Wild Life Page 11

  ‘Insurance?’ Fingers asked.

  ‘For when you clowns shit the bed,’ Marshall said. ‘Besides, I bet Adam here can’t wait to show us all what he can do. I’ll be surprised if there’s anything left for the rest of us to shoot once he’s finished…’

  I didn’t answer. If I’m honest, the whole hunting expedition had caught me off-guard. Aside from eggs, the menu had been almost exclusively plant-based since I’d been at the park. As far as I was aware, even the dogs were vegetarian. And while there was admittedly the occasional grumble about the lack of meat in our diet, it was never argued with any real conviction. The one time I’d tentatively suggested to Rusty the possibility of eating one of the chickens, it had been met with something approaching outrage.

  ‘Why the bleedin’ heck would I want to eat one of ’em for? So I could swap a single roast dinner for a year’s worth of omelettes? Use your noggin, son.’

  Sensing I wouldn’t bite, Marshall eventually grew bored of baiting me and instead returned to the tactics for the morning’s hunt, describing the type of animal tracks we should look for, explaining the importance of staying downwind of our quarry. It was the most excited I’d seen him in weeks, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Feeling courageous, I decided to take the opportunity to try and find out a bit more about him.

  ‘So did Rusty do much hunting back in the old days?’ I asked.

  At the sound of Rusty’s name, Marshall snapped around. ‘The old days?’

  I swallowed hard, instantly regretting starting the conversation. ‘You know? Before you arrived here.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand the question,’ he said, his words leaking through gritted teeth.

  ‘I just mean… well, Rusty said that he was living here for a few years before the others came along. I just wondered if he, er, hunted much before?’

  ‘Living by himself? Listen, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Rusty and those other bums weren’t living before I got here. Sure they might have survived. In the sense that a rat survives. Feeding off garbage. Nothing but parasites. They weren’t living in any real sense. Ox was there. You ask him what it was like. Were you doing much hunting before I arrived, Ox?’

  Ox shook his head, not lifting his eyes from the ground.

  ‘Of course you weren’t.’

  ‘I heard old Rust was still on the bottle when the boss first got here,’ Fingers added, winking at me. ‘Of course, I’m not one to judge…’

  Marshall gave a satisfied nod. ‘Anyway, we’ll have no more talk about the past. We’ve got more pressing things to focus on. Like catching us some dinner. Now, let’s get shooting, shall we?’

  *

  As the hours wound away, however, Marshall’s enthusiasm for the hunt began to wane. We had caught nothing, the only potential target being a small blackbird that had swooped down about twenty feet from us to pluck at the desiccated corpse of a worm. At Marshall’s insistence I had taken aim with my bow, only for my arrow to fall embarrassingly short. His yells had been loud enough to ensure no other animals had been seen since.

  While Marshall’s sulk hardened into a frosty silence, I found I had time to pay attention to the changes in the woods around me. The transformation that had taken place over the last few months had been astonishing. Where once there had been only the faintest fringing of green shoots, now a tangle of foliage blocked every path. Where months earlier there was nothing but dead sticks and cold earth, now clouds of midges swarmed among a riot of wild flowers that sprang from every dimple in the dirt. Everywhere I looked there was life. Even in the apparently deserted clearing, you only had to lift a stone or lean against a tree stump, and the floor would suddenly writhe with the panicked scuttle of liquorice-coloured woodlice, or the scattershot waltz of befuddled ants. At one point I watched as an injured bee attempted to fend off the advances of a marauding spider. I sat there in a trance, the whole drama of life and death unfolding among the detritus of decaying leaves, until Marshall abruptly turned around and hissed something at me, unwittingly sweeping aside the miniature gladiatorial battle with a flick of his boot.

  ‘What?’ I asked, still scanning the ground for signs of either the bee or the spider.

  ‘Two o’clock,’ he repeated through gritted teeth.

  This time I followed his extended finger to a patch of bracken on the other side of the clearing. At the foot of the bush, a plump grey squirrel sat erect, tumbling a purple berry between its paws. Instinctively I raised my bow, only to have Marshall instantly slap it down.

