Hunters: A Trilogy (80 page)

Michael lifted the net and carried his prey back to the water’s edge, walking into the water he lowered the net back into the coldness and rolled it over, the action releasing the fish from the confines of its finely-meshed prison. It stayed still for a few seconds, before recovering and turning its head from side to side a few times. Then, with a powerful thrust of a thick, deep-green tail, it was gone.

Michael looked around – not a soul was there to witness the biggest tench he’d ever caught. He smiled wryly and said to himself: ‘I hope you were watching, Dad! That one was a whopper; it must have been at least five pounds!’

He rinsed his hands in the lake and sat back on the bank, still shaking from the excitement. He knew the fish would be fine and wished someone was here to have seen it. He smiled again, it wasn’t too bad, he had the memories of the moment and they would be with him always, he would remember them like he remembered all the good things in his young life, good things like his father.

At fifteen years of age the boy was tall. Very tall, and very dark-haired, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and a pair of fearsome blue eyes. His father had been gone, dead, three years now; the older man’s passing had forced the young Michael into adulthood at an accelerated pace, its coming showed in the way he carried himself, the way in which he walked, and in also in the way his hands moved. He was a man in all but age – older women noticed it the most. He guessed that he would understand what the fuss was all about when he grew older. That’s if he managed to grow any older. The one thing that his father’s death had taught young Michael was the fact that nothing lasted forever.

He washed his hands in the lake once more and then rose to his feet before looking at the cheap Casio on his left wrist. ‘Ten-to-four, I’d best be getting back.’ The thought was disappointing, but he’d been at the lake since six a.m., had landed at least eighteen decent-sized fish and half-a-dozen smaller ones, plus the final tench – the whopper. It had been a good day and he was satisfied. It was his only day off during the week and he had enjoyed every moment of the solitude. The late autumn evening sunshine shone weakly across the multi-coloured English woodlands surrounding the water, the freshness of the air and the sound of the lake rejuvenated him; birds calling from the woods, insects buzzing, the splashing of the odd big fish, they were all his favourite things and Michael loved being there.

Turning from the water’s edge, he began the well-practised art of carefully packing all of his gear away with his father’s words ringing in his ears as always. ‘Take your time, son, pack it up neatly now and then you won’t have any problems later on – take care of your gear and it’ll take care of you!’ Michael grinned at the thought, fishing was his way of being with his father again and it brought back the recollections. The sound of the lake and the swishing of the rod tip were some of the earliest things he was able to remember. The chill of early dawn air and the rustle of tin-foil as bacon sandwiches were unwrapped, the smell of hot coffee wafting in steamy wisps from the old thermos…he looked across to where the battered green flask lay propped against the side of his tackle box – the memories were etched into his mind.

That’s why he came here, to be with his Dad again, to go back and remember, just for a bit. It made him happy and helped push the other things away, memories, bad thoughts, and, above all, the dreams of darkness. The thought of his father’s face would simply push them out of his mind, Michael used those thoughts almost every night, when the blackness arrived, kicking down his slumbering door and running into his mind like a smokey black mist.

Its arrival would jolt him awake as though he had been on the wrong end of a cattle prod. With a yelp, he would sit bolt upright in bed, struggling to use the memories of his father’s face to push the blackness away; faced with his shining thoughts it would slink back from his mind, Michael would lean heavily against the door of his fear and shut it out. It used to go easily with nothing more than a parting sneer, but lately it seemed to be getting stronger, it didn’t seem to be just a black mist anymore either, it seemed like it had a…

‘Aww…come on, Mikey! Let’s just forget that stuff and get packed up, shall we?’ He chastised himself out loud and then looked up sheepishly, half-expecting some passer-by or other to be staring down at his madness. The boy shook his head, the movement causing a thick fringe of black hair to cascade over his eyes. ‘Jesus, boy, get a grip!’ he said, flicking his hair backwards, laughing as he slid the two halves of the rod back into its canvas sleeve.

