Lying Dead

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Not at all. The flower of courtesy, compared to Meg.’ Laura indicated the dogs: Daisy was pushing her nose under her mother’s chin and licking at her mouth while Meg tossed her head irritably, her attention already on the five sheep being driven in at the farther end of the field for the next competitor.

  ‘How did Findlay get on in the brace class?’ Marjory asked.

  ‘Pretty well. Not first – there was a farmer up from Cumbria who’s a national champion with a very experienced pair, but second’s good enough for his purposes with two young dogs like that. And he’ll be hoping for great things from Flash in the singles – brave dog with a very good eye.’

  The tannoy announced the next competitor – a woman this time – and she took up her position with her dog for their fifteen-minute attempt. The klaxon sounded and an arm movement sent the dog streaking off on its outrun.

  Marjory watched, her mind on Laura’s encounter with Jon, feeling faintly ashamed of herself at terminating it so ruthlessly. She had nothing against the man, really, except that he was a bit cocky and too nakedly ambitious to be a team player. He was good at his job though and he was certainly quick-witted and amusing company. It was just that it was always a pity if a close friend took up with someone you didn’t gel with.

  And Laura was more than a close friend: as a psychotherapist with a growing reputation from her writing and broadcasting, she was someone Marjory relied on professionally for discreet advice which had proved its worth again and again.

  Of course, she was running ahead of herself there. Jon and Laura had barely exchanged two words; it wasn’t as if he’d asked her out or anything. But, Marjory thought gloomily as she applauded the herding of sheep through the first gate, she’d put money on it that he would.

  It was drier under the trees now Gavin Scott had begun on the descent. The track was just as hairy as he remembered it being; he braked hard as a boulder loomed up and skirted round it, then, grinning, speeded up again with clearer ground dropping away sharply below him. Thrilling, it was, hovering on the edge of disaster with the wind of speed in his face. He was the man!

  The rain was getting heavier, though, and beginning to force its way through the canopy above him. Its coolness was welcome but it had begun to put a slick of moisture on the stones; he’d need to watch it. There was a nasty moment as he felt the tyres lose adhesion slightly and his stomach lurched in fright, but he corrected it and went on a little more cautiously.

  He didn’t even see the smooth, flat slab of stone in the path until he turned a corner and was on it. A couple of trees had died back and here the rain was falling straight through, converting the stone surface to a patch like wet glass.

  He had no chance. The bike slid, hit a rock and reared up, throwing him to the ground before smashing its front wheel against a tree trunk.

  Gavin lay for a moment, half-stunned. His head had hit the ground with some force, but his helmet had done its job of protection. He hurt all over, though: his back, his elbows, his knee . . .

  Gingerly, he sat up to assess the damage. His back only felt bruised, though his elbows were scratched and bleeding, there was a tear in his shorts and a gash in the thigh beneath, but his knee – that was seriously painful.

  Clutching at a nearby tree stump, he managed to lever himself to his feet. The knee was swelling already and he yelped with pain as he put his weight on it. And the bike, his brilliant bike, was a write-off. He groaned, looking about him helplessly.

  It was still a hell of a way down to the road. He was sure he couldn’t walk that far; he’d end up shuffling on his bum for hours. He’d have to get help.

  Gavin hobbled across to the bike and was reaching into the saddle-bag for his mobile when a picture suddenly came into his head, a picture of the mobile, sitting on the kitchen table. He’d left in a hurry, hearing the old girl on the move upstairs and keen to escape without her yakking on at him again. He checked the bag, like you always do even when you know it’s pointless, but of course it wasn’t there. Stupid or what?

  It was a bit heavy, being injured and miles from anywhere. The air seemed sort of muffled by the soft steady downpour, like even if you shouted it wouldn’t make a noise. The only sound he could hear was water running nearby, and what he did have in his saddle-bag was a towel; maybe if he soaked it and wrapped his knee it would help. He couldn’t think what else to do.

