A Brace of Skeet

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘Do you think you could beat her?’ Torrance asked.

  ‘I could shoot the pants off her.’

  ‘That I would like to see,’ said a voice.

  I could feel a tremor of anger in the back of my neck but I forced myself to hide it. ‘Well, you won’t,’ I said. ‘My pants are not for shooting. Come on, now. It’s time for food. Who’s staying on to eat?’

  Several hands were raised. I turned away towards the clubhouse.

  ‘All mouth,’ said Pender.

  I turned back. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I think you heard me.’

  ‘Now, let’s stay calm,’ Alistair Wyman said smoothly. ‘I’m sure Miss Calder has no objection to matching herself against you, Douglas.’

  ‘You think so? How about fifty Skeet? Unless you’d rather teach her the much-needed lesson?’

  ‘Thanks to your idiocy, I don’t have my Skeet gun with me. You saw what a balls I made of trying to shoot Skeet with the wrong gun.’

  ‘Leave it to me, then,’ Pender said. ‘I’ll show her where she gets off.’

  ‘Be fair,’ Oliver Gray said. ‘You’ve been shooting all afternoon. You’ve got your eye in. You should give her some advantage. Or don’t you think you could “shoot the pants off her”?’

  ‘All right,’ Pender shouted. ‘All bloody right. I won’t shoot my optional birds. How about that?’

  ‘Fifty quid says that she’ll equal or beat you,’ Harry Noble said.

  ‘You’re on,’ Pender said.

  ‘Just a moment,’ I said. ‘Don’t I have any say in this?’

  ‘My dear,’ Sir Peter said gently, ‘it doesn’t look as if you do.’ It seemed to me that he was enjoying himself. He turned to Mr Pender. ‘We’ll eat first. Then I’ll back Miss Calder to the tune of twenty-five.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Alistair Wyman.

  ‘You’d better go home to your mother,’ I told Paul. ‘This may not be pretty.’

  *

  A strange new excitement was in the air. The atmosphere would have seemed fitting before a bullfight or a public hanging.

  Most of those present, even those who had intended to rush away, elected to stay on and eat at the club. I was horrified. A private challenge was becoming a public contest.

  The civil servant, who had an unpronounceable African surname but cheerfully answered to Reg, put the general attitude into a nutshell. ‘I’m supposed to attend some dreary reception this evening,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I shall plead the onset of beri-beri. I look forward to seeing you take that unpleasant gentleman down a peg or two. Those two have made themselves thoroughly disliked since they fooled the committee into admitting them.’ He was a good-looking man, his looks accentuated rather than diminished by his colour, and his voice with its Oxbridge accent always made me feel as though my knees were about to develop a wobble.

  ‘I may not be able to do it,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You can do it if you really want to,’ he said. ‘I saw you beat Angie Miller in the semi-final of the Skeet Championships.’ He moved to the pay-phone to make his excuses.

  The cadets had vanished, but the Sergeant helped me out by serving drinks while I ran a production-line through the microwave oven. I had brought food for Sam and I fed him first. It was not his fault that I was having unwanted responsibilities heaped on me.

  The Sergeant picked up the last two meals and led me to a vacant table. ‘Calm down and take it easy,’ he told me as we sat down. ‘Relax. You’ve got to get the mood right.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’d have to psych myself up,’ I said. ‘If I were going to do it. Which I’m not.’

  ‘But you must. He needs taking down. If you back out now, he’ll claim a victory and win his bets.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’

  ‘I’ve got twenty quid riding on you myself.’

  ‘This is getting out of hand,’ I said. Douglas Pender was good although I should have been a match for him. But Dad’s twelve-bore Skeet gun, which I usually used for serious competition, was back at Briesland House and my twenty-bore, although lightly choked, threw tighter patterns than were ideal for Skeet.

  Among the babel of chat, I could pick out some words. Betting was becoming complex; odds were quoted on victories by such-and-such a margin.

