I was still with Priddy, hanging back a little. He’d managed to liberate one of the bottles of Jack Daniels from the kitchen table. Still half full, it hung from his hand. From time to time, he took a swig, offering me the bottle afterwards. I’m not over-keen on bourbon but I swallowed it just the same which, in view of what followed, was probably just as well.
When we got to the creek, the two youths I’d seen earlier were already there. They were both wearing the protective chaps now, with thick gauntlets and high rubber waders as well, and one of them was bent over a wooden crate. There was something in the crate, but I couldn’t see what it was. The creek was barely ten yards wide, the sluggish brown water drifting slowly past. On our side, a crude chain-link fence had been erected around a shallow pit. The fence was chest height, and the pit was maybe two feet deep, old spadework, the sloping sides baked hard by the sun.
Peering in through the fence, I could see scuff marks in the loose soil at the bottom of the pit, and for the first time I began to suspect what we were in for. Priddy’s phrase had been exact. Something to amuse the boys. I straightened up, reaching for the bottle, slipping it from Priddy’s fingers. I took a long, scalding pull, then another, and when I’d finished I offered it back to him, but he shook his head. There was a strange look in his eye, a certain gleam, and it was a second or two before I realized what it was. The man was excited. Just like everyone else.
One of Beckermann’s guests ambled over. He was lightly drunk, sweating in the hot sun. He beamed at me.
‘Y’all from England?’
I nodded, dizzy already, glad of the intervention, glad of a chance to talk about something else.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Ya got this kinda thing over there?’
I looked at Priddy, helpless. Priddy smiled.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you know where to look.’
‘Anything like Mogul? Ya got anything like him? Ya ever seen anything like him?’
Priddy shook his head. ‘I understand he’s unbeaten?’
‘Right.’ The man leaned forward, one fat finger in the middle of Priddy’s chest. ‘Ya never saw anything that could live with that dog. Believe me, I know.’ He nodded. ‘Believe me.’
He turned on his heel, howling with laughter, his thumb going back over his shoulder, pointing at us. I watched him rejoining his friends. They thought it was pretty funny, too. Priddy looked briefly uncomfortable.
‘What’s Mogul?’ I asked him.
He shrugged, nodding at the wooden crate, now being carried towards the pit. ‘Look in there,’ he said, ‘and you’ll see.’
The youth with the crate put it down beside me. I shuffled instinctively aside, still watching. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Another crate had appeared, too, on the other side of the pit. The men were gathering round, squatting on their haunches, spitting in the dust, acting tough. Beckermann was amongst them, his back against a stunted tree, the position of honour, top dog.
The youth beside me opened the cage. Inside, I assumed, was Mogul. A clever arrangement with a leash meant that the youth retained control when the dog threw himself out. The dog was a pit-bull terrier. I recognized it from a couple I’d seen back in Devon: the huge chest, the squat body, the thick neck, the long square snout. The youth beside me was restraining it on the leash, but only just. I looked at him.
‘Mogul?’ I queried.
The youth shook his head and muttered something I didn’t quite catch. I looked at Priddy. ‘Orders?’
Priddy offered me a thin smile. ‘Hors-d’oeuvres,’ he said. ‘I think it’s some kind of joke. The other one’s Mogul, the one over in the other crate. There are obviously a number of fights. This is the first,’ he smiled again, ‘the appetizer.’
The dog was in the pit now, off the leash. It circled the enclosure, nose in the air, stopping from time to time to paw the ground. One of Beckermann’s pals, drunker than the rest, had put his fingers through the fence, and I found myself looking at the dog, hoping he’d bite them off, one brief moment of glory before Mogul emerged from the other crate and tore his throat out.
I looked at Priddy. ‘This is sick,’ I said, my voice over-loud.
Priddy didn’t seem to hear me. He was staring at the other cage. The youth in charge had one eye on Beckermann, waiting for some kind of signal. Priddy stirred, acknowledging me at last.
‘This is supposed to be an honour,’ he said, ‘given to few. So we might as well enjoy it.’
‘Enjoy it?’
