Beastings Page 16

  WHEN SHE LOOKED at the baby the girl reimagined it in a better future decades down the line. A new version. She saw the pair of them together and the child had grown into an individual – a beautiful creature of good physique and intellect and who was generous and compassionate too and the child – now an adult – would feed her clothe her scrub her back in the bath and comb her hair. They would have a house and a garden with a stream running close by because the sound of running water is good for the spirit.

  Other times she looked down at the child and saw it for what it was: a tiny helpless creature with a slowing heart-rate and an over-sized skull and an old man’s eyes and a desperate inverted mouth and translucent white skin and a rib cage so delicate it didn’t look real. And in those moments the very worst thoughts passed through the girl’s mind – thoughts of sharp rocks and deep ravines and ropes and rapids and fire and burial; thoughts of a mercy killing – of sobbing as her bare hands clawed at the earth and snot ran from her nostrils and when this happened she would bite her forearm. She would just sink her teeth right in until pain screamed through her and she was jolted out of this horrific thought process that felt less like the dark workings of her imagination and more like a premonition or a compulsion as if a greater force was guiding her propelling her forcing her to commit the great inevitable. The ultimate sin.

  WALKING AWAY FROM the main tracks and lanes was exhausting. The ground was uneven and the girl constantly found herself reaching dead ends; impassable bramble patches and sulphur bogs and deep cracks in the earth. Ravines half full of rock falls and fast-flowing streams too wide to cross. Open spaces made her vulnerable while closed-in places like the rutted old cart trail dug into the hillsides made her think of ambushes. She fought against the terrain as best she could. Her ankles ached and the sores on her feet screamed. She found herself periodically gripped by a tremble that she could not shake off. The walnuts and pickles made her stomach ache. Everything ached. The damp dawns made her aware of her bones inside her like a rusted framework.

  That night she used the fishing wire to set snares.

  She looped them and pegged them along a fence at the bottom of a fell where rabbit runs were clearly visible and where she found burrows and a smattering of droppings.

  The fell plunged down into another disused quarry that had come alive with rabbits when she had stumbled while crossing it that evening. A dozen had scattered in all directions: some into gaps between rocks and boulders and others up the gravel bank and away into the meadow above where their tunnels lay.

  Pieces of old machinery littered the quarry. Rusted gnarly forms made of wheels and spikes and barrels and corkscrews and giant cogs and mangled chains. Their parts solidified by neglect and rain. Mining detritus; remnants of the old ways.

  She set the snares. Twenty of them or more until her fingertips were sore and the light was nearly gone and then she walked out of the quarry and higher up the fell. She could think of little more than the sound of animal fat dripping onto a bed of roasted logs and soft flesh filling her mouth.

  Whoever is slothful will not roast his game but the diligent man will get precious wealth.

  The girl sat down beneath the buttress of a crag and held the child tight.

  She bared a breast and the child took it but no colostrum came. She let it suck until she was sore in the hope that the illusion of milk would be sustenance enough. It wasn’t. She found her dolly rag and re-tied it again so that it looked like a human form once more and waved it in front of the child’s face.

  Then they slept fitfully with the child’s breath slow against her ear and the foul scent of it strong.

  YOU WILL PAY.

  The Priest was murmuring in his sleep. First he had slept lightly then he had dreamed of the girl beyond the hunter’s reach and now his words were a slur trailing from a dry mouth.

  You will pay for that.

  His mutterings woke the Poacher whose fingers instinctively reached in his coat for his knife as he turned over and saw the Priest on his back with his hands crossed on his chest. Like a corpse he thought. Even in sleep he does not let his guard down.

  The Poacher could just make out his profile: the arch of his nose the elongated upper lip and the crude slit of a mouth. His fine red hair swept backwards.

  His legs together. Boots pointed skywards.

  The Priest was babbling. Speaking in tongues.

  Then his face was screwed up and frowning as he started scratching furiously as if at an invisible coffin lid; his hands a blur in front of him as if he were being buried alive.

  His whole body was thrashing now. Tossing and turning in the dirt and leaves.

  And all the while the Priest was making these strange noises. Hissing and moaning sounds. And between the noises the Poacher heard snatches of phrases that unnerved him and made him sit up. Made him see the Priest in a new light.

  Ungrateful sinful fucking whore treacherous imbecile bitch daughter of Satan he hissed.

  Father said the Poacher.

  Dirty unwashed bastard spawn of stinking peat bog inbred fucks.

  His hands had stopped thrashing now. Hearing the men the dog awoke and stood and strained on its tether. Its teeth bared it strained towards the Priest.

  You filthy scabby....yes. Get down on your knees and thank the lord Jesus for this gift you are about to receive.

  Father. You’re having a nightmare.

  The Priest’s head rocked from side to side. He moaned low and throaty.

  Drink it down and may you be truly grateful. That’s it. That’s it. Forgive all trespassers. Oh Father oh God oh for the bloody body of Christ and the screaming soul of Mary Magdalene.

  The Poacher threw back his blanket and shouted.

  Father.

  The dog gave a low gurgle then a snarl.

