Caracal

by Guy N Smith

  ‘Oh, sure, he can look after himself,’ Houghton lit a cigarette and drew the smoke gratefully into his lungs. ‘It just means that I've got to spend hours riding round the Radnorshire lanes looking for him tomorrow.’

  ‘Powys,’ Simmons, corrected him with a wry smile.

  ‘Radnor, always has been and always will be. What's in a name? Call it what you like.’

  ‘The dogs have worked Kinsley Wood very thoroughly,’ Baldwin moved out and addressed the group, ‘and I think we can safely say that the caracal was not in there. Now, a break of twenty minutes for lunch and then we'll see what Panpunton Hill holds.’

  Three miles away Colin Rutter and Wes Lansdale were sharing their sandwiches apart from the main group. Their morning had passed uneventfully. On one occasion the dogs had gone into full cry, but the cause had proved to be a vixen lying out in the warmth of a patch of heather on a sun-soaked hillside. She had stopped and looked back, almost in surprise, a hundred yards further on.

  ‘Doesn't look like the caracal's around any more,’ Wes Lansdale broke a ten-minute silence, voicing his optimism.

  ‘He's around,' Rutter said. 'I'd stake my reputation on it, and you know he is as well as I do.’

  Life generally was getting June Whymark down. The strain of four babies in seven years was beginning to tell. The early stages hadn't been too bad, and the drudgery of washing nappies and being housebound hadn't troubled her unduly. Now, as the children began to grow up (Jackie seven, Adrian five, Sarah four, and Dominic two) they quarrelled and fought incessantly. She absolutely dreaded school holidays, and with half-term just over a fortnight away, the schools were closed for one day on a token strike. She blamed the unions for the screeching of juvenile voices which came from the front room of their council house.

  ‘Piss!’ was her favourite swear word. The children had picked it up, and she recognised Adrian's voice as he used it now. She felt at the limit of her endurance - a sunny day like today and they insisted on staying indoors to squabble. There was no reason why they should not go out into the fields below the house and continue their verbal and physical battles there, where most of the children from the estate played. God, it wasn't like being in a town where you were frightened of the kids straying on to the road and getting run over. The spasmodically busy A488 was well over a mile away and they wouldn't go that far, not when they had young Dominic along with them.

  ‘For Christ's sake!’ she burst into the front room. Jackie and Sarah were busy kicking each other and screaming whilst Dominic was doing his best to brain Adrian with a heavy Tonka tipper lorry. ‘Stop it!’

  There was a lull in the fray, inquisitive (not guilty) looks in her direction, and Dominic's arm drew back for another blow.

  ‘Get outside, all of you! And stop out till teatime. Jackie, you're in charge. If anything happens to any of the others I'm holding you responsible. Now, go out into the fields.’

  Reluctantly, with sullen glances at their mother, the children trooped out through the back door. Dominic was still carrying his Tonka toy but she snatched it from him; at this moment it was a lethal weapon.

  As she watched them go down the path her thoughts turned to her husband, Ken. He could easily have stayed at home and helped her with the children today. On the dole for six weeks, he seemed to be unemployed indefinitely. She knew he wasn't really interested in getting a job. Yet the prospect of another hunt for this cat creature (she couldn't remember what they called it) had jerked him out of his permanent lethargy. He'd borrowed Bill Jackson's gun, and she wondered idly about this; people were always being prosecuted for carrying guns without licences, but that was Ken's worry. He was not a deliberate lawbreaker, he just didn't take the trouble to find out. Like those hippies down at the commune less than half a mile away - Ken would have been in his element there, lounging about all day smoking fags until his money ran out. Then he'd soon be on drugs. Strangely enough, he didn't bother much about women - probably sex was too much like hard work. Lately they had had it about once a month, and June couldn't remember her last orgasm; except during masturbation, of course, which was her main means of sexual relief these days. In fact … she glanced out of the window to see how far the children had got. They were already in the field, heading towards the wood. She smiled to herself, her body already tingling in anticipation.