Within fifteen minutes he was packed and ready to go; slinging the rod bag over his shoulder and balancing the tackle box on the crossbar, Michael slid a leg over the seat and pedalled the old mountain bike back to the gravel-covered entrance of the lake’s car park. He nodded at the two remaining fishermen who sat on the bank by the gate, he knew that they would still be there come dusk.

‘Hard-core is what they are!’ The thought made him grin as he pedalled by the men. They waved as he creaked past and onto the road which circumnavigated the edge of the water. The road was lined with heavily overgrown Rhododendrons; there were plenty of other thick bushes and brambles, too. Every few yards there would be the flash of a Forest Flame, with its now fading pale-red leaves adding some colour amongst the wall of greenery. It was a fine place to be and an even better one in which to spend the day fishing.

Michael promised himself a similar pleasure next weekend. Putting some power into his pedalling, he headed downhill for home, a small stone, lodged in the knobbly front tyre, clicked rhythmically as the wheel turned in time to his pumping thighs. Two miles later he rolled onto the driveway of their whitewashed cottage. The grey tiled roof shone dully in the late afternoon light and he saw a faint trail of smoke coming from the chimney pot.

‘Mum’s lit the fire early, she must be feeling the cold already,’ he thought, dismounting to push the bike around the rear of the cottage to lean it against the outhouse. Taking his fishing tackle into the shed, Michael placed it neatly in the corner and then using the back door, headed into the house, shouting out as he entered. ‘Hi Mum, I’m back! Are you okay?’

Later that night, after he had washed the dishes and chopped some wood for the fire, he headed upstairs to finish his science project, which had to be handed in tomorrow. He thought about his mother, she was a bit better these days. Mary had been almost comatose for the first few years after his father’s untimely demise, withdrawing into herself, seeming to feed off her own sorrow, losing weight by the day and only just keeping her head above the tide of grief that seemed to be trying to drown her. These days she was chirpier and more like her usual, girlish self, only for a few moments, perhaps, but a bit better nonetheless. In his heart, Michael hoped for this, but in his head he knew it wasn’t true, she was sick, really sick. He smelled it on her. That thought was another dark thing the young man pushed away from the door to his life. It had been hard for them both, harder for her, Michael knew.

His father had always worked away, electrical engineering and other stuff like that, the boy wasn’t really sure but he did remember that his Dad was often on-call. One little ring of the strange work telephone would see him shouldering his old rucksack, kissing Michael’s mother and heading for the door. If Michael was there his father would tousle his hair and bend forward to kiss his forehead.

‘Look after Mum, big guy, I have to go and sort some stuff out,’ he would say. ‘One day I’ll tell you all about it, it’ll make sense then. Love you, Mike!’

Sometimes the call would come during the night and the older man would be gone when Michael awoke the next day. ‘Has Dad gone to work, Mum?’ His over-cornflakes question would always receive the same, calm answer.

‘Yes dear, he has no choice, I’m afraid – we have to pay the bills, honey. He’ll be back soon and then you can go fishing.’

Sometimes Michael heard the ringing tone of his father’s telephone through his parents’ bedroom door; the glow of his father’s bedside lamp would catch his eye whilst he was sneaking back upstairs after fetching himself a glass of milk and a midnight biscuit. The soft light would flicker briefly, his father’s muffled tones would ebb through the door and the boy knew his father would be gone in the morning.

Although his Dad didn’t let Michael come and see him off, the boy had once stolen a peep from upstairs. Kneeling on the old church pew, which sat under the landing window, he caught a glimpse of a black vehicle and the flash of red taillights as it pulled up at the end of their lane. He guessed that the car had its headlights on – they shone so brightly, filling the air with a weird, green glow, which he assumed was a reflection from the tall hedges surrounding the lane

Turning to the present, he went back to his books and twisted the reading light so he was better able to scrutinise the questions on the diagram of how electricity worked, and it wasn’t too long before he had filled in the gaps with his black pen. He liked the subject and it came easily to him, he just understood it and loved the little projects they did in school. Michael had an affinity with all things electrical and mechanical, they fascinated him, and if the truth were to be known, his skill with such objects very-much fascinated the various teachers who counted themselves as being fortunate enough to have him as their pupil.

