The Wilds (15 page)

By the time he got back to the house, just after nine PM, his mother was already up in bed. Karl thought that considering her fragile state this was probably for the best. He kicked off his shoes and lounged on the sofa. The TV had been left on, and he flicked through the channels with the remote control, never settling on a channel for more than a few seconds. His mind was going through too many things to allow him to concentrate on a program, but the constant flickering of the images on the screen served as a distraction from thoughts of what had likely happened to Phil.

He noticed on the coffee table there was one of the family photograph albums, one containing pictures from their childhood. He flicked through the album. It contained some good memories, pictures of Phil and him playing on the beach when Mum took them to Great Yarmouth when he was seven. Christmas 1991, when Mum had bought them a NES games console and the two of them had spent at least five days constantly playing Super Mario Bros.

There were other pictures, though, that summed up how he felt about his position in the family. There was a photo of Mum, Phil and him at a party. He had no idea what party; judging by the photograph he had been no older than five, making Phil around seven. In the photograph, Mum had her arm around Phil, kissing his cheek while he beamed a smile. Karl was stood next to them, looking at them with a sad expression on his face.

‘Always the outsider,’ he said to himself as he threw the album back onto the coffee table.

He was hungry, but couldn’t be bothered to make himself anything to eat, so he took three slices of bread and folded them together into a wedge. He washed this down with a can of cola from the fridge. It was the cheap stuff, not a name brand, and tasted like little more than fizzy, sweet water, but ice cold it was bearable.

He sat at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. He tried to make sense of the things that had happened, the things he had seen. Jason was a good guy, he had decided that already. Though he had his own motivation for trying to discover the truth, the reporter did seem to genuinely care about getting to the bottom of things for Karl’s benefit as well. Did Karl believe there was really a big cat out there? If you had asked him that morning he would have said no without a moment’s hesitation. Now, though, he wasn’t sure. Jason and Altman seemed very convincing, and he had seen things with his own eyes that supported the theory.

He was certain about one thing. Phil was dead. He was no longer looking to find his brother alive, he was looking for how he had died. Once more, he felt guilty that this realisation didn’t make him feel more upset. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t; he just felt numb to it.

He worried that his own resentment to the way that Phil had always been their mother's favourite was, somehow, making him care less about Phil’s fate. He loved his brother, but he had always felt pushed out by their mother. His agreeing to help Jason had been purely to give his mother answers. He had promised her he would find Phil, not for his sake, or for Phil’s even; he had merely wanted to please her.

She had never mistreated him, nor neglected him, nor had she ever denied him her love. It was just that he was not given as much as Phil. Her love had been given to Phil freely and unconditionally, whereas Karl always felt that he had to earn it.

When it was proven that Phil was gone for good she would crumble entirely. There would be nothing he could do to make things better. He supposed he would stay for a while, while she got over the worst of the grief, and then he would head back to London. Back to the job he hated, in the city that overwhelmed him.

Perhaps he should admit defeat and come home. His mother would need him, or at least he hoped she would. The thought of coming back here, though, filled him with the same apprehension as going back to London. He didn’t want to do either. It was time for something new. He would move closer to his mother, but not back to Darton. Maybe he got get a job in Lincoln. It wouldn’t pay as well as his current job, but then the cost of living up here would be much lower.

For the first time that day he felt optimistic, and with plans for his new life running through his mind he headed up to bed. He slept soundly.

The moonlight found it harder to penetrate the canopy of the woods. Tim was struggling to see as he stalked through the undergrowth. He wished he had brought a torch with him, but thought it would give his prey to much warning of his approach. There was more sound in the woods; the hoot of the owls were more frequent than they had been on the marsh. There was the sound of small creatures, stoats or weasels most likely, scampering through the brush at his feet. Every so often a tree would erupt with a flutter of activity as a roosting bird became disturbed by his presence. Each time this happened Tim felt as though he had a small heart attack. In fact, the first time he had nearly fired the shotgun into the tree. Luckily he had stopped himself.

The moonlight that did manage to get through the gaps overhead created a dappled light effect that played tricks on his eyes. Several times he thought he had seen movement, when it turned out to be nothing more than an illuminated fern blowing in the wind. The breeze was lighter in the woods than it had been on the marsh, but that was to be expected. Out there the wind came straight off the north seas, with nothing to dampen its force.

He was suddenly startled by a flutter of excitement from some trees. Leaves rustled, inhabitants squawked and a small band of rooks flew up into the night sky. The trees in question were not near Tim, they were up ahead of him. It had not been him that had worried the rooks into leaving. The beast was near.

