Shepherd

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Then I cut off its head and skinned it and pulled its guts out,’ Carver’s directly under the hayloft, now, and I’m directly above it. But is he pressed against the wall? Are the eaves sheltering him? Is he reloading?

  I won’t know until I look.

  If Gyp were here, she could take him down from behind. Please, Gyp, I know you’re up in Heaven with the angels. Don’t let this bastard kill me.

  The hammer clicks as I cock it.

  Go.

  I stick my head out over the eaves, manoeuvring the carbine as best I can. The angle’s bad. I’d be firing one-handed, and Carver’s lurking in such dense shadow that I can barely make out his silhouette. He’s blurring into the darkness of the wall.

  That scratching sound is a ramrod being jabbed into a muzzle. He’ll have his pistol loaded in a second or two.

  I can’t waste my last shot. If I don’t fire now, will Carver know I’ve only a single ball? Or will he think I’ve nothing left?

  He might expose himself if he feels there’s no risk in it.

  ‘But let me tell you summat, Tom Clay,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I’m going to pull your guts out before I cut off yer head.’

  What’s he doing, loading another gun? Unless I’m mistook, I just heard the crinkle of cartridge paper. He must have realised that he’s safe down there, in the shelter of the eaves, as long as I’m up here. He must be making good use of the time he’s gained.

  ‘And then I’m going to cut off both yer ears,’ Carver concludes, ‘and add ’em to my collection.’

  God ha’ mercy, he’s heading round the back. From there he can step out from under the eaves and see me plastered against the shingles like a fly squashed on a whitewashed wall.

  With a thump and a clatter, I throw my leg over the roof-ridge and heave myself onto the other side of the roof.

  Carver suddenly fires. A ball whizzes past. He must have seen a flurry of limbs against the starry sky.

  ‘Like shooting a bear up a tree.’ He’s on the move again. Gravel crunches unevenly; he’s limping, his pace slow. That’s where I have the advantage…

  Yes, he’s retracing his steps. Coming round the front, by the sound of it. There—he’s put some distance between himself and the stables, so he has a clear shot at the roof.

  But not at me. Even as he raises his musket, I scramble back over the roof-ridge.

  He shoots. Misses.

  My cheek slams down onto the shingles and I’m hanging by one hand; the other’s clamped to my carbine. He’ll come back around for another shot, from the rear. Or maybe that’s what he’s hoping I’ll think.

  What if he tricks me?

  Time I became the hunter instead of the game. Time I took the lead.

  He’s over there, tracing a wide half-circle around the hayloft, well away from the eaves. That means I’ll have a clean shot if I can just get close enough to the edge of the roof. I’ll be more exposed, but so will he. And I’m a deal more spry.

  The carbine goes back over my shoulder. Sliding along the roof, I’m close to the lift-beam when I spot him. He’s a good twenty yards away, hobbling along, his head turned towards me.

  Can he see me, though? He doesn’t fire. He has the light from the kitchen at his back and I’m on the dark side of the roof. This is it. I have the advantage.

  I drag the gun off my shoulder. Brace my feet against the shingles. Release the roof-ridge so I can line up my shot and—

  My feet start to slip. I grab the ridge-cap again, unthinking.

  That’s when I drop the gun.

  My father was a great one for coursing hares. His lurcher, Morton, had the finest nose I ever knew in a dog, and a good turn of speed as well. But my brother had a sighthound, a whippet named Switch, who won more bets than any other dog in the county. He was the king of coursers, quick and cunning and fearless, though not good with a quarry that didn’t bolt. When a hare or rabbit had the sense to keep still, Switch was inclined to overlook it. That’s why he coursed with Morton, who could sniff out anything, anywhere. No nettle patch or lavender bush could protect a hare from Morton.

  One day I saw the two dogs f lush a hare who sprang five feet into the air, straight over Morton’s back. There followed a hundred-yard stretch, then so many turns and ricks and curves and wrenches that the dogs lost their advantage. The hare went this way, that way, this way and that; she dodged and zig-zagged, swerved and jumped, and wouldn’t let herself be driven. Morton was already tiring when she reached cover. Neither he nor Switch ever caught that hare.

  I think of her now, fleetingly, as I cling to the roof-ridge.