  I got to my feet. ‘Listen to me,’ I said. Nobody paid any attention. ‘Shut up the bloody lot of you!’ There was instant silence. If I could have bottled it, it would have been worth a fortune to any mother. In any pub desecrated by a juke-box it would have sold better than the beer. ‘I don’t like needle-matches,’ I said, ‘but I’m prepared to shoot this one off if you’ll stop all this betting. I don’t want to feel responsible. And it’s flat against CPSA rules.’

  ‘Only for formal competitions,’ Rambo said. ‘And you backed yourself yesterday evening.’

  ‘That was a pool. And modest side-bets are winked at. This is too organised.’

  Several men tried to speak, but Sir Peter was one of them and the others gave way to the club’s chairman. ‘Nobody’s making a book, Deborah,’ he said. ‘These are individual side-bets. And if we care to throw our money away . . .’

  ‘It needn’t bother you if you let them down,’ Mr Pender finished for him.

  After that I would not have cried off for the Four Minute Warning. ‘Well, if I have to shoot,’ I said, ‘I’m damned if I’m doing the washing up as well.’ I sat down. ‘I’m squatting here until somebody else has done it.’

  Rambo Torrance got to his feet. ‘That seems fair enough,’ he said. He began to gather plates. Harry Noble went behind the bar and ran hot water.

  ‘This will conclude the day’s shooting,’ Sir Peter said. ‘For non-shooters and non-drivers, the bar proper is open.’

  There was a small cheer.

  I fetched my twenty-bore from the jeep and two boxes of Skeet cartridges from the store. I checked that I had a few spare cartridges in the pocket of my Skeet vest – you can need extra if ‘no bird’ is given for a faulty clay. My muffs were still hanging round my neck. I was as ready as I would be.

  The washing-up was finished in remarkably short time.

  We walked out together, followed by a small crowd carrying their glasses. They were in festive mood but I felt hollow.

  Sam, still at my heel, rumbled to himself and I noticed that the other Labrador was back with Douglas Pender. ‘Your dog?’ I asked, for something to break the cold silence.

  He thought it over and decided that he would not demean himself if he replied to me. ‘Alistair’s,’ he said. ‘This bugger’s a fanatic. He’ll follow any man with a gun.’ He halted. I noticed for the first time that he had a belly on him, but so did several of the others. ‘Alistair, call your stupid tyke away before he gets under my feet.’

  Mr Wyman put his dog on a lead but Sam stayed with me.

  We arrived at the Skeet layouts and I switched on the traps. We agreed to go round together. We tossed a coin. I won. I decided to shoot first at each station in the first round and then to swap over.

  Alistair Wyman had the release control. ‘Hold everything. I want somebody neutral trapping,’ I said. ‘In English Skeet, we’re entitled to an immediate bird, not a delay of up to three seconds as in Olympic and ISU Skeet. I’m damned if I’ll be bugged by variable delays.’

  There were no offers from the bystanders. ‘I don’t think that there is anybody neutral,’ Reg said.

  ‘I could fetch the acoustic release,’ I suggested.

  ‘I’ll give you immediate birds,’ Mr Wyman said with exaggerated patience. His tone suggested that I was only putting off the evil moment when I would have to face harsh reality. ‘Sir Peter can referee and he can call “no bird” if I delay the release. Fair enough?’

  I nodded to Sir Peter. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. I stepped onto Station One and loaded. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ Wyman said.

  ‘Pull!’

 
Chapter Eleven

  Under normal competition conditions I would have expected to shoot clear rounds, perhaps missing a rare bird when my concentration flagged. (It is by those few, unpredictable misses that titles are won and lost.) Even with my twenty-bore, I would expect to average 24 out of 25.

  This time, my concentration had gone for a walkabout. Too many other thoughts were competing for places in my mind; and I had been reminded by my poor performance in the ‘mixed doubles’ how missable a close, fast bird can be. I started badly, missing the first bird, with high house single on Station One – a disastrous way to start, because you only shoot well when you know in advance, without any shadow of doubt, that you will break every target.

  I told myself to get it together . . . relax . . . hold the gun lightly. I placed it above the crossing point and then swung half-way towards the low house and half again. When my concentration felt right, I called for the low house bird, led it by a foot and saw it go to smoke.

