A Shot at Nothing

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘You’d have been yelling at me by now, if it had been. Can you sit up?’

  I could sit up. With the sun going down behind the house, and in the heavy shade of the hedge, I could barely see his face.

  ‘I tripped over something,’ I told him.

  ‘You told me that.’

  ‘It’d be that silly little plaque thing. Oh, I do hope I haven’t broken it. Have a look, Oliver, please.’

  ‘Now you’re worrying about a wretched piece of wood,’ he grumbled.

  ‘It must have meant something special to somebody,’ I explained. ‘Can you see, Oliver? Do look, please.’

  ‘I’m trying. More by touch than anything else. Yes—I’ve found the stump, but I can’t see the plaque. You must’ve kicked it off.’

  ‘Oh…I’ve broken it!’

  ‘There’s a torch in the car…’

  ‘Don’t you dare leave me.’

  He made a sound that could’ve been a laugh. ‘You were running away, a minute or so ago.’

  ‘I’m not doing much running at this moment.’

  He knelt beside me. ‘How is it now?’

  ‘A bit better, thanks.’

  ‘All right if I leave you for a minute?’

  ‘Yes. Where’re you going?’

  ‘I want to see if Clare’s got a torch. There ought to be one in the gunroom. Shan’t be a tick.’

  ‘I think I might be able to stand. Help me up, Oliver, and we’ll both go.’

  ‘If you can walk, we shan’t need the torch.’

  ‘Of course not! But we’ll still need it, Oliver, if only to fasten the plaque back in place.’

  He said no more about it, but helped me to my feet. I tried to spare him much of my weight. I could stand. I could move a little.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ I decided. ‘I’ll sit here and wait, while you go and try to borrow a torch.’

  He hesitated. Then he said, ‘All right. I’ll hurry.’

  As he turned away, I lowered myself gently to the ground again.

  I looked out over the field, which was now sparkling with scattered lights. The steam tractor had been there for a purpose, then, and must have had a generator. The lights spread themselves, like a fairground, but more dispersed. The darkening sky above the lake was reflected, strangely a shade lighter, in the metallic surface. There was movement down there, restless and unceasing movement, as though the surface of the field shivered and undulated. It was the movement of people.

  It was some little while before I realised they were mostly drifting in my direction. But of course, they were experienced in these matters. There was to be a fireworks display, and here, on this facing slope, was the best place from which to watch it all. I had reserved myself a grandstand seat.

  Then I was aware that a shadow was moving slowly towards me along the line of the hedge. I couldn’t suppress a small flutter of the heart. But then a voice reassured me.

  ‘Hello there.’ It was Glenn’s voice. His night vision must have been better than mine. I supposed it was to do with being a farmer. ‘You’ve bagged the best spot, I see. Josie and I always used to sit here.’

  ‘I could move, if you like.’

  ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘Isn’t Josie with you?’

  ‘On her way,’ he said. ‘Sure to be.’

  ‘This is your particular spot, is it?’ I asked.

  ‘For previous fêtes here—yes. But it’s been a long while.’ He lowered himself to the grass beside me.

  ‘Perhaps Josie’s forgotten the place—the exact spot.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said easily. ‘Sentiment, you see.’

  I didn’t see. Did he mean that something special had happened here? Had he seduced her during a previous fireworks display? Couldn’t they produce their own fireworks? I found myself giggling at the thought.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘But if it’s a special place…’ I waited for him to say something, but he was silent.

  ‘The fact is, I literally stumbled on it,’ I explained. ‘Didn’t exactly choose it. Came running like a daft thing through the gap, and tripped over something. I seem to have hurt my ankle.’

  ‘Lots of things to trip over,’ he said, after a moment of silence.

  ‘Oliver’s gone to try to borrow a torch,’ I explained. ‘Then we’ll see. I think I must have twisted something. My ankle…’

  ‘Not broken, anyway,’ he reassured me. ‘You’d be in terrible pain.’

  His voice was toneless, even at the mention of my terrible pain. But I felt he was having to concentrate to maintain it.