  ‘I think I’d better take this one,’ he said as he shouldered the rifle. ‘We can’t afford any more fuck-ups.’

  I watched as he peered down the barrel of the gun, lining up the sights with the grey fuzz of the creature’s ears.

  ‘It’s important you get a clean shot, else you’ll spoil the meat,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the animal. ‘If you hit it in the bladder or the gut, you can forget it. That’s a quick way to poison yourself. No, you want to clip it… right… between… the… eyes.’

  There was a sharp crack as Marshall squeezed the trigger.

  The squirrel looked up from his berry, considering us for a moment, and then darted for the nearest tree.

  ‘Damn it!’ Marshal roared, before rounding on Ox. ‘You goddamn oaf. You knocked me.’

  Ox stared at Marshall, his big, dumb eyes widening in confusion. ‘But I didn’t move.’

  Marshall spat. ‘So you’re going to contradict me now? Just get back to the farm, will you. I’m sure there’s a hole that needs filling somewhere. That’s if you think you can handle the responsibility?’

  Ox didn’t move. ‘But… ’

  ‘JUST GO!’

  Ox stared for a moment longer before he finally clambered to his feet and trudged off into the trees.

  Fingers muffled a small cough.

  ‘Jesus! Don’t you start!’ Marshall snapped, before raising his binoculars. ‘Right, you two idiots better keep a look out. We’re not going home until we’ve bagged ourselves at least a dozen of the little fuckers, so you can get comfortable. And if anyone even thinks about knocking me again they’d better hope they can outrun a bullet.’

  *

  The day was almost over before Marshall finally called time and we were allowed to return to the camp. The hunt had not gone well. Neither Fingers nor I were anywhere near proficient enough with a bow to come close to hitting anything. As for Marshall, there always seemed to be a problem whenever it came to shooting. The barrel was bent, or the sights were off. Or, more commonly, one of us was putting him off. In the end, all we had to show for our sore knees and aching backs was three sparrows (which, as Marshall himself put it, was hardly enough for a starter for Tyrus), as well as a fat brown rat that Fingers had somehow managed to spear – though once we’d examined it, we decided against bringing it back with us, reasoning the tiny amount of meat it would provide wasn’t worth the risk of contracting whatever diseases the miserable creature was carrying.

  Marshall’s mood was so bad that he couldn’t even bring himself to insult us, storming ten paces ahead and lashing out at any bramble or branch that dared to cross his path.

  ‘Guess the pressure’s on you then, eh?’ Fingers whispered as we traipsed back to the camp.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  He smirked. ‘I’m just saying, there’s a lot of bellies to fill now. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t have you fetch both of those birds…’

  The swan. With the disaster of the morning’s hunt I’d almost managed to forget about it. ‘It’ll be fine,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Well, rather you than me,’ Fingers sniffed. ‘They can break a man’s arm just by beating their wings.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s an old wives’ tale,’ I said, before Marshall shot a reproachful glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Christ! You girls reckon you could make a bit more noise back there? I reckon there’s still at least one damn animal you haven’t managed to
frighten off yet!’

  With that, the three of us lapsed into silence.

  *

  We returned to the camp to find the other men already finished work, a pot of stew steaming in the centre of the dinner table. Our arrival diverted their attention from the food however, and within seconds they had abandoned the table to crowd around us, peppering us with questions about the hunt. Marshall quickly shut them down by raising the sack of carrion into the air. Though mostly empty, it was enough to stop the men in their tracks. A shiver of anticipation fanned out through the mob as they each eyed the hessian sack, licking their lips even as they wiped fresh stew from their beards.

  ‘Now, I have some great news for you gentlemen,’ Marshall began, joggling the bag for effect. ‘Despite the inexperience of our shooting party, we nevertheless managed to bag ourselves a few choice morsels for tomorrow night.’

  At this, the men began to mutter, an excited rumble that quickly grew in fervour as they began to speculate on the potential menu for the feast.

