Kev pulled back the dusty curtain and peeped out. ‘Shit, it’s them!’
Car doors slammed outside.
Terror filled Razor. He couldn’t stop trembling and though it might be his perfect opportunity for death and glory, he didn’t feel up to an encounter with violent thugs—he was too cold and too undressed. Despite these handicaps, he resolved to do whatever necessary, no matter what the personal cost, to ensure Kev came through this in one piece. It was, he thought, a noble plan to lay down his life for a friend.
Razor nudged Kev aside and looked out at the battered pickup truck. A large ugly man who appeared to have outgrown his hair, was staring back at him, a rifle in his hand and another man was holding a baseball bat.
‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here,’ Kev wailed.
‘I’ll sort them out,’ said Razor, getting to his feet and trying to square his chattering jaw. ‘You get away while I do what I’m going to do.’
‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do?’ said Kev. ‘I first heard the expression years ago, and it was a cliché even then.’
‘Maybe so, but I can’t see another way out of this, if they are what you say.’
‘They are,’ Kev whispered, ‘but there is another way. Follow me if you want to live—and you’ll only be able to find out what Alex is up to if you do. Hurry!’ He tiptoed to the end of the caravan, pulled back the threadbare rug, opened a hatch in the floor and slid down. ‘Keep up and keep quiet.’
Razor hesitated, torn between heroism, terror and curiosity. When, to his amazement, curiosity won, he dropped through the hole, following Kev into a swampy hollow beneath the caravan. Outside, another vehicle drew up, a door slammed and Kane cursed the overgrown hedgerow that had scratched the sides of his flashy car.
‘Over there,’ Kev whispered as he reached up to shut the hatch, submerging them in darkness.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t see.’
‘Follow my voice… and take care. Uneasy lies the head that doesn’t stay low.’
Razor crawled towards him, wondering what the little guy was on about until a sudden pounding on the side of the caravan made him start. He cracked his skull on some unseen projection and groaned.
‘Shut up.’ Kev hissed.
‘Open up, Crumb!’ Kane demanded.
The men thumped on the caravan yelling lurid threats. Razor followed Kev as best he could, heading for a faint glimmer and squeezing through a tiny cleft into the open, where he was relieved to see the caravan shielded them. He caught up with Kev who was creeping towards the trees.
‘Micky, don’t just stand there like a big muppet, get the wrecking bar,’ said Kane.
‘That’ll be Micky Dunn,’ Kev murmured. ‘He’s fat, stupid and amiable most of the time—he’d be quite harmless if Kane and his mates left him alone.
‘Now, run for it while they’re busy.’
Heads low, Kev and Razor were zigzagging through the trees when they heard a creaking, groaning sound followed by a loud crack.
‘They’ve broken in already,’ said Kev, ‘and it won’t take them long to figure out where we went. We’d better shift.’
‘Where to?’ asked Razor. ‘It’s alright for you, but I’m not dressed for this.’
‘You’re barely dressed at all, mate, but we’ll worry about clothes when we’re safe from these violent delights.’
‘Release Simba,’ Kane roared.
‘What’s Simba?’ asked Razor.
A deep growl and a burst of excited barking answered him.
‘Get him on the scent and let him loose,’ said Kane.
Razor and Kev fled, heedless of brambles and holly and other obstacles that would have daunted less-desperate men. A projecting twig snagged Razor’s towel. He did not bother retrieving it.
‘If we make it to the brook, we might just stand a chance,’ said Razor, gasping. ‘They can’t track you through water… can they?’
‘Not in films, but I’m not so sure about real life.’ Kev was panting like a dog.
They plunged on, not wasting any more breath, intent on getting as far away as possible, though Simba’s barks were growing louder. Then it changed to a repetitive yip.
Kane’s harsh voice carried on the breeze. ‘What you got, boy? Have you found ’em?’
A burst of swearing followed. ‘Stupid bloody dog. That’s just an old towel! Drop it.’
Despite his terror, Razor chuckled, but although the distraction had led the dog astray, it didn’t fool Kane. The pursuit continued. Razor and Kev plunged into the brook, gasping at its icy touch, stumbled out on the far bank and kept running. It wasn’t long before they’d left the trees behind. A scramble over a stone wall and a leap across a muddy ditch took them into a field.
