by Paul Finch
Somewhere, faintly in the distance, a pale ghost of sound: he heard the horn.
Mark made himself stand. He went back along the stream until the banks grew lower, and finally he stumbled out onto the heath.
It was the same story everywhere. Torn, mangled bodies scattered on grass now rusty with dried blood. Most lacked heads. He almost tripped over the middle-aged woman, only recognisable from her striped trainers. Already a dozen crows were picking their way through the brush, pecking at the slain. He heard more cawing from above and looked up to see dozens more-it looked like hundreds-circling above, in such numbers that the sun seemed to dim.
Mark peered one way, then the other. He could see now the course of the stream, and where he'd hidden. He forced himself not to look at the torn, bloody rag of a thing that lay about ten feet from it. He tried not to look at any of the dead, but that one least of all. The riders were out of sight now, but he could see the trail left by the horses' hooves.
He turned the other way, the way they'd come from. That was east, because it was still morning and the pale disc of the sun, glowing dimly through a veil of clouds, hung directly above the hillock. Still morning, still early, but the people he'd been on the bus with were now dead. A few had escaped, just a few, and the horsemen were riding them down.
Which way to go? The way they'd come in there were soldiers, and it was impossible to believe that they couldn't have been part of this. It was no accident; none of this was an accident. He couldn't pretend to understand all that had happened, but the armour, the spears, the cloaks of faces-all implied something old, done many times before. A tradition of a kind, perhaps, albeit none he'd heard of. But then, a tradition like this would have to be a secret one, known only to a chosen, elite few.
And who would they hunt, if not the unwanted and despised?
Dear God, had they known this at the Job Centre? Had the woman across the desk who'd consigned him to this 'placement' looked into his eyes and known where she was sending him? Had the soldiers at the gate? Perhaps not, but they'd do as they were ordered-and those orders would doubtless be not to let anyone past.
West were the hunters; east was where they'd come from. South were the gates they'd come in through: that left north, beyond the end of the desire-line. Mark's teeth chattered from the cold, but there wasn't much he could do about that for now. Walking, exercise-that was his best chance. He took a deep breath and started off.
****
At first Mark walked; the adrenaline had drained away and that was the best he could manage. As time passed, his clothes a little drier and his strength returning, he began to run, panting as he loped across the unending heath. The backpack bounced against his shoulders as he went; he tightened the straps to secure it.
There didn't seem to be any landmarks, nothing beyond the occasional knolls or rises that quickly dropped back to the same flat level, and spiky grass, yellow gorse and purple heather beneath the dull grey lead of the sky. As he went, he spotted occasional hints of past atrocities. Here was a dull rusty stain on the grass, not yet wholly cleaned away by scavengers and rain, and there shone yellow-white pieces of bone. Once he thought he saw a skull grin at him from a patch of heather, but other than that, little broke the monotony. Likewise, the only sound was the wind, except once when he thought he heard the faint echo of the horn. He turned, scanning the horizon, but saw nothing.
Later it began to spot with rain, and the wind picked up. Mark began to shiver once more, and to stumble as he went. He was flagging; he needed to stop, needed to rest, but there was no sign of shelter anywhere. At last, cresting yet another of those interminable rises, he looked down and saw a dell, and in it, beneath a bowed tree, the ruins of a small stone cottage. There was no roof and most of one wall had fallen, but it was enough.
Mark stumbled towards it and climbed inside, huddling against the join of the walls. He tugged off his trainers and socks to dry as best he could. He'd been lucky enough to escape blistering so far, but it would be silly to trust that luck to hold forever. The root-buckled earth floor was strewn with fallen twigs and branches and old dead leaves. He scuffed them into a pile and tried to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together, but nothing happened and his fingers were cold and thick. He slumped back against the wall, feeling the backpack he wore crumple, its contents digging into his spine.
Mark sat up. How could he have forgotten? He unslung the pack, opened it. There wasn't much inside-a couple of homemade sandwiches, a Coke bottle filled with tap water, a bar of own-brand chocolate-but it was a feast to him now. He wolfed down the sandwiches, drank about half the water and ate half the chocolate. The rest he stowed in his pack for later.
