Ferocity

by Stephen Laws

  ‘‘And now it’s over to Brian Falkener of the Met Office to tell us more about the storm that’s coming in from the North Sea and causing so much damage already. Hello, Brian?”

  “Hello, David.”

  “There are speculations already, Brian, that we’re due for another great storm like the one we had in 1987 and the Burns Day Storm in January 1990. Do we need to batten down the hatches?”

  “Well, we certainly need to take precautions. There’s an unusually strong weather system, with very strong winds already hitting the Northeast Coast and due to continue through the night. But I should point out that the storms you’ve referred to in 1987 and in 1990 were not technically hurricanes—even though they’ve been referred to as such over the years. We just don’t get hurricanes in England. The storm winds then—as we predict now—are expected to be equivalent to a Category 2 on the Saffir-Simpson Scale. As I say, this is coming in from the North Sea, and since it’s non-tropical in nature, we refer to it as a European windstorm.”

  “Not a hurricane then—but twenty-three people were killed in 1987 . . .

  “Yes, but it has to be said that the warning systems we have in place are much more advanced than we had back then. And of course, we’ve been advising about this weather build up for the past couple of days now. So people are recommended just to be sensible. Not to travel until this has blown over. Stay inside in the more remote areas, and just stay safe.”

  “The storms in ‘87 and ‘90 were considered a rare event, Brian—with a severity that experts at the time said could only be expected every several hundred years on average. And yet, here we are again, with a similar storm just about to hit the mainland. I’d like to bring in Sylvia Prentiss, who is a member of ECO—a group whose concerns about global warming and environmental issues have been well publicised of late. Sylvia—another ‘European windstorm’—when we’re told that they shouldn’t really be happening with such frequency?”

  “Good evening. Well, yes . . . I was particularly interested to hear Mr. Falkener say that we’d been given improved advance warning of the storm hitting landfall today, but I’m afraid I can’t really agree with him. It’s a well-known fact that due to financial cutbacks, there’s actually a lack of automatic buoys and weather reporting ships out there in the North Sea—which means that they’re relying too heavily on satellite data. What we’re dealing with here, as a result of climate change and industrial pollution of the environment, are storms that are incredibly difficult to predict despite the technology available. . .

  “I’m sorry but I can’t accept that, David. Following the great storm in 87 and the Burns Day storm in ‘90, there were considerable changes in systems control at the Met Office and the reporting of severe weather. I think the record shows that there have been considerably more warnings about the landfall of this particular storm—something we take very seriously given the loss of life and damage experienced previously. Our tracking devices are very sophisticated and . . .”

  “Rubbish!”

  “Please, Miss Prentiss. I think it’s unnecessary to cause alarm here. The Met’s Cray mainframe supercomputer and in-depth simulations actually provided warnings for the Burn’s Day storm in 1990 accurately and in sufficient time to enable people to take precautions.”

  “But you’d still recommend us to ‘batten down the hatches’?”

  “Definitely—yes . . .”

  TWENTY ONE

  The cellar of Drew’s farmhouse seemed much larger than the building that stood above it. Amidst the clutter of workbenches, cupboards, broken farm equipment, shelves, chain link and general clutter—Cath could see the cage in the centre of the room from where she stood.

  The outside storm doors had both been pulled open, and Drew had slipped down into the darkness while she stood up top waiting. He’d crashed into something and cursed, making her flinch—and when a light came on, she saw that he had pulled a string hanging from the ceiling that had operated cob- webbed strip lights running the length of the cellar. The storm wind outside had whipped up a sheaf of yellowed papers in the cellar that flew through the air like startled birds. Shelves rattled, tins clattered and rolled. There were floor rails at each side of the twelve-stair entry down to the cellar, and Drew had installed sheet metal to cover those rough-hewn stairs. Overhead, more rails—and a block and tackle—with overhead and ground-floor rails leading down and away across the cellar floor and ceiling to where the cage was anchored. The cage itself was a dozen feet square; rough hewn, but solid. Even from here, Cath could see blobs of solder on the solid chrome bars. Apart from the incongruous old-fashioned iron bolt and hasp used to lock the cage door, it looked like a professional job—and she wondered how long he had spent in isolation, crafting this holding pen for a creature that most people believed only existed in the fevered imagination of a misguided few.

