The Hunter

by Alan Norris

  I followed his pointing finger and thought that he could well be right. It looked as though it was perhaps over the hunting club, heading towards the forest and the hills in the distance.

  I’d put the box of medicines in the car boot and would drop them off on the way, but as I went past William’s house, a police patrol car tore out of the driveway and sped off in the opposite direction.

  Something’s up, I thought. But I daren’t get held up. Not now and not with them. Surely William didn’t walk out too. No, they would have stopped him and I’m sure he was too sick to move far. But he is a strong man....maybe. Perhaps I will call in on my way back, if anyone is around. If my errand with this medical package is successful, I just might be able to help sort out a lot of things.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marie’s mind was in turmoil and she didn’t notice the red Peugeot pull out of William’s driveway and, at a careful distance, follow her down the road.

  Chapter 20

  Rachel, felt somewhat at a loss, there must be something she could do to help her father. Bertrand the overweight, bumbling gendarme and his sergeant had left half an hour ago. They'd looked like excited schoolboys as they rushed off to meet the helicopter in a field down the lane. She presumed they were in the helicopter that she could see now, zigzagging across the sky in the distance. The flashing navigation light bright against the darkness of gathering storm cloud. Hope they don't find you Dad, she'd thought. She'd sent him a text to warn him about the hunt.

  She was feeling alone and needed to find some help. Someone to talk to. Someone other than the boyish Charles.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was sitting with my second coffee, staring into space, when eventually my tired head thought of the obvious, I'll go check-out Marie's place. I bet that was her car that I saw on the way out here. If nothing else I can tell her that she needn't run from Dad, that he wants her more than anything.

  The last policeman had gone out to his car and was busy with his radio, I could hear the static crackle and the excited, staccato voice of Bertrand.

  ‘That man is a fool. He should be dressed as a clown and put in a circus.’ I muttered.

  Charles had collected the coffee cups that the police and gendarmes had left lying about, he'd washed them, put them away and was generally tidying and fidgeting. I watched him for a few minutes. He was worried about something, either perturbed by my being so close or, he was nervous about not being told what to do. I decided it was the latter. Behind his big, man-body was just a youth, a boy really. Probably quite a sensitive one and, I thought, bothered because he didn't know what was required of him.

  ‘Come on, Charles, let's go. See if we can help Dad somehow from this end.’ I said. ‘Or perhaps you'd rather hang-out here, in case someone calls or Dad comes back?'

  ‘I think I'd like that ma'am. I could call you if anything happens. And tidy up a bit, maybe light the fire while I wait.’

  ‘Sounds good to me, Charles. I'll write down my mobile number and put it next to the phone.’ I showed him the yellow post-it note as I stuck it on the kitchen counter. ‘If anything should bother you....anything at all, be sure to call me straightaway.’

  I smiled to myself as I went out. Poor sod, from the story he gave Bertrand, it sounded as though he'd not had much of a home-life anywhere, which would I suppose, account for his lack of confidence in company. I knew that, boys with a background like his would often go one of two ways. Violent and bad, in reaction to a feeling of rejection from a society that was beyond their understanding. Or, through a lack of confidence and social skills, they became a shadow, forever on the fringes, avoiding any emotional involvement, or attachments. The shadowy character sometimes develops into a time-bomb of pent-up frustrations that, triggered by the most obscure event, could result in a random attack on the social order that surrounds and seemingly oppresses him.

  The sleek patrol car was just swinging out of the driveway, spattering a spray of gravel onto the lawn.

  Wonder where he's off to in such a sudden rush, I pondered. He's been doing nothing since the others left, except smoke and a sleazy attempt at flirting. Should I follow perhaps...Maybe not, he'll not be doing anything of importance with master Bertrand-the-clown out of range.

  ‘Well, well....speak of the devil.’ I muttered to myself as I started the car and dragged on my seat-belt. ‘There she goes, it must be Marie. Windows are tinted dark, but there can't be many new Mercedes coupés around here.’

  Carefully, carefully, I told myself. Don't want to get too close and turn it into a race. I need to keep my distance and follow, pull up when she stops and have a chat.

