around the crime-scene hadn’t revealed a single drop, human or animal, which told him the boy had received no cuts without even having to look at his body. It also backed up something he’d discovered about the animal heads.

  And when the officers that Miranda had commandeered to search the area had found only boulders, few that could have been hoisted even by a grown man, all of them rough edged, and every one passing his Luminol test too, the two men had travelled back in one mind and with something useful to report to Craig.

  As it turned out the smoothness of the stones wouldn’t be the only thing that Mike had to report, as his approach to John’s office to deposit some paperwork thirty minutes later was suddenly obstructed by the labs’ PA. Marcie Devlin hurled herself on the floor in front of him, making the pathologist halt in his tracks, fearful of crushing the tiny Stevie Nicks lookalike, shawl, flowing dress and all.

  “God, Marcie, I almost bashed into you there! What are you playing at?”

  She smiled up at him. “It worked didn’t it? You stopped.”

  As she clambered to her feet Mike rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “Let me guess. You’re in that play at the festival? The one about the suffragette who ran in front of a horse on Derby Day?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Emily Wilding Davison. It’s part of the one hundred years of women’s suffrage celebrations, and it’s on next Tuesday and Wednesday at eight. I do hope you and Annette will come?”

  He edged past her slightly. “Wouldn’t miss it. Now, why all the drama?”

  “I thought you should see this immediately.”

  She reached beneath her heavily fringed shawl, which reminded him of a lampshade that his mother had once owned, and produced a lab report.

  “How did you get that? I haven’t even submitted my swabs yet.”

  “It’s from one Doctor Winter sent up last night. He asked me to rush it through.” She waved it at him impatiently. “Take it. I have things that I need to do.”

  When it was in his hand she floated away with a wave and, “Don’t forget. Tuesday and Wednesday. I’ll leave two tickets for you at the door.”

  The pathologist was only half-listening, too busy scanning the slip of paper in alarm. He glanced at the wall clock; he only had five minutes before they met to leave for the briefing, but he needed to speak to John. He’d said he didn’t want to be disturbed that afternoon, but this was important, so Mike lifted the phone, trying not to swear on the answerphone when he found that his mobile was off and leaving a brief message about the swab result.

  Finishing his sandwich in just three bites, he raced out to the carpark, just in time to see Des and Miranda climbing into the car.

  “What kept you? We’re going to be late.”

  The pathologist liberated the lab report from his pocket. “You won’t believe what one of John’s swabs picked up.”

  ****

  The Therapist’s Office. Lisburn Road, South Belfast. 5 p.m.

  By the time Amanda Beresford opened her office door to admit the Winters again, they were both looking perplexed.

  “Good.”

  It was all she said as she motioned them to once again take the seats in front of her, so John thought that he should ask her what she’d meant.

  “Sorry, but, good what?”

  The psychologist didn’t reply, instead she sat back and removed her glasses, swinging them round rhythmically by one arm in an almost hypnotic way. For one moment John wondered whether it was a therapeutic technique and any second now they would both fall into a trance, but he dismissed it when Beresford set them down on her desk and then leant forward on it with clasped hands.

  “Well?”

  John noticed that she’d answered his question with one of her own and wondered if that might be a technique as well, so he tried again.

  “Well what?”

  If she answered him with another question, then he thought he might start to scream. Amanda Beresford didn’t.

  “Well, what did you decide about moving forward in a way that gives your child the most cohesive, coherent and secure approach to life?”

  Natalie had been strangely subdued since the earlier comments on her marital name and status and she didn’t look galvanised now, so John answered for them both.

  “Yes, of course we want Kit to be secure and not confused. We both adore her.”

  It brought another, “Good”, followed this time by, “and do you realise, both of you, that that will require you to bury your own egos, desires, and need for complete autonomy at times, at least at home? You’re both very used to being the leader, and at times that will not and cannot be the case.”

  Natalie suddenly sprang to life. “I’m not doing what he tells me!”

  Beresford considered her coolly. “Is that what I said?”

  “You implied it.”

  “No, I didn’t actually. I said you will both have to get used to not always being the leader. That could have been heard as neither of you leading, or as you each taking turns in the role, but instead you seemed to have heard it as your husband becoming your boss, Mrs Winter.”

  Natalie said nothing for a moment, confused, then she turned to John, looking for his support.

  “You heard it like that to
o, didn’t you? You always being the boss and telling me what to do?”

  John weighed up the situation rapidly; he could lie and say yes for the sake of peace, and completely waste the time that they’d spent coming there, or he could tell the truth and brace himself for Natalie’s wrath. He came down on the side of his infant daughter, and that meant that he had to tell the truth.

  The pathologist shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Nat, but I didn’t. I took it as meaning that sometimes I would lead and sometimes you. Alternating depending on what’s best for Kit.”

  Natalie froze in place and the others watched as her options raced across her face. The process took almost a full minute and was punctuated by the surgeon rising and then sitting down again twice. When Natalie finally settled she rested back in her chair and sneered, her face a mask of disdain aimed at both her husband and the therapist.

  “OK, then, Swami. You’re sitting there analysing, and I know it’s me that you’re finding fault with, so what next?”

  Beresford didn’t waste her breath telling her that she was wrong, instead she scribbled something in her notebook before speaking again.

  “What’s next is that you get out your diaries and we book six appointments, the first to be this week. Then this evening I want you to go out for dinner without your daughter and talk. Talk, not argue. Can you both manage that?”

  She glanced diplomatically from one of them to the other, but Natalie was positive that the “argue” had been aimed at her.

  The therapist hadn’t finished and this time her gaze did fix on Natalie.

  “And my name is Doctor Beresford or Amanda, not Swami. Remember that, please, because if you’re ever sarcastic to me again you’ll be off my list.”

  ****

  The C.C.U. 5 p.m.

  “OK, first I’d like to introduce Inspector Miranda Hunter of the Castlederg police. As our victim was found in her jurisdiction she’ll be working with us throughout the case.”

  Craig allowed a few seconds for hellos and moved on.