UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  Miss Efficiency was still lying under Heather, staring at her, seemingly rapt.

  ‘There were two policemen,’ Heather said, seeing them in her mind’s eye. ‘They’d stopped Old Jack and he was out of his Land Rover, wanting to know what was going on. Old Jack had the next-but-one farm to us and was a bit hard to understand. He normally let Young Jack do the talking to townies, but Young Jack wasn’t about on that particular day. He must have been back at the farm with Baby Jack.’

  No way could Vic resist. ‘Baby Jack?’ she echoed.

  ‘Old Jack was the farmer. Even though he wasn’t doing much farming, he was still the main man. Baby Jack was his grandson. He must have been about thirty and was doing most of the heavy work for his dad, Young Jack, who’d have been pushing sixty by then.’

  ‘I’m glad I asked.’

  ‘The policemen were telling Old Jack that a bull was running riot in the village. Chasing cars and people. Knocking down walls. Tearing up the village green. They were closing the road from this end while their colleagues closed it down by the canal bridge.’

  Heather laughed again. ‘I wasn’t very impressed with their blockade. The road was narrow but Brutus would have easily barged past their car. They’d put up some of that blue and white tape too. Obviously he was going to respect that!

  ‘Then one of them asked Old Jack if he had a gun in his Landy.

  ‘”Nay lad,” he said, “est thar asking me to shoot another man’s beast? Shame on thee! Ar would nay shoot another man’s beast if Ar were t’last man standin.”

  ‘I don’t think they could exactly translate that, but they got the gist. Ignoring me as a useless little girl, one of them started questioning my farm lads while the other got his radio out.

  ‘”Ar’ll tell thee what to do,” Old Jack said, although they were ignoring him as well by now. “Get thissens down there and tether him. Ar’d do it missen, if Ar wa’n’t eighty-three.”

  ‘The one on the radio was asking for armed support and that did it for me. I ducked under their tape and hurried round the corner. They never even saw me go.’

  * * *

  Heather pictured the scene again, expecting dark clouds to slip across the sun.

  ‘I can’t tell you how creepy it was,’ she said. ‘Micklethwaite Lane is usually quiet but that afternoon it was like a graveyard. I suppose I’d been expecting to see chaos and hear bulls bellowing and women screaming. But it was deserted . . . and deathly silent.

  ‘I reached a turning to a footpath that takes you through the fields and over the beck to East Morton. But one of the policemen had mentioned the village green, and that was farther down the lane, so I kept going. By then I was so emotional I was crying. And talk about angry! I was surrounded by incompetent males. Two farm lads who couldn’t even latch a gate. A bull who didn’t know when he was onto a good thing. Policemen whose answer to any problem was armed support. The only man who had a clue was Old Jack, and nobody was listening to him.’

  She sniffed, surprisingly close to tears as the memories rushed back.

  ‘I was worried too,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t find out how badly we were struggling for another year and a bit. Eleven year-olds don’t really understand farming finances, do they? But deep down I knew things were changing. We used to have six good farm lads. That summer there were only two feeble ones. Dad’s Landy was even more knackered than Old Jack’s. The milking equipment kept going on the blink. Lots of little things like that. And now one of Dad’s biggest assets was going to get shot. I kept expecting helicopter gunships to arrive and wipe him out.’

  Vic’s eyes seemed wider and browner than ever. ‘Was Brutus very valuable?’

  ‘He kept the cows happy, so he was worth more than his weight in burgers. I didn’t particularly like him, but I didn’t want his girlfriends disappointed. And I didn’t want him causing thousands of pounds of damage and upsetting the villagers . . . no more than he had done already, anyway. And besides . . .’

  ‘Besides?’

  Heather wiped away a solitary tear. ‘Besides, he was Dad’s beast. Dad might have wanted to shoot him for running riot. I wasn’t going to let anyone beat him to it.’

  Vic reached up and stroked Heather’s cheek. Hardly noticing, she went on with the tale.

