by Neil Mach
‘How do you know?’
‘From the things he said. He’s a fraud.’
*
On the way to her cottage, Hopie asked more questions about the definition of preternatural. ‘What if this isn’t a real panther. What if it’s a ghost-cat? Is there such a thing?’
‘Phantom felids, or ABCs as they are known, are seen all over the world. Sightings have been recorded for centuries. Recently, though, since the advent of smartphones, some of the creatures have been photographed. Most anomalies can be explained as sightings of enormous domestic cats. Maine Coons, for example, they are very large. But two or three of the felids on film have been real beasts. I know of two lynxes and one puma. All three were caught and shot.’
‘Poor things...’
‘The army was sent to capture a legendary creature called the Beast of Exmoor. The government had to do something quick and decisive because the Beast had been devouring all the livestock in the area. The local farmers had been getting upset. But all the Queen’s horses and all the Queen’s men never found anything on Exmoor. Probably because the Beast was already long dead. Hunted, you see. So, if our big cat is real, and I hope that he isn’t, but if he is real, he won’t last long. His bones are considerably prized.’
‘I thought it would be his fur that’s valuable?’
‘His bones are worth thousands upon thousands...’
‘You think this Beast of Exmoor was a ghost-cat?’
‘No, I think he was a real cat, a real panther. And that’s why the big game hunters got there before the army did. What else could it have been? Unless the farmers were mutilating their own animals. It seems unlikely they would do that, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose. By why couldn’t it have been a supernatural cat? That’s all I wanted to know…’
‘Because, as I told you before, supernatural events are most normally natural occurrences that have been misinterpreted. We already discussed this. And spiritual entities don’t need to eat, do they? Why would a supernatural cat eat meat? We have lost all connection with the Earth and her spirit, so we can’t recognise the difference between nature and magic.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘As I told you, people these days have disconnected from the true nature of death, for example. And they have also disconnected from the food chain. It’s a fact that this disconnect is getting worse. And that’s a very bad thing. Because the world is in a bad way right now, and it’s essential we connect back to it, urgently. Or it will be the end of our race. It’s why nincompoops like Cyril Calcedon claim to be experts but are charlatans. Men like him annoy me. Patently, there is nobody else around who can argue with the fella, and that’s a worry.’
‘What about farmers? They know a lot about nature, don’t they?’
‘Farmers own land. They don’t work in the fields. It’s a common misconception. Once upon a time, farmworkers knew the land and lived in harmony with nature. But farm-working families are now almost extinct. Agriculturalists, these days, are businessmen who wear suits and carry laptops. Perhaps there are a few gamekeepers who know what’s going on. That’s why I asked Calcedon if he had contact with the Quorndon heritage sites. Because, at some stage, I aim to go there and see if I can locate a true countryman… someone who might be able to truly help. I need a person who has a genuine affinity with nature.’
They arrived on the corner where Hopie’s cottage sat, behind a small crab-apple tree and close to a mottled birch. ‘You want to come in a while?’ she asked. ‘Have a bite while I change?’ She looked into his blue eyes and clutched her hands together,
‘I do not think so,’ he grunted. He lifted his collar.
She swallowed saliva and returned an odd-shaped smile; then she sloped off without saying another word.
Moondog went to an adjacent dry-stone wall and slipped to the ground. He receded from view.
*
‘Why are you so sodding difficult at times?’ Hopie came right out with it once she’d changed and emerged. She found Moondog crouched by the side wall. She had rehearsed the next few words in her mind. She prepared for an altercation.
‘In what way am I difficult?’ he whispered.
‘Why wouldn’t you come to my house? I was nice, and you were a fool.’
‘Come on,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘We need to get to the butter-cross in five minutes. I already called a taxi. It will arrive soon.’
‘That’s another thing...’ she said, as she stamped her foot on the pavement to cross her arms as if she wasn’t going anywhere: ‘You have a good car, why don’t we use it? How come you never drive it? ‘
‘For one thing, it’s being charged...’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot. It’s electric, isn’t it? How long does it take to charge?’