  It wasn’t far to the burn, but picking his way over the roots of trees and the uneven ground was really slow and painful. At last he reached it and found a rock by the edge where he could sit; he sank down on it with relief and soaked the towel in the clear brown water. He cleaned his grazes, then soaked it again to bandage his knee. It was very cold, almost like an ice-pack. Perhaps it might work, in time.

  Then he heard it: the ringing of a mobile phone, its tinny tune sounding in his ears like the bugles of the US Cavalry. ‘Hello!’ he called eagerly. ‘Is there someone there?’ Self-consciously, he added, ‘Help!’

  There was no reply, only the continued ringing of the phone. Then it stopped and there was nothing but the burbling of the burn and the persistent whisper of falling rain.

  He called again, but there was no response. He frowned. The noise had definitely come from further downstream, across the burn to his left. He listened, then stood up to look, but he couldn’t see any sign of movement.

  If it had been answered he’d have heard someone speaking. So perhaps someone, a forester, maybe, had dropped it and didn’t know where it was and was phoning to try to find it. They might even be hunting for it now, getting closer . . . He shouted a couple more times, then waited for it to ring again, but it didn’t.

  So perhaps it had just been lost. It was like some kind of torture, knowing it was there somewhere, but not how to find it. Needles in haystacks had nothing on this.

  Willing it to ring again, he listened, but it remained obstinately silent. If he waited much longer, with this weather it’d soon be too dark to see his way down off the hill, and he seriously didn’t fancy a night out here. Or he could head in the direction the ringing had come from and hope that his luck might turn. About time!

  The compress had fallen off as he stood up, but it didn’t seem to be doing much good anyway. There was a sturdy branch he could use as a stick lying at the edge of the burn, and leaning on it, he splashed across, heading downhill when he reached the other side. He had hoped for a path but there wasn’t one, and negotiating tree roots, rotting logs and hidden rocks was agony. Cold sweat was standing out on his forehead when at last he reached a sort of clearing where several trees had fallen together.

  Gavin slumped down on the trunk of one of them with a groan. He wasn’t going to find the bloody thing, was he? He daren’t go deeper into the forest and risk getting lost; he’d have to go back across the burn to the path and work his way down somehow. He was getting thoroughly soaked now and with the pain and the cold he was beginning to shiver. He’d better keep moving.

  It was the flies he heard first, a curious low, muttering buzz. At first he thought it might be wasps with their byke built in the shelter of the fallen tree roots; they made their nests in places like that. He stood up to peer over the bank which the roots had formed.

  At first Gavin thought she was asleep. Then he saw the flies, clustered together . . . He stared for a moment in disbelief, then turned aside and was violently sick.

  It was a nightmare, right? He was dreaming this, in his bed, and he’d wake up any minute to go off on a ride on a sunny morning. But he wasn’t. She was there, and she was dead, and he was alone and injured.

  It was too much. This was nothing to do with him. He felt almost angry, aggrieved at being dragged into a mess that wasn’t his mess. His own was bad enough, for God’s sake, without this. The police – this was their job, not his.

  Never one around when you needed one, like they said. Then he paused. It must have been her phone – what else?

  He’d have to look at her again, touch her, even
. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed hard. A moment’s disgust, or hours crawling down a hillside in rain and dark to reach the road, and no guarantee when he got there of much passing traffic? And they’d come quick enough when they heard what he’d found. Then it would be someone else’s problem.

  It was, mercifully, in her jacket pocket. Shaking, he took it and withdrew, then dialled the emergency number.

  The plump boy with spectacles who had been hovering on the fringes of teenage society in the Drumbreck Yacht Club sat gloomily by himself on a damp bench. James Ross’s specs were misting up in the rain but he couldn’t be fagged to wipe them since, frankly, at fourteen did anyone give a monkey’s about a lot of wet sheep and a stupid dog chasing them? He’d only come with his parents because he hoped he might be able to latch on to the group of kids who always hung out together and who’d been talking about coming last night.

  It wasn’t quite as easy as that. He’d seen them and made his way over to join them, but everyone ignored him and eventually he drifted off to sit on a bench nearby.

