by Neil M. Gunn
Adam yelled at him again to get the hell out of this and drove at his face, but the face dodged successfully this time and Adam staggered back from a full punch over the heart. Ranald followed him, not swiftly, but with the movement of one who would kill at his leisure, who knew he could kill at his leisure, but needed first to dominate the mind in front of him, to frighten it into gibbering bits.
Adam’s mouth had opened, he was bent slightly from the punch and weakened, but his eyes were on fire, his expression that of the fighting wild thing which is not beaten until its last wriggle is stamped on. An excitement came into Ranald’s face, whitening it.
It was a primitive scrambling fight, with Adam, after the first wild rushes, ready to use his knees, his feet, any weapon he could lay hands on, for it had become unmistakably clear that as a boxer Ranald completely dominated him. But Adam was nimble, extraordinarily nimble on his feet. When, after dodging a tree, he received a body punch that sent him spinning, he was not only instantly up again but had a piece of dead branch in his fist, was out in the open once more, with Ranald following up, watchful of the stick but forcing Adam towards the river, shepherding him towards the ledge. As Ranald stumbled over a shallow outcrop of rock the thrown stick went slashing across his face. Words now came from them thick with abnormal hatred. Blood began to blind Ranald’s right eye. Yet when he got in a blow that felled Adam he waited for Adam to get up. Adam was not deceived. “You bloody swine!” he gasped, for he saw that Ranald wanted to break him, to make him whine before finishing him off.
But they could not keep up the pace, and presently, when Ranald had Adam with his back to the ledge, Adam made no effort to sidestep. Leaning forward slightly, he waited, his eyes wary as a stoat’s, his panting mouth still spitting oaths. When Ranald moved to go in, Adam threw himself flat in a leg tackle and, as he brought Ranald down, tried at the same time, in the same motion, to heave him from off his back over the ledge. He very nearly succeeded, but Ranald just managed a grip on the legs. There was a fierce roll and scramble for a few seconds; then Ranald got the full thrust of a knee between the pit of his stomach and two short ribs which had been fractured in an air crash. The intense pain blinded him, loosened his hold, and Adam, breaking away, got to his knees, to his feet, stepped back a pace—and disappeared over the ledge with an expression of fantastic astonishment, his arms thrown up, his fingers wide.
Ranald lay doubled up and slowly writhing. As the stinging agony ebbed, he got on hands and knees and looked over the ledge. The dark pool boiled and swirled and then ran smoothly out of its narrow tail on the far side, got broken up by some boulders, widened and grew shallow in a short run. There was no sign of Adam McAlpine. Ranald got onto his seat and leaned forward to ease the pain, waiting for the sucking swirls and eddies to throw up the body or empty it down the tail of the pool. The pool was deep; in its depths would be continuous circling currents, hidden ledges. The body might never come up.
Ranald got carefully to his feet and straightened himself. His hands were streaked with the blood he had wiped from his eye. He could not see the whole of the pool because of this overhanging ledge which, down from where he stood, curved irregularly for a short distance with birches growing to its edge. He moved up towards the falls so that he might thus get a view under the ledge right to the foot of the pool on his own side. But he found he could not quite get a total view, though he could see the base of the rock which Adam had gone over and what he thought for a moment was a white handkerchief caught between two stones beyond the bottom of the pool and about a yard up from the water’s edge, close in on his own side. It was clearly not a handkerchief, however, but an old piece of paper.
There was now a need upon him to search every corner and satisfy himself. He looked at the pool once more, saw the outward swirl from the rock that would have drawn the sinking body inevitably back towards the central downthrust from the falls, then walked along the ledge, in among the birches, and, still not completely satisfied after peering over, came out onto the path, intending to go down its short dip and walk in on the pool from below. But already a realisation of his position, a certain wariness, was in the movement of his body, and as he instinctively glanced down the long gorge he saw two men with fishing rods coming up. He saw them only for a second or two where the path curved outward above the river, then lost them in the trees. They were perhaps two hundred yards away. Ranald did not hesitate. He left the path, climbing up through the birches at a slant, away from the pool, back towards the moor. But soon he was completely blown, his heart knocking, and threw himself on his face.
