Ferocity

by Stephen Laws

  “What kind of pencil do you use?”

  “2B or 3B, any make. They taste better.”

  They were throwaway jokes she had used before in an attempt to deflect the simple fact that she was no nearer to giving a reasonable explanation of how and why she wrote than when she’d first started to write seriously. She had built up a whole series of what she hoped sounded like convincing theories, even if she remained unconvinced by them herself. She had been born a storyteller, shied away from any real analysis of where her stories came from. They just came, whether she wanted to write them or not.

  The journalist she knew had been biding his time with good nature, probably waiting for the standard questions to finish before he began with his own. When there was a brief pause in the questions from the floor, she decided to take the initiative.

  “It’s a long way from Wales, Matt. And you’ve been very patient so far.”

  The familiarity caused a slight stir. The fair-haired man grinned and leaned forward. When he spoke, the Welsh accent was unmistakable.

  “There’s been talk that the novel you’re working on now has been optioned for the movies before it’s even finished. Is that right?”

  “If it is, no one’s told me.”

  “Can you tell us anything about it?”

  “You know better than that. It’s bad luck to talk too much about a project in progress because . . .”

  I can’t make the book come alive.

  “ . . . it might make the magic go away. What brings you all the way from Wales, Matt? Still working for O’Brien and Willis?”

  “Yep.” Aware of the questioning looks from the audience, the journalist turned to address them. “A literary magazine. They wanted an interview, but Ms. Lane hasn’t been giving them since the last novel.” He turned back to Cath. “I hope you don’t mind me trying a sneaky one?”

  She had been avoiding formal interviews, it was true—but despite the anxiety she still felt it was impossible to feel animosity toward an honest journalist who had given her such great reviews in the past, and was so obviously an enthusiast of her work.

  “No, but time’s up,” came Faye’s voice from the back. “It’s a two-parter tonight. And we must allow our second guest a chance to speak.” As Faye pushed forward, Cath could see that there was a fracture in her composure. Clearly, despite the organization behind the scenes and the loving manipulation that had led to the event, she hadn’t anticipated the arrival of a professional journalist and it was clear from her expression she was worried that perhaps this was a step too far.

  “Perhaps another interview later?” Matt was anxious not to lose his chance.

  “Well, Ms. Lane is very busy on her . . .” Cath had never seen Faye look this flustered before.

  “Have you travelled from Wales for this talk, Matt?”

  “Well, yes. I’m staying overnight in the pub, then heading back tomorrow evening.”

  Cath looked at Faye, smiled and put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “And it’s a long way to and from Wales, isn’t it?”

  Matt looked hopeful, and Faye looked relieved.

  “We’ll organise something tomorrow morning then.”

  “And I know,” continued Faye, addressing the audience, “that we’ve all appreciated your talk and the insights you’ve given on the life of a writer.”

  Cath acknowledged the applause and joined Rynne at the back of the room. She was grinning as she applauded, reaching up to whisper a secret in her ear.

  “You’re famous!”

  Cath hugged her and looked back to see that Faye was now heading for the door, looking for the second guest who—Cath could see as she looked around the crowd—was not in the room. Her own anxiety at giving this speech, her worries about it after such a long time of enforced professional solitude, had prevented her from thinking about him. The surprise that the ‘half a dozen—maybe ten’ was actually about eighty people, had taken her mind completely off the second guest, whom Faye had also failed to mention until the last minute. Cath watched as Faye reached the door, then caught sight of something or someone beyond and began a pantomime, beckoning that whoever or whatever was out there should get inside fast. The crowd was now taking an interest in Faye’s strange behaviour, and Cath began to have other thoughts about why Faye had organised this whole damned business.

  “Yes—he’s here—George, can you . . . ? Good. Don’t let him . . . Tom.”