In no time at all he had completed the homework and browsed through the rest of the project book. ‘Looks like some pretty interesting stuff coming up this week,’ he thought. ‘I can’t wait until we can make that electric motor, it’s gonna be mega!’ He grinned and snapped the book shut before rising and dragging his battered school bag onto the bed.

Tipping the contents out, he rearranged all his belongings, sharpened his pencils, blowing the shavings into a mesh wastepaper bin when he’d finished. Checking he had all he needed for class, the boy reached into his drawer and withdrew the freshly-pressed PT kit. He raised it to his face and sniffed deeply, the smell of the soap powder and fabric softener reminded him of his mother and of his home. He stood there for a moment, pressing the clothes to his face and hoping.

With a wry shake of the head, he shook the thoughts away, folded the clothes and slid them into his bag before loosely fastening the strap. Tomorrow morning he would put his lunch on top of the PT kit and then head off on his bike for another week at school, followed by evening work doing paper-rounds and grass-cutting.

It was a busy, fulfilling life and the boy took it all in his stride, he had a calm nature and deep inside he knew that there was more to this life than he was currently being shown. He felt it in his soul and somehow he sensed other things, too. Distant memories, perhaps, but they couldn’t be, he was only fifteen and his memories were of his Dad, of fishing, and of other childhood stuff. But there were things close at hand, he felt them – like a shadow behind a shower curtain – he knew they were there, he saw them but not quite clearly enough. The thought of them scared him in one way, yet thrilled him in another. He was waiting to whip the curtain to one side and there they would be. ‘Ha-ha, gotcha!’

Michael knew the day would come, and he waited patiently for it. Even now the boy was already displaying the calmness and inborn composure he would need for his life’s work. Had he known what the work would entail, and the trials he would face whilst doing it, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been so calm, but then again, there was a fair chance that he probably would have. After all is said and done, it was what Michael Jack Wildeman and his family had been born for – this time and every other time before, and since.

Sliding off the end of his bed, he meandered back downstairs to put some milk on the boil. The loose floorboard creaked in its usual fashion and the noise caused his mother to raise her head up from the latest book she was reading.

‘Put some milk on the stove, sweetheart, I could murder a hot chocolate,’ she said, smiling at him.

Michael flashed his pearly whites straight back. She stared at him, he knew that she was momentarily mesmerised by how much he looked like his father. She did it all the time, the staring thing. He didn’t mind, if it brought back good memories for her, then that was just fine by him.

‘Just on my way, Mum, fancy a cookie, too?’ He laughed when she made some excuse about her weight and too much sugar. Her clothes hung from her bony shoulders and hips, Michael guessed that she would probably be able to eat a whole packet of cookies every day for the next year and still not have to worry about her waistline. He also knew that she didn’t have another year, knew it but didn’t want to think about it, not yet he didn’t.

He prepared two mugs of hot-chocolate, slid half a dozen cookies onto a side plate and carried them into the sitting room where he placed them gently onto the table next to his mother’s curled-up frame. She looked cold so he fetched one of the handmade blankets from the stool and draped it across her shoulders, plucking it into place around her before turning away and attending to the flickering fire.

One good stoking and two fresh logs later, and the room became more cheerful. Rosy firelight played off her tight cheek bones and the boy saw the fear reflecting in her eyes as he bent forward and kissed his mother on the lips. They were cold and dry. ‘Like her…’ He tried to push the thoughts away.

Something within her had died when his father had been killed – some inner flame had sputtered out and left her like this, a hollow shell of her former self. Some part of her had left with his father. In her eyes the boy saw that she, too, knew these things, knew them and yet was unable to do anything about them. The end game was in sight for her and he felt the shame rise up inside, he shouldn’t be having those awful thoughts. ‘I can’t help her, I’ve tried but it’s like pouring water down a well, a well with no bottom, what can I do?’

She saw the fear inside of her son and reached out to clasp him fiercely to her bosom. He stayed there and let the smell of her cover him, her touch made him feel like he was five years old again.