Jason stepped out of the warmth of the pub into the cool wind of the evening. He pulled his jacket closed as he walked across towards his car. He had heard some of the local farmers say they were in for a bad winter, and if tonight was anything to go by he could quite believe it. Although he had learnt a long time ago, that the local farmers who insisted on making predictions about the weather, based on their long experiences of working the land, were usually so far wrong it was comical.

His mobile began to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw from the screen that it was Linda, calling from her home number. He pressed the button to accept the call and then spoke.

‘Hi, Linda,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Jason?’ said a gruff sounding male voice. He had been expecting to hear Linda so much that it took his mind a few seconds to register that it was her husband Joe.

‘Oh hi, Joe,’ he said, a little confused by the call. ‘What’s up?’

‘Sorry to bother you so late,’ Joe said. ‘Is Linda there?’

‘No I haven’t seen her since lunch,’ Jason said.

‘It’s just she hasn’t come home yet, and I thought you might be working late again.’

Now Jason was worried. Linda was not only his colleague, she was one of his few real friends in this town. He had sent her to take photographs of the crash site. What if something had happened to her out there?

‘I haven’t been in the office all afternoon,’ Jason explained. ‘I told her she could take the afternoon off, but perhaps something came up. I’ll swing by the office on my way home and see if she’s there. It’s probably nothing to worry about, but if she’s not there I think maybe you should call the police.’

‘Thank you, Jason,’ he said.

‘It’s okay, Joe,’ Jason replied. ‘If I find her, I’ll get her to call you.’

‘That would be great,’ Joe said, his tone still worried, but calmer than it had been.

‘No problem,’ Jason said. ‘Bye for now.’

He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. He prayed that something had come up back at the office, something that had detained Linda, and meant she had not taken the afternoon off. He hoped this was the case with all of his heart, but he doubted it. With there only being the two of them in the office at the moment, and him being the acting editor, if such a thing had happened she would have called him in to help her.

His heart sank as he remembered the pool of blood in the field on Maltham Lane. The Darton beast had been out there. What if it had come back, and he had sent Linda to its jaws? He had to find her, right now.

He raced across the car park to his car. He had his keys in his hand and used the fob to unlock the doors before he reached car. As he grabbed the handle to open the driver’s door, he felt someone grab him from behind and slam his body into his own car door. He was winded by the unexpected attack and let out a huff of breath on impact. His assailant spun him round. Jason was still disorientated, but knew his attacker instantly. He couldn’t believe his eyes, it was Pearce. His face was badly cut, four parallel lines gouged across it. The wounds had bled heavily, several were still weeping, and the front of the detectives suit was stained almost black with dried blood.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Jason shouted ‘What happened to your face?’

Pearce ignored the question. His face was contorted in a grimace of rage.

‘Jason Flynn, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder,’ Pearce said.

‘What?’ Jason said, trying to piece together what was happening. ‘Are you fucking mental?’

Jason broke away from Pearce’s grip, he used both hands to shove the older man away from him. Rage filled Pearce’s eyes as he pulled back his fist. He was quick, too quick for Jason, the punch connected with his jaw. Pain spread like liquid fire through the side of his face. He felt all the years of anger and disgust he had harboured towards Pearce flood into his mind, then channel itself down his arm into his own balled up fist. He swung the punch and it planted his fist in the middle of Pearce’s already wounded face. The detective howled in pain and doubled over.

Jason, who had not hit another human being since he was in school, felt suddenly guilty. Pearce was obviously already wounded, and he had gone and hit him in exactly that spot. He put his hand out to place it on Pearce’s back.

‘Jon, I’m sor…’ He didn’t have time to finish the sentence before Pearce shot up, thrusting his fist into Jason’s stomach. Jason felt his body fold in half as the air was driven from his lungs.

Pearce lifted Jason up and pushed him back against the car.

‘You left a shirt covered in the victim’s blood at the scene. You stole evidence from my car, leaving your fingerprints all over the place. Tell me, Mr Ace Reporter, don’t you think that’s enough evidence for me to take you in?’

‘How did you know I took the files from your car?’ Jason asked, still trying to catch his breath.

‘You left them all over your backseat,’ Pearce said.

‘Is this just because I stopped you getting that promotion, or do you just hate me because of my dad?’

‘Fucking hell, Jason,’ Pearce shouted. ‘I had nothing to do with what happened to your dad. I was still in uniform, I was just following orders, and you’ve been blaming for his death ever since.’