  ‘Not my ankle…but I seem to have broken something.’

  ‘And why were you running?’ he asked, changing the subject too abruptly.

  ‘I was going to look for you, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I’m flattered. What for?’

  ‘You said you and your friends could get my car out.’

  ‘You’re leaving us?’

  ‘No. Oliver was. We’d had a bit of a row. It was why I was running, and I tripped myself up.’

  ‘So you weren’t leaving us?’

  ‘I was. I changed my mind.’

  ‘Decided to see the show first?’ It was said casually, too casually.

  ‘Not that. Things I’ve been told—it rather alters the situation. It now appears that one of Clare’s guns was stolen. It explains the mysterious third shot. Do you know about the third shot?’

  He was silent for a moment. I felt he was merely trying to give the impression he was taking me seriously. Then he said, ‘But we’ve heard all that.’

  ‘Not quite, I don’t think. I mean…stolen from the gunroom. Directly from it.’

  There was a long pause. He cleared his throat. ‘That’s your reason for staying?’

  I wished the light wasn’t failing so quickly, as I couldn’t detect his expression. Below me the shadows were sliding down the slope, and the undulating movement of people was being absorbed by them. The hum of their voices drifted up to me.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not the reason. We’ll have to repair the little plaque, you see, before we go.’

  ‘Plaque?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I’ve knocked it off its stump. A kind of memorial, I think it was. Perhaps a dog or cat was buried here. Funny name for an animal, if that’s the case. Harrison. I don’t know, though. Son of Harris? Perhaps a dog that Harris loved. It could’ve been one of Clare’s funny jokes. Don’t you think? She’d hate even an animal he was fond of.’

  Then Oliver flicked a torch at me, blinding me because I automatically turned to face it.

  ‘Oh…’ he said. ‘Hello, Glenn. You here, eh?’

  Then he knelt beside me. Glenn said nothing. ‘She thinks she broke something,’ Oliver explained. ‘Ah…there it is. The stump it was nailed to, anyway. You went and broke the plaque off, Phil. Here it is, hiding in the grass. We’ll have to nail it back. Strange inscription, though. Have you seen this, Glenn? Harrison, it reads. Date of death 5 September 1986. We’ll easily fix it back in place, though.’

  ‘Don’t trouble,’ Glenn said gruffly. ‘Here…let me have it. I’ll do it tomorrow—in the daylight.’

  ‘It’s not date of death,’ I said, with my obsession for accuracy. ‘Not D-stroke-D. It’s B-stroke-D.’

  That I’d said it with such confidence, when I couldn’t even see it, was a dead giveaway. In the background somebody choked back a scream. Oliver flicked the torch sideways, then it was knocked out of his hand as somebody fell across him and collapsed at my side.

  The torch rolled towards me. I scrambled for it, just managed to close my hand over it, and swung it round.

  It was Josie who had fainted beside me.

  Then, over and beyond the water, the darkening sky was lit up as the set-piece burst into flame, into spluttering fire in which its own smoke writhed. A cheer rose up, mounting as the set-piece settled in an
d ceased to flutter, and became, clearly:

  WELCOME HOME CLARE

  And the cheering now became frenetic, as Josie moved, moaned, and opened her eyes.

  ‘Welcome home,’ she whispered.

  12

  I was aware, in the back-light thrown by the set-piece, that we were now closely surrounded by people. In fact, they were tightly packed, though around our little group they had allowed a reasonable space. Instinct, almost animal in its precision, had told them that a small but significant scene was being acted out. They must certainly have observed that Josie had fainted.

  Now, beside me, she was trying to sit up. I put an arm around her shoulders, and handed the torch to Oliver.

  ‘Silly of me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Two of us now,’ I said. ‘It’s the heat.’ Though it was now considerably cooler. ‘Or was it the plaque?’ I suggested gently.

  There was no answer. Oliver now had the plaque in his hand. For a second he flashed the light on it, then he put the torch down on the ground, leaving it to slant its rays through the grass.

  ‘You can have it if you want it,’ I said, speaking to Glenn.