The fight had certainly taken him right out of himself! He hadn’t, he reckoned, enjoyed anything so much for years. God, how people indulged themselves by letting their emotions rip!
It was the measure of him, the sod, with his animal teeth and feet, his bloody knee! He extended the muscles of his stomach trying to ease the pain, which was now dull, not sharp, so perhaps the ribs hadn’t gone. All the time he was listening, with a wariness in the eye, in the pallor of his face, the sharp criminal look of one who knew exactly what had happened—and would happen, if any kind of evidence should point towards him. The anglers should be at the falls by now—if they hadn’t stopped to fish a pool on the way up. They might remain in the gully all day, fishing the deep pools with bait or minnow, hoping for the big trout, the cannibal monsters. They might hook something big enough to surprise them!
His brain now became extremely cunning and lucid. The painted picture would be found intact and he knew a sudden intimate satisfaction in having resisted the impulse to kick the wooden legs from under it as he had followed the nimble Adam. A lucky break! With no wreckage, no evidence of struggle, Adam must simply have fallen over. Not to mention the darker suspicion that would inevitably enter the human mind—of suicide. The whole affair couldn’t have been arranged better had he deliberately framed it! Short of actually having been seen, he couldn’t conceivably be connected with the event. He hadn’t even met the fellow!
He glanced at his watch. It was time he was getting back, for if he weren’t late for lunch, everything would be completely normal. There was this blood on his hands. And on his face, too; he could feel the sticky crust. Before he left the trees, went into the open, he must wash. He looked at his watch again and decided to give himself half an hour before he risked an approach to the burn.
He lay on his back, staring up through the small leafy trees. The high sky was hazed with cloud. Presently a warbler was overhead, amongst the leaves; visible now; song notes fell on him. Bird notes all along the wood; not songs but a few odd notes, now here, now there. Distance gave them a curious echoing quality. He thought of spring woods and Nan. This was Nan. He stirred restlessly; dammit, it was time he was out of this. But he forced himself to lie still. He would leave the farm to-morrow morning. A vague thought about his return ticket put his hand to his breast pocket. It was flat—empty. His pocketbook was gone.
He sat up with flashing eyes. If they found his pocket-book! His hands went over all his pockets, even those in his waistcoat; they were beginning to tremble. His anger, as he swore, gave a vicious twist to his features.
The spasm passed and he began to worm his way down through the trees. He hit the path above the falls and, after careful spying, slid down to a screening clump of salleys by the burnside. There he washed his hands and with every care douched his face. But he started a trickle of blood again. It took him five minutes to stop it, but by that time he had his complete explanation of a fall, for he realised that whatever happened here now, he would in any case require an excuse for Greenbank. The reflection of his face in the water made that clear. After spying and listening, he slipped up the hillside, then moved along it, until he was above the falls pool. The first thing he noticed was that the picture was gone.
He lay flat, watchful, trying to think this out. Anglers wouldn’t have stolen a picture. That was quite certain. They would have removed it only if they had found the body. No
r would Adam have come miraculously up out of the pool and borne it away, not in his sodden condition! On hands and knees, Ranald moved along the hillside until he had commanded two more pools. There was no sight of the anglers, no human movement of any kind; he went back on his feet until he overlooked the falls pool once more. But now he was afraid to go down. The level ground to the ledge was flat-open like a trap whose jaws would spring if he stepped on it. In a blinding moment he realised the hell of a hole he had landed himself in. Actually he hadn’t pushed Adam over, but who on earth would believe that now, with the evidence of the pocket-book containing his personal card not to mention a bloody and bruised face? And he had been looking for Adam—as the policeman of Elver could testify. Not to speak of the girl in the case!
