by Adam Thorpe
Then I see my first leopard man, for real.
He’s disguised as John Wall, that’s the trouble. I can tell it’s John Wall by the way one leg drags as he makes his way up the coomb. He has a shotgun over his shoulder.
My leopard head is huge, it takes time to find my own little head inside it. I don’t want to lose my own little shrivelled human head inside the cavern of the leopard’s. But I have to find it in order to talk human words. Because it occurs to me that John Wall might be just John Wall, not realising the danger he’s in, with all these leopard men about. On the other hand, he might be pretending he’s John Wall so as to get near enough to rip me to ribbons. He’s coming nearer and nearer, sort of determined but not hasty, not rushing. I’ll stay up here for the moment. I manage to sit, crossing my legs. My leopard head is a sort of phantom cloud around my little human head. My whiskers gleam clearly, though, and are surprisingly long.
He stops at a little distance.
‘Mornin’, Mr A.’
‘Morning, John. What are you shooting?’
‘You look like Humpty Dumpty up there, Mr A. Oughta be careful you don’t have a great fall.’
He’s tempting me to step down.
‘I used to come here as a boy, you see, John.’
His face is against the light, pale but shadowy. Otherwise I could judge his expression. I don’t like the gun.
‘Bad things have happened, Mr A.’
‘I know. I’m very sorry about your friend, John.’
‘Bad things followed by bad words. I hear as you’ve been usin’ some very bad words, Mr A.’
He’s taking the gun off his shoulder, tucking it under his arm. It’s pointing at the stone – not exactly at me, but near enough to be worrying. Now my height is a disadvantage. I’m like a tin on a rock, ready to be peppered. He’s just too far to be leapt on. You see my difficulty, Mother? I glance down to see if I can jump it on the other side and there’s a neat tuft of grass which I think at first is a big clawed paw.
It is a paw.
It’s sticking out of the rock, as if the rock is growing the paw. John Wall is carrying on as I look at this paw, but I’m too shocked to reply. Why should I be shocked? I expected to find the thing somewhere around here. The claws on the paw are like bulbous roots, exposed to the air.
‘It ent polite, in fact it’s bloody rude, what you’ve been sayin’, Mr A.’
I manage to twist my head round. Now I’m sure he’s John Wall, but that is no comfort.
‘What have I been saying, then?’
‘You know what you’ve been sayin’. Say it again, now.’
The gun is actually pointing at me. There are no boys behind us – it’s pointing at me, and only me. He’s threatening me with it. My leopard head has vanished, now. He’s come to get the skin, I think. He’s hidden it here and now he’s come to destroy it.
‘I would say whatever I said, if I knew what it was. I don’t like you pointing that gun at me, John.’
‘You bloody well know what you said. Bloody smart-ass toff, comin’ down here an shoutin’ your mouth off.’
He’s savage. He would like to kill me.
‘I honestly don’t know, John.’ But I do, of course. I know exactly what he’s talking about. I should have kept my thoughts to myself.
‘You’re a bloody liar on top of bein’ a bloody slanderer. But I know why, see. It’s to cover yourself, innit? Blame a bloke what’s innocent to get the dogs off of you. You’d have me inside for life just to save your neck. Bloody fuckin’ toff.’
His pale, shadowy face is seething with hate for me. He drags himself a few steps nearer.
‘Why, Mr A? Why me? Why the fuck get them dogs on me?’
He’s almost crying.
‘I don’t know, John. I’m awfully sorry. I got everything wrong. The whole lot. I suppose I thought you’d stolen the skin, you see. All those skins in your house –’
His head jerks at that.
‘Who showed you ’em?’
‘No one.’
‘Snoopin’ again, eh? Snoopin’ an pryin’ again, eh? Private bloody property, eh? You wanna look in my bed, do you? Look at my sheets, do you?’
The shotgun’s waving about, but always in my direction. I’ve never had a gun waved at me before, not like this, not so that I can actually see its tight snout. I’m so frightened that I have broken through to somewhere calm.
‘Did you follow me here, John?’
The gun stops waving about.
‘So what if I did?’
‘Or were you unlucky, finding me here?’
He breathes so I can hear it. The day advances pace by pace. There’s a little more light each minute. The stone’s so used to this. It’s had millions of days already, breaking over its flank. Something might have its head blown off on top of it, but the rain will wash the bits away, the blood. The stone won’t notice.
Your affectionate son,
Hugh
Rain, at last. But not quite enough.
Dearest Mother,
John Wall then says, ‘I reckon I’m bloody lucky, findin’ you here, Mr A.’
The muzzle of the gun is pointing firmly at my head. Perhaps Nuncle sent him. Perhaps he heard voices.
‘Do you hear voices, John?’
The gun wavers.
‘Why should I?’
‘Voices can make you do the most awful things.’
He starts to sing.
‘Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.’
I sing with him.
‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, Couldn’t put Humpty together again!’
