The Tenderness of Wolves (50 page)

Cursing because Parker got away?

Footsteps outside; very near. I grip the handle of the knife as tightly as my numb fingers can manage; I’m poised behind the door, ready …

When he kicks the door in, it’s very simple. It slams into my forehead, knocking me over, and I drop the knife.

For a moment nothing else happens; perhaps because his eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. Then he sees me grovelling on the floor at his feet. I scrabble for the knife; by some miracle it has fallen underneath me, and I seize it by the blade and manage to get it into my pocket before he grabs my other arm and jerks me roughly to my feet. Then he pushes me, in front of him, out of the door.

When Donald hears the shot, he starts to run. He knows this is probably not the wisest thing to do, but somehow, perhaps because he is a tall man, the message doesn’t get to his feet in time. He is aware of Alec hissing something behind him, but not what it is he says.

He is near the end of the lake; the noise came from the trees on the far shore. He keeps thinking, they were right. They were right–and now Half Man is killing them. He knows he is extremely, foolishly, visible, a running figure against the ice, but he knows also that Stewart would not shoot him. Some simple solution can be reached; they can talk, like two reasonable men both in the employ of the great Company. Stewart is a reasonable man.

‘Stewart!’ he shouts as he runs. ‘Stewart! Wait!’

He doesn’t know what else he is going to say. He thinks of Mrs Ross–bleeding to death, perhaps. And how he did not save her.

He has almost reached the trees at the foot of a large hillock when there is a movement up ahead. The first sign of life he has seen.

‘Don’t shoot, please. It is I, Moody … Don’t shoot …’ He is holding his rifle by the barrel, waving it to show his peaceful intentions.

There is a flash of light from under the trees, and something strikes him with tremendous force in the midriff, knocking him over backwards. The branch, or whatever it
was he ran into, seemed to hit him just over his scar, not helping matters.

Winded, he tries to get up, but can’t, so he lies for a few moments, trying to get his breath. His spectacles have fallen off; really they are not the thing for Canada, always frosting or steaming up at the wrong moments, and now … he gropes around him in the snow for them, encounters nothing but coldness everywhere. Surely someone could think of something more convenient.

Eventually he finds the rifle, and picks it up. At this point, because the stock is slippery and warm, he becomes aware of the blood. Raising his head with a great effort, he sees blood on his coat. He is annoyed; in fact, he is furious. What a bloody fool he is, charging into trouble like that. Now Alec will be in danger too, and it is all his fault. He thinks of calling out to the boy, but something, some greater sense from somewhere, stops him. He concentrates on getting the rifle into position; at least he can fire a shot, not roll over and die without a murmur. He will not be entirely useless; what would his father say?

But there is silence, as though he is, once again, the only person for miles around. He will have to wait until he can see something. Well, the person who fired, whoever it was, obviously doesn’t think he needs to come and finish off the job. Fool.

Then, at some later point, he looks up and sees a face above him. It is a face he distantly remembers from Hanover House; the face of a drunk, impassive and empty, closed somehow, like the stone that blocks a burrow. It is not drunken now, but there is no curiosity or fear, nor even triumph, there. It is the face, he realises, of Laurent Jammet’s killer. The man whose footprints in the snow have drawn them all here. It is what he came for–to know him, and to find him. And now he has. And it is too late. Typical, thinks Donald, for him to be so slow on the uptake, just like
his father always said. And with a rush of heat to his eyes he thinks, Oh, to hear my father’s voice chastising me now.

Donald starts to think it would be a good idea to aim the rifle at the face, but by the time he’s thought it, the face has gone again, and his rifle has gone too. He is so tired. Tired and cold. Perhaps he will just lay his head back on the soft snow; rest a while.

Outside the cabin, I can see no one, not even Stewart, who holds my left arm twisted so tight behind my back I can only take shallow breaths for fear my shoulder will come out of its socket. No sign, at least, of Parker lying wounded, or worse, in the snow. No sign of Half Man, if that is who it is. Stewart brandishes his rifle in front of me. I am his shield. There is some movement, but all behind the cabin; a sound–inconclusive. He inches me towards the end wall, to where the sun is starting to burn the horizon. Of course, I have no scarf to protect my eyes. And my hands are bare.

