33 West

by Daisy Goodwin

  ‘Afraid not. Have you tried the port? 1983 I think, absolutely marvellous.’

  In the centre of the circle line of riders, sitting astride a handsome, hardy looking off-white horse, is the Master of the Hunt: a man of ruddy complexion, generous in girth and filthy rich in the thigh department.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he calls crisply, bringing the twitter of conversations to a halt. ‘I think we’re going to have to make a start, even though not everyone is present – thanks to the trains for being as punctual as ever. I hope that, like Clarence here,’ he patted his horse firmly, ‘you managed to show your appreciation in the appropriate manner.’

  Calming the snorts and sniggers with a raised hand, the Master continued. ‘May I start by welcoming you all to today’s meet. Marvellous to see so many familiar faces, and some new friends among us as well. For those who haven’t been on an urban hunt before, I’ll just familiarise you with the rules.’ With a theatrical flourish, the Master pulled out of his pocket a blank sheet of paper, which to cheers from the assembled huntsmen he waved around, before to even greater cheers, he ripped into shreds. ‘There are no rules, as long as we inform the mayor of our intentions. You’ll be pleased to know that not only does the mayor have no objections,’ he paused to let the cheers ring round the station concourse, ‘but he might even join us later today on his bicycle!’

  As the applause died down, the Master began his summing up. ‘So the vermin fox thought he’d got clever by coming and living in the city, did he? Well, he reasoned without the Lambeth Hunt. He might think he can come and go as he pleases, ripping up the residential flowerbeds, rummaging through rubbish bins, killing and eating the Queen’s swans…’ the Master was less certain about the last one, but it always got a rise from his men, ‘…but we’re here to show him otherwise – to run the rotten so-and-so out of town and send him back into the countryside where we can kill him properly!’

  At which point, the Master noticed one of the whippers-in waving at him and holding a phone up.

  ‘Is that our first sighting?’

  ‘We’ve found one, sir! One of the outriders has just called. He’s at a block of flats in Tulse Hill.’

  The Master signalled for his stirrup cup. ‘To Tulse Hill then! And the fox’s Waterloo!’ he acclaimed, the silver glinting in the station lights.

  ‘Fox’s Waterloo!’ the hunt roared back. After a swift pause for the downing of drinks, a lone bugle sounded. To the bark of the bloodhounds and the clatter of hooves, the hunt was on its way.

  As the red sea of jackets raced down Kennington Road, past the Oval and on towards Camberwell and Denmark Hill, through Ruskin Park and on towards Herne Hill and Brockwell Park, up ahead in a residential street, all was quiet. A black-jacketed huntsman (he was not yet qualified to wear the red) was crouched behind a blue Ford Fiesta, keeping his eyes on the block of flats that his bloodhound had led him to. That their quarry was in there was without question: the young huntsmen had learnt over the years that his bloodhound’s nose was better than anything in finding a fox. All he had to do was make the call, and wait.

  It was a warm and sunny summer’s morning in south London, and the young huntsman paused to take off his riding helmet, and for a few seconds allow the cool breeze to ripple through his hair. The huntsman wondered, not for the first time, when he would be awarded his red coat, and allowed to ride with the main pack. He knew, too, that this was initiation, that it was part of him earning his place among the other riders. If he made sure that this hunt was successful, there wouldn’t be too many more rides, he felt sure, before his promotion.

  As he stayed crouched behind the car, his horse happily chomping away on the front lawn of a nearby garden, the huntsman felt a sharp and insistent feeling in his bladder. He knew that he shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. Actually, his real mistake was too many pints the night before, which was why he was having to drink the coffee in the first place. One bucket sized Americano after another was not his smartest move. It was no good, the huntsman thought: I am going to have to have a piss. He glanced up at the block of flats. No movement. It’ll be fine, he told himself: thirty seconds isn’t going to make much difference. Stroking his bloodhound and telling him to ‘stay’ and to ‘watch’, the huntsman slipped down the side of a neighbouring house, and began to piss prime Italian coffee up against the wall.

  Barely, though, had the huntsman got past his first Americano, before the Bloodhound started barking.

