Two Cows and a Vanful of Smoke (17 page)

Mum was still in bed. She looked like she’d lost half a stone. Her cheeks were sunk, her eyes were dull and her hair was lank and dirty. When she saw me she let out a deep, long sigh, and managed a little smile. “Pet…” she said, and she patted the covers. “I thought you were dying.”

I sat on the bed, took her hand and said, “I was never going to die. Not even once.”

She reached up and touched my head. I had a lump there and crusted blood in my hair. “What happened?”

“I got hit.”

“By Spike?”

“No. Someone threw me into the back of a van.”

“Why?

“Because he didn’t like me very much.”

“And why didn’t someone you don’t even know like you very much? I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense. You’re a good boy…”

“It’s a long story.”

“Of course it is.”

“Can I tell you another day?”

She stared at me. It was a long, hard stare. “You’d better,” she said. “I can’t go on like this. Half knowing, half not knowing anything at all. It’s making me ill. You all think I’m strong, but I’m not. I can see things, I can understand things, but that’s as far as it goes. The rest of the time I’m like you…”

“I will,” I said, and I went downstairs to make her a cup of tea.

I spent the night in my old room, and in the morning I got up early and walked down to the farm. The relief was milking. I asked her if she was having any trouble. “Quietest herd I work with,” she said, and she tapped one of the cows on its flank and pulled the handle to release it into the yard. “We keep them happy,” I said, and I left her to her work. I went round to the front, knocked on the farmhouse door, and when Mr Evans came to the door I said, “I’m back.”

“Are you now?” he said.

“You want me to do some work?”

“You want to do some work?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve sorted out your problems? Told that Spike to get lost?”

“Sort of.”

He stared at me. I think he was looking for something in my eyes, some clue or meaning. “All right then. Take a hook down to the sidling fields and get rid of the thistles.”

So I did. It was hot, long work, but it was good to be back doing the things I like to do. A simple job in the sunshine, the herd watching me from a hedge, the sound of a barking dog floating from a neighbour’s farm. The chatter of birds, the soaring buzzards, the smell of the dry land.

The thistles were covered in seed heads. As I cut them down, the seeds broke into the air, drifted like snow and eddied in their way. I remember Mum telling me that there were signs in the way seeds floated – something to do with a poor harvest, something to do with a drought in the parish – but I couldn’t remember exactly what, and it didn’t bother me. I let the plants lie where I’d hooked them, and by the time I’d got to the bottom of the field, I had my shirt off and was covered in sweat. I had a bottle of water with me. I unscrewed it and took a long, deep gulp. The water tasted of release and promise, honesty and innocence. There was nothing wrong with the water at all. I closed my eyes and tipped some over my head and rubbed it into my hair. The dust failed. I beat the dust. I stretched and yawned. I was close to the place where I’d found the hung man, so when I’d finished drinking and washing, I propped the bottle in a hedge, jumped over the fence and walked down to the place.

Apart from a small knot of blue-and-white tape tied around a branch, and the places where the undergrowth had been flattened by heavy boots, there was no sign that anything unusual had happened here. No sign of violence or blood or fear. But as I stood beneath the branch where the man had died, I felt a cold finger touch my face, a finger that stroked a line towards the icy chambers of a dead heart. It drew a pattern on my skin, a circle and a star, and it drained the strength from my muscles. The yew in the churchyard at Ashbrittle had touched me in this sort of way, but never with such a dark shadow. The yew’s memories were diluted by the years and people. The yew’s memories were almost benign now, and weak, but this memory was fresh and strong. I stepped back, the finger dropped away, and a voice whispered something in my ear. I couldn’t say I understood what words it said, but I understood their sense. And their sense was this: keep away from this place. It will infect you. It will take your soul and give it to the birds, and the birds will carry it to their nests and feed on it. I shuddered and took another step back. The voice faded. I turned and, as I did, a rook blew out of the wood and flew up and over the sidling fields.

In the old days, the way a single rook flew would tell you something. If it headed left, something in your past was going to come back to haunt you. Something you did, something someone else did, something a dog did in its yard – it didn’t matter. If the rook headed right, the future was about to flash at you and bite hard. If it flew straight up, death was around the corner. If it flew straight and landed in a tree, life was going to carry on as it always had done, and maybe get better one day. But whatever it did, if you watched a single rook for more than a minute, trouble would be your bride, and your bride would leave her posy on the altar.