‘Careless,’ he says, as though reading my mind. ‘And your eyes too. He shouldn’t have brought you here.’ He sounds mildly disappointed.

‘He didn’t bring me,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘When you had Jammet killed, you brought me.’

‘Really? Well, well, I had no idea. I thought you and Parker …’

It hurts to talk, but it pours out of me; I am molten with anger. ‘You have no idea how many people you have hurt. Not just the ones you killed, but …’

‘Shut up,’ he says calmly. He is listening. A crackle in the trees. From far to our left, there is a deafening crack–a rifle. It sounds different from before.

‘Parker!’

I can’t help it. A split second later I could bite my tongue off; I don’t want him to think it is a cry for help and come running.

‘I’m all right!’ I shout with my next breath. ‘Please don’t shoot. He’ll do a deal. We’ll go away. Just let us go, please …’

‘Shut up!’

Stewart puts a hand over my mouth, squeezing it so tight it feels as though his fingers will break my jaw. We move like some ungainly four-legged creature to the end of the cabin, but again there is no one in sight.

Another shot splits the silence in two–to our left, beyond the cabin now. And after it, this time, a noise. A human moan.

I gasp, the breath catching in my throat like tar.

Stewart shouts in a strange language. A command? A question? If Half Man is listening he does not answer. Stewart shouts again, the pitch of his voice taut, his head whipping back and forth, unsure of himself. Now I have to act, I tell myself; now while he is uncertain. He lets go his grip on my mouth so that he can point the rifle one-handed. I grasp the knife in my pocket, working it round until the handle is snug in my palm. I start to pull it out, inch by inch.

And then a voice comes from somewhere in the trees, but surely not the voice of Half Man. A young voice answers, in the same language. Stewart is disconcerted; he doesn’t know the voice. This is not part of his plan. I swing the knife across my body and into his side, as hard as I can. Although at the last moment he seems to realise what is happening and flinches away, the blade meets yielding resistance, and he howls with pain. I have a glimpse of his face, and his eyes catch mine–they are reproachful, bluer than sky; but he seems to have a half-smile on his face, even as he swings the rifle towards me.

I run. Another rifle crack, deafening me, somewhere very close, but I feel nothing.

Alec watches Donald run across the frozen lake, despite his shouts, and then his curses. He shouts to him to stop, but he does not stop. Alec feels an ugly fear clutch at his insides, is afraid he might vomit, and so turns away. Then he tells himself not to be a baby; he must do as his father would have done, and sets off after him.

Alec is a hundred yards behind when the flash comes–he would later swear he heard nothing–and Donald falls. Alec throws himself down behind some reeds that poke through the ice. He holds George’s rifle cocked in front of him, grinding his teeth in his anger and his fear. They shouldn’t have shot Donald. Donald was kind to his mother. Donald told him about his beautiful, clever aunts who live on a huge lake like the sea. Donald hurt no one.

His breath hisses through his teeth, too loud. He scans the trees–they have the advantage of cover–then gets up and runs, half crying, bent double; throws himself flat in the snow and crawls to the top of a hummock to look. He has reached the first of the trees, and it is possible they haven’t seen him. Up ahead, there is another rifle shot, and then silence. He couldn’t see the flash. It was not aimed at him. He darts from one tree trunk to the next, pausing, looking right and left, everywhere. His breathing sounds like sobbing; is so loud it must give him away. He thinks of the others–the white lady and the tall man–to give himself courage.

This rifle is heavier than the one he is used to, the barrel longer. It is a good rifle, but he has had little practice. He knows he will have to get close to have a chance. He works his way closer to the source of the shot. To his right there is the hump of rock that interrupts the smooth flow of the lake, and ahead, among the trees, he glimpses a building of some sort. A little closer, and he sees two figures outside it–the man who killed his father hiding behind the white lady.

‘They don’t know I’m here,’ he tells himself, so he will be brave.

Stewart’s voice, shouting out in Cree: ‘Half Man? What was that?’

Silence.

‘Half Man? Answer me–if you can.’