The nausea he had experienced when the knee got him in the stomach came back; but he did not give way to it; his lips thinned against his teeth. To hell with them! To hell with that bloody trap too! He snaked his way down and did not go openly onto the bare ledge but slid noiselessly across the path and in among the trees above the tail of the pool. He leaned over the ledge to make sure nobody was squatting down below. There was no-one, but suddenly he realised that something was missing, and in a moment remembered the piece of old white paper. It was gone. So the anglers had been there.
This knit him together finally. He stood quite still, turning his head slowly. He felt no real pain now. The remorseless mood was on him again; it went down into his hands. He thought not of flight but of what might be met—or overtaken—and destroyed. To be trapped like a rat—over that sod! He moved to the edge of the trees and stood, his eyes flashing swiftly about the bare ground they had fought over. Then they stopped in a concentrated stare. The brown leather pocket-book was lying by the slight outcrop of weathered rock which he had tripped over before getting the stick in the face. He raised his eyes from the pocket-book and looked about him, lips apart, hardly breathing. Then he walked calmly forward, lifted the pocketbook, opened it for a reassuring glance, put it in his pocket, moved up onto the path, left the path, began climbing, quickened his pace, tore upwards, his breathing thick with gusts of laughter, of relief and triumph.
10
He was half an hour late for lunch and opened the door upon Aunt Phemie, who had just sat down to table, and—what was this?—Nan “Hullo, Nan!” he said with a surprise, a warmth, in his voice and manner which so completely overcame Aunt Phemie that she could not take her eyes from the blood clots on his face. He seemed changed, to have come surprisingly alive.
“Ranald!” breathed Nan, also staring at his face.
“Oh, this!” He touched his brow. “That’s what’s kept me.” He was amused, swayed, gave a short laugh. “I came one cropper up in that pine wood of yours and the branch of the tree got me right across. Doesn’t it look pretty?”
Aunt Phemie got up. “Dear me! What on earth were you doing?”
“I thought I’d climb a tree. Ancestral impulse.”
“Reach down that box,” said Aunt Phemie, pointing to the high shelf as she turned to the hot tap. Ranald brought the box to the kitchen sink and Aunt Phemie, after tearing off a strip of bandage, soaked it with disinfectant and began dabbing the clots.
“Ooh! that bites,” said Ranald, screwing up his face.
“That’s what it’s meant to do.” The nearness of his face with a lost boyishness coming through, so affected Aunt Phemie that her features concentrated and she wiped away smoothly the blood traces below the clots.
“And who brought Nan down?” he asked.
“Herself,” answered Aunt Phemie, studying the clots with businesslike care. “The doctor ordered her up for a little while this afternoon.” But she was not satisfied with her work. “I think I’ll soak away these clots and bleed them clean.”
“You’ll do no such a thing,” declared Ranald. “They’re fine—thank you very much.” He turned. “Hullo!” he said, looking at Nan. “Feeling all right?”
Nan had gone pale, was wavering like one about to pass out. “Fine, thank you.” But she visibly pressed the table with elbows and trembling hands. “What next!” declared Aunt Phemie, rushing out. She came back with the brandy bottle and Nan, though she managed to take a good sip, said, “I think I’ll go up.”
“I should just think so!” Aunt Phemie caught her arm. “Come along. And next time you’ll obey the doctor—or you’ll hear about it! Coming walking in on me like that!”
“Sorry, Ranald,” said Nan, throwing him a glance as she went out.
“Keep your teeth on it,” he said encouragingly, following them to the foot of the stairs. Aunt Phemie now had her arm round Nan, was clearly bearing almost her full weight. “I’ll be up to see you soon,” called Ranald cheerfully.
Nan lay full out on her bed, eyes closed, her skin drained of blood, ghastly, but one hand held on to Aunt Phemie’s fingers. Her breathing began to revive in short shallow gasps. “Oh, I feel such a fool,” she muttered with the tragic weakness that couldn’t even cry.
“A wee drop more brandy,” suggested Aunt Phemie tenderly. But the fingers would not let go. “Don’t hurry,” whispered Aunt Phemie. “Take your time, my darling.” She suspected that the sight of the blood and the change in Ranald had been too much for Nan.