  Drew Hall made his entrance as if the two men behind him had pushed him into the room, which indeed they had. Not giving Drew time to turn and complain, and maybe sour the atmosphere—Faye grabbed his arm and propelled him down the aisle toward the bottom table where Cath had given her talk. The two men behind tried to hide their grinning as they found seats near the back. Overwhelmed by a formidable schoolteacher’s grasp and now suddenly aware that he was in the middle of a large, prospective audience, Drew allowed himself to be led to the front, fighting to regain his composure.

  What are you up to, Faye? thought Cath.

  “And we’re very pleased to introduce our second guest of the evening. Some of you will know him already, but I’ve a feeling that even some of the long-time residents present will not yet have met Drew Hall, local farmer and owner of Fell Farm. I’ve known Drew for most of his life, taught him when I was the village teacher. We’ve asked him to come and talk to us this evening about something that’s been going on around Nicolham for a good many years or more. Something that Drew has taken a keen personal interest in, and which I know has been a cause for concern for some of us in the villages and surrounding farms.”

  “You’re not kidding,” called one of the men from the back who had accompanied Drew to the hall.

  “So let’s have a big round of applause for local lad Drew Hall.”

  Cath watched Drew’s discomfort as the audience applauded, not knowing whether he should stand or sit. From the back, another of Drew’s friends gave a wolf-whistle, which was abruptly terminated by Faye’s glare of warning. Clearly, Faye’s composure had returned. Cath resolved not to let her off the hook later that evening. The applause faded, and Drew cleared his throat.

  Cath felt another tinge of anxiety at the silence that followed, found herself willing Drew to speak in a moment of empathy.

  “Well,” he began, before clearing his throat again. “I’ve never done this before, so I don’t quite know where to start.”

  “Start at the beginning,” said the one called George. “Come on, Drew. Tell us what you know.”

  “All right . . . all right. I will.”

  There was another pause, and this time the man called Tom called out: “Come on then, Drew. What’s out there on the Fell?”

  Drew cleared his throat.

  “What’s been killing my sheep then?”

  Cath was suddenly very interested.

  “Cats,” said Drew at last. “Big Cats.”

  He paused for what Cath assumed was going to be an overly dramatic flourish. Instead, when he spoke again, it was quiet and restrained, and with an air of authority that impressed her. “I know it because I’ve seen them. And in one case—literally, face to face.” Cath was intrigued. On the night Drew had been run off the road, he had been dazed, possibly even concussed according to Faye. It had been a strange evening, and the conversation that night had pushed her back into a dark place from which she had spent a long time trying to emerge. Thereafter, that sighting of him on the ridge, looking down at the cottage also somehow added to the sense of strangeness—that both of those encounters had somehow been with different men. She felt as if this was the real Drew Hall. He was a man, she could now see, in his early thirties, slightly younger than she was, perhaps; with dark curly hair that didn’t look as if it had seen a brush for a while. He had a sallow complexion, which seemed strange. Given that he was a farmer, working in the great outdoors or on that wild Fell side, shouldn’t he be tanned and windswept, or something? He had a good-looking, if not handsome face. Woollen jer
sey, jeans.

  “They’re out there for sure,” continued Drew.

  “Panthers, leopards, pumas? What?” Tom asked.

  “The prints I’ve found match with panther.”

  “Not The Hound of the Baskervilles, then?” joked someone else from the audience.

  “Well, that’s the problem,” rejoined Drew. “That’s the reason why no one takes the situation seriously. It makes for a good news story, doesn’t it? ‘Ferocious wild cats at large in the English countryside.’ Just the kind of thing that appeals to the media, to the newspapers. And, of course, the media have really hyped the stories up because—well, because it makes good copy.

  “They’d much rather go along with the myth that what we’ve got out there is something like The Hound of the Baskervilles—not just in the forests and woods around Nicolham, but all over the country.