  My carbine skates down the roof and lands on the ground with a thud and a rattle. Carver freezes for an instant. Then he changes tack, stumbling straight towards me, making for the wall beneath the hayloft.

  He must think I’m on the ground myself—that I just slipped off the roof.

  I might have a minute’s grace while he flattens himself against the wall, inches towards the nor’west corner, cocks his gun, prepares to shoot and—then what? When he peers behind the stables, he’ll see I’m not there. He mightn’t see the carbine, at first; there’s grass out the back that hasn’t been grazed in a while.

  As quietly as possible I slither over the roof-ridge and hang for moment, turning my head to peer at the kitchen and cool-room behind me. Then I let go of the ridge-cap and slide down the roof, which isn’t so steep that I fly off it. Instead I grab the eaves with both hands. From there I can lower myself, very carefully, until…

  Damn it. Even with my arms stretched almost out of their sockets, my feet are still dangling at least five feet off the ground.

  Please, God—please, Gyp—I count to three and drop.

  The impact jars every bone in my body. I’ve hurt my foot and I’ve no gun and I made a noise when I landed. Did Carver hear me?

  I can hear him. He’s coming; his lumbering footsteps are heading this way. Mine are lighter, softer, but what if he follows my tracks? I’m not going to make it—not all the way to the kitchen. And even if I do, how will it help me? A boning knife is no match for a loaded gun.

  If I lock myself in, he’ll set fire to the roof. He’s done it before.

  I have to hide. Not behind the cool-room; inside it. You’d have to be a madman to go in there. Holding my breath, I push open the cool-room door a few inches. One or two chilled flies stir, then settle. There are no windows. The room is pitch black and when I close the door behind me, I might as well be in a coal-mine.

  At least I can’t see what’s in here. And when I pinch my nostrils shut, I can’t smell it either. I’ll be able to feel it, though. Groping my way forward is the bravest thing I’ve ever done. One step. Two…

  The toe of my boot sinks into something soft. I swallow hard, stretch out my hand and hunker down. My fingers hit a clothed joint—a knee or an elbow. Probably an elbow. Which is attached to a shoulder, which disappears under… what’s this? A leg?

  God ha’ mercy. They’re stacked in a pile.

  I pat my way up…and up…past a head of hair and a dangling hand and a boot and an ear and the flies scatter and my guts flip and I’m going to puke but I can’t, he’ll smell it, hear it. I mustn’t be sick.

  The pile of corpses is nearly as tall as I am. I don’t know who’s on top; I don’t want to know. Can I hide behind the pile? He’ll find me there if he comes in to check. But if I crawl under it, I might be safe.

  I can’t. It would kill me.

  But Carver will kill me if I don’t.

  Oh God, God, God.

  I feel my way around the pile until I’m as far from the door as I can get. Then I drop to my hands and knees, facing the wall, and push my feet between the floor and…something. Feels like a ribcage.

  The pile shifts but doesn’t topple. Everyone in it is solid and weighty; Mrs Trumble was almost fat. But I’m just skin and bone. I don’t disturb the others too much as I wriggle beneath ’em. The worst thing is the noise—a sigh here, a gurgle th
ere. Corpses have a lot of gas in ’em and when the pressure shifts, so does the gas.

  Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven…

  The flies drone about, bumping into me. An arm flops down. A body slides. I keep going, squirming my way backwards, deeper and deeper, until only my head is sticking out. I can’t go any further. But Mrs Trumble’s petticoat is draped over my face, so Carver won’t see me. Why would he want to go searching under Mrs Trumble’s petticoat?

  He’s taking his time. Perhaps he’s checking in the stables. Perhaps he’s searching the hayloft. I can feel something crawling across my chin. Pray God that’s not a maggot.

  My mind flashes to Carver’s account of Mr Barrett’s raid, and the pile of bodies Mr Barrett left behind. Carver gloried in that pile; I could see his eyes light up, hear the relish in his voice when he described it to me. Has he tried to build it again here in the cool-room? Has he been thinking on it for too long?

  I’m holding my breath, now. I’m holding my nose. I’m straining my ears.

  And here he is.

  Hinges creak as the door opens. A faint wash of light glints on a grey fingernail not six inches from my nose.