  Kelly McConnell was at the centre of the group, giggling and play-wrestling with one of the boys. At fourteen Kelly was the image of her mother Kim, with a well-developed bust and blonded hair. She had teenage acne and she’d tried to conceal it, not very successfully, under a heavy layer of pancake make-up, but that didn’t seem to put any of the boys off. She wasn’t wearing a coat; the short turquoise T-shirt which exposed a roll of puppy-fat round her midriff was soaked and clinging to her curves, which seemed to be the source of the jokes.

  James sighed, then looked glumly back to the field where the sheep seemed to be having a fine time racing around all over the place, fat woolly rumps bobbing, with a dog after them and the man at the top of the field yelling.

  ‘Hey, guys!’ he heard Kelly say. ‘We’re needing to watch this one. My mum was saying this is always, like, the comedy act. Look – the dog’s pants and he’s tragic.’

  ‘Who is it?’ someone asked idly, joining in the laughter at the antics going on round the course.

  ‘Murdoch – you know, from the marina. Dad says he couldn’t find his backside if they painted a big arrow.’

  ‘Watch out, Kelly,’ one of the girls warned. ‘That’s Mirren there, see?’

  ‘So?’ Kelly said indifferently.

  James followed the gesture. Murdoch’s daughter was standing just to his left, a thin figure in a brown hooded cagoule with her shoulders hunched up almost to her ears, clutching the boundary rope. Her hands were wet and red with cold but he could see the white of her knuckles showing through. He didn’t think she’d heard what Kelly said because her face was all screwed up and her lips were moving, saying something he couldn’t hear.

  He edged along the bench towards her, listening, but she wasn’t talking out loud. The klaxon went for out of time and he saw her shoulders sag. When she turned away she was crying.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, more in curiosity than in sympathy.

  She hardly seemed to see him, knuckling the tears away. ‘Did you see what he’s done to poor Moss?’ she said savagely. ‘Dogs like that know when it’s all gone wrong, and he’s really clever. He’ll be feeling it’s all his fault, and it isn’t, it isn’t! And my father will probably beat him now.’

  ‘Oh,’ James said feebly.

  ‘He’ll get rid of him, likely sell him to someone who’ll treat him even worse.’

  The conversation had attracted the group’s attention. One of the boys sniggered.

  ‘Who’d buy it? That dog’s only fit for the knacker’s yard.’

  Several others tittered but Mirren Murdoch turned on him, her eyes blazing.

  ‘If he kills Moss, I’ll kill him,’ she said, then ran away across the muddy field.

  ‘Hey, lighten up!’ a boy called after her, but still there was a slight feeling of unease.

  ‘Poor kid,’ one of the girls said, but Kelly, irritated at having lost their attention, tossed her head. ‘Just having a kiddie tantrum,’ she said. ‘Anyone getting tired of this? Let’s go to the tent and get a burger.’

  ‘He’s ruined that dog, hasn’t he?’ Marjory watched with some dismay as Niall Murdoch, his face set, looped a rope leash round his dog’s neck and half-dragged it out. There had been a spattering of embarrassed applause; now it died in a wave of stony disapproval.

  ‘Not the ideal start for Fin,’ Bill agreed. ‘Worse than if Moss had done brilliantly. He’ll be devastated, and if he can’t put it out of his mind Flash will pick that up. And I’ll tell you another thing – there’s a black sheep in with that lot. Fin’s got a thing about black sheep – says they’re always thrawn.’

  ‘And are they?’ Laura asked. ‘Always supposing I knew what thrawn meant.’

  ‘Stubborn, with a bit of perversity thrown in. And I might agree with him,’ Bill admitted. ‘They’re different, you see – probably had to struggle for acceptance in the flock right from the start.

  ‘Here he’s coming now.’

  A silence fell as Findlay Stevenson was announced and came forward to take up his position, the dog, a black-and-white collie with a rakish black patch across one eye, at his knee, staring up into his master’s face.