  ‘Fuck,’ thought the huntsman, craning to see what the Bloodhound was barking at. Then, with a clip clop of horror, he heard the one thing worse than the four horsemen: the rest of the hunt arriving. Zipping up hurriedly, the huntsman sprang back out to his viewing point to the sinking feeling that not only had he lost his prey, but also his chances of promotion. ‘Well…?’ asked the Master, pulling up on his white horse, his face moist from the exertion of the ride.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the huntsman. ‘That’s him alright. You’re just in time.’ He shook his head. ‘Vicious looking thing. Big bushy coat and everything. Could be hiding anything under there.’

  ‘So which way did he go?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Right,’ the huntsmen looked despairingly at his hound for help. ‘That way,’ he pointed, as he saw a flash of bloodhound movement disappear round the corner. ‘Maybe he is heading for the bus stop.’

  The hunt arrived at the main road to see a red double decker number two pulling away. But further on, in the same direction, there was a 201 and a 432. Coming up was a 435. And heading the other direction was a 639.

  ‘Crap,’ said the young huntsman.

  ‘It’s like the Italian Job,’ said a whipper-in. ‘Which one do we follow?’

  ‘All of them,’ said the Master, through gritted teeth. ‘He’s a clever one. But he’s not going to outfox me.’ Splitting the hunt up into smaller groups, he pointed to the young huntsman. ‘You,’ he said, ‘don’t let the number two out of your sight. And keep in touch with me.’

  By the time I wake up, Abi has gone, the indentations of where she’d been in the bed nothing but a fading memory. I lie there for a moment, my mind remembering the night before, then roll over and look at the clock. Ten thirty-five. After everything that happened, I’m glad to be on the late shift today.

  I get up, put on a dressing gown and slouch through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The morning sunlight is streaming into the kitchen, making me blink a little. As the kettle hums, I see the note that Abi has left for me on the kitchen table: Good Evening! Hope I didn’t wake you when I left – chicken defrosting on the side for supper tonight. See you then, Foxy Lady x

  I yawn a smile, and as the kettle boils, I pour the water into a mug, leaving it for a moment to allow the tea bag to infuse. As I wait, I look out across the garden – the criss-cross of potted plants on the patio, the stretch of lawn that Abi is nagging me to mow, and next door’s tree that is hanging over at the back, speckling the far corner with a canopy of shade.

  It’s as I’m looking out that in the dark far corner I see something reflect and sparkle. I look again, and realise that what I can see in the shadows is a pair of bright green animal eyes looking at me. As my eyes adjust and focus, I can just about make out the creature’s ears, the sharpness of its nose, the shape of its silhouette. For a second I think, so you’re the one who woke me up. Then I remember, well it wasn’t all bad you waking me up, and find myself softening a little.

  The fox though, just keeps staring at me. As I take the tea bag out, find some milk, give the tea a stir, I keep glancing back to the corner of the garden, keep seeing the twin sparkle of green looking back at me. It’s like a natural version of CCTV, locked in and recording every my every moment. I stand there, in the morning sun, the steam from my mug of tea spiralling towards the ceiling – watching the fox, watching the fox watching me.

  As the number two weaved its way towards Brixton, one of the outriders managed to catch up with the bus, and trot alongside pee
ring in.

  ‘Nothing here,’ he said, dropping back. ‘If he’s on this bus, he’s sat on the top deck.’

  ‘Do you think he’s going to go to catch the tube at Brixton?’ the whipper-in asked, as the bus continued towards the underground station. ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘You don’t let him,’ the Master’s voiced cracked over the radio. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let him go to ground.’

  ‘I’ve heard that some of these urban foxes are a bit street,’ said the whipper-in. ‘Didn’t you say he had a big thick coat this one? He could be concealing anything under that.’

  Brixton High Street, as usual, was a bunfight. The huntsmen were glad they were on horseback, able to see out above the jostle and the bustle, the hangers out and the hangers on. In the middle of the road, a duvet-wearing homeless man was doing battle with a preacher over ownership of a traffic island.

  ‘It’s closed,’ the whipper-in said, pointing at the fluorescent-jacketed heavies at the entrance to the tube station. Look, the tube station is shut.’

  As the number two bus pulled up to its stop, and the passenger door opened, word quickly spread back that the station was closed.

