The Wilds (6 page)

She stood there, her ear pressed to cool, rusting metal, and waited. There was no reply.

‘Jerry?’ she called out louder. The time spent working with heavy farm machinery had left her husband more than a little hard of hearing, so it was plausible he just hadn’t heard her the first time.

She waited, but still Jerry didn’t respond.

‘Jerry?’ she shouted. ‘I’m coming in, so put that bloody gun down!’

Sue entered the shed and scanned the room for any sign of movement. This was impossible due to the way everything was stacked floor to ceiling. She had given up trying to persuade Jerry to sort this shit out, as he always had something better to do.

She wandered slowly through the narrow passages in between the stacked up junk. Every sound was amplified in her mind, even her own shallow breaths. She heard movement, off to her right. It was the sound of something, like a sack of damp potatoes, being dragged across the concrete floor.

‘Jerry?’ she called out. ‘What are you doing back there?’

When her husband failed to reply she followed the passage that led in that direction. A stillness fell on the room as the shuffling sound stopped. As she arrived at the spot from which she was sure the sound had been coming, there was nothing there. The area was lighter than other parts of the shed, due to a hole at the bottom of the corrugated wall. Sue assumed this was how the animals had been getting in.

‘Jerry?’ she called out once more.

Now she was confused, where had he gone? As she looked at the floor she saw it was filthy, covered in thick, dark mud. What bothered her most, though, was the gun, it was just lying there on the floor, discarded without any concern for safety. When she did find him, one thing was for sure, Jerry Sampson was in big trouble.

Karl was disappointed as he drove away from the first farm. He knew it was a long shot, but had he had really hoped the farmer would tell him something of use. After his conversation with Inspector Pearce that morning, Karl had gathered that the police were not going to do that much to help find Phil. The reporter, Jason, had alluded to the fact the Pearce could be hiding something, though Karl knew neither man well enough to know if this was true. At least Jason had seemed friendly; Pearce had come across a little patronising.

He was glad that the insurance company had delivered his mum the courtesy car, a little bit of paperwork and he was authorised to drive it. He needed to get out of the house, watching his mother’s misery was tiring. He needed some air, he needed to think. Jason had asked him to meet with him that afternoon, and Karl was curious to hear what the reporter had to say. For now, though, he wanted to conduct his own investigation. Even if it turned out to be a fruitless endeavour, he would at least feel like he had done something.

The first farmer had at least known who his brother was, but had not seen him since last week. He drove to the next farm. This one was slightly further away from where the car had been found, but was still well within walking distance, or God forbid, staggering distance.

As he drove down the dirt track, he saw instantly that this farm was not as neat as the first. The hedgerow that ran along the side of the track was overgrown, and he could hear it scratching the side of the car. There was a No Trespassing sign driven into the ground at the side of the lane. As he pulled into the farmyard, he saw an abundance of rusted old machinery, and mud, everywhere, mud. He wished he had worn some other shoes, but then remembered that these trainers were all he had brought back from London with him.

He stepped out the car and heard the squelch as his foot sank into the thick layer of mud that covered the concrete. It had not rained heavily for some time, from what his mother had said, so the fact that this farmyard was in this state suggested the farmer had deliberately soaked the mud. He couldn’t think of a reasonable reason why anyone would do that, except to keep people out, maybe.

He trudged through the mud, scanning the yard as he went, looking to see if anyone was out and about. When he saw no sign of life he headed for the front door of the farmhouse.

There was no door bell, just an old fashioned brass knocker. He rapped it heavily against the door. There was the instant sound of barking from inside. Karl felt nervous, he had no fear of dogs as such, but you could never be too careful; these farmers kept dogs as security or ratters, not often as idle pets.

‘Shut up,’ came a gruff voice from inside. The dogs were instantly silent.

The door opened just a crack. Karl could see that the farmer had the chain on the door. From what Karl could see of him, the farmer was in his mid-fifties, overweight, with a scruffy grey beard, and the swollen, discoloured nose of a mild alcoholic.

‘What you want?’ The farmer asked. Even through the crack in the door Karl could smell the whiskey on his breath.