  Drew appeared at the bottom of the slope/step and held up a hand. Cath took it and, using that hand and one of the rails at the side, Drew ascended again—stepping over the enormous black bulk of the animal on the canvas that they had dragged to the top of the stairs. Its breathing was still erratic and wheezing, and Drew stooped to turn its massive head—studying those huge, glazed opal eyes.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Now what?” Cath asked.

  “We slide him down—across the floor and into the cage.”

  “And if he wakes up while we’re doing that?”

  “Like I said—there’s a chance he might not wake up at all.”

  Between them, they manoeuvred the tarpaulin to the top of the stairs—the wind tugging at their clothes. When the creature was right on the edge, Drew jumped over it onto the sheet-metal of the stair slope. His foot skidded, and he grabbed for a rail to steady himself.

  “Careful!”

  Grabbing an edge of the tarpaulin, Drew shimmied to the bottom of the stair-slope—tugging hard. The tarpaulin and the beast came quickly after him, the tarpaulin hissing as the gigantic bundle slid to the floor of the cellar, making Drew jump out of the way as it slithered to a halt. Cath winced again, expecting that movement to wake the creature from its slumber. But the massive black shape lay still as Drew clambered back up the slope, grabbing for the interior handle on the nearest storm door. Cath moved down, grabbed the door ridge and eased it down into Drew’s grasp, struggling as the wind snatched at it—threatening to yank it out of her grasp. Drew slammed it into place—Cath winced once more—looked at the immobile Big Cat, and then hauled in the second storm-door. The flapping sheets of old yellow paper settled at last on benches, shelves and floor. Drew secured the trap door, and they both slumped back against the stair rails—looking at each other.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” said Cath at last.

  “But you’re glad you came?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on then.”

  They seized the edges of the tarpaulin and hauled it and its burden across the concrete floor to the cage. Cath watched the Big Cat’s head lolling from side to side as they moved, its great muscular tongue still protruding between those thick, solid fangs. When a foreleg flopped over the side, claws raked three parallel grooves in the concrete as it was dragged. Drew flipped the huge paw back onto the tarpaulin, and when they had reached the cage—hurried to slide the fastening iron bolt in its hasp. The gated door swung open with a screech. Cath looked back at the creature again. Was this the time it would choose to wake up—just before they got it inside the cage?

  There was a raised ridge on the gate, eight inches from the floor. Drew stepped into the cage, lifted an edge of the tarpaulin and hoisted it and the Big Cat’s head over the ridge. Cath followed suit, moving to take the rear edge of the tarpaulin. Between them, they began to hoist their burden through the gate and into the cage.

  “Fancy work,” Cath said as they grunted and hauled. “The rails and the hoist and everything.”

  Drew laughed. “Whiled away the long nights, I can tell you. I wante
d to make sure I could get the cage in and out. I’d gotten this kind of . . . conceit, I guess you could call it.”

  “Conceit?”

  “Yeah. Once I’d—” Drew smirked at himself, shaking his head. “Once I’d ‘shown them all’ I was going to attach the hoist, drag that cage back along the rails to the storm-doors, use the pulley to get it back up top—open the cage and let the thing go again.”

  “Very ‘Born Free,’ Drew. Back to the wild and all that . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. Naive. I had a point to prove.”

  “But you don’t have to prove it anymore, do you?”

  The thing was inside the cage, and so were they.

  “Okay,” Cath said. “This is where it wakes up and we get ripped to pieces.”

  “Nope. This is when I give kitty something to help it with that tranquiliser—and telephone the vet.”

  “You going to tell him that you’ve caught The Hound of the Baskervilles?”