‘There they are—over there,’ shouted Kane. ‘Sic ’em, boy.’
A lamp’s glare lit them up like a spotlight on fleeing convicts, and Simba’s howl sounded terrifyingly close. They fled like hunted hares, but Razor knew they’d never outpace the dog or a bullet. He forced himself to slow down and looked back. Simba, huge and hairy, his white teeth gleaming, was coming. Razor, though shaking, prepared for the ultimate sacrifice.
‘Right you lot, what’s your game?’ asked a guttural voice.
As Kev gasped and stopped, Razor just avoided crashing into his back.
A plump man, tall, broad, bald and clean-shaven stepped from the shadows into the lamp’s glare. Despite the rain and the cold he was wearing only baggy corduroy trousers and a checked shirt. He glanced at Razor. ‘Forgive me for making an observation, but you’re ’ardly dressed for jogging. Are you in trouble?’
Razor, too short of breath to speak, pointed at Simba, all teeth, hair and muscle, who was on the final charge.
‘Sit!’ said the man, taking a step forward and raising a hand the size of a shovel.
Simba sat. So did Kev and Razor.
‘I meant the dog, but what the ’eck. Now ’oo are these likely lads with the big stick and the popgun?’
‘Kane Cullum and Micky Dunn, sir,’ said Kev, getting back up.
‘And what ’ave you done that they feel the need to pursue you across my field at night?’
‘We saw them poaching and…’ said Kev.
‘Poachers, eh?’ The man frowned. ‘I don’t care for the likes of them. Especially when they’re on my turf.’
Razor, bemused to realise he was sitting in mud, wearing only damp underpants and a smelly and inadequate poncho, looked back. Kane and Micky were galloping towards them. Micky, the rifle slung over his shoulder, kept the lamp shining into the man’s face, which looked as pale and round as the full moon before age had cratered its surface. It was smiling.
‘If you’ve done anything to my bloody dog,’ said Kane, ‘you’re going to get your fat head kicked in.’
‘I asked him to sit,’ said the man. ‘It appears there is truth in the ancient saying.’
‘What?’ asked Kane, slowing to a walk.
‘There’s no such thing as a bad dog. Just a bad master.’
‘I don’t like what you’re getting at,’ said Kane with an ugly sneer, ‘but I do like teaching people who say things I don’t like a lesson. Know what I mean?’
‘I ’aven’t a clue, lad,’ said the man placidly, ‘but I do know it’s ’igh time you got out of my field.’
‘We’re not going anywhere until we’re done,’ said Micky, swinging the rifle into his hand.
‘Done what?’ asked the man.
‘Done them,’ said Micky, pointing a stubby finger at Kev and Razor. ‘You too if you don’t hop it.’
‘I never ’op, laddie, and I don’t appreciate being threatened when I’m out standing in my own field. I assume that’s what you were trying to do?’
Micky’s face was a mess of confusion, as if his tiny brain was trying to work out what had just been said and was failing badly.
‘Hand me the lamp,’ said Kane. ‘Shoot him if he doesn’t behave.’
‘If you say so.’ Micky passed it over.
‘I think you’d better run, sir,’ said Kev.
‘Run from my own field?’ The man looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘I ain’t gonna do that, just because laddie ’ere has a popgun.’
‘My name’s not Laddie, it’s Micky, and it’s not a popgun—it’s real and it’s loaded. Put your hands up.’
‘I think you’d better do as he says,’ said Razor, who found the whole hero scenario more troublesome now another person was involved. No one except him was supposed to die, so why wouldn’t the man back down and walk away?
‘I’ll do as I like, young man,’ said the man, giving no impression of being at all concerned by the presence of two armed thugs and their thuggish dog, though in fairness, Simba was sitting and wagging his tail, like the top student in an obedience class.
‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ said Micky, looking to Kane for support.
‘And be quick about it,’ said Kane, anger distorting his features.