  The four children reached the lower boundary of the sloping field in about half an hour. Dominic had delayed them considerably, having fallen down twice and been consoled by Sarah. He had cried and whimpered, then the lure of an expedition away from his mother had calmed him. Jackie and Adrian were arguing, as usual.

  Dominic picked up a loose pebble and tried to throw it, laughing as it spun away behind him. Pulling his other hand free of Sarah's he began searching amongst the grass for more and, having found one, windmilled his arms, and watched it fly in front of him. Adrian screeched as the sharp stone struck him on the neck.

  For a few minutes four squabbling children screamed insults at each other, Adrian shouting ‘Piss!’ and Dominic trying to return the insult in his own baby language, something that came out as ‘Hiss’.

  They looked around for something else to occupy them, and it was then that they saw the big cat squeezing its way out through the hedgerow which bordered the thick woodlands. They stared. Dominic laughed, a shrill sound, and shouted ‘Hussy.’

  ‘It's a big cat,’ Jackie stated, and turning back to Dominic said, ‘Pussy.’

  But Dominic was too busy searching for another stone to listen. The caracal dropped into a crouch, the hairs on its back slowly straightening up. Its ears moved forward and it hissed, a low warning sound. The children, with the exception of Dominic, backed away.

  ‘I don't like cats,’ Jackie said.

  ‘They're nasty,’ Adrian added. ‘They scratch.’

  Sarah clung to her elder brother. Only Dominic was undaunted. He had found the stone for which he was searching, now he grasped it in his tiny fingers and drew back his arm.

  The chances of the pebble flying true were remote. His aim was erratic, well to the right of the menacing creature in front of them; which was probably why the missile sped at an angle of forty-five degrees in a lob such as a fielder might use to return a cricket ball to his wicketkeeper, striking the caracal with moderate force just above its right eye.

  The big cat screamed, a harsh ear-splitting noise which incorporated more rage than pain, as it straightened up on its hind legs with forepaws raking the air. Then, with one movement that coordinated every muscle in its body, it was airborne, a snarling bundle of fury. One misguided stone had transformed it from tranquillity to rage, a mood that would only be satisfied by terrible revenge.

  It did not single out the culprit. All four children were to blame just as much as the hundreds of men who had hunted it earlier that day, driven it from Kinsley Wood. They were - all the same enemy and it was a question of kill or be killed.

  Jackie and Adrian, clinging fearfully to each other, were borne down by the weight of the spitting caracal. The girl managed just one scream. The boy's cry of terror never materialised; there was a sharp crack as his neck snapped, his head going right back, and then he was flung to one side like a cast-off rag doll.

  Jackie's dress shredded, billowing out like carnival bunting, blood spraying into the air and spotting the two younger children. They simply stared, their infant minds incapable of comprehending, and made no effort to flee as the beast turned on them.

  One blow felled the two of them, both crumpling into a silent heap, faces lacerated, blood welling out of the cuts and beginning to saturate their clothing. The caracal stood over them, immobile, as though uncertain of its next move. Then it turned and bounded away, pausing once to glance back before squeezing through the small gap in the hedge. Four mutilated and bleeding bodies. The youngest child was on his feet, screaming, his face hidden beneath the blood which streamed from his forehead. He tottered, lost his balance, and fell.

  Silence. Th
e caracal slipped away and was lost in the darkness of the wood.

  June Whymark sensed rather than heard Jackie's scream. It vibrated in her brain, a terrible warning siren alerting every nerve in her body. She was naked on the bed, sweat glistening on her body, her orgasm only seconds away. She stopped, and almost instantaneously her sexual desires began to wilt. She sat up, her warm damp fingers going to her throat in horror as she picked up Dominic's scream in her subconscious nervous system. He was calling her frantically.

  She didn't wait to dress - nothing mattered except the safety of her children. Stumbling, almost falling headlong down the stairs, she rushed out through the side door. Gossiping neighbours turned with amazed expressions, and a milkman almost dropped a crate of bottles.

