by Guy N Smith
Bilal wept, his body shaking with the convulsions of grief and despair, lying there on the floor in the darkness of the old outhouse. His lingers toyed with part of the rusted shaft of an old ploughshare as he thought again about taking his own life. The point was sharp enough - slash his wrists and by the time they found him, next day or the day after, it would all be over. All his problems solved. Easy … if one had the courage.
There was an alternative; kill the caracal!
Bilal caught his breath at the very idea. Gone now was any affection which he had once had for his pet. His only emotions towards it were hate, revulsion and fear. Nothing could change its instinct to kill, but when it came to humans - especially children - there could be no sympathy for the animal.
He had crept away after hearing Lansdale's account of the mass slaughter, ashamed and guilty, unable to face any of the others, even Wendy. He was the murderer. It wasn't the others. He alone shouldered the responsibility for the killings. He might even kill himself after all, after he had slain the caracal. At least by destroying it he would in some way atone for what he had done. More important, he would ensure that nobody else died by the claws of King.
He sighed deeply, having made his decision. The next thing was to work out exactly how to slay the creature. His only weapon was this rusted piece of iron, but it was sound enough. A kind of spear, the pointed end capable of inflicting a fatal wound if driven into the right place - throat or heart? Probably the caracal would not die immediately, and in its death throes might save him the trouble of committing suicide. Whatever happened to him did not matter now. He was an outcast and would be an object of contempt even amongst his own race. If he returned to his family he would not be able to face the degradation.
Bilal scraped the door open and slunk out into the garden.
The night was cool and a mist was starting to form, seeping up from the damp ground. Overhead a three-quarter moon cast its faint silvery-yellow light over the surrounding hills. There was enough light to see by.
He moved stealthily, keeping to the shadows, more afraid than ever now. Once he paused and almost changed his mind, but there was no alternative. The chances were that King would not be in the old poultry house now, particularly as it was night, the time when he hunted. In that case Bilal would have to wait patiently for the cat to return at daybreak. And if it didn't … well, he had done everything that was humanly possible, he could do no more.
Ahead of him he saw the tumbledown structure of the pen starkly outlined against a background of bushes on which the moonlight shone softly. All was still and silent Bilal shivered. It looked as though the caracal had gone, and he, hated himself for feeling relief. Cowardice!
His relief was short-lived though. The branches of the moonlit bushes rustled, and even as he watched he saw the deep yellow glow from a pair of large eyes. The caracal eased itself out into the open, stretching, displaying the sheer strength of its feline body. And then, quite unexpectedly, it - lay down and looked at him, purred and twitched an ear.
His palms started to sweat as he clutched his improvised spear. This animal could not possibly have slaughtered innocent children. It had, though. It had.
Kill it... kill it... kill it!
‘You are hungry, my little friend.’ The Pakistani advanced slowly, holding his weapon against his thigh. The caracal purred again, a coarse yet strangely musical noise. Another step.
He talked to it in his own tongue, sentimental nonsense which he hoped his tone did not belie, all the time searching for a target. Heart or throat? It would have to be a rapid thrust, his own speed matching that of one of the wildest of creatures, using every ounce of his strength to drive the point home.
Kill it! Now!
He hesitated, having picked his mark: the throat. Wait until it lifts its head again.
Somehow the thoughts of man and beast communicated, a split-second telepathy that warned the hunter's prey and triggered off retaliation before the death blow was even launched.
Bilal took his eyes off the caracal, glanced down at his spear, and then it was too late. The animal did not even snarl, but simply hurled itself forward over the yard or so which separated them.
The youth was hurled backwards, the length of iron flying from his grasp and thudding harmlessly to the ground. He was trapped beneath the caracal, its four limbs pinioning his own as its hot breath seared his face. He stared up into its eyes and read death; bared fangs threatened for a fraction of a second before biting deeply into Bilal's unprotected throat, tearing a jagged wound in the jugular vein so that warm blood spouted high into the air.