‘I most certainly will not. This is my field, and if anyone is going to order folk about ’ere it will be me. Understand? I strongly advise you to go ’ome and get some sleep and think about changing your ways. Otherwise, you might get ’urt.’
‘I’m not joking,’ said Micky, waving the rifle.
‘I can tell that, laddie,’ said the man. ‘If you were, we’d all be laughing.’
Micky looked at Kane. ‘What should I do, boss?’
‘Keep him covered,’ said Kane. ‘Blow him away if he tries anything.’
Micky stumbled as he raised the rifle and it went off. ‘Ugh!’ he said and fell backward.
‘Ouch,’ said the plump man, investigating a hole in his shirt with a huge finger.
Razor gaped, his ears ringing.
Kane turned the lamp on Micky, who was thrashing about in the mud, moaning and clutching his paunch, blood seeping between his fingers.
‘I warned ’im to be careful,’ said the man, shaking his head.
‘But he shot you!’ said Razor.
The man nodded.
‘And you’re not hurt!’
‘Well, it stung a bit.’
‘But you should be dead.’
‘Should I? Then it’s lucky for me I’m not,’ said the man, taking a step towards Micky.
‘Back off,’ yelled Kane, lunging and swinging the baseball bat in a downward arc.
It clunked against the man’s head and snapped in two. The lower half rebounded and splatted Kane’s nose.
‘Why can’t people be sensible?’ asked the man, shaking his head as Kane fell back, groaning and covering his bloodied face with his hands. ‘It would make their lives so much less painful. I suppose I’d better sort out the laddie with the bullet in ’im, but my old joints are turning to chalk and I ain’t up to squatting these days. You two lads ’ad better give me an ’and. Get ’im to ’is feet, and I’ll do the rest.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Kev, his eyes wide. ‘Come on Razor, do as he says.’
They pulled moaning Micky upright.
‘What about Kane?’ asked Kev.
‘The lad with the stick? ’e can look after ’imself, though ’e’ll ’ave a sore ’ooter. Serves ’im right I reckon.’
‘And the gun?’ asked Razor.
‘I was forgettin’ that.’ The plump man turned and stamped on the barrel, bending it. ‘That’ll put an end to ’is mischief, unless ’e wants to shoot round corners. Reckon ’e’ll be able to sniff round ’em too when ’is ’ooter stops spouting claret. Now come along.’
‘Where to?’ asked Kev,
‘With me,’ said the man, slinging the corpulent frame of Micky over his shoulder as if about to burp a monstrous baby.
Razor and Kev exchanged confused glances and followed. Razor shook with cold and hoped they were heading to a warm place where he might borrow some clothes, or at least a better blanket.
The plump man led them into the porch of a small Cotswold stone house. A stout walking stick leaned casually against the wall alongside an empty boot stand. A note on the bright red front door said:
I’m out, standing in my field.
‘Take your muddy footwear off—those that ’ave any—and go inside,’ said the man, turning a massive cast iron knob to open the door before removing Micky’s boots and taking off his own with the help of a cast iron boot jack.
The procedure involved bending and resulted in a cacophony of cracks and creaks that made Razor gag and squirm. As he fought to stay in control of his squeamishness, his head light and dizzy, he clutched a heavy chain for support. A deep resonance thrilled through his feet into his bones.
‘No need to ring the bell when the door’s already open, lad,’ said the man, straightening up with a repeat of the racket.
‘Sorry,’ said Razor through chattering teeth. As he rubbed his filthy bare feet on the mat, he yelped in pain—they were scratched and bleeding.
‘I’ll clean those for you when I’ve finished with this one,’ said the man, ensuring all the boots were neat on the rack. ‘Get inside and warm up by the fire.’
He guided Razor into a tidy little sitting room with a beaming log fire that made the shadows dance, and eased Micky onto a plain wooden table, before lighting a spill at the fire and applying it to a pair of oil lamps. When seen in the light, their benefactor didn’t appear plump. Rather, he looked solid. Razor guessed he might be in his mid-sixties, though the smoothness of his face could almost have been that of a child, and there was something in the way he moved that wasn’t right, as if his arms and legs didn’t bend as they ought. His huge, pale hands were hairless and alarming yellow knitted socks encased his colossal feet.