  “Do you know—I think I might.”

  “Not before I’ve cleaned that cut on your arm. Have you got a first-aid kit?”

  “Upstairs. Think I might need a stitch or two . . .”

  “And some kind of jab.”

  “Let’s see what the vet says first.”

  “Well, come on. Let’s get the stuff, and you can show me around.”

  Drew closed the cage and pulled the iron bolt into its hasp. Inside the cage, the Big Cat slumbered, snorted and wheezed.

  “Cat’s in the bag at last,” said Cath.

  Drew smiled again, and led Cath up a wooden flight of stairs to the kitchen of the farmhouse above.

  TWENTY TWO

  Faye looked anxiously from the television screen to the windows of the kitchen. They were rattling even louder than before, and there was a great rushing from the driveway beyond, which seemed so much more than a storm wind coming. She couldn’t get the images of disaster abroad out of her head; in particular, news footage scenes of tsunamis, with tidal waves of water and debris crashing into holiday resorts, tearing houses apart and deluging people on the streets in a deadly tangle of shattered woodwork, brick and foaming water. The sound out there now was like that—not a storm wind, but like the rumbling approach of a tidal wave, about to crash into the house. Faye rose again, crossed to the windows and looked out into the darkening sky. The trees beyond, on the Fell Road, were thrashing and twisting wildly; like living things, trying to uproot themselves and escape. When she turned to look back across the kitchen, the room seemed so vulnerable. Above the sound of the storm wind she thought she could hear the roof joists and ceiling beams creaking and groaning. Back at the television, one of the people being interviewed was saying:

  “We’re not anticipating that there will be anything other than superficial damage in the towns and built- up areas, but we are advising that those living in the Northeast in rural areas, villages, farms—and outlying districts to the Northwest, should take extra precautions . . .”

  “Oh God.” Faye checked her watch, but could not now remember how long Cath had been gone. Rynne was still asleep, despite the rushing wind and the groaning beams and walls—and for the moment, that was perhaps a blessing. She looked around again at the benches and shelves, at the pile of ironing on the table—looking for something, anything, to take her mind away from her anxieties. Normally, she was much more level-headed than this (perhaps too level headed, Cath had often accused her). But there was something different tonight—something, despite the severity of the approaching storm that rang loud alarm bells in her head. Cath had asked her to stay, and that was what she would do—but she felt helpless, and the anxiety was churning her inside. Decided now, Faye marched into the hall and snatched up her handbag from the stand. She found her mobile, switched it on—found Cath’s number and dialled.

  “We are not able to connect you at the moment. Please try again later. Alternatively, leave a message.”

  “Cath? Are you all right, darling? Just with this wind coming on and everything—and the news reports about a hurricane that isn’t a hurricane—I was worried about you. Give me a ring back as soon as you can. Everything here is fine, nothing to worry about, and I’ll be staying put until you . . .”

  Something cracked and splintered beyond the kitchen windows, followed by a slow sound of rending and another impact. Faye cried out in alarm, dropped the mobile—and ran back to the windows . . .

  TWENTY THREE

  “That’s one hell of a wind building out there,” said Drew as Cath dabbed more of the antiseptic into the wound on his arm. The scratch had been a bleeder, but it looked as if no stitches would be necessary. She began carefully winding the bandage around his arm. Drew watched her. “Well, you’re a good doctor, but I’ll still need a tetanus and anti-bacterial shot.”

  “Don’t you trust my tender care?”

  “Yes, I do. But some of these cats have bacterial infection under their claws. Even a simple scratch could lead to blood poisoning.”

  Cath looked down to her shredded boot. Standing on it with the heel of the other boot, she pulled and kicked. The damaged boot came off cleanly, clonking across Drew’s living room floor. Throughout, she continued to bandage without interruption.

  “You’re a multi-tasker,” Drew said.

  “What was she like?”