  ‘So I was walking down this creepy lane, angry and very concerned. There were a few parked cars and I was checking them as I passed, thanking God that none of them had been crunched. Then this voice suddenly shouted, “BEWARE OF THE BULL!!” I must have jumped ten feet into the air. When I landed I looked round in panic, expecting a road full of Pamplona’s finest coming at me, not just Brutus. But there wasn’t anything.

  ‘It took a moment to work out the voice was coming from an upstairs window, in one of the newer houses off to my left. It was this woman, leaning halfway out.

  ‘”BEWARE OF THE BULL!!” she yelled again.

  ‘”I am beware of the bull!” I yelled back. “It’s my flipping bull! Where is he?”

  ‘”He’s berserk,” the woman wailed. “Beware! Oh beware!”

  ‘Nowadays I’m sure she was drunk or stoned. At the time I thought she’d cracked up and it was all Brutus’s fault. I asked where he was again and she said something about running through a wall. That made me look farther downhill. And I saw what she meant.’

  Heather shook her head. ‘Somehow he’d managed to jump out of the lane, over a high wall and onto an enormous lawn. I could see where he’d landed; it was all churned up. He hadn’t jumped back though. Oh no. He’d charged straight through.’

  ‘I’m thinking Tom and Jerry here,’ said Vic, still stroking Heather’s cheek. ‘You know: an outline of a bull in the brickwork.’

  ‘It probably was like that for an instant when it happened. But it was a proper dry stone wall. By the time I got there twenty yards of it was heaped in the lane. I was shaking when I went to inspect the damage, expecting to find pieces of broken horn and gallons of blood. But Brutus hadn’t left any sign. Apart from a pile of steaming manure on a clear patch of tarmac.’

  ‘Bullshit?’

  ‘It was Brutus’s statement, not mine.’

  ‘Never mind whose statement. This is the best story I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, sincerely. Please go on.’

  ‘I couldn’t have left the roadblock much more than five minutes earlier, but I was still expecting those gunships at any second. Gunships or dozens of snipers scurrying into position. I found out later that the policeman got a flea in his ear when he asked for armed support. Apparently his sergeant told him to forget Health and Safety and go rescue the bull, before it hurt itself. I didn’t know that right then, though. I was getting more and more desperate with every step.’

  ‘I’m starting to panic myself,’ said Vic. ‘Did you get there first?’

  ‘I carried on until I got to the green. That was churned up worse than the lawn. There were benches on it; wooden ones with arms and backs, like you get in the park. One had been knocked over. The other was reduced to matchsticks. And there was a boy up a tree.’

  ‘A boy . . .’

  ‘Yes; a younger one from school. He was shouting “BEWARE!” too, but not as politely as that woman in the window.

  ‘”Come on down,” I told him. “I’ll catch you.”

  ‘”But the bull,” he said. “It’s behind you.

  * * *

  Heather allowed herself a dramatic pause before continuing.

  ‘My neck must have creaked like a rusty hinge as I had a look. Daniel was right. Brutus really was behind me. Luckily, he was quite a way off and not taking much notice.’

  ‘Phew,’ said Vic. ‘Narrow escape.’

  ‘Escape didn’t come into it.’

  ‘Go on, tell me more.’

  ‘What I’m calling “the green” has houses on three sides of it; old, well-established houses. It’s the classiest part of the village. One of them had the most wonderful flowerbeds and hang
ing baskets, full of mauves and yellows . . . every nice colour under the sun. Brutus had decided it was lunchtime. He was really pigging out on the mauve ones.

  ‘I told Daniel to stay in his tree and went towards Brutus. I’ve got to be honest, I wasn’t angry anymore. I was a little cautious. And my worries had changed. All I could think about was how Brutus hated the kids who dashed across his field more than anything. And how I was the one who dashed across most.

  ‘”Brutus,” I said, trying to sound delighted to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  ‘He stopped munching and glared at me. No doubt about it. He knew exactly who I was.

  ‘”Come on,” I persisted. “Let’s go home to the farm.”

  ‘I had got close to him by then. He’d had his head in one of the baskets but he left that swinging and turned his whole body to face me . . . the whole ton and a bit of it.’