‘You,’ said the man, with a nod at Kev, ‘go through there.’ He pointed towards a door in the corner, ‘And put the kettle on. You’ll need this.’ He lit another oil lamp and handed it to Kev.
‘What should I do?’ asked Razor, more embarrassed by his unconventional costume now he could see himself.
‘Nothing until you’re warm. When you are, I might need some assistance with this idiot.’
Micky groaned as if on cue.
‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ Razor asked. Now the prospect of taking a bullet had passed, he was fretting about the likelihood of the police arriving, and was unsure whether to stay or run. The list of things they might question him about kept lengthening.
‘No phone,’ said the man, pulling Micky’s hands from the wound, tearing the bloodied clothing away and examining the oozing midriff.
‘I could run for help,’ said Razor.
‘Like that? You’d catch your death.’ said the man.
‘Could you lend me some clothes?’ asked Razor, his teeth chattering.
Weird creaks and the sound of water splashing into a kettle emerged from the kitchen.
‘Later,’ said the man, moving Micky into position, his movements firm but gentle. ‘And now, please, shut your face—there’s doctorin’ to be done.’
Micky lay still, his skin as pale as the whites of his eyes. ‘Am I going to die?’
‘Yes…’
Micky bit his lip.
‘… but not today.’
‘He’s bleeding a lot,’ said Razor, grimacing and turning his head away.
‘It looks worse than it is—’is shirt is wet and a little blood goes a long way.’
Micky raised his head, glanced at the oozing hole in his fat belly and slumped back, limp.
‘Excellent,’ said the man. ‘An unconscious patient is easier to treat than a conscious one.’ He headed into the kitchen, allowing Razor a glimpse of Kev, crouched on a wooden stool like a hobgoblin in a fairy tale. He was staring at a fire over which a blackened kettle dangled from a rusty chain. An old-fashioned water pump occupied one corner. The door swung back and Razor’s attention returned to Micky who, in his dormant state, and with his big, almost bald head, resembled a grotesque sleeping baby.
Something cold pressed into the back of Razor’s leg. It was Simba’s nose. Razor backed away and gasped.
‘What’s ’appening?’ said the man bursting back in, rubbing his shovel-hands on a threadbare towel. ‘Oh, it’s you, doggy. ’ow can I ’elp?’
Simba whined and licked his lips.
‘Thirsty, eh?’ He glanced at Razor. ‘If you still want to be useful, fetch ’im a bowl of water. Your pal knows where stuff is.’
Razor hobbled out, keeping his back to the wall, his eyes on Simba, though the brute appeared placid and relaxed. He’d never trusted dogs since a big brown one saw him off when he’d trespassed onto a building site in looking for a lost cricket ball. He must have been twelve or thirteen at the time and the incident had put him off canines for life.
‘I need a bowl of water for Simba,’ he said as the kitchen door shut behind him. Kev’s face was paler than normal. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m okay,’ Kev whispered, ‘but he just washed his hands in boiling water!’
‘What?’
‘As soon as the kettle had boiled, he filled the basin and washed his hands in it.’
‘There was probably some cold water in there already.’
‘No, there wasn’t—I’d just taken it from the cupboard to fill. His hands didn’t even turn red.’
‘Weird,’ said Razor. ‘Who is he?’
‘He’s the guy who lives here. Miranda said he stands out in his field.’
‘What field is that?’
‘The one he was in when we bumped into him.’
‘You mean he just stands outside… in a field?’
‘Apparently.’
‘But why?’
‘On that I suffer the common curse of mankind: ignorance.’
‘Well, I stand by what I said—he is weird. I think I like him though.’
Kev nodded. ‘So do I, and I feel safe here… but there’s something about him that makes me suspect he could be dangerous.’
‘Yeah, rather like the difference between an old cat dozing by the fire and a raging tiger,’ said Razor. ‘Mind you, the way he tamed Simba was incredible, though I fear the dog will turn bad again if I don’t give him his drink soon.’
Kev nodded. ‘There are bowls in the cupboard in the corner. Grab one and I’ll work the pump.’