It was several seconds before Bilal died, seconds in which he saw the huge cat rearing back, felt the wicked claws tearing at his flesh, peeling off the skin while he still lived. Deep gouges scraped the bone beneath, and the first scream was on its way up his throat when he died, a sound that ended in a low hiss of expended air like a balloon suddenly deflated.
This time the caracal was hungry so it feasted well, and by the time it left for the hills the moon was well past its zenith.
Chapter 7
The caracal made the front page of every national daily newspaper on the following Monday morning. Knighton, which had lived in obscurity for centuries, was suddenly more prominent than the capital itself. The Courier was the only paper to carry a picture of Pentre, and underneath a photograph showing the hen house boarded up with corrugated sheeting.
WAS THIS THE SECRET LAIR OF THE KILLER CAT?
Following five horrific deaths at Knighton, Powys, on Saturday afternoon while a hunt for the animal was in progress, the killer caracal struck again within a matter of hours. An unidentified Pakistani youth was mauled, skinned, and partially eaten within the grounds of a commune.
Detectives have examined a tumbledown fowl pen in which it seems that the animal had been living. Members of the commune have been questioned in connection with this, but so far the police have made no statement. Mr Lester Hoyle, leader of the commune, also declined to comment.
The first tragedy took place while the beast was being hunted through the mountains and forests by hundreds of armed men. It sneaked back to the outskirts of the town and savaged four children. The mother, Mrs June Whymark, who attempted to rescue them, died from a heart attack.
Further armed searches are being organised in an attempt to destroy this monster before it kills again. In the meantime, people are urged to stay indoors after dark and not allow their children to wander.
Wes Lansdale was nervous to the point of wanting to rush outside and vomit. Pentre teemed with police officers. So far they hadn't searched the place for drugs but that would be bound to come later. At the moment they were too preoccupied with finding out everything they could about Bilal.
Every member of the commune was seated in the dining room, exchanging nervous glances, smoking, chewing gum. Nobody spoke. A uniformed policeman stood by the door, there was another out in the hall. At this moment Lester Hoyle was being interviewed by the small sharp-featured Detective Inspector in the front room. Wes wondered how much Hoyle had said, exactly what he had told them. Individual interviews were the way to get the truth out of a group. These cops were experienced, knew how to deal with hippies and drop-outs. “No nonsense, there's a number of charges we can bring. Any drugs? No, OK, well, we'll search the place later.” Jesus Christ!
There was no sign of Trix or Jon, who had been gone four days now. The police would be circulating their descriptions, doubtless. They had to be extremely thorough with six deaths on their hands and a maneater at large.
‘You next!’ the constable at the door singled out Wes with a stabbing finger and jerked thumb. Harsh, a process of breaking you down, making you quaver even before they asked you the first question. Lansdale rose to his feet, felt a quick squeeze of his hand from Wendy. He wished they didn't have to interrogate her.
The room was small, a kind of lobby. Claustrophobic, but ideal for this purpose. The Detective Inspector was da
pper, with a small clipped moustache that reminded Wes of an old-fashioned London spiv. Eyes that bored into you, and (located the truth no matter what you said. Another detective sat on a chair in the corner and a constable guarded the door. There were no other chairs. You stood there like a prisoner in the dock, feeling guilty whether you were or not.
‘You're Wesley Lansdale?’ the detective motioned him to sit down, consulted a clipboard in front of him and made a pencil tick. ‘The writer.’
‘Yes,’ Wes thought he had detected a note of scorn in the other's tone and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I see. Now, tell me, what do you know about this Pakistani youth who was killed by the caracal?’
‘Nothing much. He just turned up one night. I didn't pay much attention to him; nothing to do with me.’
‘He brought this caracal with him.’ A statement, the eyes staring so hard that Lansdale could almost feel their force.
‘Yes.’
‘And you were party to harbouring it … and him?’
‘Now hold on …’
‘I asked a question. Answer it!’