The strange thing is, Mother, I start to cry. I sit up there on that rock with the most uncomfortable bottom, tears rolling down my face and my mouth all loose and trembling. It’s not just because you used to sing this to me in Africa, it’s because I can see myself in little pieces on the ground. It’s already too late. I always felt so sorry for Humpty Dumpty.
John Wall comes right up to the rock. His head is where I begin. The gun rests its snout like a dog on the top of the stone. Why hasn’t John Wall got a dog? Has he skinned that, too? I don’t care that he can see me crying. This is because he’s been so rude to me, calling me names, as brothers can be rude to each other. It makes me feel close to him. He’s my brother.
‘Why don’t you just tell ’em, Mr A? Tell ’em you come over all queer an didn’t know what you was doin’? Before they collars you? Before they collars you an it’s too late?’
‘I didn’t kill your friend, John. I don’t know who did but I didn’t.’ I wipe my nose on my sleeve. Everything goes when you’re in this state, Mother. ‘Actually, I do know who did it. Whoever hid the leopard skin under this stone did it, you see. That’s why the stone doesn’t wobble any more!’
I laugh through my tears. The new fresh sun’s blinding me. I let it. Nuncle forged the letters, I think. I have to think this to myself because I keep hearing your voice reading out phrases from the letters, as if you wrote them yourself. John Wall’s laid his hand on my knee, stretching up.
‘It’s you as hid it there, Mr A.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish, John. Leave me alone. I need to think on my own. Why doesn’t anybody leave me alone?’
‘You were seen, Mr A. You were seen with it. That’s why they knows you did it.’
I look down at him. His hand is lying with its dirty broken nails on my knee. His lips are drawn back from his teeth, like mine. I’ve let him get too close. I stand up and step backwards, almost falling off the stone. My heel splashes into the basin.
John Wall’s eyes are wide, almost boggling. I think he thinks I didn’t like him to touch me. ‘He saw you, Mr A,’ he hisses. ‘He saw you with it, the day it were took out the cupboard.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t say, but it’s someone as don’t lie, Mr A. All you has to say is you weren’t in possession of all your faculties. It happens. You’re gettin’
on, Mr A. You ent quite yourself, is you? You talks to yourself. You walk about at night. Maybe you need treatment. Go along an tell ’em, tell ’em now before they tell you, Mr A. That’s my advice.’
His face is savage again. It’s screwed right up, desperate over the lip of the stone. Now I know everything. Now I know who did it, for certain. He’s climbing up on to the stone, grunting because it’s the sheer flank, because his leg is awkward. His hands are at my feet, gripping the rough surface of the stone, hauling the rest of his body up, his gun next to them, free to grab. Silly man. He must think, because I’m crying, I’m beyond decisive action.
He’s wrong, Mother. I pick up the gun and point it at him. He looks up at me with a startled expression.
‘Get down, or I’ll kill you quicker than you killed Muck.’
He snarls and grabs my ankle – both my ankles! I try to kick free but his grip is tight as iron, there’s a kind of equilibrium in our position, and I’m on the edge of the stone. I lift the gun and bring it down on his wrist – the right one, I think. He grunts and swears but his grip tightens even more. He’s pulling me over, now. Then he’ll kill me. So I have no option, I bring the gun down as I was taught in the war – on his head, the butt on his head, on his skull. But it all goes wrong because I’m toppling already. I end up on top of him, my face in the crook of his bad leg. The cloth of his trousers smells of fox, of vermin, of hung game. In disgust I scrabble free of him but he’s caught my coat by the front, twisting it and pulling it towards him. ‘You fucker,’ I can hear him say, ‘you rich murderin’ fucker.’ There’s blood dribbling down his face from a welt on his forehead. I must have struck him, after all. I’ve half slipped down the shallow slope of the stone on one side, near the paw. The coat is going one way and I’m going the other, we’re panting, I’m held only by the coat, by the fist bunched at my collar, the rest of me sprawling downwards nearly to the ground, dangling. His breath is in my face, foul as hell. So I bite his fist, sinking my old teeth and my new teeth as far as their looseness will allow. I taste blood, anyway. He yowls and I find myself spreadeagled on the grass. The gun has fallen off with me. He’s up there, sucking his fist.
‘You’re a fuckin’ animal, you are!’ he’s shouting.
I’m tugging at the leopard skin, holding it by its paw and tugging. If I leave it here, he’ll destroy it. I was seen with the package on my bicycle and they all think it was this – I’m in deep trouble. I’m yanking the bulky skin with one hand and waving the gun with the other. There are bits of sausage in the claws. The stone is on top of the skin. How did anyone move something that hadn’t been moved for millions of years? Then the skin comes and I tumble with it. The gun goes off. It goes off but I only hear its echo and a ringing in my ears. The leopard skin is on top of me, the huge head eating me up with its half mouth. I’m screaming because it’s the agonised rat’s head in the cellar, giant. People are running. I can see them running along the side of the world just as I saw Mr Allinson running along the side of the beach so long ago. Arms pick me up, no, pin me down. I’m being impaled like the ring dove, the skin is being tugged away, I’m being stripped of my fur. Africa leaves me, I’m raw like the open downs. Instead of the leopard’s great head, there’s Malcolm’s little rodent chin. Above it, his mouth is moving. Words come out of it.
