by Neil Mach
‘Ooh! Nice and soft,’ he said, ‘Like your hair.’ Then he did something she found offensive. He sniffed her head.
‘Gross,’ she said.
‘Yum,’ he replied. ‘I love your odor.’
‘Idiot,’ she shouted. ‘You’re bloody senseless. Get off me. Let me go.’
Jimmie slanted his body and raised his palms.
The car park barrier lifted, so she made a break for it. With a heave, she dashed through the gap.
‘See you later, alligator,’ Jimmie shouted.
‘Stupid prat,’ she muttered under her breath.
*
Attack in the Night
‘Ssshh! What was that?’
Ascension wavered in his arms.
What about the dogs? Why haven’t they reacted?
Then again. A tiny crunch followed by a crack. Perhaps it was nothing. But maybe it was a twig that fractured underfoot. He moved his lips close to his sweetheart’s ears. ‘Hey, baby,’ he breathed. He rubbed his palms along her lower ribs to get a response. She remained snug.
‘Wake...’ he hissed.
Eventually, she stirred. ‘What is it?’ She twisted her neck for a kiss, then lifted elegant fingers to caress his chin.
‘Shush! It’s time to leave.’
‘Oh rot,’ she said. ‘Must we?’
‘This is not a drill. Very softly now,’ he explained, ‘Noiselessly like we practiced.’
He deftly pushed the latch on the side window above their mattress, then thrust the vent open to maximum, so they could both squeeze through the gap. And yet it was not easy, even though they had rehearsed the procedure over-and-over till they got it right.
Ascension went first, her glossy-slippy nightgown and long thin limbs made the undertaking easy. He knew he would struggle through the thin vent but went after. Although he was wiry and slim, he had large chest muscles, strong shoulders, and well-defined arms. The opening was a squash. He had to perch one toe on the bedding then distort his shoulder clockwise to get the bulk of his muscular frame through the opening, head-first. Then he had to thrash and flounder, like a king lizard, until the rest of his body slithered out of the trailer —it made one helluva racket.
He half-landed, half-crashed on the dew outside the trailer. There was no sign of Ascension. Good! That meant she’d run towards the spinney just as they rehearsed. The clump of small trees was perhaps twenty metres to his right. He couldn’t see her shape but guessed she lay prone, as instructed.
For a fraction of a second, he hesitated. He was curious to know who or what had made the noise, and how many there were, and whether they were armed or not. Why had his security cameras not picked them up? Why had his dogs not barked? He knew the best thing would be to join his wife in the thicket… that was the most sensible next move, but he was always distracted by an inquisitive nature.
Just as he started to move, he heard the first shot.
Crack, boom!
No doubt about it, the noise was made by a shotgun — a firearm had been discharged at short range. One barrel.
Then the other barrel — crack, boom!
Now the shooter had to break the gun to eject the cartridges and reload — therefore it gave Moondog time to act if he decided. He chose to chance a stealthy look around the corner of the trailer to see what the fella had aimed his shot at.
He peeked around the corner of the van and saw two figures in the clearing; one carried a shotgun. The other held an axe over a shoulder and an oblong fuel can in his hand. The night-sky was moonless, and the overhanging branches created long shadows, but he kept a close-eye on the man with the gun. He watched as the man started to approach their terrier, his treasured dog, their pet named Sam. The dog was leashed to a peg roughly fifteen metres from the trailer.
Pop, pop! The gun was reloaded. Then the shocking truth hit home... he realized what the gunman had done to Jackie the foxhound, out on the perimeter, and guessed the gunman was about to do it again.
‘No,’ he shouted. ‘No, no, no. Not my darling Sam...’ But even as he yelled, the taller of the two unwelcome strangers pulled the gun-barrel up neck height and aimed the kill-end towards the tethered animal.
Moondog knew he had moments to save his pet. He stood upright and emerged from his hiding place and ran towards them both, hollering like a madman. The impending approach of the dog’s owner didn’t deter the baddun’ from firing his gun. There was another spine-chilling crack then a thunderous boom. The gunshot echoed around the woodland, then died in the night air. Sam, the terrier, died with it. Blown to pieces.