‘All day.’
She tensed her arm. ‘Now, you have made me feel stupid.’
‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘We need to get going.’
She dashed alongside, trying to keep up with him. ‘Why can’t you be like other guys? You’re so, um? You’re so...’
He glanced at her but didn’t slow down, ‘Demanding?’
‘Yes, that’s right; you are so bloody demanding. No, it isn’t. Why do I agree with you? Don’t put words into my mouth. Grrrr! I am trying to say — why are you so contrary?’
‘Contrary? Like Mary, Mary? What do you mean by that?’ They arrived at the butter-cross in double-quick time.
‘You know exactly what contrary means. And there are other long words I can use too. Words that I cannot think of right now, but they describe you. You’re really disobliging sometimes.’
Moondog nodded his head. ‘Disobliging, yes.’ Then he acknowledged a silver limousine that slowed down near their position. ‘Really, Hopie. I didn’t think you cared so much.’
‘But I do,’ she murmured. Though her words became lost in the sound of traffic, she looked around to say more, but Moondog had darted across the road to open the cab door for her.
*
They took the taxi out to a busy lay-by near Freemen’s Meadows, where Moondog had tricked the local wildlife enthusiast, Cyril Calcedon, into believing a wild leopard lived.
He instructed the driver to wait and suggested he should take a nap because they’d be a while. He tipped the driver a crisp ten-pound note to keep him interested. Then they left the car and trudged a quarter-of-a-mile to the meadows. Their trail took them across boggy fields, over stiles and rails, and along a tinkling, muddy brook. Eventually, after getting soggy-wet underfoot, they entered the Meadows. Moondog indicated sedges and reeds to Hopie — basically tall grasses. He named them in Latin, which she thought was quite an impressive skill — but she couldn’t keep up. Honestly, a nature walk wasn’t her thing.
Nevertheless, she remained cheerful, happy to be in his company. When he showed her some new shoots, greener than brown, he described how something must have chewed them. He said they had been gnawed by a large animal. But what could it be?
At this stage, she was busting for a wee, so could not answer. She said she had to excuse herself and go behind a bush. She even put up her hand to ask permission, since he’d sort of started to become a biology teacher. When she did her business, Moondog wandered off.
She emerged from the privacy of the bush and went to find him because she had the answer to his question. It’s amazing how a good tinkle can activate a soppy brain. ‘Deer ate the shoots,’ she exclaimed enthusiastically. She got a hug for being so clever. Well worth the effort, she decided.
Then Moondog produced one of two small green metal boxes from a spacious canvas bag.
‘What is that?’ she asked.
‘It’s an ultra-compact, battery powered, night-vision trail camera...’
‘It takes photographs when we’re not here?’
‘Exactly. Well done. It takes a series of photos, actually. When motion is detected nearby. It uses a flurry of infrared flashes to capture high-resolution images and save them onto a
memory card.’
‘So, do we have to come back at some point to collect the film?’
‘Yes, we do, we need to retrieve the cameras. But we don’t need to come back to see the pictures. We can see the images at any time because this device sends photos directly to my smartphone. This trail camera will record who or what has been here. The batteries last over two weeks, so we don’t have to return real soon. When the apparatus captures an image, it pings it to my phone right away.’
‘Clever! Expensive, though, huh? Won’t it get stolen?’
‘That’s why these things are camouflaged. Impossible to see. I’ll put twigs and moss around the equipment too. Nobody will ever find it…’
She wanted to ask how he would remember where he’d put the camera, but the question sounded pea-brained, so she left it unsaid. Hopie didn’t want him to think she was completely dippy. When both cameras were installed, in perfect locations — near well-used animal tracks — Moondog introduced the concept of spoors to Hopie.
He explained that spoors were things such as footprints, scents, poo (he called poo scat) or broken and nibbled foliage — like the twigs she’d already seen. He said these were giveaway signs that a wild creature was around.
