Shadows

by Thorne Moore

  ‘I don’t know. He was trying so hard to be nice. It’s my fault. I should have left him alone. He went off and locked himself in his room for a bit, and when he came down again he seemed so much livelier, you know—’

  ‘Stoned, you mean. We’d better find him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do any harm, really.’

  ‘Sylvia, stop it!’ For once I had to shout at her. ‘If Christian’s out of his tiny mind, he’s capable of anything.’

  ‘I’ll call the police,’ said Peter.

  ‘No!’ pleaded Sylvia.

  ‘Then I’d better go and find him.’

  ‘Al’s gone to look, with Thor and Baggy. I asked them if they’d seen Chris and then we started hearing gunshots.’

  ‘All right.’ Peter turned to me. ‘You stay in the house—’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Take Sylvia in,’ he ordered, and set off up the track into the woods. It wasn’t difficult to tell where Christian was. The gun bursts were still coming, sporadically.

  ‘Come on Sylvia, no use you standing out here.’ I shepherded her to the courtyard.

  ‘I should never have nagged him.’

  ‘Don’t indulge in guilt! How do we deal with this? You don’t want us to call the police, so what? My husband gets shot?’

  ‘He wouldn’t! I know he was a little high, but not out of his mind. He was just bored. He wouldn’t shoot someone. He couldn’t!’

  ‘Oh couldn’t he!’ Christian had been a monster before. Now he was a monster with a gun. I pushed her into the kitchen and ran to the archaeology camp. Several dozen students were probably innocently wandering through the woods and my fingers twitched on my phone, regardless of Sylvia’s wishes.

  But by pure chance, Ronnie had his entire flock assembled at HQ, for a lecture on something microscopic. Hannah saw me and bustled forward to keep me at bay, but I’d already turned on my heel. They were safe, one major worry less, and now I could concentrate on my husband. I set off up into the woods, listening for the next shot to guide me.

  Boom.

  Looking up, I saw the harvest of an earlier shot. Michael’s Windhover sculpture, soaring out from its rock, was stunted, one of its limbs splintered to matchwood. Evil little bastard! I wanted to spit in fury.

  I ran up the track, listening for guidance. The shouts came first. Wild and urgent, but drowned by another boom from the gun, a shrill laugh and a woman’s scream. I stopped, hand on my pounding heart. The shouts came louder, angrier, far up through the trees. I ran, ripping myself clear of brambles, up any pathway that opened in the direction of the raging voices.

  They were up where the trees gave way to heathery moorland. I passed a sapling, shattered into white shards, then I saw Christian, spluttering and laughing, wrestled to the ground by Thor and Al, who were furiously pinioning him down. Thor, red with anger, aimed a kick at him. Baggy was comforting a weeping Molly. Peter, white-faced, was holding the shot gun as if it were a dangerous animal.

  ‘Has he shot anyone?’ I called, panting up to them.

  Peter turned, almost pointing the gun at me as he did so. ‘Go back, Kate!’

  Al got to his feet and took the gun from Peter, breaking it to prevent any further harm. He handed it back, looked at me, shaking with anger, then bounded up out of the trees into the open.

  ‘Don’t come up here,’ said Peter.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Ignoring the order, I followed in Al’s wake.

  A sheep lay dead and twisted in the heather, gouts of blood everywhere. The crimson against the white wool held my eye first, but then I looked further, following Al as he climbed.

  Our neighbour Dewi was standing in the heather, looking down at his feet. At something black and white.

  ‘Oh no.’ I shook Peter loose as he tried to hold me back.

  The dog, Murk, was lying on her side. Not quite dead. She gave little whimpers as she twitched.

  ‘You leave her,’ ordered Dewi, as Al bent down to touch her. ‘I don’t want you touching her.’

  Al took a step back.

  Dewi bent down and stroked the shivering dog’s ear. He straightened. ‘I’ll have the gun.’

  We were silent, sickened. For a moment, no one moved. Then Al took the shotgun from Peter again and offered it to Dewi. We watched the old man grope in the pockets of his tweed jacket for a cartridge.

  ‘Don’t look,’ whispered Peter fiercely, and this time I obeyed. One boom of the gun. I put my hands to my face.