  ‘Where is he?’ crackled the Master’s voice. ‘Can you see him?’

  ‘Everyone’s getting back on,’ said the young huntsman. ‘If he’s on this bus, he’s decided not to get off.’

  ‘Keep watching,’ said the Master. ‘Where does the bus go next?’

  ‘Up South Lambeth Road,’ the huntsman said, looking at a map. ‘Then Vauxhall, Pimlico, Victoria, Hyde Park Corner, Marble Arch and Marylebone.’

  ‘He won’t be going that far,’ the Master’s voice crackled. ‘I still think he’ll go to ground at the first opportunity. Which by my reckoning is the next tube station you’ll meet.’

  It’s the fox that blinks first in our staring match. Its ears give the faintest of twists, like tiny radars, detecting something I cannot see or hear. I strain to work out what she has sensed, but whatever it is, is beyond my wavelengths. I think I see her nose twitching too, now. And the faintest of glances to her right.

  Then, to my surprise, the fox emerges from the shadows. One part nonchalantly to two parts purposefully, she pads across the garden towards me. As sun catches the colours in its coat – the richness of the orange red, the paintbrush dip of white on the tail – one can’t help but think, what a beautiful creature. This fox is no shrinking violet: a few soft silent steps later, and she is stood by the back door, her features distorted by the corrugated glass. With a paw raised up, there’s a scratch scratch scratch. My god, I think. She wants to come in.

  At first I stand there, not quite sure what to do. Then I see the fox’s ear flick again, distorted through the frosted door, and this time I can hear what she is hearing. There’s a low but definite rumble down the street, a little like thunder but more alive, a rumble that’s getting louder all the time. I hear a horn and a crash, and even though I’m stood in my kitchen in south London, I find myself thinking of Jericho, the trumpets, and the walls coming down.

  The fox scratches on the door again. It lets out a little scream: quiet but loud, like when you shout in a whisper. And this time, having listened to her cries carefully in the night, I know instantly that her shout is different. This scream isn’t one of desire, this is desperation. I’m not really sure what is coming our way, but like Abi in the middle of the night, I’ll trust her female intuition. I open the door and the fox scuttles in. She’s looking and listening and sniffing around – checking her surroundings for an escape route, a sign of a trap. But however nervous she is of me, it’s obviously nothing to the rumble that is getting louder and louder. As I push the back door to, she cowers under the table, makes herself small and out of sight.

  Now the rumble is tuning into focus. From a fuzzy mess I can now make out an ever-clearer chorus of dogs, horses and shouting. It’s the dogs I see first, leaping over from next door’s garden, zigzagging across the lawn like metal detectors after gold. Can they smell the fox’s scent? One hound can certainly sense something, because he’s following the fox’s footprints across the lawn, looking across at me with menace. His blood is up, I think, as I do my best to block his view. He knows.

  Then, with an almighty crash, the first of the huntsmen leaps over the fence, bringing half of it down with him, like a bad show jumper. He lands on the lawn and with another leap is off and out the other side. It so quick, and I’m so surprised, that I don’t have time to say or shout anything. But I recover myself as the fellow huntsmen gallop through and like an irate farmer I’m shouting, ‘Get Off my Land!’ The bloodhound, I’m sure, still thinks that he has his prey, but as the rest of the hounds follow the horses, he issues me with a final, curdling snarl, before chasing after his pack.

  As the rumble subsides, and the city hum slowly returns, I look back across at where the fox is sitting. She is curled up now in a semi-circle, her head down and resting, like any other domestic animal. It is only later, after I have gone out into the garden to inspect the damage from the hunt, that I discover that not only has the fox disappeared without so much as a goodbye or a thank you, but the chicken breasts that were defrosting on the side for supper have vanished too.

  ‘Target is off the bus. Repeat, target is off the bus.’

  ‘Where are you huntsman?’

  ‘By that big Irish pub at the top of Stockwell Road. Target is crossing Clapham Road and heading for the tube station.’

  ‘I knew he’d go to ground.’

  ‘What’s the procedure, sir? Am I authorised to go down there?’

  ‘This is a Code Red situation, huntsman. Whatever you do, don’t let him get on that train.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’ The huntsman looked across as the whipper-in. ‘Release the dogs.’