‘OK. I knew they were both living here, Bilal in the attic, the cat in the old poultry house. But it was none of my business. I just get on with my writing, and sod everybody else, except my girl.’
‘Why didn't you report to the police that an illegal immigrant and a wild animal were being hidden here?’
‘Hell, I never gave it a thought.’
‘You should have. As it is, you could be facing a number of charges. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. What're you on, heroin?’ The question was fired like a bullet from a snap-shooter's gun.
‘Not any more,’ Wes answered evenly, unflustered in spite of the churning in his stomach. ‘I've bucked it.’
‘For how long?’ Open scorn now. ‘They all say that.’
‘Call and see me in twelve months' time and I'll prove it to you.’
‘Sorry,’ the Detective Inspector smiled, a slight movement of his thin lips. ‘In twelve months' time you might be in some place where I can call on you much more easily than in this pigsty. Do you know the whereabouts of a couple known as Trix and Jon?’ Another staccato question.
‘I haven't the remotest idea. As far as I know, they ducked out three or four days ago and haven't been back since. It's unlikely they'll show up again. People living in communes rarely return to the same one.’
‘We'll find them. Right, constable, Wendy Drew next.’
Wes Lansdale's brain was reeling as he stepped out into the hall and was directed to another room.
Jesus, herded about like cattle at an auction. This room was empty except for a sullen Lester Hoyle sitting on the edge of a broken-down sofa. And a policeman with his back to them staring fixedly out of the window. No comparing notes - not yet, anyway.
Wes lowered himself on to a straight-backed chair. Silence except for light footsteps crossing the chipped quarry tile floor of the hall. The swine was going to put Wendy through it now. He stared at Hoyle, returning the sullen looks of the other: a mutual hatred that had boiled, simmered, and would boil over again before long.
Outside the sun was melting the mist on the hills. Somewhere up there a dangerous killer rested after a night of hunting.
‘I wondered how you'd got on,’ Colin Rutter sauntered into the small room where Wes Lansdale was staring vacantly at the sheet of paper in his typewriter. ‘Are the police still at the commune?’
‘They've gone now. But they'll be back. So far they haven't charged anybody. A kind of cat-and-mouse game … sorry, pun not intended.’ Wes smiled thinly.
‘You should've told me about the caracal,’ there was only the barest hint of a reprimand in the professor's tone. ‘It would have made things easier, and all this might never have happened. I half guessed, though. I even gave you the opportunity to tell me.’
‘I'm sorry,’ Wes sighed. ‘I really am. I feel as though I've let you down, but if I'd told you I would have betrayed the people at Pentre. It wasn't an easy decision. I just played for time and hoped that everything would work out all right, and, as we all know, it didn't. What the hell are we going to do about the caracal now?’
‘I don't know, quite frankly. A lot of people have come up with stupid ideas. That fellow Grayling of the Sporting Gazette, for instance. His idea is foxhounds and huntsmen on horseback. No foxhounds are going to get the better of an animal like a caracal - they'd be slaughtered if ever they cornered it. That otter hound hasn't come home yet, and I'm afraid it won't. Probably dead deep in the woods. Melvyn Hughes thinks a night expedition might bring results, and I suppose it's as good an idea as any. A few good marksmen aided by a team with powerful spotlights. That's the way to make a bag of rabbits or hares after darkness, and it might just work with the caracal.’
‘Of course it could return to Pentre,’ Wes mused, ‘even though it killed Bilal. It lived in that old poultry house for weeks and it might still go back there.’
‘That hasn't been overlooked,’ Rutter smiled. ‘Joe Simmons, the Forestry Ranger, is working “nights” on that one. If the caracal shows up there, then that will be an end to all our troubles. Now, the best thing you can do is concentrate on your writing and forget all about this business.’