  There was silence, but for the rustle of the wind in the trees, the bleating of distant sheep. I turned back.

  Al was holding the gun again. Dewi gathered up the dog in his arms.

  ‘Let me—’ began Peter.

  ‘My dog, I’ll deal with her,’ said Dewi, from beyond a wall of absolute rejection. He was a farmer, accustomed to the death of livestock. A trailer load of sheep off to the abattoir. A chicken having its neck wrung for dinner. One dead dog. We were the weak and sentimental ones, horrified by the tragedy. He merely took it in his stride.

  Except that I could feel, inside that mask of impassive taciturnity, the overwhelming, lonely grief of the man. It rose out of him, a cloud of pain, suffocating in my own lungs, wrenching my heart.

  What could I say? He didn’t want any of us to say anything. He wanted to be left alone, free of our insulting platitudes. We watched him, weighed down by the dog’s limp body, plodding his way along the heather, back to his lonely farmhouse.

  ‘Oh God, what a mess,’ said Peter.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Michael, back from his expedition, was panting his way up through the trees. He gave one cursory glance at Christian, still pinned down by Thor, then climbed up to us. ‘What other damage has he done?’ He must have seen the Windhover, and the sheep lay now before him, but as he finished the question, his eyes followed ours, along the hillside, to Dewi’s receding back and Murk’s lolling head. I saw his lips, white and tight, work as he fought to control himself. ‘Is the dog dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Al.

  Michael closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at me. ‘Kate, Peter, take Christian back to the house, please. Make sure he goes nowhere, does nothing, until I come down.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Al, take charge of the shotgun. Put it somewhere, well away from him, until I can dispose of it.’

  Al nodded.

  ‘I’m going to speak to Dewi.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll thank you,’ said Peter.

  The anger burst from Michael. ‘It isn’t thanks I’m after.’ He pointed a shaking finger in Christian’s direction, still without looking at him. ‘Get him out of here!’

  I tugged Peter’s hand. ‘Let’s take him down.’

  Together, we stood over Christian’s squirming form.

  ‘Get up, Christian.’

  ‘How can I fucking get up, with this oaf on me?’ Christian giggled. Thor removed his weight, but Christian made no attempt to stir.

  ‘Get up.’ Peter seized him by the collar and hoisted him to his knees. ‘You disgusting little sod.’

  ‘Oh come on. It was just target practice. I thought it was a rabbit.’

  ‘Save it!’ I glanced at Al. ‘You’d better look after Molly. I’m so sorry about all this.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ He shot a look of loathing at Christian’s back. ‘Tell Michael I’ve got the gun safe, till he wants it back.’

  I nodded. Peter and I took Christian’s arms and dragged him down the track. He laughed all the way.

  *

  ‘Pack,’ said Michael.

  Sylvia’s eyes were tear-filled, but she said nothing to remonstrate.

  Christian, lolling on the sofa, had come down to earth sufficiently to be aware of his cuts and bruises. For a moment, interested in a graze on his jaw, he didn’t seem aware that Michael had addressed him. Then he blinked.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Pack and get out of this house. I want you
out, now!’

  Christian laughed. ‘And I thought it was my mother’s house. Are you throwing me out, Mummy?’

  Sylvia folded her arms, gripping herself tightly, and turned away.

  ‘She won’t want me thrown out,’ said Christian.

  ‘Your mother and I have agreed you’re no longer welcome in this house.’ Michael’s anger was under control, but only Christian could be stupid enough to think there’d be a chink in his resolution. ‘You will leave now.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll make me?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘Is that how you keep her in tow, then? Whack her, if she doesn’t do what you want?’

  ‘Christian!’ pleaded Sylvia.

  Michael didn’t deign to respond

  ‘No one pushes me around. What you going to do? Call the police to do your heavy work?’

  Christian knew exactly how to find his mother’s fault line. At the mention of the police, Sylvia flinched. ‘No one is going to—’

  ‘If Michael needs a hand, throwing you off the property, I’ll be delighted to help,’ offered Peter.

  I touched his arm, aware of Sylvia’s distress. Now that she was struggling against all her maternal instincts and siding with Michael, I could only feel sympathy for her.

  Michael remained impassive, as Christian continued to finger his jaw and his bruised cheek. ‘I am waiting,’ he said at last.