  ‘Whoof!’ says Carver. He gags, then begins to cough. ‘Christ, you’d have to be desperate.’

  He cocks his gun: click. His heels scrape against the dirt floor. One step. Two steps. ‘But o’ course, you are desperate,’ he says, almost choking on the words.

  He knows. He knows I’m here. How can he know I’m here?

  ‘If you like the company o’ the dead so much, Tom Clay,’ he growls, ‘then why don’t you join ’em?’

  He can’t see me. Can he? I clench my teeth, screw up my eyes and—

  He fires.

  The noise sounds like a thunderbolt in this tiny hut. My ears ring. When the bodies above me quiver, I realise what he’s done.

  He shot ’em. He fired straight into the people he already killed.

  But the bullet didn’t pass through.

  Another shot. And another. Above me, Charlie and Jim and the Trumbles are blocking every ball he can pump into ’em.

  Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against us…

  13

  THE GAOL at Bury was like a wheel. At its centre was the governor’s house, which had eight sides. Each side overlooked a yard, and the walls between the yards were the spokes of the wheel. Where the walls ended, the rim began; there were common rooms below and sleeping cells above—two levels of ’em—all with windows that faced the governor’s house.

  So there were no private corners in that prison. The governor seemed always to be watching, even when he wasn’t. I never felt safe from prying eyes, or from the threat of sudden punishment. I remember trying to find a place in the yard where I couldn’t be seen, but no such place existed. The governor’s house was three storeys high, with a flat roof. He used to pace around that roof like a guard atop a castle tower, peering down at us.

  I remember the sensation as I lie cowering in the cool-room, waiting for Carver’s eye to fall on me.

  Carver’s angry. He’s breathing through his teeth, hissing like a snake. His dragging step slowly circles the pile of bodies. Paper rips. A ball rolls down a barrel.

  He must be reloading.

  Then he stops. There’s a pause, followed by a jangling noise that puzzles me. All at once I remember the butcher’s hooks chained to the rafters. Mr Barrett used to hang his mutton in here to age.

  Something buries itself with a meaty thunk in the topmost cadaver.

  ‘Christ, but you’re going to pay for this, boy,’ Carver growls.

  The weight above me begins to shift. Carver grunts and gasps as he slowly, painfully, skewers a corpse and hauls it off the pile. It rolls to the ground. The impact jars every tooth in my head.

  A scuffle and a thud are followed by a short, sharp cry. Carver’s hurt himself.

  He must be in pain. He must have lost so much blood. Why doesn’t he just lie down and die? The bastard’s strong as a bullock.

  ‘Well, well, if it ain’t Mr Barrett,’ he says, with another thrust of the hook. ‘Not so high and mighty now, are we?’

  I clap my hand over my mouth, swallowing down the bile that’s rising in my throat. Mr Barrett. Mr Barrett’s up there. He was no saint, but he was no Carver. He had a wife. He had a pack of fine dogs.

  He hits the ground and a foul smell engulfs me, making my eyes water and my stomach churn.

  ‘Whoof!’ says Carver again. ‘Not too sweet, neither, eh?’

  I can feel the impact when his hook snags the next corpse. He tugs and strains and heaves. All at once my burden grows lighter as another body joins Mr Barrett’s. That’s three in total. Then number four slams down.

  Only two more left. Any minute now, Carver’s going to see me. He’s going to see me and he’s going to kill me. But at least I’ll be with Ma again. And Gyp. Oh God, if only Gyp were here.

  ‘Well, now, ’tis none other than Lottie Trumble,’ Carver gloats. ‘Greedy old bitch. You know what she tried to do, once? Tried to gimme a plate o’ gristle. Looked me straight in the eye and claimed ’twas good meat.’ He snorts. ‘Hah! I know good meat from bad, fusty-luggs, and you’re bad meat now, my blowen.’

  In goes the hook. Mrs Trumble’s petticoat begins to slide over my scalp as Carver drags her heavy form off her husband’s. I feel cool air on the top of my head. He’ll see me now. He’s going to—

  ‘There you are!’

  Please God, make it quick. Make the shot clean.

  ‘Shaking like a whipped dog,’ he says. ‘If you hadn’t winged me, Tom Clay, I’d be jumping on Trumble’s back, squashing you like a rotten apple. But I don’t have the full use o’ me limbs.’