‘Don’t fight them, Hugh. Just don’t fight. Just don’t, OK?’
Your loving son,
Hugh
Chill snap. Leaves tumbling and getting raked.
My dearest Mother,
Fagg’s face emerges from its silhouette.
‘Morning, Mr Arkwright.’
I’m standing up, now. There are men around him with funny vests on, holding guns. Others are dressed as ordinary policemen. They all stand rather casually, in a haphazard circle around us. Some of them have thin poles. Two or three look around as if spotting a place to lay a picnic tablecloth, the eyes of the rest shift between my face and the leopard skin. Malcolm is rubbing his hands, looking down at the big black hole left by the skin.
‘Thank God you came, Sergeant.’ I can’t remember his name for a moment. Only part of me is actually saying this, the rest is panting, bruised and crouched. ‘Just in time, I’d say.’
‘Detective Sergeant Ronald Fagg, even to my wife and the cat. You have a habit of forgetting things, sir.’
‘Titles have always been my weak point. I’m sure even you have your weak points.’ I clear my throat and point to the skin, my hand trembling away. One of the policemen is covering it in a sheet of plastic. Into the plastic goes the great snarling head. My voice sounds muffled, now. ‘The murder weapon, I think you might call it. Very cleverly hidden, using what I think is a badger’s sett. This stone is known as the Witch Stone. It used to wobble. Hiding the skin under it took away its wobble. That should have alerted me.’
I slap the sarsen rather heartily and end up leaning on it. One of the policemen blows his cheeks out, as if bored. ‘Just in time, yes,’ says Fagg. ‘An early riser, you are. Disturbed my beauty sleep. You’ve got to be careful with guns, you know. They have a habit of killing people.’
I look around for John Wall. He’s having his fist and head dealt with by the man I nicknamed Brut. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ I point out.
‘Knocked him about a bit, Mr Arkwright. An active man for your age.’ Then he turns to Malcolm. ‘That’ll be fine, Mr Villiers. We’ll call you if we need you.’ Malcolm gives me a little furtive nod and walks off. I don’t understand, Mother.
John Wall is holding the gun, having his head dabbed and holding the gun.
‘He’s got the gun,’ I manage to say.
‘It’s his. He’s got a licence,’ Fagg says. He nods at someone and they stand next to me. He sets his weary eyes on my face. ‘Come along now, Mr Arkwright. We’ve got a bit of talking to do. I have to warn you that anything you say –’
‘He’s got the gun and you’re not going to take it off him? You’re not going to arrest him?’
‘It’s you we’re arresting, Mr Arkwright.’
John Wall limps up to Fagg, avoiding my eyes. ‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you? He nearly had me, there.’
‘Looked like you were coping, from where we were, Mr Wall. Didn’t want to leap too early, did we?’ Then he turns to me and tells me again that I am under arrest. John Wall nodding, but not smiling, not catching my eye.
‘Detective Sergeant Fagg, you have gone completely mad.’
The circle is closing. The young men look thuggish, suddenly, their faces pale and unappetising, with pimples. Their hats don’t seem to fit. I have a tremendous desire to knock one off and run, run until their grasping hands tear the clothes from my back, run on until the last one falls behind me and I am free for ever, with nothing but the deep, wild woods behind and beside and before me, running with the wild deer and aurochs for ever and ever.
Fagg is smiling, his head bent to one side.
‘Mad, eh? Pot calling the kettle black perhaps, Mr Arkwright?’
Perhaps. Yes, perhaps.
Your affectionate son,
Hugh
First frost yesterday.
Dearest Mother,
You know how many days I spent in the cell? Because I don’t. I was in a white space smelling of damp mops and fresh paint, with a small barred window through which the light changed from day to night at regular intervals. I had a lot of pork pies, their pastry’s crinkles made by cellophane. The tea was awful, really awful. Always too much milk. You know how I hate pork pies and milky tea.
I was questioned many times. It was Malcolm who ‘shopped’ me. He passed me when I was on the bicycle, carrying the oil-paper package. He thought it was the leopard skin. It all clicked together in his head. I had scratches on my face, leaves in my hair, I looked generally under the weather, I’d burned my clothes, I was spotted with a metal claw. You can’t blame him, can you?
Sitting in the white cell, I had lots of pictures. The wall cracked like the church�
��s plaster cracked after the bombs fell, showing the pictures underneath. The freshly painted walls of the cell were covered in pictures. I saw Muck and Aunt Rachael giggling together. I saw Jack Wall up in the tree in the wildwood. I saw the Red Lady floating across the lawn. If Muck hadn’t told me about the Red Lady, I would never have fiddled about in the attic, opening the trunk. So it’s really your fault, Mother. You should never have bought that coat. You should never have gone off like that.