  ‘Wait on, old man.’

  Michael swooped, seized Christian’s arm and plucked him up like a doll.

  ‘Okay! You want to wreck my mother’s home?’

  ‘You’re the wrecker, Christian, and now you’re leaving. You can pack or I’ll pack for you.’

  ‘We had a deal.’ Did he really believe that their arrangement could withstand this? ‘I stayed out of the way. You owe me.’

  ‘Mike?’ Sylvia was bewildered.

  He patted her on the shoulder, his attention still on her son. ‘Any interest I might have had in your latest business proposal was void, the moment you decided to amuse yourself with a shotgun.’

  ‘You said—’

  ‘I’ve given the money to Dewi. Compensation for the sheep and the dog you killed. Compensation that you should be paying, if you had an ounce of grace.’

  ‘You gave my money away for a fucking mutt!’ For a moment it looked as if Christian would explode. Peter stepped forward.

  Sylvia spoke up, at last. ‘Oh Christian, how could you do it? How could you shoot that poor dog?’

  ‘Hey, what was I supposed to do? Okay so I shot a sheep. I didn’t know. I thought it was a badger or something. Then the dog went wild. I thought it was going to attack me. You’re allowed to shoot in self-defence, aren’t you?’

  ‘The dog was nowhere near you.’ Peter’s fists clenched. ‘You were having fun. You’d have probably shot the farmer, too, if they hadn’t jumped on you.’

  ‘Scared the shit out of you though, didn’t I?’ Christian was laughing again.

  ‘A maniac with a shotgun would scare the shit out of anyone!’

  ‘Yeah well, you know all about maniacs, being married to one. Watch out she doesn’t throttle you in the dark, just like she throttled her foetus.’

  Michael caught Peter’s fist in mid-air. Sylvia cried out, aghast, and rushed to embrace me, though I hadn’t reacted. I’d tasted this toxin before.

  ‘You’ll not achieve anything by vomiting your filth around this house,’ said Michael, forcefully enough to silence everyone’s incipient outbursts. ‘You have fifteen minutes to empty your room, pack your bags and be out of here. Understand?’

  *

  Coming to the kitchen door, Al found us gathered in stony silence. Sylvia still had her arm around me. Michael had taken his watch off and laid it on the table. Fifteen minutes, he’d said, and he wasn’t going to permit a second more.

  ‘Came to say I’ve got the gun safe. You all okay?’

  ‘Christian is leaving.’ Michael picked up his watch and turned to the hall door.

  ‘I’ll drag him down,’ said Peter. But he didn’t have to. Christian was sitting on the bottom rung of the stairs, calmly smoking and listening to everything we said. He shouldered his bag and blew smoke in Peter’s face. After that, his attention was all for his mother.

  ‘So long then, Mummy.’

  Her arm dropped from my waist as she stepped forward. ‘Christian, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Hey, you’ve got to do what your lord and master says, okay? Don’t want him slipping you an overdose, like he did his last one.’

  ‘Christian! Please, Christian, don’t—’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be going far, by the way. Business in the area, clients to see.’ He glanced round at the rest of us, with a taunting sneer. ‘Got to keep my customers satisfied.’ I saw Al stiffen.

  ‘Do what you want,’ said Michael. ‘Find accommodation with anyone who’ll have you. But you will not come back on this property.’

  Christian leered at him, then gave his shell-shocked mother a hug. ‘Don’t worry, Mumsy. I’ll be back.’

  With that Parthian shot, he sauntered out into the yard, got into his car and screeched off down the lane.

  Sylvia drew a shuddering breath, then leaned on the dresser, looking sick.

  Michael gripped her shoulders, but she shook him off. ‘I’m all right. I’ll be all right.’ Then she burst into tears.

  He hugged her. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvie. We couldn’t let him—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘We can’t have him here. But it doesn’t make it any easier.’ She sniffed. ‘Oh God, poor Dewi. That poor dog. Did you speak with him, Mike? Did you give him money?’

  ‘He refused. I’ll speak to him again, tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t think he loves any of us,’ said Peter. ‘Can’t blame him, I suppose.’

  ‘No I don’t blame him.’ Michael slumped down at the kitchen table, and leaned his head on his hand.