‘Hello,’ Karl said. ‘My name is Karl Morgan...’

‘Whatever you’re selling I don’t want it,’ the farmer said, cutting him off mid-sentence.

‘No, I’m not selling anything. My brother went missing the other day. He sells farm insurance, I just wondered if maybe you had seen him.’ Karl handed the farmer the photograph, which he took begrudgingly. After a perfunctory glance he handed it back.

‘Nope,’ the farmer said. ‘Never seen him before.’

‘Well thank you for your...’ Karl started to say; this time, though, it was the door slamming in his face that cut him off.

‘That famous country hospitality,’ he said to himself, but loud enough for it to be heard the other side of the door. There was no retort from inside.

He wondered how anyone could get through life being so bloody rude. Then he thought about life in London, where you never spoke to anyone. Millions of people around you at any given moment, and all of them strangers. Sure, Lincolnshire was bleak at times, and there were certain places where you could feel utterly isolated, but it was far worse in the city. Loneliness when you aare surrounded by people seems harder to bear.

He walked back to the car and drove away from the farm. He stopped when he was off the farmer’s land, not wanting to stay there a moment longer than he had to. He looked at the map he had found in Phil’s bedroom. It showed all of the farms in the area; obviously he had used it for work. He studied the map, there were no more farms on Maltham Lane itself, so he looked for the next nearest as the crow flies. It was on the other side of the Maltham woods, on the road that led south into Darton. Other than that, the rest of the farms were on the north edge of town, near where his mother lived, and nowhere near here.

He would give it one last shot with this farm, by then it would be nearly time to go and meet Jason. He drove back into town on Maltham Lane, unsure of which of the turn offs would take him to the farm. It was easier to go back into town and head south on London Road itself.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up outside the farmhouse. This house was much more pleasant than the last. Beautiful flowers grew in pots all along the front of the house, and dark green ivy scaled the walls of the house itself. The farm yard was much smaller than the other two he had visited, and less cluttered. In fact there was no farm machinery at all. He wondered whether he had the right house at first, but then saw the barns and out buildings behind the house.

He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The chime played a musical tune, something he recognised but could not quite place.

‘Coming,’ called a cheery female voice from inside.

This was a definite improvement on the last farm already.

The woman who answered the door was around sixty years old. She was not very tall, but well built, not fat as such, just a physique that indicated a life of hard work. Her hair was greying blonde and neatly bobbed. She wore a drab beige cardigan and a floral pattern skirt. Her blue eyes, though, sparkled with life. She smiled at Karl as she opened the door. It was such a warm smile that he could not help but beam back at her.

‘Hello, young man,’ the woman said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘My name is Karl Morgan,’ Karl said, still smiling at the spritely old woman. ‘My brother went missing near hear the other night and I was...’

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said before he could finish. ‘Please come in. I’m just making tea.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to be a bother,’ he said.

‘It’s no bother to make for the three instead of two,’ she said, holding the door open and ushering him in.

Karl smiled and nodded. He entered and kicked off his mud caked shoes, leaving them on the doormat next to the large green wellies.

‘Thank you, Mrs?’ Karl asked.

‘Pritchard, my dear, Vera Pritchard,’ the woman said, guiding him to the front room.

‘Thank you, Mrs Pritchard, it’s very kind of you,’ he said. As he stepped into the living room, he saw a man sat in one of the armchairs. He was in his forties, chubby, with wiry red hair and glasses. He smiled as Karl entered the room. He looked at the photograph and shook his head.

‘Sorry, my boy,’ he said. ‘Never seen him before.’

After a little more polite conversation about the weather and the state of the market in Darton, Mrs Pritchard showed Karl to the door.

‘Goodbye, Mr Morgan,’ she said, smiling that same warm smile. ‘I do hope you find your brother soon.’

‘Thanks again for your help,’ Karl said. ‘And the tea.’

‘You’re very welcome, dear,’ she said.

After they said goodbye, Mrs Pritchard watched Karl until he got in the car, and then she shut the door with a final wave. Though this farm had offered no more help in finding Phil than any of the others, he at least felt warmed by the old woman’s friendliness and hospitality. He struck up the car and headed back towards town to meet the reporter, Jason Flynn. He knew that there were no more farms nearby so there was no point in following this line of investigation. Karl hoped that Jason might be able to offer some information or help.

