Ferocity

by Stephen Laws

  “I knew it,” said Faye to herself. “I just knew it.”

  “Just knew what, Faye?” Rynne asked.

  “Oh nothing, my love. Nothing at all.”

  “But it must be something. You can’t not know nothing at all, ’cause then you wouldn’t know it.”

  “My darling. You were born to be the daughter of a writer.”

  Rynne looked back to see that the Big Cat man’s friends were still back there at the table with him and Mum, and they were laughing at some joke one of them had made or something. She pulled on Faye’s hand.

  “I need to tell him something.”

  “Why don’t we leave them together for a moment?” Faye said, and when Rynne looked at her, there was a curious sort of smile on her face that she couldn’t work out. “Just so they can talk for a while.”

  “Faye! I need to tell him something.” Rynne dragged her back inside, pulling her by the hand all the way to the table.

  “Mum?”

  All eyes turned to her when they reached the table. “Yes, darling?”

  “Do I call him the Big Cat man or Drew or Mr. Hall?” Everyone laughed, which made Rynne feel good even though she couldn’t understand why they were laughing when she hadn’t made a joke.

  “What would you like to call me?” asked Drew.

  “Dunno.”

  “Well why don’t you call me by my first name—Drew?”

  “Okay. I’ve got something to tell you, Drew.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I know what these Big Cats are called.”

  “You do? What are they called, then?”

  Rynne paused for dramatic effect.

  “They’re called . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Ferocitors.”

  Drew made an impressed sound.

  “Yeah, Ferocitors,” Rynne went on. “Want to know where I got that from?”

  “Bet I can guess,” Cath said, hugging her daughter.

  “Go on then.”

  “Velociraptors?”

  “That’s right!”

  Mother and daughter laughed at the puzzled expression on Drew’s face.

  “My daughter has a special fondness for certain dinosaur movies. Velociraptors are bad-tempered, man sized prehistoric monsters.”

  “Reptiles, Mum,” corrected Rynne. “Prehistoric reptiles.”

  “I stand corrected,” Cath said.

  “I’m impressed,” said Drew. “From now on, that’s what they’re called.”

  The crowd was thinning as folks made their way home.

  “Come on now,” Faye said. She seemed eager to get Rynne away, and Rynne could not understand why. “Let people say their goodbyes. I’ll see you out at the car, Cath.”

  “See you, Rynne” Drew said.

  “Bye. Remember—they’re Ferocitors.”

  “They certainly are.”

  Faye bustled Rynne ahead, out through the community centre door and into the car park. Mum was definitely acting different, but in a good way, even though Rynne could not understand why. Grownups were just too complicated. Faye’s car was parked outside the front of the community building, and Rynne watched as she stopped to fumble in her handbag for the keys. Rynne spun in a circle, for no other reason that it was good not to be sitting on a hard wooden chair for a long time—and in half-completed turn, she stopped dead.

  The wavy-hair ring man was leaning against their car with his arms folded across his chest. He was smiling at her in a way that she didn’t like at all. In that moment, for reasons she didn’t understand, the man frightened her.

  “Faye . . .”

  “Yes, my love? Oh—where are those keys?”

  “That man.”

  Mum and the Big Cat man had walked toward them, still talking lots—and Rynne heard Faye’s deep breath being drawn in, like she was disgusted by something (further proof that the man must be really, really nasty). “Never mind him. Let’s go home—I’ll make a nice supper . . . if I can find those keys!”

  The wavy-hair man pushed himself away from the car and walked slowly toward Mum and the Big Cat man. Rynne was alarmed. Something was wrong here, and she didn’t like it. She broke away from Faye and ran to her mother.

  “Rynne?” Still rummaging for the keys, Faye followed.

  Rynne collided with her mother—grabbing her around the lower waist, Mum and the Big Cat man laughed. But that laughter was cut short when the wavy-hair ring man stopped in front of them with that smug look on his face. He was smiling at them all, but there was no humour in his eyes when he spoke.