There were no human tracks in the mud (except their own) before they had arrived at the site and Moondog said he wanted to keep it that way. So, he made great efforts to eliminate their footprints by going back over their steps using a palette knife, taken from his bag, to trowel things over. It got a bit uncomfortable when Moondog went behind ‘her’ hedge to trowel over the spoors that she’d left. But he didn’t make a big song-and-dance about it, and she was grateful for that. He was very business-like.
Later he said he could smell a rat, and she realized he wasn’t talking about her, but he could really smell a living ratty rat-rat. She shuddered when she guessed the truth. Moondog urged her to identify the musky smell of the rodent. He described it as like wet straw on a summer’s day. She thought she managed to do it but wasn’t sure. He also showed her a selection of little dark poos that resembled berries. He said one set of poos (he called them scat) belonged to deer, while the other variety belonged to rabbits. He told her to work-out which was which.
When her nature-walk lessons were finished, they footslogged their way back to the waiting minicab, and Moondog instructed the driver to attend a motorway service station on the outskirts. When they got to the service station, he refused to get out of the car, but gave Hopie a bunch of banknotes and asked her to find vegetarian picnic food for them. And go organic, he told her. They waited for her.
After she’d shopped in the service station, they took a short taxi ride around the corner, to a picnic area where dog walkers grassed their animals. Moondog told the man to wait. Already long past dusk, they took refuge under a blanket, lent to them by the taxi driver, and they chewed fresh-bought picnic snacks while the sky darkened, and the breeze blew their hair.
Moondog insisted they removed their muddy boots so that they wouldn’t spoil the man’s blanket. And he rubbed her toes because she complained her feet had gone damp and cold. ‘To avoid the chilblains blains…’ he explained. She didn’t know what he meant. He wiped a dollop of avocado from her nose because a splotch had disobediently sprung from her wrap. After that, she snuggled and huddled close to him, for warmth.
The date wasn’t exactly deluxe, but all the same — it was the best date she’d ever had.
*
Weekly Crime Update
‘I’ve been seeing him. I’ve been seeing Moondog over the weekend.’ She felt she had been bursting at the seams to tell somebody; Of course, it had to be Sarah-Jane she told. Who else could she tell? Her mother? No, she wouldn’t understand. Neither would uncle.
‘You naughty vixen. Did you get jiggly with Moon Dog?’
Hopie scowled at her friend over the top of her computer screen.
‘Don’t look at me in that tone of voice,’ Sarah-Jane said. ‘It's only natural, you know. Birds do it; bees do it. Even girls with knees do it... Are you falling in love?’
‘It’s not like that,’ she muttered. ‘Moondog is kind, and he’s gentle. And he’s very different. He’s a bit weird though...’
‘You like weird — don’t you?’
‘Do I? Please don’t tell anyone about this. Can you make it our little secret, yeah? Mine and yours. I’m supposed to break it off with him.’
‘Who says?’
‘The Sarge... he said.’
‘What’s it got to do with him? He isn't your father, is he? What a cheek! Tell him to keep his fat nose out of things. A girl’s business is a girl’s business. Actually, he’s been giving me advice too…’
‘You? What advice do you need?’
‘I don’t need advice from him… but he’s been giving it anyway. Advice about my other half, saying he’s no good. He’s been insinuating stuff about him.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Oh, the normal crapola. Not good enough for me. A naughty lad. I should find someone else…’
‘But you’re good, together aren’t you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘So why does the Sarge think he can poke his nose in?’
‘Exactly.’
Hopie gazed at her own hands, ‘My father died you know...’ She said this in a flat, monotone voice apropos of nothing. Just as if she was passing judgment.
‘Yeah, I know that. What’s it got to do with anything? It took place a while back, yeah?’
‘Two years. You ever lost someone?’
‘Not really. I don’t like to talk about it. Plus, you’re clouding the mood, so give it a rest. I don’t like talking about that kind of stuff. It spooks me out and stresses me.’
‘Moondog was right...’ mumbled Hopie as she stared towards the light of the office window.