‘I can't,’ Wes shook his head. ‘I can't produce good work in this state. The only way I'll ever get round to finishing my book is to get this matter cleared up. I might even find myself facing police charges. That Detective Inspector said …’
‘I shouldn't take too much notice of what he said,’ Colin Rutter smiled. ‘I'll be very surprised if they bring any charges at all against anyone at Pentre. The only person they might have prosecuted is Bilal and he's dead. Tell you what, though - forgive the interference, but I was looking at your typescript the other day and I see you've got another one there, almost completed except for the final chapter. Pawns of Time. Why on earth did you stop?’
‘Hoyle again,’ Wes shrugged. ‘He said it was bad and would reflect on anything I submitted afterwards.’
‘Oh, what nonsense! Maybe it isn't quite as good as your latest, but I'll warrant a paperback publisher somewhere will buy it. Why not finish it first and get it off to your agent? Who knows, by the time you've completed your current book, Pawns of Time could well be sold.’
‘It's an idea,’ Wes looked up. ‘I'll do just that, Colin.’ It was the first time he had used the other's Christian name. ‘I'll make a start on it tomorrow.’
‘Excellent! I'm sure you won't regret it. Just leave the caracal to us.’
‘I'm surprised at you getting involved in this. A famous conservationist. Hunting an alien creature is a bit out of your line.’
‘I'm afraid so. Originally I thought we might turn up some interesting wild creature which was relatively harmless except to game and livestock. Unfortunately I got caught up in events and now I've got to see things through. I don't want Grayling or any of the other journalists reporting that I ducked out when the going got rough. Would ruin my reputation, though I suppose in a way it's all good publicity for my wildlife books. At least, I ease my conscience by telling myself that.’
Lansdale nodded. Already he felt that he had entered a new phase in his life and was throwing off the despondency bred by Pentre and its occupants.
Trix was far from happy with life, and was already regretting having left Pentre. The decision had been made too hastily. Not hers - Jon's. He would have left anyway, and she could not afford to let him walk out of her life now that he had got her pregnant. At least, she thought she was going to have a baby - it was too early to be certain yet, but she had been sick most mornings and felt generally unwell.
Now this. She lay on a blanket spread on the hard floor of the tumbledown hut and took stock of her surroundings. Through the broken window and the hole in the roof she saw nothing but tall pine trees. It was gloomy here in this clearing, the sun only really penetrating at midday when it was directly overhead. The nights were cold,
too, and the only warmth came from each other's bodies as they huddled together.
The shack had been a woodman's store shed at some time, and probably hadn't been used since the war. Jon had attempted to patch it up, but his efforts had been limited to existing timber, most of which was rotten anyway, and rusty nails which had fallen out of it. Christ, what a fool she had been, she reflected as she heard him moving about outside, collecting kindling wood. They couldn't stay here much longer. By tomorrow the food which they had brought with them would have run out, and they had no money to buy further supplies. Pentre was less than two miles away on the other side of Panpunton Hill. They'd be forced back there, returning in humiliation. Not that that mattered. She didn't give a damn what anybody thought of her. Lester Hoyle would welcome her for one reason only, even if she was pregnant! She didn't mind even that so long as she had a warm bed and something to eat.
Yesterday they had wandered out of the wood and remained in the fields until the hunters had gone. It was easy. Probably the caracal had done the same. What a lot of fuss to make over one animal - sooner or later somebody would shoot it, probably one of the farmers.
She wondered if she could persuade Jon to go back to the commune. He was a contradiction in himself, quite likely at any time to change his mind over a decision he had only just made. When he had announced that he was leaving Pentre on the following day she had never really expected him to go, but he had, and the pair of them had left with their belongings in a couple of haversacks without a word to anyone. Just like that!
Once she had thought that Jon felt something real for her. He never said much, keeping it all bottled up inside. Even when they were having sex he never really expressed himself, and often she wondered whether he enjoyed it or not - perhaps he just did it because he thought it was expected of him. Even now she didn't really know why he had suddenly made up his mind to opt out of commune life - probably just another of his frequent changes of mood.