  ‘Oops,’ said Vic.

  ‘Oops indeed. I said something pathetic like, “There’s a good boy,” and he started pawing the ground.

  ‘”RUN!!” Daniel howled. As if I hadn’t thought of that. I’d always been a good runner. And a champion tree climber. I already knew I could get up into the branches about a nanosecond before Brutus got me.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘If I did that he would be off again, causing more damage until those gunships arrived. So I didn’t wait for him to charge. I marched straight up and smacked him on the nose. Not hard . . . but not soft either. I’d seen Dad do that to show who was boss. “Come on,” I repeated, “home to the farm.”

  ‘For a second or two I was sure he was going to gore me. Then he just snorted and stopped pawing. And we both knew I’d won, even if he didn’t instantly obey.’ Heather smiled wryly. ‘He went back and had another go at those flowers, but it was only token defiance. Like a naughty little boy.’

  ‘What happened next?’ Vic wondered.

  ‘That was it, really. I led the way and he followed. No rope or anything. One of the farm lads had that, and I’d forgotten to take it off him.’

  ‘Brutus just followed you?’

  ‘Yes. I’d say he followed as obediently as Gyp, Dad’s sheepdog, but Gyp has a mind of his own when he isn’t officially working. He’s a Border Collie, you see. He’d have got bored after about two paces. Brutus followed far more obediently than Gyp ever would.’

  ‘And you did all this singlehanded?’

  ‘Yes. By the time we reached the roadblock I knew I didn’t need the rope, so I just kept going. The policemen were still arguing about their proposed rescue. They were gobsmacked when we passed, but Old Jack laughed, as if he knew I could do it all along.’

  ‘What did your dad say?’

  ‘He wasn’t too happy about being called back from market. Mum got him by telephone in The Castle . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me: the pub next to Skipton Castle.’

  ‘That’s right. He’d just started his first pint. He gave the farm lads grief about that for weeks.’

  ‘They got the blame then?’ Vic smiled. ‘He didn’t shoot Brutus?’

  ‘He didn’t shoot anybody. And he got his market day drink after all. Over the kitchen table, him and those two policemen “sorting details”. After they’d drunk all Mum’s tea he got the whisky out and explained the country way of life. By the second bottle they were thee-ing and thy-ing like Old Jack.’

  ‘What about the damage in the village?’

  ‘It wasn’t too bad. Dad repaired that lawn and the village green himself. And both the benches, of course. Then he replanted the flowerbeds for the woman from the cottage and sorted out her baskets. Made a few gifts of eggs, milk and cheese. Everyone agreed it had just been an exciting day; nothing to fall out about.’

  ‘There wasn’t any damage to cars? Or people?’

  ‘Luckily not. The original reports were somewhat overstated.’

  ‘What about that wall?’

  ‘The farm lads rebuilt it. Three days it took. Although Dad stood over them, mithering all the while, so it must have felt more like a month.’

  Vic’s smiled moved up a few megawatts. ‘Okay, sixty-four thousand dollar question. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I got confirmation of what I already knew. I was better than any man. And I preserved the status quo. Eleven and three-quarter-year-olds are very conservative, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant what did your dad think about you rescuing Brutus?’

  ‘I didn’t rescue him. As I said, there never were going to be any gunships.’

  ‘There would have been if he’d gored you to death.’

  ‘Well he didn’t.’

  ‘Because of your bravery. Didn’t you tell your dad about that?’

  ‘No way. I just said I went and brought Brutus back, like Mum told me to.’

  ‘Did he thank you?’

  ‘He said he’d always known I wouldn’t let him down.’ Heather wiped away another tear, wondering what was happening to her tonight. ‘That was thanks enough for me.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘Well, he did mildly tell me off for leaving Daniel up in that tree. But he wasn’t really serious.’

  ‘I think you and your dad are very much alike. Is that fair comment?’

  ‘Very possibly, yes.’

  ‘Have I just insulted you?’

  ’By comparing me to my dad? No, we are alike.’

  ‘You admire him more than anything, don’t you?’