  He made no move to take it. I was aware that around us we were attracting attention and drawing it from the excitement of the set-piece.

  Oliver put his hand on the torch, and allowed the edge of the light to brush against Glenn, who was frowning at the muttering and fluttering in the immediate area. He made a dismissive gesture with one hand, and the surrounding shadows melted away, shuffled sideways, and left a space around us. But they had not moved far.

  It was clear that in the period of Clare’s absence Glenn had gradually taken over her role. The villagers now had become used to looking to him in their troubles and difficulties. I wondered how she would feel about that, and whether she had already detected it. But their influence did not overlap emotionally. Glenn had their respect, but it was Clare they loved. She embodied the casual, dismissive flick of the hand at outside authority; Glenn was authority, in a suppressed and undemonstrative way. In the years during which she’d been away he had not mastered, and probably had not attempted to master, the theatrical and wildly unprincipled attitude she presented to life. He would not have wanted to. But whereas he might now be prepared to retire quietly into the background of her impulsive display, and smile quietly to himself at her mastery of the technique, she would demand the full measure of her former popularity. Whereas he could live without public approbation, she would wither and fade if the spotlight wavered from her.

  Now, a gesture from Glenn had won us space and a certain amount of seclusion, but we couldn’t move elsewhere. Josie, though I was unable to see her face except in the brief back-glow of rockets and streamers, was still clearly distressed. We sat there, and we talked.

  Way down beyond the lake, the display flung itself frenetically at the sky, the whole thing repeated, muted, in the surface of the lake. A shout of approval arose from all round us. The image was distorted, too, as the hot fragments fell hissing into the water. I could clearly see the small fountains of steam that rose, caught in the same reds, blues and golds.

  I took the torch from beneath Oliver’s hand and turned it on the plaque, where it lay face upwards on the grass.

  ‘I suppose the date is correct?’ I asked softly.

  It was to Josie I said this, she being close to my side. In fact, she had a hand on my shoulder, seeking support…or imploring for silence. But the time for silence had passed. Josie almost breathed the answer in my ear.

  ‘It was that night, yes.’

  ‘The terrible night of the thunderstorm?’

  ‘That night. Yes.’

  Glenn said softly, ‘You don’t have to answer, Josie love. She’s got no right to ask questions. No legal right.’

  ‘Legal?’ I asked. ‘Then you know we’re discussing legality and illegality?’

  ‘Say what you want to.’ But there was no anger in his voice, resignation rather, but all the same a stubbornness. He wasn’t going to allow one fact to escape without being questioned.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I can say what I want to. I can ask questions, but I can’t demand any answers. But perhaps I’d better explain. We had a bit of a set-to, Oliver and I, with Clare. A few minutes ago, that was. Well…not a set-to exactly, but she did give us a few more details about the gunroom door. You know it was supposed to have been locked against her? Which was why she had to run round through the house to get to the lawn, in the raging storm. The trouble was, you see, that it was unlocked when the police got here, and it’s quite unacceptable that Harris could have unlocked it—would have unlocked it, even if he’d been capable of it.’

  ‘Can’t you let me watch the fireworks?’ she complained.

  ‘Watch them of course. I’ll just say things, and you can listen, surely.’

  I felt her shoulder shrug against me. ‘Might as well.’

  ‘Well…what was I saying? Oh yes. Quite unacceptable that Harris should have unlocked that door, even if he’d been capable of it. So the question’s always been—who did? And Clare’s now told us that she was certain Harris had someone else in the gunroom at that time. Somebody he’d brought home with him.’

  I paused. There was no response or comment. Rockets hissed their way up into the sky to a chorus of ‘ahs’. Josie’s breath was uneven, shuddering, at my ear.

  ‘Had you got any inkling, Glenn,’ I asked him, ‘that this could’ve been the case? At the time, I mean. Any idea then?’

  He had been grunting to himself as I’d laid this out. Now he said curtly, ‘You know the answer to that. I suppose you realise you’re spoiling everything.’