He settled back; he felt a little better now. Not much, but he felt comfortably full and there was a sense of renewed energy. He pulled his socks and trainers back on; they were a little damp, but it was best to be ready to move. And that was when something caught his eye, jutting from the ground beside the ruin.
It was too straight to be a piece of wood. He caught and twisted at it, finally pulled it free. It was the head of one of the huntsmen's spears - the metal part of the haft, the two lugs and the triangular blade itself. They were rusted, but seemed solid. The spearhead's edges were serrated. Mark tried not to think of May.
He stuffed it into his backpack with the remains of the food. It was, at least, a weapon of some kind.
The sun was past its zenith now. Mark was still trying to work out how long he had until nightfall and whether his chances were better or worse in the dark, when the horn sounded nearby.
Mark got to his feet. His hands knotted into fists, the nails digging into his palms. He could hear the dogs barking too. He scuttled to the hole that had served the cottage as a window, and the horn blew again.
It was closer, and so was the barking of the dogs. And oh God, now he could hear the galloping of hooves. A moment later, he saw the first shifting sign of movement on the horizon, as the hunt drew nearer.
Mark bolted from the cottage and began to run. There was no hiding, no cover. He'd been lucky; the hunters had been running the others from the bus to earth, but now they'd finished that part of the game-and of course, they'd know how many prey there'd been, and who was still missing. So they'd gone looking, and they'd found him.
Mark ran, and this time he knew he mustn't stop. With the dogs baying behind him, that didn't sound too hard. He had to outdistance them, or lose them-there had to be a way out, there had to be. The grass stretched ahead of him. His muscles began to burn, and then his lungs. I can't go on, I have to go on, I can't go on, I have to go on. And then ahead he saw the ground slope up in a rise, another of the endless fucking rises that rippled across this desolate fucking killing ground. But there was something else, something past it, he could see them-mountains, there were fucking mountains in the distance. And a sound-he couldn't make it out properly, over the sounds of the hunt, the thunder of his heart and the sawing of his breath. But then he realised what it was, what it had to be, because he couldn't just see mountains beyond the top of the rise, there was a road. There was a fucking road, running straight across-a big bastard road with cars and vans and lorries going back and forth, back and forth.
He could see it-it was in sight, in reach. Because whatever insanity this was, from whatever black and fevered nook of island history this blood sport had sprouted from, however long it had lasted, it had only been able to do so in secret. Something like this couldn't flourish in the light of day, it just couldn't. The huntsmen didn't dare follow him into the real waking world, the world beyond this place.
After that, Christ knew. Surely he couldn't have been the first to get this far, the first to have a chance of reaching the outside world. After all, who could he inform? None of this could happen without connivance at the highest level, and for people who could make this happen, gagging a few newspapers or making a few inconvenient witnesses disappear would hardly be an effort.
But that was a problem for the f
uture-let him just avoid this and he'd take his chances with whatever came next. Mark hared up the rise; his thigh muscles screamed and he knew he was reaching the limit of his physical endurance, but not much further, not much further-
The top of the rise-he reached it, tripped, fell. No! Not this close. But he got to his feet, and then-
The earth at his feet exploded. Torn grass and powdered soil sprayed up into his face, and he staggered sideways, flailing, with a curse. A moment later, the echo of the shot reached him.
Spitting crumbs of dust, Mark looked up and saw what the rise had hidden.
The ground kept sloping down, more and more steeply. There was one more rise, a bump in the surface, and just beyond that, the motorway. But in between the two there was a fence, twenty or thirty feet high, with barbed wire at the top, like the fence through which the minibus had entered-only here, there were no gates. Only watchtowers. And standing in the watchtowers were men with rifles. One of them still had his gun at his shoulder; it would have been him who fired.
Mark looked from side to side, and all he could see in either direction were fences, stretching out from horizon to horizon.