  ‘Mum comes a very close second but yes, I do. He’s a beacon of ability amidst all that male incompetence I mentioned.’

  ‘What about Brutus? Did he become your best buddy?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Heather chuckled, ‘although I did cut down on running across his field. It wasn’t quite the same when I knew he was capable of crashing through the wall after me.’

  Vic did some more of that rapt staring. ‘I think you’re my hero,’ she said finally, ‘never mind me being your white knight.’

  ‘Does that mean I get to shag you again?’

  ‘Not until you prove you’re not really cruel to cats.’

  ‘No more guilt, please,’ Heather feigned a sigh,’ I’ll go feed the flipping cat.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Pat had swapped phones with Sean, wanting to ring a few contacts before Williamson made his call. It didn’t take long to establish what the “something” was. He said a quick, insincere prayer then went back inside the pub to spread the bad news.

  Nowadays Sean spent most of his free time in The Kings. He’d changed an old storeroom into what he called The Meeting Room but really served as his office. Angel and Tinner were there with him, huddled around The Meeting Room Table, waiting impatiently, watching the minutes crawl by.

  ‘Suspicions confirmed,’ Pat said, taking a seat. ‘No-one’s seen Moggs or Swanny all day.’

  ‘Moggs missed last night as well,’ Tinner put in. ‘It’s not like him to miss a piss up. I thought he must have finally got off with that manicurist.’

  ‘What about Swanny?’ said Sean. ‘Was he here?’

  Shrugs and headshakes all round.

  ‘I can’t believe Moggs has been missing two days.’ Sean looked at Tinner. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be his mate?’

  ‘I am. But I’m not married to the fucker.’

  ‘Didn’t he say anything at all?’

  ‘Yeah. He was going to Leeds with Swanny. They had someone to see. Then they were off looking for Bunny Burrows. Swanny had a new address for him.’

  ‘That wasn’t going to take two days, was it?’

  ‘You can never be sure with Burrows. He moves about a lot. They could have followed him to Timbuktu for all I know.’

  The door opened and Andy came into the room carrying pitchers of lager. ‘Everyone’s out,’ he announced. ‘The natives are restless but sod ‘em. They can have double afters tomorrow.’

  ‘Better get a glass and join us,’ Sean said. ‘That bastard’s likely to ke
ep me waiting.’

  So far, so good, in Pat’s opinion. Sean was furious but still in control. He had the hotline on the table in front of him, switched on in anticipation, volume maxed out. Whenever Williamson did bother to call they’d all hear, which was encouraging. If Sean kept things to himself he tended to do nutty things.

  Pat topped up his pint from the nearest pitcher. Although he’d already downed a few he wasn’t drunk. None of them were. It had turned into one of those nights when boozing didn’t have any effect.

  ‘I don’t see the connection,’ he said levelly. ‘We know Williamson is up to something, don’t we? But how do Moggs and Swanny fit in?’

  There were more shrugs and headshakes around the table.

  ‘Beats me,’ said Sean. ‘Those two are smart enough not to go anywhere near the cunt.’

  Pat’s phone rang, making everyone jump. Sean accepted the call. ‘Hello?’ he said sharply.

  ‘Pat?’ It was a female voice. Pat recognized it, but the others didn’t seem to . . . luckily. Equally luckily, she had the sense to hang up straightaway.

  ‘Must be someone special ringing at this time of night.’ Sean actually raised a smile. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Pat yawned, ‘Could be any one of hundreds.’

  ‘My arse and your face, McGuire. Who was it?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  The phone rang again.

  ‘Persistent, isn’t she?’ Sean pressed Accept. ‘Hello, darling, are you after Patrick?’

  ‘No, it’s you I’m after, Dwyer.’

  It was Williamson. Sean’s smile vanished like a ghost before dawn.

  * * *

  Heather pulled on her old red rugger shirt before going to feed Graham’s cat. When Vic asked, she’d said she had “captured” the shirt after a particularly fine day out, but hadn’t gone into the details.

  Such as how she’d worn it, mud and all, while riding its original owner in a private victory celebration behind the grandstand.