  We turned onto a side road that was even narrower than the lane that went past Dad's house. Luckily, it wound its way downhill, so even from quite a way behind I could see the distinctive white shape as it whipped along between the low hedgerows. She didn't seem to be speeding up, so perhaps hadn't spotted me, I hoped not anyhow. But she didn't seem to be slowing down either. I was just thinking that it must be a locally known shortcut, when I saw her brake lights gleam red, looks like she's taken a turn into the forestry land. The same Forest that was part of the shooting club's private hunting estate. The same forest that Dad was running towards.

  The shooting club complex should be a couple of miles away, on the opposite edge of the woodland, I estimated.

  Maybe Marie somehow knows where Dad is and she's going to pick him up. But that really was clutching at straws, I'd read her letter and knew she was going to run away from what she thought was going to be Dad's anger and cold shoulder.

  I stopped at the entrance to the forester's trail that she'd taken. What to do now? If I follow I'll be discovered. I'll park up, looks like a layby up ahead, walk back and follow on foot.

  The air, already heavy with the approaching storm, was thick with the autumn smells of damp earth and fallen leaves. It was so heavy that it seemed to deaden the sound of my feet as I walked down the track. Under the orange and red canopy of dying leaves it became more and more gloomy. I strained my hearing for any sound of an approaching car, because I probably wouldn't see it until it was almost on top of me. Then I came across a fork in the track.

  Should be easy I thought, follow the tyre marks, but there seemed to be a lot of them. I turned back a few yards and picked up what I thought must be the Mercedes wheel marks in the rain softened earth. They went left, so I followed.

  I'd been walking briskly for some minutes when the hairs on my neck began to prickle. Could be static from the thunder storm that was threatening. My instinct though, thought not. I had that certain feeling that I was being watched. I could almost feel the eyes as they roamed over my body. Questing, probing. I turned about, searching the undergrowth on each side. Nothing. The trees grew closer here, their trunks like a dark wall. The feeling grew stronger and I began to walk back the way I'd come.

  I heard a noise. A sigh. A sucking. Then the sound of laughter. An evil, bubbling sort of laughter. Neither human nor animal. It splintered my confidence like and axe and my stride became a run as I raced back the way I'd come. Splashing through puddles that I'd carefully avoided, snagging my jeans on brambles and stumbling over rocks and ruts. My heart pounded against my ribs. I dare not look behind.

  Gasping for breath, I arrived at the fork in the track. I'd obviously gone the wrong way, because disappearing around the next bend, heading back to the road, were the rear lights of the soft-top Mercedes. Sweat trickled down my back making me shiver. I tried to shout for help, but my throat was burning-dry, my struggle for breath tore away at my voice. And Marie was gone.

  What had she been doing in such a lonely spot. I wondered, stopping for a moment to look behind. The track was empty, details disappearing into the gloom. I heard the distant rumbling of thunder.

  I picked up a stout looking stick and, trotting as quickly as I could, left the forest trail and went back to my car. I leapt in and locked all the doors. Tears sprang to my eyes and my body shuddered in reli
ef as I started the engine, swung the car in a U-turn and headed for home.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thierry's idea of making a sling for my arm was working well, it felt much better and the car, being automatic, didn't need both my hands. I drove the Mercedes steadily along the familiar dirt track, swung right at the first fork and drove on, moving deeper into the forest that was part of my estate.

  Every time I came here I had always left the real Marie at the road and would appear as the caring, obsequious female. Well not today! Today he gets the new assertive me and he won't get what he needs, until I've got what I want. I'm sure he's the one, I thought. There'd be no one else lurking around here.

  The old hunting lodge was very quiet when I arrived. It'd been built some two centuries ago and had been partly rebuilt and renovated just a couple of years ago. This is where he stayed, becoming more and more reclusive every time I had to come here. But something was not right this afternoon, there wasn't a sound, there wasn't even the slightest whiff of wood smoke. There were no electricity supplies here, so the enormous log burner was always going, even if it was banked up and shut down to minimum.