  ‘My babies!’ she shrieked as she tore across the road, heedless of the squeal of brakes from an approaching car. ‘My babies!’

  People were following but she paid them no heed - sobbing before she saw the children, on the verge of hysteria.

  And when finally she topped the grassy rise and looked down the slope towards the thick fir wood she could not restrain the scream that had been building up inside her, a long-drawn-out sound like an animal in agony.

  Four small shapes lay sprawled in the grass, twisted at unnatural angles. Unrecognisable, except to June Whymark. Subconsciously she'd known what she was going to find, but in no way had she visualised the total horror of it all. She fell, dragged herself to her feet, almost fainted, but somehow fought against the feeling and, screaming again, staggered forward.

  She ran from one to the other, pulling at them, shaking and slapping them. You're not dead. You're alive. Unhurt. OK God!

  Dominic was in her arms, lying limply, head hanging down, almost slipping from her grasp. Screams behind her, one group of people hanging back in shocked horror, others running down from the road above. In the background a stream of vehicles passed by, the occupants blissfully unaware of the horrific nightmare which was turning to stark and terrible reality only a short distance below.

  June Whymark stood there, stark naked, blood from Dominic's body running on to her, dripping from her breasts and splashing on to her stomach and thighs. Wild-eyed, mouthing words that were incomprehensible to the circle of watchers, cursing mutely.

  Slowly she sank down, the baby still clutched to her bosom, and rolled over. Only then did anybody think of running for help.

  Wendy was no longer afraid of being left alone in the commune with Lester Hoyle. She knew he wouldn't pester her any more, but in many ways the hate that smouldered between them was worse. They had not spoken since that last outburst in the dining room.

  Bilal was working in the garden, and Lester was somewhere around. The others had gone potato picking on a farm somewhere over by Five Turnings. It was a long walk there and back, and they would not be returning until later in the evening, probably after dark. Wes was away on the hunt for the caracal; at least this time he had told her where he was going. She hoped that they didn't kill King - in all probability they would not, he was too cunning and elusive.

  She thought about going into the garden and spending a few hours sunbathing in the nude. She wasn't worried about Bilal seeing her, but the idea of Lester Hoyle staring at her she found repulsive. So she went back upstairs, intending to lie down for a while and rest, maybe go outside later.

  As she entered the large room in which she and Wes had their own partitioned cubicle, she became aware that someone was in their quarters and stopped, listening. There was definitely somebody there - she could hear a rustling of papers from the direction of Wes Lansdale's desk.

  Anger welled up inside her. How dare they! Even in a commune one was entitled to a small grain of privacy. She could contain herself no longer, and stepping forward she flung wide the curtain which served as a doorway.

  ‘Lester!’ The name whiplashed into the tall well-built man who looked up, surprise on his features, stepping back a pace. He had been poring over the desk and a file of papers was strewn on its surface. ‘What the hell d'you think you're up to?’

  ‘I was …’ His complexion reddened as the flush spread down to his neck, Gone was the usual arrogance and in its place was guilt, a slight quivering of the lips, shifty lowering of the eyes. ‘I … I … was just …’ He failed to find the excuse he sought.

  ‘You were prying!’ Her accusation was full-blooded, arms akimbo, eyes blazing. ‘You thought you'd take this opportunity while everybody was out to go through Wes's desk. What are you looking for? Rejection slips to gloat over? Unpaid bills?’

  ‘Don't be bloody stupid!’ He raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘Can't you see I'm trying to help him?’

  ‘You're doing your best to ruin him, and thank God he's had the sense to go and work up at Rutter's place, well away from your criticism and interference. You won't find what you're looking for there, I can assure you.’

  ‘You're a stupid bitch,’ he spat. ‘Infatuation, that's your trouble. Wes is just another drug-sodden hippie like the rest of this trash in here. He's finished as a writer, but you can't see that. You're clinging to fantasies, but they'll never be any more than that. One day you'll come down to earth with one hell of a bump, and don't come crawling to me then.’