He laughed. He had to laugh or else he'd wail or scream. The truth had always been there-he must've known this, how could he not have? He'd just refused to admit it. He'd been right when he'd thought this practice couldn't survive the light of day, but that meant that-unlike, say, a foxhunt- no one could argue in its defence that the prey at least had a sporting chance of escape. There had never been such a chance, nor one of survival. It didn't matter how clever or how fast he or May or Baghead or the Mumbler or the middle-aged woman might have been, or how hard they'd tried: their lives had ended the moment they passed through the gate. The only question had been the manner of their death.
Mark looked back over the rise and saw the hunters charge towards him, their bloodied spears held high. The pack ran before them. He tore off the backpack, ripped it open, fumbled for the broken spear. As if in answer, they lowered their own weapons and charged.
Futile fight or futile flight; either way, he lost, they won and he died for their amusement. Mark turned away as the horses ran in; he didn't want them to be the last thing he saw. Instead he fixed his eyes on the distant mountains beyond the wire. Sometimes, he thought, the closest you could come to winning was withdrawal from the game. As behind him the hunter's horn sounded for the last time, Mark laid the spear point against his heart and gathered his strength for the thrust.
WHO WILL STOP ME NOW?
Cliff McNish
Transcript of recorded interview between student Susan Daseum and Spottiswood College senior counsellor Peter Borthwick.
Preliminary notes and observations. Susan is a nineteen year-old history major, specialising in ancient Greece. Until recently, she had an exemplary behavioural, academic and attendance record. She has been absent from college for three and a half weeks. It is the foster mother who referred her to the college counselling service.
As she enters the room, my first impression is of an extremely tall girl. I have already been alerted to the enlarged size of her left arm. Even forewarned, however, it is stunning. Grossly large. There is something unusual about her eyes as well. They constantly blink and roll. Involuntary reflex? I've never seen anything quite like it. No mention of an eye impairment has arrived with her records. A long fringe hides most of the rest of her face. Even so, I can see that she is plain-some would describe her as ugly. I find I have an immediate and strong urge to help this girl.
[interview transcript follows]
Counsellor : Hello there! Grab a seat! Thank you for coming, Susan. As you know, the purpose of today's short meeting is to get to know each other a little. I want you to know that we're a confidential service. That means first and foremost that unless you tell me something that I think means you could be a danger to yourself or to someone else the information you give me stays right here with us. Okay?
Susan : Yes.
Counsellor : Good. So, I've noticed that as a cause for concern you've ticked Stressful Circumstances. If it's okay with you, Susan, what I might do is get you to fill me in on what you had in mind when you ticked that box.
Susan : Well, umm... it's been really hard. Like, I haven't been eating. I haven't been sleeping, and I'm just crying all the time.
Counsellor : Susan, perhaps we could explore these feelings for a moment. I know your arm is being medically investigated-
Susan : My arm, yeah. But also I don't seem interested in things. Or I'm interested in other things. I keep having horrible thoughts. I wonder if I might be, mmm... bipolar or schizophrenic. Mentally unbalanced or something.
Counsellor : Susan, I doubt that. Confronting physical problems isn't easy. You may or may not be aware that the college has a process called 'Socialisation' which...
Susan : No, I think I need the tests. Can you arrange them?
Counsellor : Susan, at this stage...
Susan : Fuck, will you listen! I've taken all the mirrors down in my room. Don't you understand? I can't even look at myself. You've got to help me!
Counsellor : Miss Daseum-
Susan : Arrange the tests, you fucker! You fuck! Will you help me or not?
[Transcript ends.]
Susan Dasuem. Entries from her personal diary .
January 15th . I don't know why I keep this damned journal. All it does is chart my misery. I've always been pig ugly, butt ugly, whatever you want to call it, but my unreliable boyfriend Doug told me a long time ago that he doesn't mind. To make sure he remembers that I always give him spectacular head. Doug likes to see me tremble with him all the way down, as if I'm choking. Yep, he's that kind of a guy.