  “Interesting talk.”

  “I’m glad you thought so,” Drew replied. “Cath, this is Mr. Dietersen.”

  “I thought so.” Cath’s smile was as broad, and with the same humourless return.

  “Ms. Lane, I presume? Our famous, reclusive novelist.” Dietersen spread his arms out. “Two local celebrities at the same event. Worth every penny.”

  Drew was not smiling at all. “I understood that admittance was free, Mr. Dietersen.”

  “That’s right. No admittance fee. But the events here are not entirely free. I pay for the hire of the community room, you see. I have lots of interests and enterprises, including contributions to the cultural side of life in the village—which also includes the Nicolham Culture Club. Just my way of paying back into life for all the good things it’s given me.”

  “Admirable,” Drew said, as both he and Cath moved to join Faye at the car. Rynne was still clinging to her mother.

  “Isn’t it?” Dietersen stepped in their way. “I’m still new to the community, but I like to make my mark wherever I go. State my intention.”

  “And just what is your intention, Mr. Dietersen?” Drew’s eyes had grown very cold.

  “Well, since you clearly feel you can stroll up to my front door and lay the law down, I thought I might walk up to your doorstep, so to speak—and do the same.”

  “Lay down the law? What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t come on heavily to you, Dietersen—and you know it.”

  “You turned up on my doorstep, and now I’m doing the same to you. You said you didn’t want anything from me. I don’t want anything either. You told me to be careful—well, now I’m telling you to be careful”.

  “Mr. Dietersen,” said Faye, standing behind them all. Dietersen turned to see her tossing the car keys up and down in her hand. “You’re just making yourself look like a twat.”

  Dietersen coloured, turned to look back at Drew.

  “Your face has gone funny,” said Rynne.

  “Just . . . just . . .” Dietersen had lost the moment. He turned to stalk away.

  “What’s a twat, Mummy?” Rynne asked.

  Cath stroked her hair.

  “It’s something with outdated hair and bad dress sense,” she said.

  Drew could not suppress a bark of laughter.

  Dietersen paused, back still to them—then stiffly continued on his way.

  “Really, Cath,” Faye said in mock outrage. “What kind of example are you setting?”

  “I’m not the one with the bad mouth, madam,” replied Cath.

  “On the subject of mouths—let’s all go and put something nice to eat in them. I recommend the Nicolham Tea Room. Are you hungry, Mr. Hall?”

  “Well, I really . . . you know . . .”

  “Nonsense,” said Faye. “Everyone eats.”

  Drew shrugged, and smiled assent.

  Faye nodded in the direction of Dietersen as he vanished around the side of the community building. “Fat cats—and Big Cats—all over the place, it seems. And I thought Nicolham was a place where nothing ever happened at all.”

  The adults laughed, and although she did not understand how things had turned from unpleasant to nice, Rynne saw a look of happiness on her mother’s face that was somehow quite different than normal—and felt as if things were somehow going to get a lot better.

  FOURTEEN

  Rynne climbed to the
top of the stone wall behind the cottage and looked out across what Drew—the Big Cat man—had called the Fell. It was a funny word because she didn’t know what had fallen, unless it was because all those green hills and brown trees and shrubs had fallen out of the sky, or something. Maybe that’s what it was. She looked back to the window where her mum was working, and waved. She didn’t expect a wave back. Sometimes when Mum was working on her book, she seemed to go inside herself and not notice stuff. That didn’t matter, though, because Rynne never felt alone. Even when Mum was busy inside herself and Faye was shopping in the village, and Rynne was all alone—like now, on top of this wall—she never felt lonely. Not in the way that she sometimes thought her mum felt lonely, and there was nothing she could do about it. There had been times when she had seen something in her mother’s eyes—when she wasn’t working—that seemed lonely, and was troubling.