A roar went up from the crowd. Across the pit, Mogul was straining at the leash. If anything, he was slightly smaller than the other dog, but he’d seen him now and he was up on his haunches, pulling and pulling, his teeth bared, his whole body quivering. His teeth were yellow, and every time he barked, flecks of saliva flew off into nowhere. The other dog was ready, plumb centre in the very middle of the enclosure, holding his ground. In a moment, the youth would lift the fence and slip the leash, and several generations of careful inbreeding would do the rest. I’d no idea how long these things took, but I didn’t blame the dogs. Around the pit, the big sweaty faces were pressed to the wire, the eyes wide, the mouths open, animal voices howling for blood.
I shuddered, watching the youth stoop to the fence, lift it, then release Mogul. The other dog, in the middle of the ring, threw himself at the oncoming pit-bull. The two dogs met, and for a while it looked evenly matched, both animals snarling, lunging, tussling for advantage. Then, abruptly, blood began to gush from the flank of the bigger dog. The sight of it, or its smell, seemed to drive Mogul to greater frenzy, and he threw himself at the other dog’s neck, his jaws clamping on to a fold of flesh, the huge shoulders tearing left and right until the wound was raw and open, exposing the other dog’s windpipe. The other dog stumbled, lost his footing, fell on his side, and then Mogul was standing over him, the jaws sinking ever deeper, the flesh tearing apart, the loose dirt wet with blood.
The other dog was dying now, gasping for breath, each new heave of the lungs making the blood bubble and froth around the gaping wound. There was a sudden movement in the crowd, and then Beckermann was inside the enclosure, hauling Mogul off, forcing a stick of some kind between his jaws, kicking him in the flank, sending him back towards his handler. Then he bent to the other dog, scooping him up, like so much litter, glancing in the direction of the youth we’d seen earlier.
‘Here,’ he grunted.
He tossed the dog’s body at the advancing youth, and the boy caught it, staggering backwards with the weight. The dog was limp now, and he held it out, away from himself, trying to avoid the blood still oozing from what was left of its throat. He pushed through the crowd of watching men, down towards the creek, and as he did so I thought I saw the dog twitch. The men closed around him, and I still had the bottle of Jack Daniels to my lips when the youth disappeared behind a low bluff.
I looked at Beckermann. He was standing by the wire, surrounded by his friends. He’d taken a wad of notes from the back pocket of his jeans and he was peeling off the bills, pressing them into outstretched palms, settling the wagers made earlier. I watched for a moment. Some of the notes were wet with blood from Beckermann’s hands. I saw one or two of the men showing each other, pulling faces, laughing, pocketing the sticky bills. Across by the Cherokee, another crate had appeared. More livestock. Another throat for Mogul to tear apart.
I shook my head, numbed by the heat and the dust and the hot animal smells, and far too much bourbon. The last dog was still alive. I knew it. I looked at Priddy, giving him the bottle.
‘Here,’ I said, ‘take it.’
‘Where are you going?’
He half turned, trying to restrain me, but I was running now, back towards the house. In the kitchen, where we’d met Beckermann, there were guns. I’d seen them, a rack of three rifles, in the far corner. With luck, I’d find ammunition. With luck, I’d make it back to the creek in time to put the poor bloody animal out of its misery. It wouldn’t begin t
o make amends, but it was something.
Looking back, it was a daft thing to do, adolescent and hysterical, and not at all in keeping with my Curzon House brief. But even now, I believe I had no choice. Given the same circumstances, I know I’d do exactly the same thing again. In the face of evil, as Wesley once said, you must act.
The house was a quarter of a mile up the hill from the creek. By the time I got there, I was beginning to suffer. My lungs felt like sandpaper, and every breath tasted of Jack Daniels. I pushed inside the house. The door clattered shut behind me. I stood absolutely still for a moment. In from the sun, the house was cool and dark. I felt my pulse begin to slow.