  Now for the double. I refocused my eyes by looking at the centre peg, renewed my concentration, called and broke both birds of the double. I felt my heart stop its pounding. I was back on the road.

  Douglas Pender had shaken off his earlier temper. He set off as though he was due for a clear round, but dropped one of his pair on Station Four. As we came round the semicircle of stations the setting sun began to blaze into our eyes. Dazzled, I held on too long before shooting the first of the double on Station Seven and as a result missed both birds of the pair while he lost one of his singles.

  We were half done and I was two birds down.

  My ‘optional bird’ would be the first target which I had missed, the usually easy high house departing bird on Station One. I stood for a few seconds, breathing deeply and going over the drill in my mind, reminding myself to take time, plenty of time. Then I called and shattered the bird just above the crossing point.

  Douglas Pender was not shooting his optional, so I was only one down at the turn. Not fatal – I had the advantage on another optional to come – but not good.

  ‘Beer break,’ called Sir Peter. ‘And we’ll give the competitors a moment to relax. Deborah, what will you take?’

  My mouth was dry. I asked for a shandy. Several men trotted back to the clubhouse while general conversations broke out.

  There was one seat set back from the semicircle of stations and by common consent this was left for Douglas Pender and myself. My knees were shaking with effort and I was glad to sit down. Douglas Pender subsided with a grunt at the other end of the bench. I felt it shake.

  I decided that he was shooting too well. But, earlier, he had shown that his concentration failed when he was irritated. Well, it had worked with Mrs Hickson and it might work again. If nothing else, it might keep my adrenalin flowing. Nobody was close enough to overhear.

  ‘I see that you use Express cartridges,’ I said tentatively.

  ‘What about it?’ he asked the empty air.

  ‘There were some used, late on Monday. Have the police been to see you yet?’

  This time he looked round at me. ‘Why would they?’ he enquired.

  I was tempted to go all the way, to accuse him of murder, but I had to restrain myself. If I overshot the facts he would know it and he would recover his balance.

  ‘They’ve seen all the other members. I wonder why they left you out. Perhaps you’re a suspect. Of course, they may be waiting for the result of the tests on cartridges.’

  He glared at me for a few seconds before he asked, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ I was beginning to enjoy myself. I decided to let the Sergeant keep his anonymity for a little longer. ‘Those young lads who’ve been helping all afternoon, they’re police cadets. They were collecting fired cartridges. The lab is matching firing-pin imprints against the cartridges which were at the top of the bin on Monday evening.’

  He shrugged and looked away.

  Sir Peter came back with my shandy but he wandered off to have a word with Harry Noble. Alistair Wyman arrived with a soft drink for Douglas Pender.

  ‘She’s been telling me about the police investigation,’ Mr Pender said to him. ‘You know what I mean? The steward who was killed here on Monday evening. They’re looking at cartridges, trying to trace guns . . .’

  Mr Wyman snorted. ‘The little bitch is only trying to throw you,’ he said. ‘Don’t let her cheap tricks get to you. Just stay cool and concentrate on showing her where she gets off.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. I was becoming ever more certain that my needles had found a sensitive nerve. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. The witness who saw somebody with a black dog at heel, moving clays around on Monday evening, will probably pick somebody else.’

  ‘We were together on Monday evening,’ Pender said hoarsely.

  Something else came back to me but I could not remember exactly what had been said. Who had the Club Secretary been looking at as he spoke? ‘That’s not what Mr Glencorse told me,’ was the best I could find to say.

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Mr Wyman said urgently. ‘Come away from there. How’s your neck?’

  Mr Pender got to his feet. ‘Easier,’ he said. ‘I think it’s burst.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ I said to his retreating back.

  I was only alone for a few seconds before Sir Peter called out, ‘Are the competitors ready? Then let battle resume.’