  “The most famous case—and when I say ‘famous’ I mean the way that the story really does get hyped up—is at Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. Everyone’s heard of The Beast of Bodmin. If it’s a slow news day down in Cornwall, there’ll be reports of the Big Cat that stalks the moor, taking sheep and livestock. And when the stories do hit the local headlines or television, some journalists prefer to disregard the actual facts and perpetuate the myth. The fact of the matter is that there are numerous zoologists, farmers and experts, including the former Managing Director of Newquay Zoo—an established authority—who are in no doubt that Big Cats are living wild throughout the United Kingdom. And the reason for that couldn’t be simpler.”

  Cath was impressed. Drew had a natural style, very easy, and he managed to talk to an audience with a quiet authority that drew them in. Off to the right, a door opened, and the audience’s attention was momentarily distracted by the figure that stepped into the room.

  Tall, yet round-shouldered, with an impeccable grey business suit and tie—the figure stood grinning for a moment; clearly expecting the attention that was now drawn to him. Drew stopped talking, and in that moment Cath sensed a tension in the air. The newcomer had a big if not bouffant 1980s hairstyle that had probably wowed the chicks so much when he was a younger man that he had kept it ever since.

  “Don’t mind me.” His voice was confident and assured, and when he straightened a tie that did not need straightening, Cath sensed that it was more to show off the extravagantly large rings on the four fingers of his left hand. Olive-black eyes and eyebrows that had not only been plucked but waxed and sculpted. Still grinning, and seeming to take pleasure from Drew’s discomfort, the man moved to the back row and took a seat. As he carefully crossed his legs, making sure not to damage the perfect crease in his trouser seams, Cath caught sight of Faye and Rynne sitting behind him. The look of displeasure on Faye’s face as she watched the back of that man’s head suddenly brought everything together.

  This could only be Kapler Dietersen, local businessman and entrepreneur—newly arrived to this parish, and not known for his safe driving style on unlit roads at night. Dietersen was scanning the audience now, saw that she was giving him the attention he deserved and beamed a smile of perfect and even white teeth that told her more than she wanted to know. She recognised a predator when she saw one—in more ways that one. Cath looked back at Drew, who had struggled to regain his composure.

  “Back in the early seventies,” Drew Hall went on, “it was considered very trendy by the rich and famous to have pumas or panthers as house pets. Maybe wandering around the lounge with diamond-studded necklaces. But the introduction of the Dangerous Animals Act in 1976 enforced strict licensing regulations prohibiting this, leaving limited options for the owners. Either give the animals to a zoo, or have them destroyed. Zoos refused to take them, so owners who baulked at having their animals killed opted for the only other palatable solution: Let them loose to fend for themselves.”

  Kapler Dietersen coughed. It was a sound effect from a cartoon, intended to put Drew off. He paused briefly, and then continued:

  “And that’s just what they’ve done. With a generally mild climate and an abundant food supply—rabbits, wild birds, voles—they’ve adapted very well to their new lives.”

  “Don’t forget my bloody sheep,” Tom said. Dietersen turned and grinned at him, giving an extravagant nod of agreement that was calculated to show how stupid he thought him.

  “Absolutely. If the opportunity is there, or the animal’s ailing—or if there’s a new litter—the Big Cats may well take the occasional sheep or lamb. In general, though, there’s enough small mammals to keep them satisfied. Gets worse in bad weather, right Tom?”

  “Too right. Lost six animals this winter.”

  “In general,” Drew continued, “small prides of cats keep to themselves. If they’re well fed and sheltered, they shy away from human contact.”

  “You said panthers?” asked a woman with a notepad from the front row. “But it could be some other Big Cat?”

  “It depends which part of the country and where certain prides of Cat have been able to establish themselves. Big Cats are very territorial. I’ve heard of cases all over the country where there are different types of cats. Black leopard, panther, puma. But here in Nicolham, I believe they’re panthers. The animals I’ve seen . . .”

  Cath wondered why Drew suddenly looked troubled at what he’d said. But the moment was gone, as he quickly continued: “. . . look like panthers. The tracks I’ve seen are similar to panther. Or as they’re also called—black leopards. And as Tom knows, they’ve occasionally taken some of my livestock on the Fell. That’s given me a chance to examine the leftovers of their kill—and the nature of that kill suggests panther. Cats like that kill in a very specific way. They remove the innards and leave the pelt. I’ve taken plaster casts of their tracks—even examined droppings I’ve found at the scene.”

