Caracal

by Guy N Smith

  ‘Shine your torch, Colin,’ Wes called out. ‘Over here. Can't see a damned thing.’

  A few seconds' delay while the zoologist found his torch in the pocket of his jacket and flicked it on. Harsh white artificial light moving in a circle like a prison guard's searchlight over trees, rocky ground, grass withering under the onslaught of autumn. Nothing else?

  ‘Oh, God, I didn't get him!’

  ‘Over here again.’

  ‘What is it?’

  All three stared fixedly into the circle of light thrown by the torch, saw the dark stain against the straw colour of dead grass.

  ‘It's blood!’ Wes Lansdale was on his knees, examining the ground. 'Fresh and warm. You hit him all right, Colin, but it didn't stop him.’

  ‘Christ!’ Rutter joined the younger man on the ground, running his fingers through the grass, and staring at the stain it left on them. ‘That's one of the drawbacks of using heavy buckshot,’ he spoke slowly, ‘you get penetration but no pattern, no concentration. You can fire at an oil drum at forty yards and maybe only put three pellets out of ten in it. I've been too out of touch with shooting, I should have used number fours, put more shot in the pattern. It would have stopped him then.’

  ‘Well, it's too late now,’ Lansdale straightened, glancing around as though expecting the wounded caracal to return. But nothing moved, the peace of the night was undisturbed.

  ‘Maybe …’ Wendy's voice trembled, ‘maybe it'll go off somewhere and die.’ She hated herself for saying it, visualising the agony-stricken cat crawling through the undergrowth, blood oozing from a wound in its side, whimpering softly to itself. ‘Or maybe it's already dead.’ An unconvincing sop to her conscience.

  ‘Maybe,’ the professor turned back towards the fire. ‘And maybe not. Depends where I hit it. Anyway, we can't make a proper search until daylight. You two get your sleep while I finish my watch. We mustn't take any risks.’

  ‘I don't think there's much chance of it returning after that,’ Lansdale pulled the trembling girl close to him.

  ‘We just don't know,’ Rutter seated himself on the ground, the weariness of the last few days now apparent. ‘One can never be sure what a wounded animal will do. Some just take off and die. Others …’ he hesitated, ‘others go kill-crazy without a vestige of fear left in them. Their instinct is for revenge, and they'll attack anyone or anything they come across. That's what worries me, the injured beast may be far more dangerous than the killer caracal we've been hunting for weeks!’

  Bertie the billy goat was not impressed with his new home. He could demolish a flimsy structure in a very short time, even if it meant spending the night exposed to the elements, but this one was sound enough to stand a series of onslaughts from his powerful horns. Oblong in shape, a three-sided construction of corrugated iron sheets reinforced with disused railway sleepers, it had no door. From his tethered position inside he had an almost unrestricted view of the house, a maddening sight.

  The wound in his neck was almost healed but it still throbbed at night when the temperature dropped. He hated the cold but it was not in his nature to humble himself by lying meekly on the bed of straw in the corner. He paced restlessly round in a circle, the chain which tethered him clinking as a reminder of his imprisonment. He had long given up attempting to snap the steel links.

  Suddenly he stopped, head up, stiffening, smelling the air until he got the scent: the sour rancid smell of cat mixed with the cloying iron smell of blood.

  Bertie experienced fear, terror that had him backing into the far corner until the chain was taut on the collar around his neck, pulling desperately, unable to take his eyes off the entrance. Then the caracal slunk into view, low on its stomach in the typical hunting posture. Dried blood matted its fur, and its eyes glowed with the lust for slaughter.

  The goat snickered softly, tugged again, and then stood his ground.

  The caracal advanced slowly, barely rustling the straw bedding, almost silent. It tensed, gathering up its waning strength, then in one perfectly coordinated movement launched itself into the air. For one second the goat was perfectly placed for a downward sweep of the horns, followed immediately by an upward lunge that would impale his adversary like a skewered joint of meat. But it never happened. There was only frustration, and the return of his previous terror as the taut chain prevented him from moving his head!