  Maybe when she looked up from her play and found Mum looking at her with a sort of faraway stare, or sometimes looking out of the window but not really seeing anything. This was something grown up, she knew—and even at that age, she knew instinctively that she couldn’t do anything to help, other than to love her mum.

  Rynne thought back to the day in the play group when Bianca’s mother had told her not play on the wall, and took pleasure in the fact that she was on this wall, and her mum wasn’t even telling her to get down at all. She thought about the bad cat that had scratched her, and thought again that perhaps she had been wrong. The bad cat wasn’t a bad cat—it had scratched Bianca for being mean (no doubt about it) and ever since that day Mum had started being friends with Drew the Big Cat man, things somehow had become—well, better. So that would mean the scratching cat was really a lucky cat—a good luck Cat. Rynne looked back to the study window, climbed to her feet on top of the stone wall, waved again and then jumped down to the other side away from the cottage. There was deep grass there, and she plunged through it—heading for the Fell and feeling good at the way that the grass parted before her.

  It crouches, watches and waits.

  The scent of its prey is strong for one so small. And although it has already eaten and has none of the hunger pain, that musk and the promise of living food so near makes its stomach churn and its jaws slaver. Belly low to the ground, it shifts and flexes its muscles. It will be easy to take this little one; easy to seize and rend and devour, to take the life and add to its own life. But this is food for its own Little One.

  It feels the breeze through the long grass in its face. It lies instinctively downwind, and the prey is coming through the long grass straight toward it, unaware that it patiently waits. It shuffles again, its sleek black body pressed down hard to the earth.

  Rynne paused in the long grass behind the cottage. It was now high above her head, and she loved the feeling of being enclosed. If she wanted to, she could make her own world here, a place where grownups could only come if they were invited. When she looked up, there were no clouds—just unbroken blue sky—and that made her good feeling even better. She spun, snatching at the thick green stalks and making a space for herself. She remembered how Faye had told her never to go too far from the cottage, watch out for the Fell Road (which was where the wavy-hair ring man—the ‘twat’—had made Drew the Big Cat man nearly have a bad accident). But she wasn’t too far away, was she? She had made a sort of tunnel, all the way back to the stone wall, and it would be easy to find her way back when she wanted. But right now, she didn’t want to—and she plunged again into the deep grass, letting the good feeling press her on.

  It can hear the prey coming now, through the long grass—making its way straight toward it, unknowing. It tenses, ready to make its killing run if the prey should suddenly scent it, or veer away. There is movement ahead now, the grass stalks moving as the prey comes on and . . .

  Rynne stopped.

  Suddenly, she had a feeling that she wasn’t alone. She looked around at the grass stems but could see nothing. There was a smell now, some kind of musky animal smell, and she didn’t like it all. She looked back the way she had come and a growing sense of ‘wrongness’ began to overwhelm her. There was a sort of tunnel through the grass behind, but as the grass slowly moved back into place, it didn’t seem as clear or certain as she thought, and suddenly she knew that she was too far from the stone wall and the cottage, and what if that wasn’t the way back after all? That smell was really strong now. Like a farm smell or something, and the secret place in the grass Rynne had embraced just moments ago suddenly seemed to be closing in around her. Somehow, although she could see nothing, she could sense there was danger here—a danger that somehow had something to do with that smell, which was overpowering now. She backed off, then turned—and as fear overwhelmed her in unreasoning panic, she began to run; clawing at the grass stalks as she plunged wildly back the way she had come.

  The prey has sensed something, despite its stillness and is feeling from where the thing crouches. With a shuddering growl, that which lies in wait launches itself through the long grass—a slithering black mass of muscle, fur and bone. The grass hisses around it as it sees the prey ahead, fleeing to escape. The food for the Little One looks back once in terror as it runs on ahead, but the black blur of fang and claw hurtles onward, jagging left and right as the prey tries to evade the death that is now upon it.