  “So if the evidence is so strong,” asked Dietersen, making another dramatic pause and so obviously enjoying the attention he was drawing, “why hasn’t the government done something about it? I mean, if they’re out there taking livestock from farms, they’ve got to be well . . . dangerous. Haven’t they?”

  Cath imagined that she could hear something click in Drew’s jaw, even at that distance. His voice was so tight and measured when he spoke again that she could imagine a trace scent of testosterone in the air. “There was a Ministry of Agriculture survey a few years ago, after pressure from the Farmers’ Union. But the survey only concentrated on a six-month time span—and during that time there were hardly any reports of sightings and no conclusive evidence. The terms of reference were very limited. Sightings and attacks on either side of that six-month period were basically ignored. The big question—the central issue—is this: If the Ministry confirmed the existence of big cats in the wild, they’d have to pay compensation to farmers for lost livestock, and people with licensed weapons would be all over the place shooting at anything that moved—using the control-of-vermin argument.”

  “That’s it exactly, Drew.” Tom turned to Dietersen, who smiled and nodded again with a patronizing air.

  “There was a case in the papers just last week,” George said, “about someone being attacked by a Big Cat. Can’t remember where, Drew—but that’s unusual, isn’t it? I mean, why haven’t there been more reports of attacks on human beings.”

  “Yeah, I saw the report. But you see—panthers, pumas, black leopards—they all shy away from human contact. Frankly, they don’t like the smell of people.”

  There was a polite murmur of laughter from the audience.

  “I don’t mean anyone in particular,” Drew said, fixing Dietersen in his sight. Dietersen’s smile stayed fixed.

  Oh myyy! thought Cath. Scratch-scratch!

  “Just people in general.” Drew smiled. “They can’t deal with the scent. But really, it’s back to The Hound of the Baskervilles thing again—this idea that they’re out there somewhere waiting to pounce on humans. My guess is that the fella who was attacked probably stumbled on the cat by accident, and it rea
cted defensively. Maybe he got too near to a den with cubs. The facts of the matter are very simple, really. The English climate’s generally mild, there’s lots of cover in the UK, lots of food. A well-fed cat is a contented cat, in general. They pretty much want to mind their own business—will move out if a human comes near.”

  “You said that you saw one,” said Cath. “Face to face.”

  Drew turned to look at her.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  Drew looked across at Dietersen, who folded his arms extravagantly and feigned deep interest. Drew shuffled uneasily, leaned back against the desk and said: “It was . . .”

  TWELVE

  Twilight.

  Drew has spent a frustrating morning on the telephone trying to interest a local developer in buying a plot on the southern border of his land. It’s an acre of fallow ground, close to Nicolham and the same developer has been building selected and expensive properties a mile from the site that has always been known as the Quarter Acre—for reasons no longer remembered. The developer has been biding his time as he acquires land site by site, gradually moving closer to the Quarter Acre boundary. Drew needs the money. In that regard, things have never been worse. What was once a viable farming operation is in ruins—on some parts of his land, quite literally. But he has no intention of giving his land away at a cut down price. The developer has made an offer, but it’s low—and so the game goes on, with Drew’s fierce pride refusing to allow him to give the land away for less than it’s worth, despite the fact that he needs hard cash desperately right now. The developer believes that Drew is playing a shrewd business game, has no idea that after the latest telephone call Drew has smashed the telephone receiver down hard and shattered the plastic casing. Infuriated, frustrated and angry to the very core of his being, Drew has spent the remainder of that afternoon feeding livestock and finding practical jobs to do that he has been putting off. Gutters on the back shed. Loose planking in the feed store. When one of the planks fractures at his angry hammering, he yanks it up, strides outside and flings it down a gravel path—scattering hens in a flurry of feathers.