‘So you’re going to frame me for a murder you know I had fuck all to do with? I suppose I did that to your face, too?’ Jason said.

‘I didn’t see who attacked me,’ Pearce said. ‘Given all of the evidence, though, it stands to reason it was you, yes.’

Jason couldn’t believe his ears.

‘You honestly believe that you stupid wanker?’ he said.

Pearce smiled and shook his head.

‘It doesn’t matter if I believe it,’ he said. ‘What matters is if I can prove it.’

Jason had to get away. Pearce had finally lost it, there was no way of telling what he was capable of. Jason had to find Linda, that was his priority.

He lunged forward and head butted Pearce. The detective staggered backwards. but as he did his hand reached down to his side and pulled the gun from its holster. Pearce lifted it, aiming it at Jason.

‘You’re going to shoot me now?’ Jason said in utter disbelief.

‘I might, you’re resisting arrest,’ Pearce said calmly.

‘I knew you were a vicious bastard, but I didn’t have you pegged for a murderer, Jon. Maybe I never really knew you at all.’

Something about this made Pearce think about what he was doing. He lowered the gun.

‘You’re coming to the station with me Jason,’ he said, re-holstering the gun. ‘No arguments.’

Jason nodded. He knew that he needed to find Linda, but there was no way of telling what Pearce would do if he made another break for it. It was best to play along.

Tim neared the group of trees from which the rooks had scattered. He held the gun up, the stock nestled against his shoulder and his finger hovering over the trigger. He walked slowly, legs bent in a crouched position, trying to keep himself as low to the ground as possible. He hoped that the undergrowth would help to conceal his approach, but knew that in all probability the animal would already be aware of his presence. The big cat would have a far superior sense of smell and hearing and would be able to see more clearly in the dark than he; that was its advantage. Tim was human, therefore capable of much greater logic than the beast would be. This, along with the shotgun, were what leveled the playing field.

The breeze had died down to nothing, and amongst the trees the air seemed perfectly still. The sounds of the woods had ceased as well. It was as though nature knew of this epic confrontation between man and beast and had silenced itself in order to let it play out undisturbed.

Tim was painfully aware of his own breathing. It was always the same; when you are trying to be quiet your body betrays you. He could also hear his own heartbeat racing in his ears. Every nerve and fibre of his being was aware, electrified as his brain pumped adrenaline around his system.

He scanned the tree line for movement, for some hint of the creatures presence. There was nothing, no evidence at all, but he knew it was there. On some base, primal level, Tim knew with certainty that the animal was watching him. The same sixth sense that had protected our species in its historical infancy was still there, hidden beneath centuries of evolution and technological advances, but there. Taken away from our comfort zone, placed into the right situation and it came flooding back.

Tim spun around, gun raised to aim as he heard a rustling sound behind him. He looked into the bushes for movement. There was none. His pulse raced faster as he span around looking for the cause of the sound.

The sound came again, rustling like moving leaves. This time, though, the sound was accompanied by another, a low growl. It was a sound like nothing he had heard before.

Tim felt the fear in the pit of his stomach, as though his insides were dropping away into an endless chasm. Then to his right, he saw it from the corner of his eye. Not the creature, but movement in the brush. It was enough for him to aim at. He turned to face the spot ready to shoot. His finger squeezed the trigger and the hammer clapped down. The end of the barrel erupted in fiery light, and thunderous bang shattered the silence of the wood.

Every tree in the little copse seemed to spew out birds of many species, all fleeing in a cacophony of squawks, hoots and thrashing of wings. It was as deafening as gunshot itself. It hindered Tim’s senses, the beast now had the advantage. Quickly, Tim crossed his finger over to the second trigger.

He never got the chance to fire a second shot. It emerged from the bushes behind him with a roar. Tim saw it as it leapt through the air towards him, mouth open, razor sharp teeth glinting in the moon light. Tim had been so obsessed with finding the creature, what he saw terrified him beyond all reason. He felt his bladder release as his final moment stretched into a near infinite amount of time. The pain as this monster landed on him, its jaws clamping on his throat, and its claws digging into his flesh, was unbearable. The only comfort was that it was short lived. Death came swiftly for Tim Lovecott, and as the last vestige of his mind slipped away he had one final thought. He would soon be with Julie once more.