  ‘He’s hurting,’ said Al. ‘Tomorrow, maybe—’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow I’ll speak to him again. Today he’s too angry. He wouldn’t even let me help him bury the dog.’

  I was glad Dewi was angry. Anger was better than that hopeless grief.

  Michael looked up, from Al to Peter. ‘Was anyone wounded?’

  ‘No, I snatched the gun away,’ said Peter.

  ‘A few bruises,’ said Al. ‘Thor was grazed by a pellet, that’s all.’ He shrugged it off, leaving us to shudder at the possibilities.

  ‘Molly wasn’t hurt?’ I asked.

  ‘No, just shocked. Wondering if she’s misread the forces round here.’

  ‘Christian is a dark force all of his own. What about Kim? Where’s she?’

  ‘Out.’ Al grimaced. ‘I can’t force her to stay at home. Counter-productive.’

  And Christian was on the loose, looking for prey.

  Sylvia was grey. ‘He’s my son, but sometimes I think it would be better for everyone if he just…’ She paused for an age, before adding ‘Moved abroad, with Ken.’

  Too late. In my head I’d already finished the sentence for her. ‘If he just died.’

  Hell. Expulsion. A black void, pitiless, unforgiving. For a moment, I teetered on the brink of an abyss and beheld absolute damnation. Why? What was so wrong with wishing him dead?

  The idea gushed out of me – and echoed back, bringing me up with a cold shudder. My thoughts might be unpardonable, but they were shared, probably, by everyone in the room.

  If thoughts could really kill, Christian must be dead by now.

  Chapter 18

  If thoughts could kill. It was a notion I couldn’t push aside. All evening and through the night, I listened, for a phone call or a knock, a police siren. Waiting for someone to tell Sylvia her son was dead. A crash, a fit, a lightning bolt.

  Looking out, at last, on morning drizzle, I swore. There had been no call, he was alive, and he’d won that round. Enough. I was going to put this stupid idea out of my head now, or I’d be
forever at his mercy, wherever he was.

  At breakfast I was monosyllabic, so Peter wisely gave me space and strolled down to the village for milk and the local paper. He returned, looking abashed. ‘I walked in and the whole shop fell silent. We don’t seem to be the flavour of the month at the moment.’

  ‘We’re the people who shoot dogs. Sorry you’ve got embroiled in it. I expect we’ll live it down.’ I picked up the paper and flicked through it. There was a lively account of our Fayre, dominated by a photograph of the tumbling juggler. It was taken over Christian’s shoulder, his expression hidden so he seemed no more than a mischievous prankster. But Sylvia was in full focus, beyond the juggler, her face aghast, as if the sky had fallen around her. The headline: ‘Knave steals the show from Good Queen Bess.’

  ‘Have you seen this?’

  ‘Yes. The article’s not bad really. Quite appreciative. Pity about the picture.’

  ‘I wonder if Christian’s seen it. Probably laughing his head off.’

  Sylvia came in, glanced at the article, heaved a sigh of exasperation and pushed it aside. She looked old. Against our joint advice, she’d gone to see Dewi and had come back in tears. ‘Let’s have a drink. The boys must need their tea. Have you seen Michael?’

  Michael. Not Mike. Things must be strained between them.

  ‘In his workshop probably. I’ll fetch him.’ I wanted them back on purring terms. Sylvia would recover from these latest bruises – she always did – but she would do it sooner with Michael’s comfort.

  When I reached his workshop, he wasn’t in comforting mode. The Volvo was parked by the door, its tailgate up, the shotgun lying inside. I heard the sound of clinking, within the workshop.

  ‘Al’s returned the gun then,’ I said.

  Michael was gathering jars into a crate. Dusty brown, ribbed jars, with stained illegible labels. Chemicals of various shades and descriptions.

  ‘Yes.’ He sniffed the contents of a jar. ‘It’s going. Even when we had the chickens I never managed to hit anything.’ He pulled a biro from his pocket and scrawled on the label. To what end, I don’t know. His handwriting was as illegible as the acid-chewed printing.

  ‘What do you use them all for?’ I peered into the crate.

  ‘Nothing. Just mementoes of a past life. Things accumulate. I’d more or less forgotten them. But they’re going too; I want them out of temptation’s way.’