One

‘Ouch.’ Victor Brodman understood this fact: unless I do it now, in five minutes he’ll be dead. And there was one more thing. The wire had sliced through that web of skin between Victor’s first and second finger. Blood ran into the fur of the fawn’s neck, which he gently supported. From there, the blood dripped into the river to form little clouds of scarlet. Giving himself the luxury of one more, ‘Ouch,’ he blanked the pain from his mind, then focused on saving the infant deer from drowning. The black-faced, blue-eyed deer, of the species known as the Saban Deer, had been feeding on kelp in one of the beach gullies when it had got itself caught in a tangle of steel wire. Now the tide had begun to sweep in, the water reached its neck. In another five minutes, its head would be underwater. The island’s uniquely precious herd would be reduced to 281.

‘Take it easy,’ Victor said gently as the fawn began to panic. ‘I’ll get you out in one piece.’ He glanced back over his shoulder. A shingle beach, bushes, then a grassy bank rising to a spine of stones. This, the remotest part of the island, boasted no houses. There was nobody out walking, either. ‘It’s down to just you and me, son. How we going to do this without cutting your leg off?’ He knelt in cold river water that now reached his waist. Carefully, he used his injured hand to keep the animal’s head clear. With the other hand he steadied himself against a sign that blazed DANGER! DEEP CHANNELS. QUICKSAND. FAST CURRENTS! Already the river pulled at him. Further out, the brown water formed pyramid shapes as an angry current powered over submerged rocks. Once Victor was sure of his balance he used his free hand to tug off his Island Warden’s green fleece. He hung it over the danger sign. The dry garment would come in useful if – when – he freed the animal.

From the undergrowth another black face with blue eyes peered out. ‘Try not to worry, Ma. I’m going to bring your baby back just as soon as I can.’ He pulled his knife from its sheaf. Now or never. Using his free hand, he felt his way down the fawn’s leg until he found the wire again. Someone had slung the kind of line used in grass-strimmers into the River Severn. Eventually, it had been washed here, then waited in one of the beach gullies; as lethally effective as the old-time poacher’s snare (something demonstrated when he sliced his own hand when tugging at it). String he could have cut easily. This stuff had a toughness that resisted snapping, or even cutting.

‘Nothing for it.’ He took a deep breath. A second later he plunged his face underwater. The fawn struggled, its furry flank pressing against his face. A roar of bubbles filled his ears. Though he couldn’t see much through the murk he glimpsed the white of a pebble. Quickly he grabbed it, then used it as a makeshift chopping board. This was his last chance to save the animal that he devoted himself both professionally and emotionally to protecting. He managed to hold the wire taut against the stone. That done, he used the knife to saw at the steel line. By this time the water must have been over three feet deep. For all he knew, the fawn’s head might be submerged, yet he couldn’t afford to check, just in case he couldn’t find the stone again. Underwater, he heard the muffled scrape of blade against wire.

Come on . . . you can do it . . . press harder. Harder! The words beat in his head. The infant deer twitched. Damn it . . . convulsions? You get no points for delivering a dead animal back to its mother. From the depths of this huge, ancient and pre-eminently dangerous river came a bass rumble . . . a sound of primeval voices . . . anger at the intruder. The sound always sent shivers along his backbone. He knew the cause of the rumble – the current rolling boulders along the river bed – but even so, he found himself glancing out underwater, half-expecting to see a dark shape torpedo toward him.

Got you! The second he cut the wire he surfaced, the fawn in his arms. He dragged his fleece from the danger sign, wrapped the animal inside, then waded back to the shore, panting. As he paused in the shallows to catch his breath the sound of applause greeted him . . . a somehow sarcastic handclap. He wiped the water from his eyes.

A man of around fifty, dressed in a dark blue business suit, clapped him without enthusiasm. ‘Bravo, Victor. Bravo.’

‘Good afternoon, Mayor Wilkes.’ Although Victor would have preferred to substitute Mayor with ‘Pompous fart-bag’.

‘You’ve cut yourself.’

‘So I have.’ Victor adopted a deliberately understated tone when what he’d like to have done was lobbed the man into the river.

‘I’d give you a hand but –’ Wilkes smiled a political smile – ‘you can see I’m not dressed for the job.’

‘Another golf club lunch?’

‘Don’t start that again, Victor. I take my role as the island’s guardian very seriously.’

‘Seriously enough to rip up meadow for a fairway.’

‘It would have brought new income to the island. And jobs.’

‘We need income. We need jobs. But that’s not the way.’ To the fawn Victor said, ‘Take it easy. There.’ He set the animal down on the shingle then gently dried it using the fleece. He caught the pleasant scent of its fur. Rose pelt, as it was called, had been popular in years gone by. Aristocratic ladies would have a pinch of the fur sewn into the corner of their handkerchief so they could delicately inhale its fragrance as they walked down the fashionable streets of Cheltenham.

‘Pleasantries aside.’ The mayor’s voice became tart. ‘I’m here to do you a favour.’

‘So you’re agreeing with me that we introduce a grass management programme? Good. That’ll help restore the butterfly numbers.’

‘That still has to go before the committee, Victor. As you know.’

‘You also head the committee.’ Victor checked that the wire hadn’t cut the animal’s legs.

The mayor eyed Victor distastefully. ‘You’ll find they still have two at the front and two at the back.’

‘It became entangled in a line. If it’s broken the skin it’ll need a stitch.’

‘My God, you really do love those creatures. Thirty-five, aren’t you? Pulling beasts out of the river – is that a proper career for a grown man?’

‘It’s the Saban Deer that bring the tourists.’

‘And I know the old wives’ tale as well. They’re people in animal form.’

‘Do you believe it, Mr Mayor?’

‘Do I hell, but I happily believe in the money they generate. If the National Trust allowed us to sell their stuffed heads as souvenirs I’d be even happier.’

When Victor was satisfied that the animal hadn’t suffered any cuts he took away the fleece. It shook itself, then trotted to the undergrowth where the other deer stood. From a black face its blue eyes closely watched the return of its offspring before both mother and fawn slipped silently away.

‘You know . . .’ The mayor looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe a book . . . it could tell the story of the Saban Deer. How does the legend go? A thousand years ago there was another island out there in the river. It sank underwater but the gods took pity on the islanders’ children, turned them into deer, and they all swam across here to live happily ever after. We could turn the story into a colouring book. Parents would go for that. We could sell them over the Internet.’

‘You’re the man to do just that, Mayor. Don’t you still own a print works in Bristol?’

‘You think I’m only interested in making money out of the island?’

‘Didn’t you say that you’d come here to do me a favour?’

‘I did.’ He eyed Victor, as he stood there dripping river water. ‘You’re expecting a batch of orphans tomorrow.’

‘From Badsworth Lodge. They’re coming down for the week. But we no longer call them orphans, Mayor.’

‘Orphans, waifs, inmates, I’m not interested. They’re a negative drain on the island. They don’t generate cash revenue.’

‘You could always train them up as golf caddies.’

That touched a nerve. The man flinched before stating coldly, ‘The visit’s been cancelled, so you’ll need to rearrange your schedules.’

Victor shook his head. ‘You politicians and your funding cuts.’

‘Not this time.’ The mayor smiled. ‘One of the orphanage staff took it upon themselves to stand between two buses. One reversed into the other with the clueless mare in the middle.’ He clapped his hands together as if crushing a fly. ‘Now, go home and get changed. You’re going to catch your death of cold.’