  With a whistle and a cry, the whipper-in gave the instruction, and the hounds streaked across Clapham Road, howling and barking and jumping on and over cars, screeching to a halt. And as the harshness of their barks disappeared down the long escalator to the platforms, so the sound of screams – high, piercing, inhuman, eerie – travelled back up to the surface.

  ‘What?’ crackled the master’s voice. ‘What is going on there?’

  The young huntsman, struggling to keep up with the pace of the pack, leapt over the ticket barrier and raced down the escalator, three steps at a time, in their wake. He almost tumbled over in his haste, almost knocked over by the bodies that rushed out in the opposite direction. Down he descended onto the platforms, to the northbound train now going nowhere. As soon as he stepped through the open doors into the carriage, he knew something had gone horribly wrong. He reached for his radio, but even if he could speak, the crackle of the line is cut off underground. There’s nothing down here but silence, and the body of a man, in jeans and a light denim jacket, in a pool of blood on the floor.

  MERTON

  White Wedding

  Jessica Ruston

  Hamilton House, Southside Common, Wimbledon. 8am

  Tara White woke up on the morning of her wedding day and blinked, feeling the unfamiliar bed beneath her, before remembering that she was not at home, in the Balham flat she shared with Tom. She was at ‘home’, in the attic room of her parents’ house in Wimbledon village. She stretched, and her feet hit the end of the carved wooden sleigh bed that had been hers since childhood and which she had insisted on sleeping in last night, the Last Night of her single years, putting Lucy, her oldest friend and bridesmaid in the bigger double room next door. Her back ached because of the old mattress, and she was regretting her sentimental symbolism a little.

  She could hear the high-pitched whirr of the coffee grinder as her father began his morning routine. He put a lot of store by routine, did David White, JP. She knew that he would be walking slowly around the kitchen, whistling to himself, filling in The Times Sudoku (fiendish), and laying the table for breakfast. Soon she would smell the fresh coffee as he carried a cup up to her mother in bed. Tara smiled.
She couldn’t wait for him to see her in her dress.

  Her dress. She gave a little shiver of excitement as she let her eyes rest on it, hanging on its satin padded hanger on the back of the bedroom door. It was a slim column of white lace, its train falling softly into a pool at the back, the front corseted and strapless with a lace jacket that she would wear in the church and that had scalloped edges to highlight her collarbones. A pair of ivory Louboutins would provide a flash of red as she walked up the aisle towards Tom.

  There was a knock at her door. The luxury of being at home and being brought coffee in bed. She’d drink it, chatting to her father, and then she was going to have to get a move on. The cars were coming at 11.45. And, though the bride was traditionally late, Tara had no intention of keeping Tom waiting a single minute. She was desperate to be married to him, to be his wife. Mrs Tom Beaton. No, Tara White was not going to be late.

  Tibbett’s Corner Roundabout. 8am

  Tom Beaton opened his eyes, very slowly, and then shut them again very quickly as they were filled with a rush of agonising, bright yellow light. It felt as though someone was burning the back of his brain with a laser beam. As though he was in an operating theatre and had woken up halfway through some kind of procedure. Oh God. He felt as though he were dead. Though as soon as that thought had appeared, it was replaced by the decision that death would probably be preferable to how he felt. His stomach lurched. He was hot. Very hot, and yet, he could feel a strange breeze over his body. As though he were outside, wearing no clothes. He shook his head – he must be half-dreaming still – and groaned out loud at the pain of it. Jesus.

  ‘Arrgukkugh’. The sound that came out of his mouth was only half-human, and as it emitted forth from his throat, he became suddenly aware of a strange taste in his mouth, sticky and herbal and unmistakably alcoholic. He swallowed hard to stop himself throwing up. Slowly, the situation was becoming clear to him. He was not dead, nor had he been abducted by aliens; he was simply terribly, horribly hungover. That was alright. He had been hungover before. He took a deep breath. Why had Tara left the window open all night? No. Not Tara. She was at her parents. Benjy must have opened it to stop him feeling sick in the night. Good old Benjy. But oh God, he would be in trouble if he didn’t sort this hangover out before he got to the church. Coffee. He needed coffee, and mouthwash, and fast.