Alf Tipps sat on the filthy sofa and drank his whisky. The television was on in the corner of the room, though he wasn’t really watching it. His dogs, Thor and Stumpy, sat on the floor. They were big Rottweilers, the sort that had fueled media panic in the early nineties. Of course the mantle of vicious dog had been handed over to the Staffie now. But Thor and Stumpy still cut an imposing figure, and had a bark that would scare the devil himself should he ever try and get into Alf’s house uninvited. Yet despite their size and the vicious barks, the truth was that both dogs were as soft as shit, and more likely to lick an intruder to death than maul them. Alf had been meaning to replace them with some more aggressive guard dogs, but despite himself he had grown attached to the soft pair. Besides which, anyone brave enough to get past their barking meant business.

Of late, though, he was more worried about the thing he had seen in the field by Maltham Wood. That field was dangerously close to his own, and the thing he had seen there scared the shit out of him. It had been off in the distance, and moving at a fair pace, so there was no way he could say for sure what it was. Add to that the fact that he was on his way home from the pub and he knew he wasn’t exactly the most credible witness, but still, he had seen it with his own eyes.

The thing had been big, far larger than either of his dogs, and a lot faster. It moved low to the ground, sleek and graceful. Its fur had been as black night.

Like everyone else, Alf had heard the rumours that a big cat was roaming the area, killing livestock and such. Like most people, he had thought it was nonsense, made up by that crackpot Altman, and encouraged by that reporter at the local paper.

That was until he saw the beast running in the field, and though he couldn’t say for sure it was Altman’s cat, he couldn’t think what else it could be.

Thor and Stumpy would offer no defense from that creature, but against people they were still sufficient.

They had certainly put the willies up that young man who had called around earlier, the one who was looking for his brother, the one that had knocked on his door and woken him up. Perhaps he had been a little short with him, but what did Alf care? It’s not like he was going to be seeing him again. He wished people would pay attention to his signs. For years those signs had been there, alerting people to the fact that this was private property, that trespassers were unwelcome. Yet still people came knocking on his door, Jehovah’s Witnesses, people collecting for charity, even bloody Mormons once. Alf was usually short with them too. If they ignored his signs, what else did they deserve.

It wasn’t that Alf didn’t like people, it’s just he’d always preferred to be on his own. Once in a while he would venture to one of the local pubs and chat with someone he knew - he didn’t really have what could be called friends - and he would enjoy it. Still, this was only once in a while; most of the time he would sit here in the house alone, except for the dogs. Some would probably say it was a sad existence, but Alf didn’t care. This was the way he wanted to live, and despite what people might think he was actually happy.

A sudden knock on the door and the subsequent barking from Thor and Stumpy roused him from his thoughts.

‘Shut up!’ he yelled, commanding the dogs to silence.

Stumpy instantly quietened and laid back down. Thor, though no longer barking, remained standing, looking towards the door.

Alf rose to his feet, annoyance washed over him. Who the hell was it this time? Would he get no peace today? He walked toward the door. Through the frosted glass panel he could see a figure, silhouetted by the bright day light. He had at first wondered if the young man had returned, but when he saw the figure through the glass he could see that it was a woman.

His heart sank when he opened the door and saw it was her. Alf was not the kind of man who scared easily, but something about this woman froze him to the core. She always had, as long as he had known her, and he wasn’t the only one. Alf knew several other people who had told him that they felt uneasy in her presence.

‘Hello,’ he said shakily.

‘Alright, Alf?’ The woman said, her cheery tone hiding venom below the surface. ‘You had any visitors today?’

At first he considered lying to her, telling her that she was the first visitor he had had all day, but she would know. If she didn’t know the truth already, she would see through his attempts a deception.

‘Yes, I have actually, V,’ he said. ‘Just some young fella looking for his brother or summat.’

He tried to keep his response as nonchalant as possible.

‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Did you have anything to tell him?’