  Laura looked at Findlay with interest: he was in his late thirties, perhaps, and he was bare-headed so that his dark red hair looked almost black with the rain. She saw him shrug as if to dispel tension, then pause before he sent the dog off on the outrun. Living up to his name, Flash looked like nothing more than a streak of movement, low to the ground, speeding round the very edge of the field.

  Laura had found the trials fascinating to watch. On safari with her ex-husband Brad she’d watched hunting-dogs in Africa do flanking movements just like this and then, as Flash was doing now, dropping to the ground then inching forward, raising one paw and freezing, a step at a time. Over how many tens of thousands of years had that extraordinary relationship between man – or woman – and working dog been developed?

  On a perfectly timed whistle, Flash rose and, as they said, ‘lifted’ the sheep; they moved off smoothly, unflustered, with the black one leading, and earned a round of applause.

  ‘Nice,’ Bill approved. ‘Very nice.’

  The drive went well, gates neatly negotiated. It was only when they came back up to the shedding ring that the dominant ewe began to show a nature as black as her fleece.

  Benefiting from Bill’s instructions, Laura knew that with the handler standing by, the dog was supposed to separate two sheep from the others, within the marked ring, and then control them. ‘In here!’ she heard Fin call, and the dog moved swiftly into a gap in the flock that had opened up. The black sheep, however, was having none of it. She turned back towards the others, yellow eyes defiant, then even made a little rush at the dog, stamping her foot.

  Bill drew in his breath. ‘If the dog gives way, he’s had it. But if he comes on too strong, he’s had it too.’

  But Flash, with encouraging noises from his master, held firm, staring down the sheep with his own steady gaze. The ewe became visibly uncomfortable as he inched forward with relentless authority until she turned and trotted off in the right direction, tossing her head nervously. Laura could almost hear the collective sigh of relief as applause broke out again.

  Penning was the final challenge. The black sheep seemed almost bent on revenge for her humiliation as they were shepherded into position, stamping angrily, breaking away round the side of the pen between man and dog and unsettling the others. A white one followed and then the rest rushed away from the pen to join the rebels.

  ‘It’s like those puzzles where you have to get all the metal balls into the holes at the same time,’ Laura said, though the others hardly heard her.

  ‘He was quick on the drive, so he’s got time in hand,’ Bill muttered, and Marjory seemed almost to be holding her breath.

  Flash had rounded them up again. Findlay had the gate wide open, spreading his arms out and reaching out his crook to
cover the biggest area possible.

  The first of the sheep went in, then another, and another. The fourth hesitated on the threshold and then the black one, bringing up the rear, stopped. When she turned, ready to break again, the crowd groaned. At a command from Findlay, Flash, belly to the ground, edged forward again. The ewe stamped. He raised his head, fixing her once more with that steady, unnerving stare. The clash of wills between the animals was all but audible.

  Then she lowered her head, looking round uncertainly for support, and finding none scuttled to join the others. Findlay slammed the gate shut. It was done.

  As the crowd clapped, Flash frolicked round his master in the comfortable knowledge of a job well done, and was given his reward of approval. Bill said, with some relief, ‘He’s home and dry. There are a couple more but I know the dogs and neither of them will come close.’

  The exit from the arena was just by the commentary box. As the next competitor was announced, Findlay and Flash came out. Bill hailed him.

  ‘Well done, man! What a performance! You’ve a brave dog there.’

  Flash, ears pricked and head held high, looked up intelligently as if pleased at the praise, but Findlay did not have the expression of a man savouring success.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said tautly. ‘Murdoch, I mean? Did you see what he’s done to Moss?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Bill patted his arm. ‘The man’s useless, but the dog’s his now. There’s nothing you can do, Fin.’

  Findlay was not a big man, but he was square-shouldered and physically fit. Like most redheads his skin was pale, but now it looked unnaturally white, the freckles on his cheeks standing out in stark contrast.

  ‘Oh yes? We’ll see. If you see him first, tell him I’m looking for him.’

  He strode off to put Flash back in his battered pick-up along with the other dog, leaving Bill and Marjory exchanging troubled glances.

  ‘Maybe you should go after him, Bill,’ Marjory urged. ‘He’s spoiling for a fight.’