  ‘You're mad,’ she laughed. ‘I wouldn't come to you if you were the last man left on earth, Lester. I'd rather …’

  Her voice died away. Subconsciously they had both been aware of the siren somewhere in the background. Ambulances and fire engines went by from time to time, to emergencies that you never heard about, accidents, sudden death. But the sound was not fading as it should have done as the vehicle drove on into the distance - it was getting louder. Now there were two sirens. Then a third.

  ‘What the hell's happening?’ she pushed past him and strode towards the window, staring up over the tops of the trees to where the road snaked away to the west. She squinted, shading her eyes. Some blue lights were flashing, and she made out an ambulance, then a red and white police patrol car. Another vehicle speeded, slowed, then came to a halt. A second ambulance. A small crowd had gathered, and a policeman was waving them back. Stretchers were being unloaded, negotiated over the stile in the hedge, then out of sight.

  ‘There must have been an accident,’ she spoke more to herself than to Hoyle, their quarrel temporarily forgotten. ‘A car gone off the road, probably. Poor devils. There must've been a crowd of them to warrant two ambulances.’

  She continued to watch, with the fascination always conjured up by the gruesome. It was impossible to see much, the tall hedges screened her view from whatever was happening in the field. It occurred to her to go up there and see for herself, but she dismissed the thought at once with a feeling of shame. That would be a form of gloating, much the same as Hoyle did over her lover's failure. Despicable. All the same, she continued to stand in the window.

  It was ten minutes or so before the ambulancemen reappeared, a couple of policemen helping them to lift the stretchers over the stile. The crowd had grown and had to be ordered back again. A long line of parked cars now stretched right back over the brow of the hill.

  Wendy shaded her eyes, trying to make out the figures on the litters. Shapeless forms were completely covered by red blankets, and she shuddered and turned away. Whoever they were, they were dead, of that she was sure.

  Only then did she realise that she was alone in the small enclosure. Lester Hoyle must have slunk away while she was engrossed in the scene below the main road.

  She went back downstairs and out into the garden, gulping in great breaths of the warm autumn air. There was no sign of Bilal and she was glad. Right now she wanted to be alone.

  ‘Hail, the White Hunter himself!’ Lester Hoyle appeared to have shaken off the effects of his humbling encounter with Wendy as Wes Lansdale entered the untidy kitchen where a dozen or so members of the commune were fixing their own supper in Trix's absence. ‘And how has the blood sport gone today?’

  ‘You …’ Wes kicked the d
oor closed behind him and pointed a finger at the commune leader, ‘can shut your bloody mouth before I shut it for you!’

  Hoyle paled. There was something disconcerting, frightening even, in the other's appearance - dishevelled more than usual, gaunt and pale, scared to hell.

  ‘What's the matter?’ Wendy sensed some disaster, too. She had never seen Wes this way before, not even at the peak of his last spell on drugs.

  ‘The caracal has killed again!’ His voice was little more than a whisper, yet everyone in the room heard him. ‘Four children, just up the road from here. Their mother had a heart attack when she found them.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Hoyle shouted. ‘I said …’

  ‘Shut up!’ The veins on Lansdale's neck bulged as he yelled. ‘For Christ's sake, shut your fucking mouth! Five deaths. Five!’

  Silence. Heads were turning, looking for Bilal, but there was no scapegoat this time.

  ‘What … what are we going to do?’ As Lester Hoyle spoke, he was aware that he was being humbled for the second time within a matter of hours. For once he didn't care. Oh, Christ, if, anybody wanted to take over running this commune then they were bloody well welcome to it!

  Nobody spoke. Everything seemed to focus on Wes Lansdale.

  ‘The score is six dead,’ Lansdale's voice was husky. ‘Kids, with the exception of one. The caracal's tasted blood and it won't let up now. We've unleashed a monster in these hills. They could hunt it every day for a year like they've done today, but they won't get it. It'll leave them standing every time, double back, kill, and return to wherever it's hiding out. We're all murderers, every one of us, and there isn't a goddamned thing we can do about it!’