  King, the caracal, struck upwards in an attack with fang and claw, hanging on to the shaggy coat, teeth going deep into the unprotected throat, tearing open the jugular vein and spurting warm crimson blood on to the coarse hair.

  For the billy goat it was over in seconds, threshing yet prevented from falling on to his attacker by the tether. The caracal felt the life go out of the animal to which it clung so frenziedly, then dropped to the ground, looking up at the sagging head and harmless horns, blood still pouring from the torn throat.

  The cat turned and limped back into the open. A short distance away the other goats were moving restlessly in the big hut. The night air was heavy with the stench of blood and death. They knew it and were afraid, but the pain-stricken creature had no intention of slaughtering them. Perhaps it sensed that time was running out, a feeling that its suffering would be eased before long.

  The pain in its shoulder had subsided to a dull throbbing as it lay looking towards the house, hating the humans within, wanting to kill but aware that for the moment they were safe. Again it saw that circle of firelight towards which it had been attracted a short time before - it had sensed danger almost too late, instinctively springing away as the twin flames had stabbed leaden death.

  The caracal had not feasted on the slain goat. It did not need to. Food was no longer a priority, only revenge.

  The sky was becoming lighter as night made way for morning. The animal sniffed the air, ears erect, aware that it was time to move. Behind it lay the wooded mountains where death lurked in ambush amongst the trees. Ahead the still sleeping town, its occupants unwary, unarmed.

  Decision made, the caracal headed towards Knighton.

  Chapter 11

  Glenda Johnson had taught the school infants' class for the past five years. At forty, she had no ambition to progress any further in her profession. The death of her husband within a few months of their marriage had left her with a deep love of the children who would never bless her own household. Dark-haired and attractive, she still grieved; advances from men, both married and unmarried, were politely but firmly repelled. Nothing, she determined, would come between herself and these children.

  9.10 a.m. She checked the classroom register, glancing up every so often as she ticked each name. Sheila had a bad cold, they were unlikely to see her this week. Marilyn … she hadn't looked well yesterday, which probably explained her absence this morning. Billy? His parents usually kept him away for a few days every fortnight or so: they were hypochondriacs and it was fast rubbing off on the boy. Patricia … it was odd that the red-haired, freckle-faced eight-year-old was not here today. She loved school so much that her mother was only able to keep her at home when she was really ill.

  Glenda pondered, pencil poised. The headmaster had stressed the importance of checking on all absentees, although she would have done so anyway. With a wild animal at large in the vicinity one could not take chances.

  ‘Has anybody seen Patricia this morning?’ she smiled at the dozen or so children seated at their desks in front of her.

  They began chattering amongst themselves.

  ‘Children, quiet! Have any of you seen Patricia?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Johnson.’ Johnny Holmes, a plump fair-haired seven-year-old stood up, hand raised.

  ‘Yes, Johnny?’ A wish briefly crossed her mind that his parents would start … no, not exactly dieting him, just giving him the right sort of food. ‘And where did you see Patricia?’

  ‘There she is, Mrs Johnson. Out there.’

  Glenda followed the direction of the boy's pointing finger, out through the large window of the new
classroom extension into the walled playground. She saw the small figure clad in a blue and white anorak, hood pulled up, plastic satchel trailing on the ground. It was Patricia, all right. Relief surged through the schoolmistress, but it was only temporary. Even as she watched the girl heading towards the main entrance horror struck her like a physical blow.

  Her first thought had been that a stray dog must have followed the child through the gates, the way it slunk at her heels, sniffing, head hidden behind her body. As she realised the truth, so did the children. A gasp of terror came from Johnny, somebody else screamed and the others took it up. Glenda clutched at her throat as she rose to her feet suddenly aware just how helpless she was.

  Patricia, however, was totally oblivious of danger. Seeing her classmates through the window, she started to wave. Their arms were windmilling wildly, pointing at her, but she just grinned.

  Glenda Johnson was calling at the top of her voice, ‘Patricia. Run! Run inside quickly. Shut the door!’

  The child stopped as something brushed against her anorak, made her turn round to face the caracal, the creature almost as tall as the child.