‘Want some yourself, do you?’ shouted the man with the gun. His associate, the man with the axe, bared his teeth and gave a wry grin of amusement.
He did not dare look at the remains of his dog; instead, he focused on the gaze of the killer. He couldn’t make out the man clearly, not in the dim light anyhow, but that meant they couldn’t see him. If the gunman let off a shot, even at eight metres, there’d be a good chance he’d miss the target. Moondog calculated it was best to run the triggerman down right then if he wanted to defeat him.
He started to charge at the man, and when he got within kill-range, Moondog’s instinct told him it was time to change course, so he dived left. He tumbled into leaf litter and executed a perfect forward roll just as a second boom echoed around the wood. That provided a brief opportunity to come back into an attacking stance. He knew the man would be forced to look at his shotgun, to fumble for cartridges and crack-open the gin, so it allowed a moment to strike. Moondog rose full height and grabbed the wooden stock from the man’s grip, then he pushed it away from himself and into the face of the attacker. He heard a scream from the aggressor as his nasal bones shattered and the bridge of his nose caved in. Then he made two quick jabs to the man’s throat, and the dog-killer went down.
But not before Moondog felt a heavy and forceful instrument hit him viciously in the spine. He experienced a furious, lacerating pain that ripped his flesh and shot down his back to almost take away his legs. But he managed to spin on his heel and regain a fighting position. He saw the other man brandishing the axe. He held it aloft as if about to throw it... but he didn’t. He aimed for Moondog’s head, going for a kill-strike.
To avoid the fatal blow, Moondog went for a foot-sweep, executed low, aimed just below the axeman’s right ankle. The strike was designed to put the man onto his back and was easier than a roundhouse kick — even so, there was little time to prepare either strike because space between them was limited.
The man was heavy, but the strike proved effective. The man hesitated and dropped the axe but didn’t fall right away — although his legs buckled under him. Then his weight distribution changed, and he became vulnerable. It was the best time to hook-punch him out.
But, as Moondog prepared the best hook-punch he could manage, he felt his lower legs being dragged from behind. The first man had recovered sufficiently to come back into the fight. He had somehow managed to grab Moondog’s ankles. He pulled at them with all his might.
Moondog lunged at the big man, connecting with muscle tissue as he twisted his upper body, to free his legs from the other’s grip. He could hear the bigger of the two men wheezing, and the man on the floor started to gasp. Moondog needed a moment to breathe as well, so he allowed himself a brief time-out to consider his next move. That’s when he heard a shout from the other side of the trailer.
‘Lookie here,’ said a third man.
Hell fire. There’s another one? Moondog supposed there were only two. How did this other fella get alongside his trailer without being noticed?
‘Lookie what I got...’ shouted the new interloper. He manhandled something large into the clearing — although, due to the shade, Moondog couldn’t make out the shape at first. He rubbed his eyes, to make sense of what he saw. Then, with a dull thump in his chest, he realized what the bundle must be. It was the body of his precious lady. His wife, Ascension. The man pulled the limp body into the glade, dragged
by her long hair through the dust.
‘She ain’t slain. She’s a bit concussed. I found her loitering in them woods and… I’ll give her this… she put up a good fight. She’s a spirited vixen that one. If you wanna save your lady, though, you better yield now, do you understand?’
Moondog had been beaten. The fire in his back, caused by the axe-strike, felt nasty. He could sense the blood trickle down his inner leg like tomato soup. He couldn’t move his ankles either, because they were still held secure by his attacker behind.
‘Let’s finish them...’ shouted the biggest man.
‘No — are you mad? That’s not our instruction. We’ll do what we came for. Nothing more, nothing less,’ said the rogue who had dragged his wife into the clearing. ‘Get him on his knees... so he can watch.’
Then Moondog felt the full weight of the man behind, as he was pushed down by his shoulders. So, he crumpled onto his knees and into a submissive posture.