  The food screams once as it goes down beneath the weight and velocity of the immense black predator. Claws rake and fasten in its back, rending the flesh in a crimson spurt that fills the predator with ecstasy as its jaws clamp shut into the twisting throat. The canine and incisors shear instantly through the windpipe as it twists and wrenches the torn body from side to side. It tastes the death rattle, feels the shuddering passage of life as its claws slice away the skin to expose the ribcage. Warm blood in its mouth provides the urge to devour, but the thing resists the urge. This is food for the Little One. Savagely shaking its head again, the prey flapping and spasming, it takes ecstatic pleasure in a final moment of stillness as the quivering ruin that hangs dripping from its jaws becomes still.

  Rynne screamed when she heard the horrible shrill cry from somewhere behind her; plunging back through the tunnel of grass, which was now no longer a safe play place, but a place of hidden terror. The stone wall was up ahead and she clawed to the top, throwing herself over and falling to her knees, still believing the hidden thing that had made that terrible sound was right behind her. Sobbing, she ran hard toward the cottage, imagining the hot breath of her pursuer on the back of her neck.

  Now upwind, it tenses when it hears the cry—the rabbit dangling limply from its jaws. It catches the scene of the Two-Legs from somewhere up ahead. It snarls, a guttural rumbling that shakes its ribcage. That sound is full of disdain—born from its natural aversion to the unnatural breed. The disgusting scene is of a small female Two-Legs, from the place of stones that the female Two- Legs has a lair.

  And then it is gone, away into the long grass—and back to the place where its own Little One can feed.

  FIFTEEN

  The Welsh journalist sat in Cath’s front room, finishing the last dregs of his coffee and trying to balance a notebook and tape recorder on his knee. They had been talking for half an hour, catching up on old times—and Cath was aware from the noises in the kitchen that Faye was pretending to be washing and tidying up without giving the impression of listening in, when in fact she was listening in.

  “You all right in there, Faye!” Cath called in a voice calculated to startle. Faye cursed, nearly dropped a plate and attempted a nonchalant reply.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine . . . anyone want more coffee?”

  Cath looked at Matt, the journalist.

  “Not for me, thanks. Three cups will be keeping me awake all the way to Cardiff.”

  “Mustn’t miss your train,” Faye called.

  “Got the connections all worked out. Now—where was I?”

  “Admirers and detractors,” Cath said.

  “Right. One of t
he things that fascinates me about your work is a remark that some of your admirers—and I’m one—”

  “Matt, you wouldn’t be sitting there otherwise.”

  “Believe me, I’m really grateful. First interview you’ve given for—well, years. But this remark that some of your admirers have used, which is that you have the ‘common touch’ and never lost contact with your roots. They’ve used it as a compliment. But your detractors have used the same phrase—‘common touch’—complaining that your narratives are still, and I’m quoting here again, ‘still mired in inner-city areas’ “

  “That sounds not so much like a critic who dislikes me, as someone who dislikes ‘inner-city areas’. Nonsense.”

  “Maybe he or she just doesn’t like reading about gritty, down-to-earth scenarios? I’m fascinated by the fact that your work as a ‘thriller writer’ has been lauded for the seriousness of its social concerns and its strong moral tone as much as it has been condemned for glorifying violence.”

  “I’m not so sure that either view is right,” Cath said. “On the one hand, the positive side of what you’ve said suggests that I’m some kind of social, moral crusader—and I’m not. On the other hand—glorifying violence? Absolutely not.”

  “So how do you feel about the violence in your novels?”

  “What do you mean, how do I feel?”

  “Well are you comfortable with the fact that some of your critics have criticised the levels of violence in your books.”

  “Am I comfortable? Well I’m comfortable with the fact that the violence is an integral aspect to the narrative. I’m comfortable that it’s not there as some kind of sadistic titillation—that if it’s over the top, then it’s over the top for a reason. You won’t find anything there that’s unjustified in terms of how the plot and the characters develop.”