The kitchen lay at the end of the hall. I walked towards it, aware for the first time of a voice. Someone was having a conversation, maybe upstairs, I couldn’t be sure. It was a man’s voice, English rather than American. He must have been on the phone because there were gaps in the conversation when nothing happened. I paused for a moment, wondering what to do, then the rage and the frustration came flooding back, and I slipped through the door at the end of the hall and into the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. The guns lay against the far wall. One of them was a bolt-action Ruger 77, a good, solid weapon, easy to use. It had a Redfield telescopic sight, 4 × 40, and a scuffed leather sling. I began to look for shells. In the third drawer I opened, I found a box of fifty, 7 mm, soft-nose game rounds. Perfect. I took a handful and lifted the rifle from the rack. Hearing the door open behind me, I turned round.
A young man was smiling at me from the hall. He was wearing slacks and a blazer. He was tallish with curly blond hair, neatly cut. He had the face of a male model, with regular features and wonderful teeth. He must have been my age, maybe slightly older. There was a dog beside him, a spaniel/collie cross, friendly, domesticated, intact. With his dog and his blazer, he looked like a full-page spread from Country Life. Even the voice was perfect, nicely modulated, discreet public school accent, very definitely English.
‘Can I help at all?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re English? Over from the UK?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t be a friend of Harold’s, by any chance?’
I shook my head again. ‘Friend of a friend,’ I said. ‘Come to share the fun.’
He gazed at me a moment, speculative, picking up the irony.
‘I called by on the offchance,’ he said at last. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘No.’ I looked at the dog. ‘Quite the reverse.’
‘What’s going on then?’ He glanced over at the table, still littered with empty bottles of Jack Daniels. ‘Harold having some kind of party?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘I suppose that covers it.’
‘I see.’ He pulled a face, then shrugged. ‘Just my luck to miss it I guess.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, slipping the rifle over my shoulder, pushing past him, out into the bright sunlight.
I began to run again, glancing back towards the house. There was no sign of the young man with the dog, but for the first time I saw the car amongst the untidy line of four-wheel drives. It was a Jaguar saloon, low-slung, dark blue, left-hand drive with tinted windows. It definitely hadn’t been there when we’d left for the creek.
The path dipped to the right and I lost sight of the house. Ahead of me, already, I could see the men pushing up against the enclosure fence, urging on the dogs, another fight in progress. Beckermann was clearly visible, head and shoulders above the rest, but Priddy I couldn’t see.
I left the path and began to track through the low scrub, hurrying on, trying to avoid the low clumps of thornbush and the termite mounds. Ahead, I could see a thin line of trees. There were crows in the trees and other birds I didn’t recognize. The men were baying now, a deep animal roar. I paused a moment. The enclosure was hidden by a small bluff. I hesitated a moment longer, knowing that finding the creek offered the best route to where the dog probably lay. By the trees, I’d find the water.
A minute later, I was there. The creek was wider here, the muddy water dimpled with flies and midges. There were animal bones on the baked earth by the water’s edge, bleached white by the sun, and further upstream I could see the empty skull of what must once have been a cow. I peered at the water, wondering whether the dog might have been thrown in, but there was nothing. I began to walk slowly back towards the enclosure, still hidden from the men, my eyes quartering the water, the way they’d taught me to do it at Hereford. Top left. Top right. Bottom left. Bottom right. I stopped again, the rifle cradled in my arms. The sun was hotter than ever. I could feel the heat bubbling up from the ground beneath my feet and the slow trickle of sweat down the middle of my back. The fight, much longer than before, was definitely coming to some kind of climax.
I began to climb the bluff, keeping my body low, advancing at a half-crouch. The top of the bluff was dotted with thornbushes. I chose the biggest of them, and for the last ten yards or so, I crawled forward on my elbows and knees, oblivious now of the thorns tearing at my shirt. Flat on my belly, hidden by the thornbush, I peered down through the coarse yellow grass. The enclosure was perhaps a hundred yards away, the men pressed to the wire, a blur of bodies snarling and yapping in the pit. It was too far away to judge where the contest had got to, so I put the rifle to my shoulder, bending to the telescopic sight, adjusting the lens to my eye.