  The Priest opened his eyes his hands crossed his chest once again. He turned his head.

  Fucksake Father. You were talking.

  The Priest looked at him.

  Go back to sleep he said quietly and with a calmness that the Poacher found unnerving.

  Still standing Perses looked from the Priest to the Poacher then back again.

  How can I with you blethering and thrashing like a wraith.

  What did I say?

  Nothing said the Poacher. You said nothing.

  You said I was talking.

  The Poacher scratched the end of his nose.

  You were talking nonsense. Weird noises. Nightmare stuff.

  Are you sure. Nothing intelligible?

  What’s intelligible?

  Nothing you could make out.

  Nothing I could repeat Father. No.

  Then go back to sleep.

  The Priest turned his back and the dog settled down again with its chin on its paws.

  The Poacher was sitting up on one elbow.

  It’ll be light soon he said. The Priest grunted.

  Yes.

  They fell silent for a moment under their thin blankets. In the leaves.

  Father.

  What.

  It sounded like you were having quite a dream there.

  It’s a habit I have sometimes. Mumbling in my sleep.

  Right. Mumbling Father.

  When I’m overworked.

  Is that so.

  Yes.

  I’ve never been much of a nightmare man myself said the Poacher. I’ve always been a heavy sleeper. They say it’s all the fresh air and exercise. Mind – I do most of my sleeping in the day-time. Night-time in the woods is a day in the office for me.

  I didn’t say I was having a nightmare said the Priest. You said that. Not me.

  Sounded pretty strong from here Father. Vivid like. Detailed.

  Why – what did I say?

  The Poacher smiled to himself in the darkness.


  Nothing Father. Nothing. Go back to sleep. And sweet dreams.

  SCREAMS FOLLOWED SCREAMS. A distant cawing out there – the curdling sounds of animals that lasted all night. Soon they began to sound like tortured children. Like creatures facing death. The girl had to put her fingers in her ears and curl herself into a ball to avoid a confrontation with her past. If she let them win her bones would turn to dust.

  HOURS PASSED WITHOUT a word being exchanged.

  The day was bright and warm now and it hummed with swathes of insects that were swarming above the meadow when they saw the abandoned house.

  They walked through waist high grass towards it. The dog. The Priest. Then the Poacher.

  As they neared it the dog became re-energised and charged into the outbuilding but came straight back out again and ran to the rear of the house and through the open back door.

  Look at him said the Poacher.

  She’s been here said the Priest.

  The dog went into each room in turn and ran in a circle then moved to the next one. It whined with excitement then climbed the stairs in three leaps.

  Right said the Poacher. Time to find me some grub.

  He searched the kitchen cupboards and when he couldn’t find anything he kicked a door right off its hinges then went into the cellar and began to ransack it.

  The Priest went upstairs and looked in each room then stood at the window. He leaned on the stone mantel with both hands and bowed his head. He breathed deeply.

  She had been there. He could feel it. Her presence. Life had recently been in this dead dust-settled room.

  He closed his eyes and whispered to himself:

  As the deer pants for streams of water so my soul pants for you O God.

  He reached for his vial.

  AT DAWN THE baby kicked out and it woke her. Shivering the girl stood and left the sleeping parcel in the cold shadow of the overhang and walked down to the quarry. She could barely lift her feet. She kept to its edges. Avoided the flat open space.

  The first snare she checked was just as she left it – a small looped slipknot invisible to the eye were it not for the twig she had used to peg it. There was no rabbit. The second was the same. And the third.

  On she walked dragging her feet – stopping then stooping and her stomach growling. With each empty snare her feet felt heavier. All were as she had left them.

  Not a single one had worked.

  In famine he shall redeem thee from death.

  Holding a rock cupped in one hand she sat on a boulder and watched as rabbits appeared one by one from breaches and crevices as if to taunt her. She didn’t move. When one was in range she stood and prayed for intervention then threw the rock. Hurled it with as much force as she could. Hoped that He would feel her hunger and guide her hand. It missed by a long way and landed with a flinty crack that resounded around the dusty quarry. Maybe He wasn’t watching. Maybe He had abandoned her.

  Maybe He had never been there at all.

  The rabbits fled once more. She picked up a smaller pebble and put it in her cheek.

  Out of the depths I cry to you O Lord.

  THE CHILD’S TINY nostrils flared. The scent of muck-spreading in a lower pasture had stirred it. Each hour brought a new aroma and this sweet scent of excrement made the child salivate. Reminded that it was hungry.

  They were resting in a tiny cemetery. The headstones were cracked and angled. The grass untended. No flowers were held in the broken vases that sat in their shadows. There was no church only this fenceless burial ground that was slowly being reclaimed by the grasses and weeds that surrounded it. The baby saw a face looming over it and reached out to grab at grubby cheeks and a greasy nose. The mouth of the face widened into a smile and the child forgot its hunger for a moment and smiled too. Eye to eye. The baby let out a gurgle and then the smile of the girl faded and the smile of the baby faded with it and thick cloud passed overhead blotting out the sun dropping the temperature and drawing a shade across the cemetery. Across the mountain.