No answer. Alec moves forward from tree to tree, until he is fifty feet away, his body protected by the trunk of a spruce. He raises the rifle and sights it. He wishes he were closer, but doesn’t dare move. Stewart calls out, impatient, but Half Man does not answer him. And so Alec answers, from his hiding place, in his father’s tongue.

‘Your man is dead, murderer.’

Stewart whips round, seeking him, and then something happens: the lady lunges at him and breaks away; Stewart emits a howl like a fox, and takes his rifle to the only target he can see–her. Alec holds his breath; he has one chance to save her, they are so close. He squeezes the trigger; there is an almighty kick and a cloud of smoke engulfs the barrel.

One shot. One shot only.

He steps forward, cautious in case Half Man is hiding somewhere, waiting. As the smoke disperses, the clearing in front of the cabin seems to be empty. He reloads the gun and waits, then darts to a nearer shelter.

Stewart is lying in the clearing, spread-eagled, with one arm flung over his head as though reaching for something he wanted. One side of his face is gone. Alec drops to his
knees and vomits. And that is where Parker and the woman find him.

I am so relieved to see Parker behind the cabin that I throw my arms round him for a moment, without thinking or caring. There is the briefest answering pressure and, though his face doesn’t change, his voice is rough.

‘Are you all right?’

I nod.

‘Stewart …’

I glance behind me, and Parker goes to the corner and peers round. Then he steps out; no danger. I follow him, and see a body lying in the middle of the clearing. It is Stewart–I recognise the brown coat; there is nothing else to recognise. A few yards away, a young boy kneels in the snow like a statue. I think I am hallucinating, and then I recognise Elizabeth Bird’s eldest son.

He looks up at us, and says one word: ‘Donald.’

We find Moody alive, but fading. He has been shot in the stomach, and has bled too much. I tear off strips of skirt to staunch the wound, and make a pillow for his head, but there is not much we can do with the bullet still in him. I kneel beside him and rub his hands, which are freezing cold.

‘You’re going to be all right, Mr Moody. We got them. We know the truth. Stewart shot Nepapanees in the back and buried him in the woods.’

‘Mrs Ross …’

‘Shh. Don’t worry. We’ll look after you.’

‘So glad you are … all right.’

He smiles weakly, trying, even now, to be polite.

‘Donald … you’re going to be all right.’ I’m trying to smile, but all I can think is, he is only a few years older than Francis, and I was never very nice to him. ‘Parker is making you some tea, and … we’ll take you back to the post; we’ll look after you. I’ll look after you …’

‘You’ve changed,’ he accuses me, which I suppose is hardly surprising, since my hair is loose and wild, my eyes weep without cease, and a large lump has risen on my forehead.

Suddenly he grips my hand with surprising strength. ‘I want you to do something for me …’

‘Yes?’

‘I have discovered … something extraordinary.’

His breath is getting horribly short. His eyes, without his spectacles, are grey and distant, wandering. I notice the spectacles on the ground near my foot and pick them up.

‘Here …’ I try to put them on for him, but he moves his head slightly, pushing them away. ‘Better … without.’

‘All right. You’ve discovered … what?’

‘Something extraordinary.’ He smiles slightly, happily.

‘What? You mean Stewart and the furs?’

He frowns, surprised. His voice is fainter, as though it’s leaving him. ‘Not what I meant at all. I … love.’

I lean nearer and nearer, until my ear is an inch from his mouth.

The words fade away.

Mrs Ross leaning over him sways like a reed in the wind. Donald can’t get over how she has changed–her face, even half-hidden by her hair, is softer, kinder; and her eyes shine, all dazzling colour like bright water, as though the pupils have contracted to nothing.

He stops himself from saying the name ‘Maria’. Maybe, he thinks, it is better that she doesn’t know. That she doesn’t have that tug of loss, of regret, of possibility snuffed out, always nagging at the back of her mind.

But now, in front of Donald a tunnel opens up, an immensely long tunnel, and it is like looking down the wrong end of a telescope, through which everything is very tiny, but very sharp.

A tunnel of years.

He looks on with astonishment: through the tunnel he sees the life he would have had with Maria: their marriage, their children, their quarrels, their petty disagreements. The arguments about his career. The moving to the city. The touch of her flesh.

The way he would smooth out the little crease in her forehead with his thumb. Her taking him to task. Her smile.