‘Watch him careful, though. He’s an artful one, this ‘un.’
The other man grabbed the axe again and went to stand close-by. The man in charge pushed Ascension into position. She’d been knocked unconscious in the fight. She had probably received a whack in the face. Even in the dark, Moondog could see a huge bruise mark on her cheek and a long scratch mark on the man’s arms.
‘Where’s the jerry can?’ asked the nasty son of a bitch who seemed to be running things.
‘Where I dropped it...’ replied the big man.
‘Well point it out… I can’t see a damned thing.’
The man in charge grabbed the axe from the other and went to retrieve the can. He paced over to their trailer and tried to smash a window with the axe head. But the window was made of plastic, so it didn’t break at first. He tried again, and this time the window cracked and splintered. He twisted the top away from the can and allowed the liquid to fall into their van, onto the soft bunks. After that, he lit a match, then held it to watch it flicker, before he flung the lighted match into the trailer.
They waited and watched the holy hell. The golden flames jumped quickly and greedily spread in the dark. Then the main guy approached Moondog and pulled the axe from the other one’s grasp. ‘You’d better thank holy-moly that I didn’t put you in that trailer first… you half-breed scum...’
Moondog spat on the floor, to demonstrate his resentment and enmity.
‘Now, that ain’t friendly...’ said the man in charge. ‘It ain’t polite neither.’ He pulled the axe-head high and swung it with deliberate force at Moondog’s face, shoulder-edge first. The lug hit him just below the ear.
It was the last thing he remembered from the night.
A Trip to Wailing Wood
Moondog’s eyes flashed like gemstones when he heard her pitch. The mature woman from the television company told him their new goal was to get film-footage of a hellhound. Now that was utterly ridiculous.
‘They’ve come up with a notion that they can secure video proof of a beast…’ she said. ‘They’ve even plotted sightings. They think they’re in with a good chance.’ The podgy production assistant clomped across the leaf-litter near the young man’s temporary encampment. Meanwhile, Moondog gazed into middle-distance and concentrated on birdcall.
Tibby Fromstein had managed to track-down the reclusive Hocus Focus investigator by exploiting her contacts and making good-use of informants. She was an excellent production assistant and a famous talent scout. Tibby was a good researcher. Not only that, she was the only person that Moondog trusted outside his own community.
‘I look forward to going. When can I go?’ he asked.
Tibby was astonished by his eagerness. She had never known him to be so impulsive. ‘I’m flabbergasted,’ she told him. ‘You normally take a lot more persuading. Don’t you want to know more?’
‘You heard what happened?’ he hissed. ‘I’m keen to take my mind off things…’
‘My sources told me three men attacked you in the night. They killed your dogs…’
‘That’s about the size of it. They set my trailer ablaze too and wounded my wife. I need something to do while she’s on the mend.’
‘Where’s Ascension?’
‘With her mother…’ Moondog wouldn’t reveal more.
‘Right. Anyhow, they want to start filming within the next three weeks. How does that sound?’
Moondog pushed his shoulders back, ‘They need to get there by the Eve of St. Agnes if they want to film a hellhound.’
The dumpy programme-maker went along with it. She even managed to hold-back a natural urge to roll her eyes, ‘Go on then —’ she said with a sigh, ‘Tell me why.’
‘The phantom is said to hunt on the eve,’ Moondog explained.
‘See? That’s the sort of thing we love about you. It’s why the company executives need you. Frankly, it’s why you should present the show. But you won’t ever do that will you, if you don’t allow them to film your face. Why don’t you face the camera? You could do a better job than any other presenter I know.’
‘You know I won’t do that…’
‘But you’re the only person in this whole darn world who knows stuff about phantom hellhounds and all that crapola. You know stuff that can’t be learnt from a trip to Wikipedia-land. You have tangible ability and rare knowledge. You have a duty…’
Moondog narrowed his eyes, ‘No photographs or filming? Don’t you remember? I will not have my image captured on film.... is that clear?’
‘I promise.’
‘And I don’t like my real name in the credits either. Or in the programme notes…’
‘But you are willing to be interviewed? Sound only?’