  ‘Rabbit,’ said Al Pacino, his hands pressed together in prayer. ‘Please let there be rabbit.’

  ‘We had wood pigeon last year,’ said Hopper. ‘A nice fat one.’

  Marshall once again shook the sack for silence. ‘All will be revealed in due course, though needless to say your unrefined palates are in for a treat. Especially once Rusty’s had his wicked way with our haul. However, all of this is nothing but an appetiser, an amuse-bouche if you will, when compared to the big, juicy bird our newest recruit is planning to fetch us… Isn’t that right, Adam?’

  Instantly I felt every eye on me, the men’s faces glowing with a mixture of envy and expectation. Unable to speak, I responded with a small but definite nod. The crowd exploded into a rapture of whoops and cheers.

  ‘Well then,’ he continued, leaning closer to me so as to be heard over the din. ‘Let’s go get ourselves a bird, shall we?’

  FOURTEEN

  I stood alone at the edge of the lake, peering out over the slate grey expanse. Though still light, the sun slunk low in the sky, causing dark, distended shadows to jut out at strange angles over the water. Behind me, I could hear a few of the men debating the legalities of the act I’d been chosen to perform.

  ‘It’s treason, whichever way you look at it,’ Hopper was saying. ‘We’ll all be up for the chop if anyone finds out.’

  ‘How do you work that one out?’ asked Butcher.

  ‘They’re Her Majesty’s, ain’t they. Every single one of ’em belong to her. So in other words, you’re vandalising sovereign property. Stealing too I wouldn’t wonder. In the eyes of the law that’s the same as bending the Duchess of Cambridge over the throne and slipping her your crown jewels. Either way, your head’s ending up in a bread basket.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Fingers. ‘They abolished that law years ago. Round the time they stopped dunking witches and burning Catholics at the stake. Christ, Hopper, how old are you? Besides, even if was true, so what? What have the royals ever done for us? Bunch of inbred, silver-spoon-sucking, tax-dodging perverts. If the people are starving, let them eat swan, I say. As far as I’m concerned the Queen can go fuck herself.’

  ‘Fuck the Queen!’ yelled someone else in support.

  The cry went up then: ‘Fuck-the-Queen, fuck-the-Queen, fuck-the-Queen…’

  I stared again at the two white birds gliding along the opposite side of the shore. Even from a distance they looked enormous, their necks like a pair of muscular arms reaching out of the water, their sharp beaks flashing hazard-sign orange – a warning to keep well away. In my hand I clutched the crude wooden spear Marshall had provided me with. Initially I’d asked for the gun, but this only provoked a derisory snort.

  ‘I’ve seen you with a bow, sunshine. You reckon I’d let you loose with this thing?’

  I felt a sharp nudge in my back. ‘Well?’ Marshall asked. ‘Are you going to go in there and get us some dinner? It’ll be dark soon and the men won’t wait for ever.’

  I looked past him at the assembled mob. There was something vaguely sinister about their enthusiasm, a palpable blood-lust stretched across each of their faces – though whether it was swan’s blood or mine they were after remained to be seen. Only Rusty seemed unmoved. He stood slightly off from the rest of the pack, his old face more creased than ever. I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t lift his head to meet my gaze.

  ‘Well?’ said Marshall again.

  I didn’t answer. Instead I hitched up my trouser legs, raised my spear, and waded into the lake.

  *

  The water was freezing, far colder than I remembered from my initiation several months earlier, and even with the early evening sun on my chest, it was almost too much to take. By the time I was halfway across, the water was up to my waist. My teeth chattered violently in my jaw and I could no longer feel my toes. Several times I nearly went under, a thick layer of mud sucking at my boots. With each slip I felt the crowd’s eyes burning into me. Without looking back, I willed myself on, deeper into the lake.

  As I inched closer to the birds, they began to grow uneasy. The one closest to me puffed out its feathers and aimed a furious hiss in my direction. Huddled together they looked vaguely comical, resembling a single, two-headed beast, something between an angel and a dinosaur. Still, even antagonised, they were astonishing things to behold, their albino plumage and elegant curves a marvel of evolution. It was hardly surprising the Queen had called them for her own.