  I shivered, he's either not here, or he's playing one of his stupid games because I'm a couple of days late in bringing his stuff. Mostly painkiller, opiates of some sort I think. He must be an addict, not that he'd admit to such a human weakness.

  I pushed open the heavy wooden door. The shutters were fastened over the windows and even in the darkness I could tell there was nobody here. The dominating smell was of a staleness, a dampness. Not a hint of cooking or the usual odour of him. Stale sweat and putrid flesh. He's not been here for probably a couple of days, maybe longer. But I bet it’s been since Sunday. Sunday morning when everything went wrong.

  I picked up the torch that he kept near the door and swung its beam around the place. It was in the usual mess, but deserted. Not abandoned, but empty. He'd be back.

  ‘Bugger! I get all keyed up to give you hell. And this is what you do. Bloody man. I hate you.’ I shouted at the bare stone walls. ‘Guess I'll have to come back tomorrow. I didn't want to come back at all. Ever.’

  I put the headlights on and, in temper, drove back down the track faster than I should. The jarring made my shoulder ache. I needed to rest, but there were things to do first.

  Chapter 21

  William sat near the edge of the rocky cliff watching the brightness of dawn paint the colours of autumn across the forest treetops. It wasn’t a huge woodland and he could see where some large swathes had been felled by foresters, but there’d be a million hiding places. He didn’t have time to check them all and it wouldn’t be possible anyway. But find his poacher he must. His future life, the one that over the last few days had unravelled like the elastic in a split golf-ball, depended on it.

  ~ ~ ~

  The coffee was hot and comforting. I took another couple of aspirins and sipped carefully. I pulled the bow from its bag put it together and pulled on a new bowstring.

  ‘Hope I don’t, but I might need you today.’ I told it. ‘Suppose, I ought to get a few practice shots. Haven’t used it for a long time.’

  What day is it? I wondered, as my mind traced the events since the weekend. Must be Wednesday morning I decided and glanced at my watch. Time’s rushing on, nearly eight o’clock already, must get moving.

  The storm had passed in the night and left a calm, fresh feeling in the air. Not a branch, not a leaf stirred. It was the sort of day when sound would carry. I would need to use all the stealth that I could manage.

  I looked across the tree tops, it was fully light now, but there was no sign of the campfire smoke that I’d hoped for. No telltale signs of anyone else at all. It would be easy to imagine that I was the only person left in the country.

  In the clear air I could see the moorland that swept down into the river valley below the shooting club. And there, its top branches still green, was the fateful, old oak tree. That’d be a good place to start, I thought. Of course, the rain would have cleaned away most signs that I might have used to try to track my poacher. But, you never knew your luck. It’d be best to travel as light as possible I decided, so threaded the quiver of arrows onto my belt and stuffed the few things I might need into my pockets, matches, clasp knife, a strip of aspirin pills and a bag of Werther’s boiled sweets.

  That’s it, ready to go. I wedged my rucksack into the back of the shallow cave that I’d slept in and made sure there were no signs of my stay. The startled roe dear that had given me a scare in the night, had galloped off to the west, so I guessed that somewhere in that direction would be the easiest way down.

  There was, and I came across it quite quickly. But it wasn’t a particularly easy descent. A steep bank of loose scree filled a sheer sided ravine and it seemed to be the way the beast had gone. I followed it, boots sinking into the loose stone and broken rock. It led me steeply down, well into the trees and scrub before it broke onto flatter ground. The dear must use it regularly, I thought, because the animal tracks clearly followed a rough pathway into the forest that had been worn by countless small hooves. I kept to their path for a while, but it seemed to be curving away from the direction I wanted so, reluctantly, I left the animal track and moved into the virgin forest.

  Moving through the trees wasn’t easy. The undergrowth hadn’t been cleared for a long time and it was almost an hour later that by pure luck, I came across a narrow forester’s trail that led in the direction I wanted. But it’s easy, very easy to get disorientated in thick forest. The walls of trees on either side of me were like the pillars of a Greek temple that had been built by an over-enthusiastic architect, but I could at least manage a comfortable jog-trot that ate away at the distance. My mind drifted off to think of Marie and what I would say to her when we met again. And Rachel, poor girl. She’d come to visit for a quiet relaxing week and I’d dragged her into this mess. I’d make it up to both of them. Somehow.