  ‘Pussy!’ Patricia stabbed a finger at it. She had heard all about the ‘Black Beast of Radnor’, even seen photographs of it, but this creature staring into her face was so friendly, purring just like their cat at home. And it was hurt, too. She saw the matted blood, the way it was having difficulty in standing on all fours, and tears began to fill her eyes. ‘Poor pussy! You're hurt. Come on, I'll take you in to Mrs Johnson. She's nice. She'll …’

  ‘Patricia!’ The white-faced, trembling teacher stood now on the steps at the main entrance, forcing herself to speak calmly, quietly. Neither child nor caracal must be suddenly alarmed. 'Patricia, listen to me. Do exactly as I tell you. Walk slowly towards me, and when you get to the door run inside and I'll slam it.’

  ‘But Mrs Johnson,’ the child stood with hand outstretched towards the creature, ‘this pussy's hurt. It's been …’

  ‘Pat! Do … exactly as I … tell you. Come here. Leave … the … cat. It's … not hurt … it's probably been rubbing up against … some wet red paint.’ Liar! The girl's expression was defiant now. ‘Pat, come here at once!’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Patricia clicked her tongue in annoyance. As she swung her satchel up on to her shoulder, the bag caught the caracal a glancing blow and in that instant its lethargy vanished. It hissed and spat, as a blinding, jerking pain ripped up its side. ‘Pat … run!’

  As Glenda Johnson ran down the steps towards the child, the caracal sprang, hitting Patricia in the back with its two front paws, throwing her to the ground and leaping upon her.

  ‘Get off, you brute!’ The schoolteacher reached the animal in a couple of strides, saw a vicious claw shredding anorak, clothing and flesh in one stroke. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she kicked out, felt her shoe going hard into the dark flank, splitting open a jagged partially-healed wound. Blood spattered the flagstones as the caracal gave a loud feline scream and rolled off its victim, eyes glazing over for a second before glowing with fury again. It crouched, tensed, and would have sprung into the attack again but for another searing pain. It paused, watching, breathing heavily.

  Running footsteps which Glenda heard, but her horrified gaze rested on the little girl writhing on the ground, her back a mass of lacerations, blood streaming out and forming a scarlet puddle.

  ‘Oh, my God! Patricia, my little darling.’ Glenda was on her knees by the child, weeping, trying to remove the tattered garments to get at the wounds. ‘Lie still, little one, help is coming.’

  Dimly she was aware of running figures, heard the shouts. Someone found a stone which bounced on the concrete and narrowly missed the big cat.

  ‘Get away, you devil! Clear off!’ That was the headmaster's voice.

  As Glenda's frenzied fingers pulled Patricia's clothing aside, she saw the wounds, felt her senses starting to reel and then blacked out.

  The caracal was backing away, some instinct screaming at it to flee. Its hatred of people was greater than ever before, but the strength was draining from its body. Even felling the child had been an effort.

  It turned and limped through the school entrance into the roadway. People were shouting, screaming, throwing stones.

  Confused, the creature stood at bay, snarling and spitting, before calling upon its last reserves, forcing its protesting muscles to drag its body along as it broke into a shambling trot, heading uphill, scarlet droplets on the pavement marking its passage. People were scattering before it, clambering over garden walls, panicking.

  The big cat's lungs were labouring to take in air, and every few yards it had to pause. A terrifying, deafening screeching noise that grew louder with every second, had it cringing, pressing itself back into a roadside privet hedge. An ambulance with flashing blue light drew level but made no attempt to stop. As it disappeared over the brow of the hill the sound died away, the caracal emerged from its hiding place and dragged itself on down the road.

  Flight was now uppermost in its confused brain; the need to find somewhere dark and safe where there were no humans. A place to die in peace.

  Dim jumbled recollections of a dark roof-like place where it was hot and stuffy, but there were no enemies. Only a friend … Suddenly it remembered the brown-skinned youth, heard his comforting words, not understanding but knowing that it was safe. The caracal wanted to go back there, where its friend would protect it.