  He leans closer. Craning around to squint up at him, I can just make out the glint of his teeth and his one, glaring eye. The hook in his right hand is twitching like a cat’s tail. He’s waving a pistol in his left.

  ‘I could bury this hook in yer skull,’ he continues, ‘but there’d be no fun in that. I think I’ll start with the belly, just as soon as I get George Trumble off you, and—’

  Thunk.

  That’s not the hook.

  Carver howls and reels away from me. As I pull myself out from beneath George Trumble, I glimpse a shadow in the doorway, yanking the tips of a pitchfork out of Carver’s back.

  Rowdy?

  Carver fires wildly over his own shoulder, then spins around until he’s facing the door. He’s dropped the hook. I hear it hit the ground.

  This is my chance.

  I dart forward to grab the hook while Carver totters like a half-felled tree, making noises like a cross-saw. The pistol falls from his hand. Gun smoke burns my nostrils.

  Rowdy stumbles backwards a few steps and keels over onto the dirt, but Carver doesn’t fall. Somehow he manages to stay upright, swaying and staggering across the threshold. He drags a musket off his punctured back, screeching in pain, and points it at Rowdy.

  That’s when I swing the butcher’s hook.

  It digs deep into Carver’s shoulder, just above the four bloody holes in his coat. He’s jerked backwards. His musket tips up and fires into the air.

  That was his last shot—because he doesn’t have my carbine, thank God. But he’s quick enough to slam the butt of his musket back into my chest and it’s like the kick of a horse; it sends me flying. I land on top of Mr Barrett as Carver wrenches the hook from his body and turns to confront me. He’s bleeding and bellowing, wild as a bull in a butcher’s yard. He drives the gun-butt towards my head.

  I roll aside and jump to my feet. The butt hits the floor, then rests there a moment as Carver leans on the musket, dizzy with pain. I fling myself at the pitchfork, which is lying on the ground not far from where Rowdy’s landed. Scooping it up, I turn to see the wavering muzzle of Carver’s second musket, pointing straight at me.

  Time seems to stand s
till as I watch him pull the trigger, then—

  Nothing happens. The gun isn’t loaded.

  I bat it aside with the pitchfork. He sweeps the stock around and whacks me on the side of the jaw. I drop to one knee, my head ringing, my arms swinging. The pitchfork handle connects with his wounded leg, which buckles under the impact. Suddenly we’re both on our hands and knees, face to face in the dimness.

  For an instant we stare at each other, gulping down air. I raise the pitchfork. He drives his gun at my head. I duck. He roars. I lunge. He slams into me and throws a punch that connects with my nose. But when I fall back, yelping, he doesn’t try to hit me again.

  Instead he lurches to his feet and staggers away, dripping blood, bent double, lame, breathless, weaving like a drunkard and leaning on his gun.

  The pistol. He dropped it.

  I crawl back into the cool-room and grope around in the dirt until my fingers close on the butt of the pistol. Blood dribbles from my nose and mouth as I grab the door-jamb and pull myself up. I’m dizzy. My chest hurts. My ears are ringing. I can hardly stand.

  I’m alive, though. And Carver…Carver looks to be at death’s door.

  He’s heading for the southern paddock. Peering around the side of the cool-room, I catch sight of his dark, misshapen bulk floundering into the night, leaving a trail of blood. I should go after him now, while he’s weak. Before he reloads. I should fetch my carbine from behind the stables and kill him with my very last ball.

  But I’m seeing double. It hurts to breathe. My knees feel like skeins of wool.

  And there’s Rowdy…

  I turn to look at him. Don’t tell me he’s been shot. Did Carver shoot him?

  ‘Rowdy?’

  He’s flat on his back. His eyes are closed. His dark curls are spread out around a face so pale it seems to glow in the moonlight. The towel I tied to his shoulder is drenched in blood.

  Powder-marks stipple his forehead—but I can’t see any wounds.

  ‘Rowdy!’

  I squat down and start feeling for the path of a pistol-ball. There’s no blood in his hair. There’s blood on his shirt, but the stains are dry as chalk. So is the blood on his hands. He can’t have been shot—unless the ball passed through the hole in his shoulder? The towel I tied there is wet and warm, but not ripped to shreds…