He felt her eyes burning into him, searching him. Alf was convinced that she was some kind of witch, and that her gaze could see right inside his mind.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d never seen his brother before. You know me, I like to keep to my sen.’

The woman smiled.

‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he would have appreciated the help. Oh well, I best get on. Thanks for the chat, Alf.’

She turned as if to go.

‘Any time, V,’ Alf said, trying to do decide if he was more confused or scared by the conversation. He was about to shut the door when he noticed that she had stopped walking. She was standing at his doorway, with her back to him.

‘V?’ he said nervously.

‘There was one more thing, Alf,’ she said without turning. ‘I hear you’ve been telling stories about seeing monsters in my fields?’

‘I, uh, I never said...’ Alf desperately tried to think of an explanation.

‘I know exactly what you said Alf,’ she said, still facing away from him. ‘There’s no point trying to worm your way out of it. You’ve been shooting your drunk mouth off in the pub about things you can’t possibly understand.’

Fear clutched at Alf’s chest, making it harder for him to breathe.

‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ he said.

‘I know, but it makes people ask questions, and I don’t like questions, Alf,’ she said.

Alf had never felt as frightened in his life as he did at that moment, staring at the back of the woman’s head. The closest he had come had been as a child, he had once got himself trapped in a field with a bull. The animal had charged at him, and it had taken all of Alf’s strength and speed to escape the field unharmed. At that moment on his door step, though, he would rather be facing that bull than this woman.

‘I’m sorry, V,’ he said.

‘I know, Alf,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry too.’

She span around, quicker than a woman her age should have been able to manage. So quick that Alf didn’t see the kitchen knife until it was too late, until there was absolutely no way he could stop its blade from penetrating the soft, gelatinous orb of his eyeball and lodging itself in his brain. Alf Tipps was dead before he hit the ground, and the woman simply walked away.

The Nags Head had always been one of the better pubs in Darton, sure it had its resident dick heads, but what pub didn’t? During his years in the sixth form he had spent a lot of time drinking in here. It was fairly small downstairs, but had a large, enclosed beer garden to the rear. When he was younger, it also had a small nightclub upstairs, which on a weekend would be packed. Karl had found out on the grapevine that the club had been shut down due to complaints about noise from the neighbour, another nail in the coffin of Darton.

As he stepped in to the pub, he could see that the layout hadn’t changed at all, but the dark green walls had been spruced up with the far more fashionable cream. The tables, too, had been changed, and so had the carpets. The afternoon crowd in the pub was pretty much the same as always. A few sixth formers playing pool, a few alcoholics propping up the bar, and the old men drinking their bitter in little groups.

Jason was stood at the bar, talking to the young woman serving. The reporter turned and saw Karl. He motioned for him to come over. Karl walked to join him.

‘I’m glad you came,’ Jason said shaking his hand. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Sure, a pint of Carling please,’ Karl said.

‘Do you want to grab us a table?’ Jason said.

‘Okay,’ Karl replied.

He set off across the bar, looking for a spare table. Although the pub was far from busy, there were enough small groups to make it difficult to find a seat. He spotted a small table in the corner by the window. He started heading towards it. He noticed an old man stood against the wall, staring at him; perhaps he recognised him from his childhood, or maybe he knew Phil and could see the family resemblance. The old man stepped away from the wall and approached Karl. He had the walk and smile of someone who was constantly just this side of drunk.

‘Aren’t you Carol Morgan’s youngest?’ he said in a Lincolnshire accent so thick it was almost comedic.

Karl looked at the old man. He felt he should know who he was, but he didn’t.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My name’s Karl.’

The old man smiled as if he had forgotten the name but it came back to him as he heard it.

‘That’s right,’ the old man said. ‘I’m Malcolm Morris. I used to live just down the road from you.’

Karl still could not remember him.

‘Oh yeah, Mr Wright, I remember,’ he lied out of politeness.

‘I haven’t seen you in bloody years,’ Malcolm said. ‘Where have you been hiding?’

Karl laughed, though the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke on Malcolm’s breath was making him feel queasy.

‘I live and work in London now,’ he said.