I picked up my bottle, took another swig, felt the water run down my throat and went back to the thistles. By the time I’d finished, I’d cleared the field and was ready for lunch. I went back to the caravan, made myself a sandwich, ate it at the table and watched the sky. A single cloud was drifting from the west, house martins were swooping, and the trail made by a high aeroplane split and floated. For a moment, the day was at peace and all the bones of the earth were quiet. I heard a dog barking. It was about a mile away. It barked for about five minutes, and when it stopped and the quiet came down again, I closed my eyes and dozed for half an hour.

The relief came to do the evening milking, so I went home to see Mum. She was up and about, said she felt better, didn’t understand what had come over her and was making chicken soup. As she stirred the broth, she told me that when she was younger she used to think she was being followed by a white cat with black paws and a black tip to its tail. “Not all the time, mind, but when I was worried about something it used to be there, always just round the corner. I think it was looking after me.” She spooned some soup to her mouth, took a taste, nodded, added a pinch of salt and said, “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“Never,” I said. “Do you still see it?”

“No. It disappeared when I was about your age.”

“So what did it mean?”

“I don’t think it meant anything. It was just there. You know, Pet, most of the time I don’t think things are meant to mean anything. We’re born, we do what we have to do, we die. That’s all. Every now and again you have a bit of sadness, then you get a bit of joy, but most of the time you just have to make the best of what you’ve been given. The gifts you’ve been given. You understand what I mean?”

“I’m beginning to.”

“Good,” she said. She tasted the soup again and nodded. “Are you staying tonight?”

“No. I’m going back to the farm. I think I’ll be milking in the morning.”

“You are a good boy,” she said, “just easily led,” and when she smiled I could see her sickness running away from her face, chased to the top of her head and flowing away like smoke blown through a hole in a door.

I left her grinding pepper into the soup, rode back to the farm and, as the night fell, Spike arrived on a moped he’d borrowed from the bloke he was living with. It was a knackered insect of a thing, with a broken light and holes in its saddle. One of the mudguards was hanging off its bracket, and it sounded like a fart in a firework factory. He parked it behind the caravan and knocked on the door. He looked thin and pale. Maybe I should have been angry, and for a moment I thought about telling him to get lost, but he had this pleading look in his eyes, like a sick dog sheltering under a hedge. “Can I come in?” he said.

“OK.”

He sat at the table, and I fetched some beers. I opened mine and took a swig, but he just stared at the bottle, rubbed the label and sniffed. I’d never seen him like this, so lost and worried and shelled. I told him about the mess at the transport café, the guns and knives, and when he asked if he’d ever see his van again I said, “I shouldn’t think so. Last time I saw it, it was smashed into a lamp post.”

“And the smoke?”

“You have to ask?”

“Yes.”

“Gone, Spike. It’ll be in some police lock-up.”

“So that’s it then,” he said.

“What did you expect?”

He shook his head, looked at the floor, scratched the top of his head and mumbled, “I think I’m going to go away.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Maybe Wales. I could get work up there.”

“You probably could,” I said, “but you’d be running away. And you’ve never run away from anything.”

“I don’t care. I’m just so tired of this.”

“You’re tired of it?”

“Yes.” He opened his beer, closed his eyes and took a swig.

“How you do think I feel?”

“I don’t know.”

So I told him, and showed him the bump on my head. “They were going to kill me,” I said.

“Shit.”

“It was. And all for some smoke.”

“I’m definitely going to Wales…” he said, and he took another swig on his beer, stared out of the window and sucked his teeth. “Definitely. I’ve been a fucking idiot. I can’t stay here.” I was about to agree with him when Mr Evans knocked on the door. I opened up, and he said, “You got a minute?”

“What’s the problem?”

“Mr Roberts just called.” Mr Roberts ran the neighbouring farm. “Two cows got through the top fence. He’s got them in his yard.”

“You want me to fetch them back?”

“Please.”

“OK,” I said, and as I said the word, I felt something odd move in my blood. It was something I suppose I’d been expecting for twenty-one years, something that crept in like a spider might creep into a bed, slowly and carefully, a knowing look in its dozen eyes, legs feeling the way and twitching at the air. A witched animal, a gentle thing, a frightening beast, a nip in its mouth and a plan in its brains. And as it moved and my blood swilled, I felt light and ready. I stood up, gave Spike another bottle, told him to sit tight and walked into the twilight with a stick and a torch.

Mr Roberts’s farm was down the lane, over the river bridge at the bottom of the valley and up the other side. As I walked, I swished at the hedges with my stick, and the first stars peeped out. An owl hooted. Something like a fox or a badger scurried away. The owl hooted again. A car revved up the road from Stawley mill.

I reached a gateway where I could stand and look up at Mr Evans’s farm. Lights were on, and I saw the outline of Spike’s head in the window of my caravan. He reached up and pulled the curtain. Headlights swung against the night. I walked on.