Mogul was once again the smaller of the two dogs. His head and shoulders were covered in blood and he had the other dog on the ground. Belly up, the other dog was using its hind legs to try and prise Mogul away, but Mogul’s jaws were buried in its throat and he wasn’t letting go. From time to time, he’d back across the pit, pulling the other dog after him, then shake his head, ripping left and right, more blood.
I eased the rifle to the left, away from the slaughter, sickened again. The third face I found belonged to Beckermann. He was in half-profile, intent on watching the dogs, his eyes narrowed, most of his face in deep shadow. The stetson had gone. In its place he now wore a blue baseball cap. Across the top, above the peak, it read ‘USS New Jersey’. I held the sight on his face a moment longer, fascinated by this man, by the intensity of his concentration, his mouth slightly bared, the spent match between his teeth, the big jaws slowly working. I shuddered, still watching him, hearing the long collective whoop of the men around him, the smack of flesh on flesh, big meaty handshakes when the fight was finally over.
I moved my body slightly, the rifle still to my shoulder, trying to find a new position, wondering about the creek again, the body of the first dog, the chances of finding him alive. Then, abruptly, I felt a shadow fall over me. There was a smell of bourbon and a voice in my ear.
‘Don’t,’ Priddy murmured.
I lowered my head from the gun. Priddy was lying beside me in the grass. His shirt was ripped, high up on the left arm. He must have crawled up the bluff behind me.
‘Why not?’ I said.
‘Because he’s worth a fortune to us.’
‘Who is? Beckermann?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘and the bloody dog, too.’
‘The dog?’
‘Yes.’
I frowned, looking at Priddy, realizing how drunk he was. ‘Why?’ I said.
Priddy didn’t reply. He was eyeing the buttons on my shirt.
‘Why?’ I said again. ‘Why should we care about the dog?’
Priddy reached out, his fingers on my face. I pushed him away. He smiled, his eyes glassy, his tongue moistening his lips.
‘You know who that dog belonged to? Before Beckermann got hold of it?’
I glanced down at the pit. Mogul was back beside his crate, panting in the heat.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’
I looked back at Priddy. He was shaking his head, changing the subject, asking me to give him the gun. I put the question a third time, who had owned Mogul, but he ignored me, easing the gun out of my hands, the way you�
��d treat a madman or a sleeping child, great caution, elaborate care. I hesitated a moment, wondering how far to push it. Then I shrugged, handing him the rifle.
‘It’s not even loaded,’ I said, ‘more’s the pity.’
We took the same path back to the house. Priddy had spare clothes in the trunk of the Cadillac, and got changed in the bathroom upstairs. I returned the rifle to the rack in the kitchen. The Jaguar was still parked out front, but of the young man I’d met earlier there was no sign.
When Priddy came downstairs again, I was sitting on the stoop in the sunshine fingering the worst of the tears in my shirt. I could smell the roasting flesh from the barbecue, and I could hear Beckermann and his friends returning from the creek. Coming back to the house, Priddy had been insistent about not leaving too soon. Beckermann wasn’t someone you simply walked out on. For an hour or two, at the very least, we were obliged to play the grateful guests. I’d told him then that I was going back to Dallas. If I had to walk, so be it. Beckermann and his friends disgusted me. There wasn’t enough Jack Daniels in the world, I’d said, to make me stay a moment longer. Priddy had listened, the same faint smile, confirming that we had no choice. There was a certain protocol in these things. Like it or not, we had to stay.
Now, for the first time, Priddy saw the Jaguar. He glanced quickly around, frowning. The advance party from the creek was in sight now, sauntering back up the path. Of Beckermann there was no sign. Priddy looked down at me. The keys to the Cadillac were already in his hand.
‘Shall we?’ he said.
‘Shall we what?’
‘Move on?’
‘I thought you wanted…?’ I started again: ‘Isn’t there some kind of barbecue? Aren’t you worried about…?’
Priddy was already clattering down the wooden steps, heading for the car.
‘Not at all,’ he said briskly, glancing back at me. ‘Needs must.’
‘Needs?’ I said. ‘Whose needs?’
‘Yours, my dear.’ He smiled, unlocking the car. ‘Hate to spoil that vacation of yours.’
Thunder in the Blood Page 24