‘What?’
‘He said people these days have disconnected from nature. He says they’re separated from things like death, for example.’
‘Well, Moon Dog is talking out of his arse. I watch loads of murder-mysteries on the telly. I probably watch too many. I’m not disconnected, am I? And neither is anyone else I know. The news is always about murders and killings. All about death and dying. That’s what anyone ever talks about.’
‘But when have you seen a real corpse? When have you touched a real cold-dead body? ‘
‘As I told you, I don’t like to think about things like that. I certainly don’t wanna talk about them. I touched a dead chicken at my Grandma’s house once, when she prepared a roast. Nasty! Is that how your weekend with Moon Dog went? Touching dead bodies and viewing corpses? Because, if it did, it sounds kind of dismal to me. Maybe the Sergeant is right; maybe you should pack it in with Moon Dog. He could turn-out bad for you...’
‘Shh! No, it was fabulous, really good. I feel alive. We stayed out late on Saturday. We had a picnic in the dark! Then we spent Sunday together too.’
‘And did you get jiggly-piggly with him?’
Hopie shook her head.
‘What a waste.’
*
At the weekly crime update meeting, which takes place every Monday morning, Hopie’s job is to take minutes. As usual, the Chief presided over the meeting. Everyone sat around a polished wooden table in a cold porta-cabin. Hopie was the only girl, the only female, present. The meeting was attended by the crime inspector, the operations inspector, and the administrative inspector. Sergeant Moyes sat opposite the Chief, and Hopie sat alongside him, with her Home Office biro in her hand. The agenda normally started with the weekend news, the things that occurred across their whole patch since the last Friday afternoon. Burglaries, pub-fights, drink-drives and police-car collisions, that sort of thing. The only really serious incident that happened over the weekend was a young woman reported she’d been grabbed and overwhelmed by a white-van man on the Hugh-Lupus by-pass. The C.I.D. appealed for witnesses. The van-man had scared her half-to-death but hadn’t done much, he didn’t do anyth
ing indecent. And he let her go after a short drive. The victim was taken to hospital, uninjured, though the report said she had been badly shaken by the experience.
At the ‘any other business’ end of affairs, when the men’s bellies began to rumble and feet shuffled impatiently, the Chief made a great show of pointedly gazing towards Sergeant Moyes to ask: ‘Any progress on the animal mutilations saga?’
‘Er?’ The old sergeant hadn’t expected a question so direct, let alone on that topic. He assumed the plans concerning Moondog’s involvement had been kept a secret from the other senior officers. ‘We are not, ahem, following the previous route vis-à-vis those enquiries. Erm, we have adjusted the drawing board, so to speak, with reference to that particular sphere of investigations...’
‘What do you mean, we’re not following the previous route? I can’t work out if you’re deliberately evasive — or you are just plain irritating. Details can be discussed, here, can’t they? Within these four walls?’
‘Yes, sir, oh, yes. But you might remember we had a conversation about this enquiry the other day? I think I explained in the chat I had with you that the gentleman in question, the so-called expert we called-in to examine these matters, he has ahem, he has been unable to take the matter further. So, we are left with the ball in our court, as it were...’
‘I wish you wouldn’t speak so euphemistically. Why don’t you just come out with it? We don’t understand a single word you’re bleating…’
‘Er? Sir? Um, we are no further forward. The gypsy has made no real progress.’
Several feet moved when Sergeant Moyes uttered the word gypsy. The administrative inspector pushed his seat back with a loud screech and gave the Sarge a ferocious look.
‘Well, that’s not the case, Matthew,’ said the Chief. ‘It’s not the case at all,’ he turned to each member and cleared his throat to explain: ‘I had a call from the gypsy’s contact in a London office. I think the woman I spoke to is the gypsy lad’s Production Assistant. Anyway, she told me that her chap had made significant progress. She told me he has made a break-through regarding the delivery of the dog’s heads by a parcel courier service. She suggests he found a clear motive...’