Malc had lived in Darton his whole life, all sixty-eight years. In that time he had walked, rode a bike, or driven down every road, lane, path and track in a five mile radius of town. When sober you could blindfold him, take him to any point in that area and he would instantly know where he was and how to get home. However, when drunk he could manage to get lost in his own house. So many nights he had found himself wandering some part of town, or some country lane, with absolutely no idea of where he was or how to get where he was going.

That night was no different. He should have turned right when he walked over the level crossing, this would have taken him down Grantham Road, which he could have followed to King Street where he lived. That night, for reasons that only the whiskey knew, Malc had turned left at the level crossing, past the Cray Arms Hotel, and the Aldi store, and found himself wandering aimlessly down Maltham Lane. As the street lights and houses became a distant memory, he kept going without questioning his destination.

It was only when he heard the gunshot that he became aware that he was not where he should be. He watched as endless flocks of birds scattered in all directions.

‘What the bloody hell?’ he said to himself.

Having lived in the country all his years, he knew the difference in sound between a cartridge fired from a bird scarer and one fired from a gun. This sound had definitely been the latter.

‘Bloody poachers,’ he said and started to look around to see where he was. He couldn’t make out any landmarks in front or to the sides of him, he turned around and looked back the way he had come. At first he saw nothing that told him of his location. There were lights a few miles back down the road. He squinted to try and sharpen his whiskey blurred vision and spotted the looming shadow of the old Maltings.

‘Ahh shit!’ he shouted to himself as he realised how far from home he had wandered. He knew it would take him at least another hour to get back to his house from there.

He was about to start walking back in the direction he had come when the screaming started. It was as if someone was being murdered. They were howling in agony. Malc tried to discern from where the sound originated. It was coming from the woods, the same place the birds had scattered from, and the same place someone had fired a gun.

He suddenly thought that perhaps someone had been shot, or maybe they were being murdered. A part of him wanted to rush into the woods and help. Another part, though, was afraid. There was no telling what was happening in those woods. He had lived here long enough to know that sometimes strange things happened in Darton, and it was best not to get involved. Besides, he was a drunk old man who weighed eleven stone soaking wet, what use would he be? He would only wind up getting himself killed.

It would be best if he got home as quickly as possible. Then he could call the police, it might be too late by then, but what else could he do?

The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had begun. It was followed by a silence that seemed far more terrifying to Malc. The screaming had been of someone in terrible pain. The kind of pain that doesn’t just go away in an instant. How abruptly the sound had ended told Malc that whoever had been screaming was now dead.

He felt guilty that he had not tried to help, but there was nothing he could have done. Maybe if he had made a noise he could have stopped whatever was happening.

He looked back at the woods and saw something running towards him. He couldn’t make out what it was. His vision was still blurred, even if his mind had sobered up. It was a large dark shape, low to the ground, a large dog perhaps. It kept disappearing, obscured by the long grass of the field. Each time it reemerged it was closer to him. He stood there watching it, hoping he would be able to make out what it was, until he saw that whatever it was, it was heading straight towards him.

Flynn’s monster. He had made fun of the reporter, just that night, for his belief in some kind of wild animal roaming the countryside around Darton, but he knew now that Flynn was right. Malc was looking at the Darton beast, and it was approaching him rapidly.

‘Oh fuck, no!’ Malc said as he set off running.

Malc was sixty-eight years old, but a lifetime of working the land had left him fit enough to run for some distance still. However, his drunkenness betrayed him. He ran into a pothole. His ankle gave way; he felt the snap of the tendon as it bent the wrong way. A lightning bolt of white hot pain shot up from his foot to his brain. He flew into the air and almost managed a full somersault before his body thudded into the tarmac of the road.

Fit or not, his bones were still sixty-eight years old, and the force of the impact shattered his hip. He howled in pain. The creature, far worse than Flynn had imagined, approached him. It stood over Malc’s crumpled body and looked at him with a mix of intrigue and pity.

He thought it might leave him alone. Perhaps it saw that he was no threat to it? Perhaps it saw he was wounded? Perhaps it would spare his life? Malc promised the God he had not spoken to in forty-nine years that if he let him live he would give up the booze, he would help people, he would go to church every week, every day if that’s what it took. God didn’t answer, the creature did. It darted forward and ripped out Malc’s throat with its jagged teeth. It was quick, but far from painless.

Ben Lindley had left the pub and headed back to the little one bedroom apartment he rented in Glenley, the small village on the outskirts of Darton that was pretty much made up of a vast housing estate.