Razor fetched one. ‘It’s bone china—isn’t that too fragile for dogs?’
‘That’s all there is, mate. Just be careful. Hold it under the spout and keep clear—it’s freezing and splashes.’
Kev pumped the handle, water sluiced into the bowl and despite Razor’s best efforts, icy drops splashed his bare feet, making him dance and gasp.
‘I don’t think you need to fear Simba anymore,’ said Kev. ‘The dog’s been won and will fawn on any man—at least while our host is present.’
Razor was unconvinced, but after his crushing defeat at the tiny hands of Miranda, had no wish to lose any more face—though there was a chance of losing all of his face and more if Simba reverted to the savage. ‘Could you hold the door for me?’
To his surprise, the dog behaved in a most civilised fashion, sitting and waiting for the bowl to be placed in front of him, before standing, wagging his tail and lapping up the contents. Razor retreated to a hard chair by the fire and kept a wary eye on him.
Their host leant over Micky, probing with a pair of forceps, and occasionally grunting and making strange expostulations. ‘Got it,’ he said at last and straightened up, gripping a bloodied lump of metal in the forceps’ jaws.
Micky moaned, but showed no other signs of consciousness.
‘Is he alright?’ asked Kev walking back in.
‘I reckon ’e will be. ’ell be a lot ’appier without this lump o’ lead rattling around ’is guts. It was a small calibre, low-powered bullet and barely poked through ’is peritoneum—’e was lucky—I’ve seen too many die of gut shots in my time, but I reckon nothing vital was ’it. Pass the iodine, would you? Then I’ll plug him up.’
Kev handed a glass phial to him. The man snapped off the end, poured the contents over a pad of lint and swabbed the wound. Razor watched with repulsed fascination until the stitching began.
‘All done,’ said the man. ‘Maybe it’ll teach the silly bugger not to mess with firearms.’
‘Maybe,’ said Kev, ‘but I doubt it. Micky’s not such a bad guy, but he is always getting into bad company—like Kane’s’
The man nodded and glanced at Razor. ‘I’ll look at your feet now. Put ’em up on the chair.’
Razor did as he was told. There was a long cut across one sole and the other had several small gashes. The man gently probed and squeezed. ‘Barely more than scratches, young man. I’ll wash ’em and patch ’em, and rub in some ointment a friend makes—it’s good stuff. Your feet won’t cause you any problems afterwards, as long as you keep ’em dry and clean and don’t do anything silly.’
Razor could only nod since the icy smoothness of the man’s huge hands had taken his breath away. Despite this, he felt secure and relaxed. ‘Are you a doctor?’ he asked as the man dressed his feet.
‘No.’
‘You appear to know a lot about tending wounds.’
‘I ’ad to learn ’ow to patch blokes up when I was in the army.’
‘You were a soldier?’
‘Aye, lad, I was… many years ago.’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I never dropped it. It’s Rock, Leroy Rock. Some call me Rocky. You may.’
‘Thank you er… Rocky. They call me Razor, and my friend is Kev.’
Rocky nodded. ‘Aye, I recognised ’im. I used to ’elp ’is Uncle Bob back in the day, and young Kev sometimes came along.’
‘I can’t summon up any remembrance of such things past,’ said Kev.
‘Well, you were a young ’un back then and more interested in messing with my marbles than anything else.’
‘Do you know Miranda?’ Razor asked.
‘I did. Nice lass, but I reckon what we need to do now is to find you something to wear.’
‘That would be most helpful,’ said Razor, ‘but I’m not your size.’
‘Reckon you’re right. ’owever, I ’ave a store of garments in the attic. Some might fit you—if the moths ’aven’t eaten ’em. Stay ’ere and keep an eye on Micky. ’e might feel a little discombobulated when ’e wakes up.’
Rocky left them with Micky, who was still out, breathing peacefully as if fast asleep. Simba, having lapped up the water, had curled up on the rug by the fire, yawning and showing off a magnificent set of sharp white teeth. Kev returned the empty bowl to the kitchen to wash and Razor, warming up at last, nodded on his chair.
Simba growled and leapt to his feet, bristling.
The front door juddered and burst open.