‘No video footage, just sound.’
‘I thought so.’ Tibby shrugged. ‘But would you help us get pictures of the beast?’
‘There is no beast.’
‘Oh? I thought you just said the phantom comes out on Saint Agnes day?’
‘I didn’t say that. I never said that at all. That’s why I don’t trust you people... You twist our words to suit your own needs.’ Moondog shuffled his feet. He emphasized the words ‘you people,’ and she knew why. He distrusted everyone outside his community. He never used the word ‘gaujo’ — because he considered it vulgar. Though he knew the word would not offend non-travelers because they rarely heard it. Nevertheless, the implication of his emphasis was clear: Every person ‘outside’ his community was considered shifty.
‘I apologize,’ Tibby said. She’d discovered long ago that Moondog would be defensive if she wasn’t appropriately conciliatory. If Moondog got angry, she couldn’t tap into his genius.
‘On the day before St. Agnes — that’s what I said.’
‘Regardless of what day it is — and I realize getting the day spot-on is important, so don’t give me another lecture —tell me this, why don’t you think we can get footage of a hellhound?’
‘Can you hear yourself?’
Tibby smiled as she ran the last sentence over in her head. ‘Yes, I know it sounds absurd. But, but….’ she could tell he remained curious. She was sure his eyes sparkled.
‘They have a complete list of sightings?’
‘Yup, they say they do. And there’s ample evidence to take it seriously.’
Moondog harrumphed. ‘Who will do the exposé?’
‘Rowley Goldwrath.’
‘Goldwrath?’ Moondog let out a long whistle. Then shook his head. ‘In that case, it’s out of the question. I won’t do it if Goldwrath is involved… You can rule me out.’
She knew Moondog regarded Rowley Goldwrath with special loathing. According to chit-chat she’d overheard in the studio, the famous big shot had tried to damage Moondog’s reputation while they filmed the last series.
‘The man’s a charlatan,’ Moondog explained. ‘He’s full of humbug. He masquerades as an expert, but he’s a bloated ego and he’s jam-packed with dumb-quackery.’
Tibby needed to rescue the situation fast, ‘Did I tel
l you he asked for you?’
‘He did?’
‘Unless Moondog can help, it makes no sense trying.’
‘Did he say that? Well, there’s no sense trying anyway...’
‘How do you know? Why won’t you play along? You’ve got nothing to lose…’
‘You will assure me they’ll not try to film me this time? No photographs?’
‘Guaranteed.’
‘Could the team be in situ by Saint Agnes Eve?’
‘If that’s what you insist, yes. When is that, by the way?’
‘January twentieth.’
*
Sleazy Makeup
‘You don’t have to disguise the girl with sleazy make-up, do you? She’ll look more like a streetwalker than a cutter. And she’s going to sit a hundred meters from our cameras. Is there some reason she must resemble a nightclub stripper?’
‘It’ll make the footage sexy. Sexy is good…’
‘They’re pretty sharp lenses. First-class zooms.’
Moondog wrinkled his nose as if a bad stink had had been released into his general direction. He prepared an accusatory glance at the showbiz ‘personality’ named Rowley Goldwrath.
‘I think a spot of powder and a good brush-over will do this girl a world-of-good,’ said the flabby television presenter. Goldwrath watched the girl’s bosom wobble moderately and licked his fleshy lips.
They had prepared a girl named Olinda for the outdoor sequence. This was the night of St. Agnes Eve and the film unit had arrived to shoot highlights for the hellhound piece for the popular T.V. show: Hocus Focus.
Olinda sat on a flimsy plastic picnic chair and checked her phone messages while her hair got brushed. Moondog had suggested they used the girl as bait. Now he regretted it.
The production company arrived at Wailing Woods in the Suffolk countryside in good time to see the spectre. ‘But we need to lure the phantom out...’ Moondog had told the producer. ‘Otherwise, it won’t leave its hideaway...’
‘Do we need a sacrificial lamb?’ the producer had asked.