  THE POACHER STOPPED and dropped to his knees.

  Look.

  The Priest crouched on his haunches beside him.

  There was a rabbit trapped in a snare. Dead eyed and asphyxiated. Pegged by the fence.

  The Poacher freed it.

  It’s still warm. That’s fresh is that.

  How fresh?

  I’d say no more than three hours. Tops. Maybe less.

  It could be anybody’s.

  The Poacher stood. The rabbit in his hand.

  Could be but I don’t reckon. Look at Persey.

  The dog was sniffing the snare and the grass around it with excitement.

  That’s not the rabbit that’s got him going. Normally it’d be in bits be now. He’s got their scent. It must be strong.

  They’re close then.

  I’d say so.

  How far?

  How long’s a piece of string Father.

  The snare. Could she have made it?

  The Poacher looked at the wire then pulled out the peg from the soil. Studied it.

  Looks a bit shoddy. Primitive. But it has worked. Whoever’s done it has scouted the area. Found a run. Got some knowledge. I’d wager you look around this field and there’ll be more of these about. I thought you said this lass of yours was feeble minded?

  The Priest said nothing.

  There must be something about her for you to be doing all this Father. Days we’ve been away. Half starved and stinking. All for some stupid lass who’s not as stupid as she’s letting on.

  The Priest turned to the Poacher. They were standing close. So close the Poacher could smell the Priest’s breath. Stale. He looked into the Priest’s dark eyes. Saw darkness saw receding gums saw the mapped marking of burst capillaries around his nostrils.

  I told you. I’m here for the baby.

  You said that. But I’m just wondering if maybe there’s more to all this than you’re letting on. I mean murder –

  The Priest’s arm shot up as he slapped the Poacher across the cheek with an open hand. The dog growled and then barked.

  You’re not here to wonder.

  The surprise hurt the Poacher more than the blow. His cheek burned the colour of humiliation.

  I wouldn’t advise doing that again Father. You might find the hound chewing your nose off.

  The dog doesn’t scare me. And neither do you. I’ve got a stronger weapon than any you could care to name.

  That right.

  Yes. It’s called faith.

  The Priest turned and started walking. The Poacher felt the inside of his cheek with his tongue then spat. There was blood.

  So it’s true what they say isn’t it Father.

  The distance between the two men grew and the dog stood in the middle confused and conflicted.

  About you and them lasses up at St Mary’s the Poacher shouted after him.

  The things you do I mean he said. You and them girls.

  The nuns just letting it go on he said.

  It’s all true isn’t it he said.

  Isn’t it Father.

  All true.

  FROM THIS FAR distance it looked like a stream the way the ribboned strip appeared to run down in the gap between two steep boulder-strewn fells. An ashen spate heavy with dolomite dust. Smoke-coloured and slow-moving.

  But as the girl got nearer she saw the surface was too flat and static to be a stream. It held no sheen to it.

  It was a road. A new artery laid down where an old cart track had once followed the undulating contours of the land to climb and wind through a series of humpbacks and cut-backs.

  The pass had been in use for centuries. From packhorses to charabancs it had been the only way that traders who carried anything more than the goods on their back could get through th
e mountains to the lake and the towns that lay beyond. The trail lead to the Western fells and the county had invested a lot of money to cover the many cavities and craters that hundreds of years of footfall and wheels and weather and hooves had hammered. Now it had been smoothed out into a long tarmacadam road that fluttered like a kite’s tail up into the distance before her.

  The pass was only two miles long – three at the very most – but she could see that they were hard miles. In places the road climbed so steep it was hard to imagine even a horse making it through.

  The last of the pickled cucumbers were gone and only a few walnuts remained. She would ascend the pass famished. Walking on empty.

  The flanking fells were featureless and as green as they would get for the year. They held no bracken for cover though – only sheep-nibbled grass and glacial till. From down below they appeared to run right on up to the sky like stairways.

  The terrain up there was too rough and untrodden. Too exposed. Unless she turned back the pass remained the only the way through to wherever it was she was going. Forwards was her only destination; instinct told her so. To turn back and re-trace her steps now would be suicidal. A move that no other hunted creature would consider.

  The girl would have to stick close to the pass but not walk on the road itself. If she could follow its topography while keeping herself hidden as best as she could she and the child might make it through unseen.

  The girl leaned into the land and dug in with her toes. She felt her knees strain and her thighs burn. She could smell vomit. She could smell excrement.

  The camber made her crooked and her hip hurt. So did the burning coin-shaped circles of raw flesh where once there had been blisters. She felt a tightening of the throat. Bile rising.

  THEY SAT APART.

  The Poacher pulled something from his coat pocket. Braces of tiny tied birds. Sparrows and tits. A dozen of them. He leaned against a tree and deftly tugged away their feathers then he skewered them and roasted them over a fire.

  When what little fat was on them was hissing and dropping onto the glowing remains of the burning logs he slid them off the stick and gnawed at their tiny wings. He stripped them of their flesh and sucked the juice from their fragile bones. The feathers he threw on the fire and the other remains he shared with his dog. Grease coated his lips. He belched.