  Drew looked at her as Cath continued with the bandaging. She didn’t look up, her expression still fixed on her task; but Drew could tell by her body language that she was watching for his reaction from the corner of her eye—intensely. And, of course, he immediately knew whom she meant.

  “She liked the farming life. Perhaps more than me. But you would never have been able to guess if you saw her—out of her environment—that she was, well I nearly said ‘a farmer’s wife,’ but that’s a cliché as well, isn’t it? No, I mean, if you saw her in town or if we visited the city—family, friends—you might have thought she had a job in advertising or big business or something. She was very classy, very stylish and very funny. She liked to laugh.”

  “There aren’t any pictures. Of her, I mean. In this room.”

  Drew laughed. It was a dry, humourless sound. “No, you’re very perceptive. There used to be. But sometimes—well, sometimes it was just too much to see them. You know?”

  “Yes.”

  Cath knew that he was waiting—and that it was her turn.

  “David liked to laugh, too. That’s one of the things I remember really well. When things started to happen for me—in my writing—he used to keep me grounded when the media bullshit kicked in. Television interviews, documentaries, the movie version of the book. He said he’d never allow all of that to go to my head—and he’d make excuses to do outlandish things just to . . . to . . .”

  The man in the woollen hat. The New York sidewalk. The pool of blood.

  Cath suddenly pulled herself back. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

  “I was just saying—it’s difficult to laugh now.”

  “Yes, it is difficult.”

  “They never caught the guy who killed him?”

  “No. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I used to think that the man who did it was really evil, you know? But he wasn’t. He was pathetic, really. Just after a handful of change for a fix. He’s probably dead of the drugs or hypothermia or pneumonia—or a combination of all three.”

  “Faye told me about it.”

  “Faye does a lot of talking behind the scenes, doesn’t she?” Cath had finished bandaging, but her fingers were still on Drew’s arm. “She told me about your wife, too.”

  “Faye saved me. Really. Some of the things she said. Things haven’t been—well, you know—good. All a bit of a mess, really. Not knowing which way to go, whether to stay and make a go of this place—or at least change direction—or whether just to give it up and move on. This thing with the Big Cats—I suppose it’s about something else, really. But after we get kitty sorted out—I’ve realised what I’ve got to do.”

&n
bsp; Cath gently squeezed his arm.

  “Flora—my wife—the thing that killed her . . .” Drew stumbled to a halt, bowed his head. “I’ll start again. Because it wasn’t a thing that killed her. When I say it like that, it sounds like I’m giving an inanimate piece of machinery a personality, like it was a living thing. That’s just what I’ve done. It was an accident. Stupid. The combine harvester. I should have got rid of it, sold it or burned it. But it’s still out there in the barn. As soon as we’ve got tonight sorted out . . .” When Drew looked up, Cath saw that there were tears in his eyes. “I’m going to get George and Tom up here with tractors, and we’re going to drag the bloody thing off my land and get rid of it.”

  Cath squeezed his arm again.

  “And I’m going to help you do that.”

  From the cellar below came the long, low sound of an exhalation of breath. It was a sound that was not human, but which carried with it a dreadful expression of life lost and extinguished, even above the sound of the wind outside. Emanating from the cellar stairway, it seemed to fill the kitchen with cold shadows.

  A death sigh.

  Cath’s grip tightened on Drew’s arm.

  And suddenly, they were both at the top of the stairs, looking down. There was no further sound, and although it was not possible from where they stood to see the cage—they knew that the sound had come from there.

  Now, only silence.

  They started down the stairs, Drew leading—so that Cath saw the expression on his face as he drew level with the cage before she did. She knew from that expression what had happened, and the new anguish on his face was heartbreaking.

  The Big Cat was dead.

  Its laboured breathing had ceased. Its chest no longer rose and fell. The tongue still protruded from those deadly jaws, and its eyes were glazed in death.

  “Oh no . . .”

  Drew dropped to his knees before the cage, put his hand through the bars and touched the sleek black fur on its neck. Cath came up behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder in a similar gesture.