He packed a few cases of clothes and toiletries and then packed them into his car. He had decided to take a trip down south to visit some old friends from his training days. Perhaps some of them would have some advice on how to deal with Pearce. He had thought about calling Holly Booth, as they had gone to school together. Ben thought she might be able to offer him some help, but then he decided against that. Holly was very close to Pearce, and although he had seen her question him about his actions on occasion, he was not sure exactly where her loyalty would lie.

He drove from Glenley into Darton. He didn’t need to. The bypass that Glenley was situated on would lead to the A15 and take him to Peterborough, where he could take the A1 south, but he needed to get some fuel, some smokes and some cash.

He drove to the Tesco superstore and got everything he needed from the petrol station there. From there the quickest way to Peterbourough would be to follow Maltham Lane, cross the A52 and then through the villages and pick the A15 up near Bourne.

If he had known what was going to happen, he would have chosen to go the longer way around. He would have risked that extra half an hour on the road. He didn’t, though; he drove out of town on Maltham Lane.

He was about halfway to the A52 when his headlights illuminated someone walking down the side of the road, slowly. They were dragging something heavy behind them. As he got closer he saw that the figure was an old woman. The sack she was dragging looked almost double her size.

Ben slowed down and looked at the clock on his dash board. It was nearly midnight. There was something very odd about this. He pulled up at the side of the old woman and her saw it was a face from his childhood, Vera Pritchard.

‘Everything okay, Mrs Pritchard?’ he said as he rolled down the window.

She looked at him and smiled.

‘Oh hello, Ben, dear,’ she said. Mrs Pritchard had volunteered at the primary school that Ben had attended and he had learned a long time ago that she never forgot a face.

‘Yes everything’s fine,’ she continued. ‘Just heading home now.’

Ben thought that perhaps the old girl had finally lost her marbles. She seemed completely unaware of the bizarre nature of what she was doing.

‘Oh right,’ Ben said. ‘What’s in the sack Mrs P?’

Mrs Pritchard sighed loudly and let go of the sack.

‘Alright, Constable, you caught me red handed,’ she held her hands out in front of her. ‘You better get the cuffs.’

Ben was puzzled.

‘What are you talking about?’ he said.

‘In the sack,’ she said. ‘It’s a deer. I found it out on a walk. It had been hit by a car, but it was very fresh. So I thought I would take it home and make some pies out of it.’

Ben laughed, although he was a little disgusted by the idea of eating road kill.

‘Doesn’t that class as poaching?’ Mrs Pritchard asked.

‘Only if it’s your car that hit it,’ Ben replied. ‘If you just happen upon it already dead, it’s fair game.’

‘Oh well, that’s good to know,’ Mrs Pritchard chuckled.

‘It looks heavy, though,’ Ben said. ‘Do you want a lift home with it?’

‘Oh no, it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to be a bother,’ she replied.

Ben got out of the car and opened his boot.

‘It’s no bother, I’ve got room in the boot,’ he said walking over to her. ‘I’d feel better knowing you got home safe.’

‘Well if you’re sure,’ she said.

They lifted the sack into the boot. It was heavy, Ben guessed at least ten stone, how the old girl had managed to drag it around at all amazed him, though he knew from experience that some of these farm women had strength that would put a bodybuilder to shame. It was, after all, a hard life that often required great strength and resolve.

As they drove the short distance to the Pritchard farm Mrs P. wanted to hear all of the latest news about Ben’s life. He told her that work was going well, not wanting to mention his current difficulties, and that he was just taking a little holiday to catch up with some old friends. She seemed less eager to talk about her own life, brushing off his questions with short, vague answers. Ben supposed this was down to her age, he guessed that she no longer did much of anything.

He pulled into the courtyard outside the farmhouse.

‘Thank you so much, Ben dear,’ Mrs Pritchard said as she got out of the car. ‘I’ll just go and unlock the door then I’ll come back for my deer.’

‘I’ll get that for you,’ Ben said.

‘Oh no, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘I can manage it from here, you’ve been enough of a help.’

She walked over to the house. There was no way that Ben was going to let her struggle to get it out of the car and drag it up to the house. He got out and opened the boot. He started to lift the sack. It was much heavier lifting it on his own, how the old lady thought she would be able do this on her own he had no idea. He pulled the sack out of the boot with great effort. Something dropped out and fell on the floor at his feet. He looked down and was confused to see a brown, man’s shoe. He set the sack down on the ground and picked up the shoe. At first he thought it could be one of his own that had been in the boot and he had picked it up with the sack. However he had never owned a shoe like that, and it was too small by three sizes.