  I had to suppose he meant the display. ‘I’m not at all certain I know the answer to it, no. You see, Clare’s explanation neatly fits in with the shotgun that went missing—the Darne, she calls it. If Harris gave it to this person he’d brought home—as a kind of payment for a debt—then that person would surely have been off and away the moment the French windows were thrown open. You do see that?’

  I had addressed this to both of them. There was no reply.

  ‘Josie? You can see that, surely.’ I was deliberately trying to involve her in this. But I was having to concentrate, as my ankle was very sore.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ she said softly. For a moment her face glowed green as the sky was filled with a huge, growing tree of light.

  ‘It also explains in some way the third shot that Clare said she heard, it seems to me.’

  ‘And it seems to me,’ said Glenn, who’d obviously been listening carefully, ‘that you’ve got the full story. So…how about giving it a rest?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ I assured him. ‘But we haven’t got the full story. We’ve toyed with the idea, Oliver and I, but it’s still not right. I mean, now we have a positive presence in that room—somebody who could have unlocked that door. Who must have done. But on its own it still doesn’t explain anything, really. I mean…why would it be unlocked? It couldn’t have been a matter of unlocking the door to find a way out, because Harris had opened the French windows, which was a clear escape route once that person got into the darkness round the edges of the lawn—or got past this hedge.’

  ‘Does this go on for ever?’ asked Glenn, his patience rapidly melting away.

  ‘I’m trying to explain it the best I can. And I want to do it now, so that I can go home. Because I’m tired, Glenn. Tired. All right?’

  ‘Have it your own way.’

  ‘I will then. I’ll finish it. A clear escape route, I said, once they’d got beyond this hedge. So why the unlocking of the door? And why the third shot? A parting gesture? Possible, but it would advertise a presence, still close to the house, when the instinct would be to gallop down this slope and into the far distance, and as quietly as possible, not blasting off a shot at nothing.’

  I was laying it out as clearly and precisely as I could, though the effort to concentrate was bringing on a severe headache. I ached at bo
th ends now, my ankle and my head, and in the middle was a more elusive agony, at what, I realised, I was bringing about. This last distress I was going to have difficulty casting off.

  Oliver stirred uneasily. I touched his arm—no, let me say it. He reached across and squeezed my hand.

  I knew what was worrying him. I was saying this in the middle of probably the whole population of the surrounding villages, and if the word went round—as it undoubtedly would—that I was airing secrets they preferred to remain secret, then we might have difficulty getting away from there. But it had to be taken out and looked at, and seen whole. Had to.

  ‘So we’re left’, I said, my voice now not too steady, ‘with a door that was locked, and later wasn’t. The only person who could’ve done that was Harris’s visitor. And the only necessity for it is if that person missed the opportunity to get away by the route through the French windows, and was therefore stuck there, no doubt keeping out of Clare’s sight, from outside on the lawn. And that person had to witness the terrible scene of the hurled guns and the screams and the lightning, and it went on…and on…’

  As though in comment or emphasis, one of the fireworks over the lake screamed like a terrified banshee.

  There was no comment made. I was no longer asking questions but stating facts, as the scene gained clarity in my mind. And I felt that I was no longer competing against the spectacular violence of the fireworks, but that it was a background emphasis to what I was saying.

  ‘And there had to come a point,’ I went on, my vision seeming to clear as the reflected light played in ghostly multi-coloured display on the faces in front of me, ‘a point where there could be no way out by way of the French windows, because Clare had jammed them with her single shot. One cartridge from the gun she had picked up. Poor Clare—imagine her—lost in a despair and a fury that she couldn’t in any way control. And that was the shot with which she disabled Harris, though his wounds at that time were mainly from slivers of broken glass. That was the first shot of the three, that terrible night.’

  I stopped, feeling exhausted, my mouth dry, and myself thoroughly miserable. Nobody said a word, though I caught a sigh, the hint of a gentle moan, from the shadows that had retreated at Glenn’s gesture. But clearly they had not moved far enough. They could still hear. They wanted to hear, and I wanted them to listen.