Actually, I wouldn't mind his crudeness so much if I didn't always have to shell out for his beers. Dougie-boy forgets his wallet on a suspiciously large number of occasions. Tiny, subtle comments he's made have also started to make me feel a tad unwanted. For instance, last week he gently suggested I cover up my face more often. "Like, grow a bigger fringe, maybe hide the whole thing. Maybe grow a mane." He grinned as he said it-it was a pretty imaginative sentence for Doug-and all I could think to do was smile back. Maybe I'm being oversensitive here, but his remark isn't exactly the sign of a deepening relationship, is it? At least my little outburst with counsellor Borthwick got someone's attention. The psych tests I asked for have been ordered.
January 16th . It's not just my face and body that need an overhaul. I'm serious about the tests. I've had such terrifying dreams lately. I'm always killing something in them. Is that normal? I asked Doug. He said, "Uh?" It's sometimes hard to get his full attention when my bra's off. Even harder when it's on.
January 24th. The whole subject of kissing boys is fascinating, isn't it? I mean, kissing romantically. Wanting to do that. Generally I can make a boy pop in about twenty seconds if I put my mind to it. That's just suction and hydraulics. But when it comes to getting your mouth in position for a nice, ordinary, tender, purely romantic kiss on the lips-now that's something altogether stranger.
Jade, a girl in my Greek Tragedy class, told me to stop analysing everything and just close my eyes, let myself go. I looked up her advice online. Apparently, research shows that 9 out of 10 girls do close their eyes when they kiss. Is it only me that's appalled by this? Anything might be happening while your eyes are shut, right?
January 29th. Annette appeared at my bedroom door this morning, looking scared stiff. I never knew my real parents-they seem to have abandoned me at birth, nobody actually knows what happened-but Annette has fostered me since I was a tot, and has always been... well, lovely. She's warm and sensitive, and always respects my privacy.
"What is it?" I asked, seeing her hovering.
"Nothing really." She shrugged. "It's only… well, did you know that you're making unusual noises? In the middle of the night, I mean. In your sleep."
"What kind of noises?"
"Squeaks and, er..." She shrugged awkwardly. "Clicks."
"Clicks?" I couldn't help laughing. "You sure?"
"Yeah. I've been hearing them coming from your room for the past couple of weeks. At first I thought you just had your radio on or something. But this morning one noise was so weird I came in to check you were okay." She hesitated. "The sounds were coming from your mouth, Susan. One sound was especially odd. A sort of watery, liquid noise."
Crazy as this sounded, I could tell she was being serious, so I attempted a serious answer. "My throat's been a bit sore because of this cold. Maybe my breathing's rough because of that."
"Mm." Annette didn't look convinced, and maybe she was right not to be. The truth is that my throat has been sore for ages. I've just been reluctant to tell anyone. I'm not sure why.
February 3rd . Doug came round this evening, wanting to try out a new position he'd read about in a magazine. His parts all ended up in the usual place, though, so I'm surprised I bit him actually. I usually keep my teeth well clear. But I've always had sharp molars, and today he was irritating me. Maybe it was just that. Doug gave me a little slap when I cut him. "Just you watch it, baby."
February 21st . I stood naked in front of my bedroom mirror today. I don't do this too often. Once a month is about all I can handle. The million-dollar question is always, Do I look grimmer than last month? And the answer is always, Yessirree!
The most favourable description I can offer of myself is that I still have two arms, two legs and a single head. Good so far, eh? But check a little more closely here and what do we find? What about that skull? Isn't it a bit oversized? A bit misshapen? Doug, in typically lyrical mood, once called it mule-like, which is actually fairly accurate. Crates of foundation can't hide the fact that I'd be a good-looking horse if I had a better complexion.
Go beneath my spotty equine face, however, past my thick roly-poly neck, and briefly things are looking up. I do have fairly decent breasts. They're large, too, and more or less symmetrical. I say more or less because the aureole of the right nipple is twice the size of the left. I can live with that, but recently, well, there are other issues. How shall I put this? Both breasts have started to move about. What do I mean? Well, I mean that sometimes I'll find the whole weight of my breasts shifting north like they're on some separate geological plate from the rest of my body. They don't just stick to north, either. South is equally popular, with westward swings. Perhaps they're following the setting sun. God knows what's going on. All I know is that they're swaying around aplenty. These days I even have to keep them inside an especially tight reinforced bra during college sports to avoid anyone noticing.