Another owl called to the first. Mum had said something to me about owls and their calls, but I couldn’t remember exactly what it was. Probably something to do with ancient knowledge and doom, but maybe not. Whatever. I walked on. I heard the car again, closer now, still revving. Then it stopped, and I didn’t hear it any more.

I stopped at the river bridge for a moment, and watched the water as it trickled over the rocks. A gang of rooks shouted from the trees. The air smelt of burning leaves.

I walked up the track towards Mr Roberts’s farm, and when I reached the gate, his dog started to bark. It was a big collie with ragged ears, tied on a long leash to a ring in the wall. I went up to the back door, knocked and waited. He answered the door in a string vest, braces hanging down from his trousers, a pipe in his mouth. He was a small man and had very clean teeth. “Elliot. I’ve been expecting you. They’re in the yard.”

He pulled on his boots, and I followed him to the yard. The farm was neat and tidy. Everything was in its place. Hand tools were propped in a neat row, and a small Massey Ferguson was parked beyond the parlour. The cows were standing in a corner of the yard. He’d given them some hay in a net that hung from the wall. “They’re quiet,” he said.

“Always have been,” I said.

He held the gate open, and I tapped them with my stick, followed them out and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks again,” I said, and he said, “You’ll come over and mend the fence in the morning?”

“Of course.”

“I put some galvanized over the hole, but it won’t hold.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Roberts. I’ll do it.” And then I ran to catch up with the cows and drive them down the lane and back to the herd.

They were slow beasts, and as we walked I put a hand to their backs and patted them along. The rooks were still shouting and the owl called again, and as we crossed the bridge the smell of burning leaves was still strong. I said, “Come on,” as we started to climb the hill, and a second later I heard a crack. I say it was a crack, and that is what it was, even though I knew it was a shot. Not loud, but it was clear. For a moment I didn’t think the sound meant anything. People shoot day or night for all sorts of reasons. But then I heard another shot, a different calibre this time, a rifle. I tapped the two cows with my stick, yelled, “Ho!” at them, and as they started trotting I ran.

The herd were lying in the sidling fields. I came to a gate where I could let the cows in, pushed it open and shooed them along. I followed, swung the gate back on its latch and ran. When I reached a place where I could see the farm, I saw a pair of headlights turning and swinging down the track, and heard another shot. I didn’t stop running, and when I reached the fence around the front yard I jumped it, slipped, pulled myself up and ran on. Mr Evans was standing at the top of the track with his rifle in his hands. He turned when he saw me, shouldered the gun and yelled, “Elliot!” His fury was back, this time bigger and wilder than ever.

“What’s going on!”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes.”

‘Well, I think I winged him!”

“Who?”

“The bastard who put a shot through the caravan. Him!” He pointed towards the headlights. They disappeared, appeared once more and then they were gone.

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.”

“Where’s Spike?”

“Spike?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” he said, and I ran to the caravan.

One of the windows was shattered. I opened the door and stepped inside. There was glass on the floor, and the air was thick with drifts of blue smoke. I said, “Spike?” and walked towards the place where he’d been sitting. An empty bottle of beer was sitting on the table and a spliff was steaming in the ashtray. He was lying on the floor, his right hand tucked under his head. I bent down, reached out and shook his shoulder. He groaned, opened his eyes, looked up at me, licked his lips and said, “What the fuck happened?”

“Someone tried to shoot you.”

He blinked. I blinked back at him and waved my hands at the smoke. The smoke waved back at me like a ghost.

“With a gun?” he said.

“No, Spike. With a fucking bow and arrow.”

“What?”

“With a gun! Through the window!” I pointed at the glass. The floor crunched.

“Fuck.”

“He thought you were me.”

He sat up. “He thought I was you? Why did he think that? And who the fuck was he?”

“You have to ask?”

He thought about that for a moment, let the thought sink, then shook his head.

“Are you hit?”

He looked down at his stomach, reached up and felt his chest, and touched his face. He had a fresh graze on his forehead, but it was nothing. “No,” he said. “I think I’m OK.”

I sat down next to him. “You sure?”

“Yes,” he said as Mr Evans appeared in the door. He stepped up and into the caravan, looked down at Spike and shook his head. “You two!” he yelled. “Are you ever going to learn?”

I didn’t know what to say.

There was a mad, red boiling behind his eyes, “Well?” he screamed. Spit flew from his mouth. “Are you?”

I shook my head.

“Is that a no?”

“I don’t know.”

He pointed at Spike and said, “You…” He took a deep, wheezy breath. For a moment I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Then I didn’t. And he didn’t. He was too strong. “You’ve got ten minutes to get off my land.” And then he turned to me. “And you… you’ve got an hour.”