  The trees began to thin gradually, I’d not noticed it at first, but soon I could see through them to the bright moorland that rolled into the valley below. I stopped frequently and listened but apart from the birds, there wasn’t a sound. Nothing moved.

  Almost too quiet, I thought. It’s as though the woodland and its creatures are holding their breath, waiting for the outcome of my hunt. Like the crowd in a Roman amphitheatre, hushed by the tension before a kill. But would it be man or beast that walked away?

  I had that creepy feeling that someone or something was close. Instinctive? Intuitive? I don’t know. I’m not sure what caused it, an unnoticed smell, a half-heard noise? But I crouched down and strained my ears to catch a sound.

  I first noticed it when I tried to peer through the gloom at the base of the trees. There were fresh marks of digging. An animal, or a person, had been digging something up. The nearest patch of disturbed ground was almost at my feet.

  Strueth! I must make myself more alert than this....or I’m finished, I thought. What else could I have walked past in my daydreaming?

  Being careful not to move anything, I studied the patch of broken earth. To me it looked as though it had been done by a person, there were no hoof or claw marks that I could see. And yes, here and there were cuts in the turf that looked as though they might have been made by a broad bladed knife, perhaps a hunter’s knife. But what had been dug up, truffles maybe? No, I thought, the holes aren’t deep enough, barely scrapings in some spots.

  I shook my head in disbelief, because it looked to me, that what had been dug up were stones, or rocks to be more accurate. Here and there were the depressions where small boulders had been pulled out. What on earth could be going on? The disturbed soil was still damp, darker than the surface earth surrounding each spot, so hadn’t been done very long ago. Maybe earlier this morning. I dipped my finger into a patch of earth, wetter than the rest, and smeared it on my face, being careful not to touch the cheekbone with its stitches and, I supposed, bruises.

  I pulled a clump of moss from a br
anch above the track and stuffed it around the arrows in the quiver to stop them rattling against each other. Then, keeping low, I made my way cautiously towards the edge of the woodland.

  A small breeze was picking up and I briefly caught the scent of wood smoke. Moving with no more sound than a grass snake, I dropped to my knees and crawled slowly towards the smell.

  I’d almost blundered into it, before I noticed that right in front of me was a crude, but nonetheless well made, bivouac. The branches were laced and woven into each other and would have given good shelter in all but the most severe weather. I doubted if the person who’d used it last night had stayed dry. Because someone undoubtedly had, the remains of a small fire still smouldered and beside it was a can of spaghetti that was still steaming and partly empty. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry. And, although I hoped it wasn’t, I’m half sure that my blundering might be the reason.

  Silently I cursed myself for dreaming and not concentrating on the job, as I’d been trained to do. As I knew I had to do. I looked over my shoulder. No movement. Not a sound.

  Beyond the bivvy a tiny wren angrily ticked its scolding annoyance and, as I tried to press myself into the ground, a man, I took it to be a man, pushed his way through the small bushes into the camp. He looked around then sat with his back to me and picked up his breakfast. He was slurping noisily and I risked raising my head for a look. He was I thought a thin person, the camouflage pattern jacket seemed too big for him and hung on what was probably a wiry-strong body. Below a filthy woollen cap, his hair hung in long greasy tails and would probably be a silver-grey, had it been clean. He seemed to have trouble with his breathing, gasping every now and then with a curious gurgling sucking sound. And he smelled like a badly kept pig. There was a nauseating odour of decay underlying the stink of his stale sweat.

  Could this be my man, I thought. He certainly seemed to be well practiced in his outdoor crafts. But there was no obvious sign that he might be a poacher. The last thing I wanted was to show myself and have him run off. As he might, if he were innocent. But if he is my guilty witness, and I think he is, I don’t want to alarm him into using his shotgun. He might just do the job properly the second time around.