Nan began to stir, to sniffle; tears came from under her lids, wetting the lashes, running slowly down her cheeks. “Oh-h!” she moaned, and her features crumpled like a crying child’s.
“That’s my girl!” said Aunt Phemie. “Now, where’s your hankie? Oh, but yes, yes,” she added as Nan’s head moved from side to side in a sort of utter weakness and negation. Aunt Phemie found the handkerchief under the pillow and began wiping the tears away.
“You’re good to me,” murmured Nan. “You—you know.”
“Yes, my dear. I know,” whispered Aunt Phemie.
Nan’s head lay still; she opened her eyes and saw Aunt Phemie wiping her own eyes.
Aunt Phemie nodded, smiling. “We’re just two silly women,” she said, “but we’re tough!”
Nan closed her eyes again and gripped Aunt Phemie’s hand hard. She was trying to stop a new outburst of tears. Presently a wavering smile came through the tears and she looked at Aunt Phemie. “I can feel the brandy hot.”
Aunt Phemie nodded. “I can see it in your face.”
“Can you?” She lay back completely relaxed, exhausted, but the smile left its ghostly presence in her face. She said after a little in a quiet natural way, “Death comes so near—you feel yourself—sinking back on him.” Then she looked at Aunt Phemie again, with a strange almost shy expression in her eyes. “That was Ranald,” she said.
“Yes,” answered Aunt Phemie, “that was the real Ranald.”
Nan gave a small nod and pressed Aunt Phemie’s hand hard, then drew her own away.
“I’ll bring you up a plate of soup in a little while; meantime compose yourself like a good girl, and no nonsense.” At the door Aunt Phemie turned. Nan’s eyes were on her in a shy gladness, in a veiled tribute. The unspoken was between them. Nan was very lovely when she looked like that. Aunt Phemie made a face at her and closed the door.
Ranald was waiting for her in the kitchen, drying his hands on the roller towel behind the cupboard door. “How is she?”
“She’s come round. But she’s desperately weak. We’ll leave her to herself for a little while.” She saw the brandy bottle.
“Would you like some?” She looked at his face. The brow showed a slight but definite swelling.
“I would, if you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself. I’ll get you a glass.”
He picked up Nan’s glass, poured himself a stiff one, and drank it off. “I could have done with that earlier.” He smiled. “You said the doctor was in?”
“Yes. Do sit down. The potatoes are ruined, I’m afraid. Yes, he was in. After fever, you’ve got to stay in bed for a day or two, but he now wants her up—and interested.”
“Sounds sensible. He seems a rea
sonable chap.”
“Yes, he’s a good doctor. I hope you like the soup?”
“It’s excellent. I always take Scotch broth in a restaurant. You feel there’s body in it—though never like this.” His voice and manner now had their casual air, but with an attentiveness, a natural warmth of life underneath, that subtly transformed them. She saw that he could, if he liked, be quite charming—perhaps, even, very charming.
She was still moved, too, over Nan. She felt in a completely irrational way that Nan had taken the turn, that something had happened which, as it were, had headed her off. If only—if only—she could be kept in her present mind! If only that awful wind of chance didn’t suddenly blow her again onto the dark course! In her own body, Aunt Phemie had felt Nan’s utter frailty. She was still automatically sending out her own strength as she spoke to Ranald, asking him what had really happened in that tree. And Ranald had his story, embroidered it even with a reference to bird-nesting in boyhood. “Infantile regression,” he suggested with a humoured glance that broke into a short laugh when Aunt Phemie smiled.
“And I was interested in these Irishmen digging those drains. Experts—but why Irish?”
“Because the Irish are experts at that work. During the war—and right up until now—labour has been our difficulty. That field—Nan calls it the thistledown field—it got beyond us. But that was not the only kind of trouble.”
“No?” He looked at her with genuine interest, even curiosity.
“No. Broken-down fences. Cart roads that only the tractor can take now. Over-cropping year after year with grain. Even the moles—didn’t you notice them here and there in immense rashes, the molehills, I mean?”
“Now that you mention it, I did.”