  The animal came to a standstill where the road topped the summit of a hill. Behind came a crowd of shouting angry people, ahead a red and white car was pulled across the main carriageway; a blue light on the roof started to flash and that deafening wailing sound began again.

  The caracal turned off, squeezed through a gap in the straggling hedgerow and emerged on to some sloping grass fields that stretched towards the forest some distance away. Panpunton Hill, home territory but suddenly hostile.

  Something white glinted in the morning sunlight amidst a copse down to the left. A house. The creature's memory struggled with vague, fogged recollections … the room in the roof … darkness … comforting words … a vision of the dark-skinned man but it went again. He'd still be there surely, a protector.

  Hope gave the caracal renewed strength, and with sirens wailing in the distance, it broke into a run, only slowing when it reached the overgrown drive. After a long absence it had returned home to Pentre.

  Lester Hoyle was alone in the commune. The others had gone out somewhere - he didn't know where, nor did he care. Jon and Trix were dead; good riddance to that fat whore! That's what she was, a harlot. She screwed for drugs or money and wasn't even very good at it; not too bad if you were desperate but it was cheaper to toss yourself off. Sod her! Wendy was a bitch but she couldn't be bought. At one time he would have given her everything he possessed, but he didn't know which of them he hated most - Wendy or that bastard Lansdale. For Christ's sake, stop acting like a fucking jilted adolescent! He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, seeing again the hastily ripped-open envelope, the short typewritten letter.

  ‘Dear Wesley …’

  Hoyle didn't want to see it but felt compelled to read on.

  ‘I am pleased to tell you that we have now had an offer for Pawns of Time …’

  (Somebody chucking good money away. They ought to have learned their lesson from what happened to Whispers. This same SF cult again: write a book that nobody understands, not even the author, let alone the publisher, and they think it's bloody great. Can't wait to herald it as a classic - scared that it might be something good that they're too thick to understand, so they publish it and hope for the best. Everybody's scared to pull it to pieces and get left out on a limb in case they might just be wrong. One big con: conned by an author who probably can't remember what he's written once he's sent the typescript off.)

  ‘… an advance of £3,000 against 7½% royalties …’

  The fingers holding the letter trembled. Conned out o
f three grand by the likes of Wes Lansdale, a dropout whose way-out ideas were hallucinations conceived on heroin trips … and they were actually going to buy it, pay hard cash for it!

  Rage filtered through Lester Hoyle's amazement. The bastard had gone and done it, pissed off up to that professor's place so that he could write this crap in solitude, protected from the criticism of someone who had lectured in English at leading universities. Lansdale couldn't construct a grammatically correct sentence if he tried. And now this …

  His fingers tightened on the letter, eyes narrowed. Why not rip it up, burn it? Lansdale might conclude that his agent had discreetly dropped the typescript in the waste-paper basket and the least said about it the better.

  Hoyle stared at the letter again, the typed words seeming to jeer. As he began to tear the sheet of paper, there was a sudden sound downstairs in the hall. He stiffened, guilty at the prospect of being discovered.

  The letter fell from his hands and he tiptoed out on to the landing, going to the head of the stairs and looking down.

  Nothing!

  He licked his lips. Probably the wind under the front door rustling the dead leaves in the hall - nobody had swept up for ages. A sigh of relief, checked before it finished when the noise came again, this time from the kitchen, a kind of scratching sound.

  His mouth was very dry. Probably rats or mice, maybe both. Vermin moved into places like this once autumn came, and there were always leftovers lying about in … Something fell on to the kitchen floor and smashed - a cup or jam jar, he heard the broken fragments scattering.

  Lester Hoyle was undecided. After all, he had every right to be up here. Not only were there sleeping quarters on this floor, but also a loo. No reason why he shouldn't have been using that. Go and pull the chain, then go downstairs.

  A stealthy walk into the lavatory, wrinkling his nose at the chipped and stained pan which hadn't seen disinfectant for months, tugging at the rusted chain, the cistern gurgling and belching. It took at least half-a-dozen pulls to make it work, gushing noisily like a waterfall.