  With less than twenty feet between us, I stopped dead, realising for the first time just how difficult a task I was facing. In my whole life, I’d never killed anything bigger than a housefly, and though I had no moral problem with the concept of meat, I was unsure about the practicalities of dispensing death, especially to a creature who, with the benefit of being able to float on the water, was able to look me square in the eye.

  As I inched forwards through the icy water, I thought back to Seventy-Seven Steps to Sterling Success, desperately trying to positively visualise the killing. It was hopeless. While I could easily imagine myself wading ashore, a successfully slaughtered swan slung triumphantly over my shoulder, the details eluded me. There was an established method to these procedures, that much I knew. Critical veins to sever. Organs to target. For instance, was a swan’s heart on the left or the right? Did a swan even have a heart? I clutched my spear ever tighter, hoping that when the time came I would be able to channel my inner caveman and tap into some long-dormant hunting instinct.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the men had crammed along the edge of the shore to get a better view of the action. Marshall was shouting something to me, and though his words warped in the wind, their meaning was clear enough. It was time to act.

  Dipping my hand below the water line, I reached into my jacket pocket and teased out a mass of gelatinous brown mush. Along with the spear, Marshall had given me a wedge of potato bread with which to lure the birds. With no better plan, I plucked off a chunk and tossed it in their direction. It landed with a fat plop beside them. The swan nearest to me – the one that had hissed – looked in the direction of the bread, and then back at me. It didn’t move. This wasn’t going to work. I took a deep breath and threw another piece. This time the swan took the bait. Its neck darted down and struck the surface of the water. As it straightened up, it tilted back its head and I watched the powerful muscles of its oesophagus force the bread down the thick white branch of its throat. I tore off another piece.

  Little by little the swan began to drift towards me, leaving its partner to watch from the safety of the bank as it followed the trail of breadcrumbs out into the open water. When it was just outside of arm’s reach, however, it stopped and eyed me warily. Up close, it looked even bigger. I held up the remains of the bread for it to see, extended my arm and then dropped it. The swan considered the bread with its brown-marble eyes. Still it didn’t move. It didn’t trust me.

  There was a faint sound behind me. I glanced aroun
d to see Marshall gesticulating wildly. He was miming something with one arm, using an invisible spear to stab an invisible swan. In contrast, the rest of the men remained perfectly still, perched on the edge of the bank. They were waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the violence they were certain was about to erupt. I turned back to face the bird. The bread still floated between us, bloated in the dark water.

  I raised my spear.

  The swan looked from me to the bread.

  From the bread to me.

  And then it pounced.

  I moved before I had time to think, plunging my spear into its side the moment it snatched at the bread. There was a sickening crunch as the spear penetrated a layer of feather and bone, a flash of dark red seeping through the pure white. And then the swan was rearing up at me, its wings fully extended as it honked and howled in rage. I braced myself as it attacked, beating out a violent rhythm on my chest, face and arms, the world around me a blur of water and pain. I held onto the spear as best I could, but it was hopeless. Even wounded, the bird was too strong for me, and with a sudden lurch I felt it break free. I held up the spear and saw it had snapped in two, the other end still protruding from the gash in the swan’s side. The bird seemed to pause, weighing up its odds, and for a moment I dared to hope it might have the sense to fly away. But then it was back on me, redoubling its efforts, its beak jabbing at my face, its wings beating so powerfully that I feared my arms would actually break.

  Terrified, I began to retreat, doing my best to protect my head with my hands. At that moment there was a crash of water behind me as the second swan decided to join its ailing partner. I tried to turn away, hurling myself in the direction of the shore, but it was no good. Within seconds I was overwhelmed.

  Both of them towered over me now, each blow of their wings like a hammer to my spine, until suddenly I was under the water, gasping for air while the swans thrashed above me, forcing me deeper and deeper into the lake, drowning me.