‘London, ey?’ Malcolm said, he then started laughing. As though the idea of living in the capital was completely preposterous to him.

‘That’s right,’ Karl said.

‘You want to move back here mate. It’s far safer,’ he said still laughing to himself. ‘All that crime and drugs goes on in London.’

Jason suddenly appeared at Karl’s side, handing him the pint of lager he had asked for. Jason himself was just drinking Coke.

‘There’s plenty of crime and drugs round here, too, Malc,’ Jason said, the disdain was barely hidden in his voice. ‘Or don’t you read my stories?’

Malcolm laughed again, a rasping noise that sounded as though it was ripping up his throat as he made it.

‘I never was much of a reader, Mr Flynn,’ Malcolm said. ‘Besides, why do I need a local paper anyway? Everybody knows everyone’s business around here. Makes your job kind of pointless, doesn’t it?’

Karl saw the anger flash across Jason’s face, and something else, like he believed what the old man had said but hated to admit it.

‘Have another drink, Malc,’ Jason said, and then stormed off towards the free table. Karl looked at Malcolm, who was smiling as though he had just scored some kind of victory, which perhaps he had.

‘Nice to see you again,’ Karl said, wanting to get away from the old man as quick as possible.

‘Aye,’ Malcolm said. ‘Say hello to your mum for me, and I hope your brother turns up soon.

Clearly he did know everyone’s business. Karl nodded and walked to join Jason at the table. The reporter was sat there seething.

‘What a twat,’ he said, still staring at Malcolm, who had by that point wandered back over to the bar.

‘Don’t let him get to you,’ Karl said. He had spent so many years in Darton experiencing the narrow minded people who lived there. The best way he had found to deal with them was to just ignore them, let them spout their stupidity, and let it wash over you.

‘He’s right, though,’ Jason said. ‘I went off to university with the ambition of becoming a reporter for one of the big national papers, not the tabloids, something respectable like The Times or The Telegraph, but no, I ended up back here in the same old shit hole I’d spent the first eighteen years of my life trying to escape.’

Karl didn’t know what to say, he felt a little uncomfortable at the way Jason had just unloaded at him, after all they had only met that morning. At the same time, though, he could understand the desire to escape, he had experienced exactly the same thing, and he had done it. How, though, could he explain that it wasn’t everything he had hoped for? Karl felt no more at home in London than he had done in Darton.

‘One day,’ Jason said, snapping them both out of their thoughts, ‘all it will take is that one big story and someone will take notice.’

Karl smiled.

‘Yeah, I’m sure they will,’ he said.

Jason took a sip of his drink and then smiled warmly.

‘Sorry, it’s just people like him really annoy me. They can’t picture themselves anywhere but here. It’s like they put apathy on the school curriculum around here.’

Karl laughed at this, it was the perfect description to the way he had always thought about Darton, about Lincolnshire as a whole really.

‘I remember when I was at school here, it was always about what farm or factory you wanted to work at. There was no ambition given to you above that. It was as though the school thought, what’s the point making them think it’s going to be any better than that?’

‘Your brother was the year below me at school, actually. We weren’t exactly friends, but we went to a lot of the same parties.’

‘Oh right, you would have been three years above me then?’

Jason nodded.

‘Sorry, I don’t recognise you, though,’ he said

‘It’s okay,’ Karl smiled. ‘I always kind of blended into the background.’

‘What do you do in the city?’ Jason asked.

‘I work in advertising.’

‘Nice,’ Jason said, the smile showing his envy.

‘It’s not that great to be honest,’ Karl said. ‘I mean the money would be great up here, but down in London I can still barely afford to live. I’m at the bottom of the pile in my office, and I constantly get passed over for promotion for guys who went to the right schools. I used to think, it’s okay, you’ll show how good you are and one day you’ll get up the ladder, but every year it seems the ladders getting longer, and I’m still on the bottom rung.’

It felt good to Karl to finally get that off his chest. He had been feeling that way for some time, but refused to admit it to anyone. Now, though, he couldn’t go on pretending he was happy. He did not know what it was about Jason Flynn that made him feel comfortable enough to open up to him, he guessed, though, that it was a good quality for a reporter to have.