  At first, of the two of us, I think that I was more prey to nerves. I have never been able to shrug off angry words or clashes of personality. The layout, usually so familiar, seemed strange and the timing of my natural swing was ready to desert me. Douglas Pender, on the other hand, wore an agonised scowl but was keeping his concentration going with a visible effort. It showed in the stiffness of his neck and his audible breathing. I watched from behind him as he broke his four birds from Station One; and when I stepped forward to take his place the timing was clear in my mind again.

  We had both found form. We each shot the ten birds from the first three stations straight. But then the tide turned. Perhaps his effort was too great to sustain. On Station Four he missed both birds of the double. I collected both of the singles, called for the double, took the high house bird first and early, swung on without waiting to see whether the clay had broken and took the other almost over the same spot. A faint mutter of approval told me that I had powdered them both. For the first time it came home to me that the watchers were almost universally on my side.

  I had the lead, with the advantage of the optional bird to come. For no particular reason, my swing and my timing had recovered. This was my favourite sport which I had always found easy. My confidence peaked.

  He missed only one of his six birds from Stations Five and Six, but I blew all six to dust. The mutter grew. Somebody clapped, instantly checked by Sir Peter.

  We moved to Station Seven. This was the dangerous time, because relaxation can easily set in too soon. I told myself to concentrate, to ignore the sun, to watch the trap-house opening and go through the familiar motions.

  Douglas Pender had concentrated too hard for too long. He was over the high house single and behind the low house bird.

  ‘That’s all,’ Sir Peter said. ‘No need to shoot the doubles.’

  ‘What?’ Douglas Pender was like a man waking from a bad dream.

  ‘You’re four down and two birds to shoot. Even if Miss Calder missed all her birds you can’t win now.’

  ‘I see.’ He turned away, pushed his gun into Alistair Wyman’s hands. ‘Oh, well. It’s only money.’

  Alistair Wyman broke open the gun and withdrew a pair of cartridges. ‘Of course it is,’ he said cheerfully. (But, of course, it wasn’t.) ‘Open and empty, Miss Calder? You go and have a drink, Douglas. I’ll settle up for you.’

  Douglas Pender hobbled towards the clubhouse like a very old man.

  People were shaking my hand. More than one man pushed money into it, saying that he had put a few pounds o
n for me. Somebody kissed me, but I was only beginning to emerge from my trance of concentration and I never noticed who it was. Somebody else had smuggled out the bottle of champagne which had been kept in reserve for the climax of the next charity shoot. Paper cups were filled and one was pushed at me. I took it, but I had no stomach for a general celebration. I wanted to be alone, or almost alone. I caught the Sergeant’s eye and then slipped away, round to the back of the clubhouse to where I could sit at the top of the bank, getting grass stains on Mum’s slacks and looking over the Sporting layout.

  The Sergeant joined me a few minutes later, dropping down beside me. ‘Oliver Gray left this for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I glanced at the cheque to be sure that he had, as bidden, written the number of his shotgun certificate on the back before putting it into a pocket of my Skeet vest.

  We sat in silence for a while, winding down. The Sergeant smiled suddenly. ‘You did it,’ he said. ‘I thought for a while that you were going to let me down.’

  ‘I’m not exactly proud of the way I did it,’ I said.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘He killed Herb Tullos.’

  The Sergeant looked round, to be sure that we were not overheard. Even so, he lowered his voice. ‘How on earth do you make that out?’

  We were interrupted by Alistair Wyman, who came round the corner of the clubhouse, bringing me another paper cup of champagne. He was smiling, although it seemed to be with an effort.

  ‘Spoils for the victor,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to go now. Douglas seems to have gone for a walk to cool off. Probably the best thing for him. He takes his sport far too seriously. We came in his car, so I’m getting a lift back into Edinburgh with one of the others. No hard feelings?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said, but I wondered how true it was.

  ‘That’s good. There aren’t enough pretty girls around the club that one can afford to fall out with one of them.’

  He forced a wider smile and turned away.

  ‘Now tell me what you know.’

  But I was looking at Alistair Wyman’s departing back. ‘That man hates me,’ I said. ‘I can tell. And I don’t know why. It can’t just be for beating his partner at Skeet.’