Hills End Page 11

  He didn’t say anything, but he helped himself to a raincoat and made his way up to the front where Adrian was still hammering and trying to puzzle out a method of making a door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘To get the kids?’

  Paul nodded.

  ‘Don’t be long. It’s almost dark. Harvey’s a little nuisance. It’ll be his fault, that’s certain.’

  Paul shrugged and stepped through the narrow opening out into the cold. And it was really cold, dismal and disheartening. While he had been busy he had forgotten the frightful chaos of the main street. Fallen trees and debris prevented him from seeing far in any direction and heavy cloud drooped low.

  He was conscious of a deep sense of misery, such as he sometimes had when he woke up on examination day. He glanced to the north towards Harvey’s place and then glanced to the south, towards the clearing they had crossed to come back into town. He saw nothing in either direction at first, except grim destruction, and he had started towards Harvey’s when some form of delayed awareness alerted him.

  He had seen something peculiar. For the moment he didn’t know what it had been, but he suddenly turned and faced back towards the clearing—the clearing he couldn’t see for rain and gloom and intervening debris.

  There was nothing. He had been deceived by the poor light. Or had he been? There must have been something or he wouldn’t be trembling. He was shaking all over. What on earth could it have been? Hadn’t this same uneasiness possessed him only a minute or two ago and compelled him to go after Gussie?

  Paul was not exactly frightened, but never had he felt like this. He was far too practical a boy to be troubled by the dreams and fancies that haunted Adrian. But now he stood peering into the gloom, listening, quivering.

  All he heard was the rain beating into puddles, striking tangled sheets of iron, gurgling in ditches. That was all. Only water.

  Perhaps he had seen nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing. Perhaps the cause was within himself—tiredness, over-excitement, lack of food, or his awful anxiety for Miss Godwin and Butch and Mr Tobias.

  ‘Paul! Paul! Paul!’

  He hadn’t imagined that. No fear. That was Gussie, screaming. Gussie, from the direction of Harvey’s place, not from the direction into which he was looking. Gussie, in terrible trouble.

  Paul took off, yelling, ‘Coming!’ at the top of his voice, over and over again, scrambling across the tangle of twigs and branches, and saw them both, Maisie and Gussie, fleeing towards him. Gussie floundered right into him, so suddenly did she appear. She was groaning for breath, paler than he had ever seen her, and Maisie was trying to speak, but couldn’t; all she could make was a choking sound.

  Suddenly Gussie got it out. ‘The bull! Harvey, Harvey—the bull!’

  Paul felt his legs giving way underneath him.

  ‘Oh, golly!’ He could only moan. If the bull had Harvey there was nothing he could do. How could he fight a bull? How could any of them fight a bull? A bull was stronger than a dozen men. That rotten bull! He hadn’t given it a thought. It had never crossed his mind that such a danger could be.

  ‘What’s it done to him, Gussie? Oh, golly, Gussie!’

  ‘It—it’s trying to kill him.’

  ‘He’s at his kitchen door,’ stammered Maisie, ‘in a tree. There’s a tree fallen there on the dog’s kennel. He—he’s in the branches on the ground, and the bull’s there, too, snorting and pawing, and we thought he was going to go for us. He’s so wild. He’s terrible.’

  ‘And Buzz is barking all the time, on the chain, and Harvey’s too frightened to move. If only he could get the dog off the chain!’

  ‘It’s an awfully little dog,’ said Paul.

  ‘But he’s full of fight. If only Harvey would move, Buzz’d save him. Buzz’d do it. He’d die for Harvey. But Harvey won’t move. You’d think he was frozen solid.’

  Paul shivered. ‘I think I would be, too. Oh, golly, what am I to do? It’s always been a terrible bull. Even the Rickards are scared stiff of it. Every time Mr Rickard goes near it someone covers him with a rifle. They should have shot the blooming old thing years ago.’

  And that was his answer. A rifle. He looked at Gussie and Maisie and grabbed them.

  ‘Righto, you two. Let’s get back to the shop. Adrian’s father had a rifle. That’s how we’ll do it.’

  Gussie shook him off. ‘You can’t fire a rifle. Not a big rifle like Mr Fiddler’s.’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘You’ve never fired a rifle like that.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. All you do is pull the trigger.’

  ‘You’ll kill yourself.’

  ‘Oh for pity’s sake, Gussie!’

  He grabbed her again and ran. All three stumbled together, back through the rubble and the confusion of the main street, back towards the shop, and all the way Paul was bellowing for Adrian.

  Adrian tumbled out of the boarded-up window and was twenty yards up the street when they met.

  ‘Wh—what’s the trouble?’ he stammered.

  ‘Get your father’s gun,’ Paul panted, ‘and get it quick. The bull’s on the loose.’

  Adrian’s jaw sagged.

  ‘And it’s got Harvey bailed up. Don’t forget the bullets, Adrian. Go for your life.’

  Adrian seemed to be stunned, but suddenly came to life. He bolted up the street, round and through the ruins of the hall, towards the big stone house on the hill, and he had vanished in a moment. Paul had never dreamt that Adrian could run like that.

  ‘Righto, girls,’ said Paul, ‘into the shop. I want you two well locked up, out of harm’s way, and for heaven’s sake stay locked up. If the bull comes thundering down here you’d never stand a chance.’

  Frances tumbled out of the window. ‘What bull?’

  ‘Rickard’s! That’s why Harvey hasn’t come back.’

  Frances’s eyes widened in horror.

  ‘We’ll have to shoot it. Adrian’s gone for a rifle and Harvey was all right until a few minutes ago. Keep these kids under lock and key, Frances. In you go, the lot of you. Inside.’

  Frances held up her hand. ‘Who’s going to shoot the bull?’

  ‘I am,’ said Paul, ‘but get inside, Frances, and we’ll argue later.’

  They clambered in, and Paul, following them, immediately checked Adrian’s work on the window. It certainly would not resist the charge of a bull, but that was an unlikely event. The door was the main worry, and if the animal started tearing up this part of the town it might be attracted by the glow of the lights. The door might have resisted the attempts of the boys to open it against the pressure of the honey barrel, but a bull would make short work of it. Paul threw down a couple of sugar bags into the honey and stepped over them to push the partly unhinged door back on the latch. He turned and Frances was there.

  ‘How can you shoot a bull?’ she said.

  He glared at her. ‘How would you do it?’

  ‘With a gun, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, don’t ask stupid questions.’ He sniffed. ‘What’s burning?’

  ‘Burning?’ Frances wailed and rushed to her primus stove. She had been watching the saucepan so carefully. But it was the stove that was at fault; she couldn’t turn the silly old thing low enough. Three tins of stew she had emptied into the saucepan and now she’d have to scrape it all out.

  ‘Paul! Paul!’

  There was a beating on the boards at the windows and Paul couldn’t believe that Adrian was back so soon. He couldn’t have covered the distance in the time, but he had.

  Paul leapt into the window and Adrian was staring at him from the outside, panting, clutching at a stitch in his side.

  ‘Paul, quick!’

  Paul didn’t ask questions. This was something else. Just what that expression was in Adrian’s dimly seen face he didn’t know, but it had nothing to do with rifles or bulls.

  Paul jumped to the ground. ‘Where’s the gun?’
r />   ‘I’ve found Butch!’

  Paul blinked in astonishment. For the moment he didn’t really understand what Adrian had said.

  ‘But the gun—the gun!’

  ‘I tell you I’ve found Butch. You’ll have to help me with him.’ Adrian buried his face in his hands. ‘I thought he was dead, but he’s alive, Paul. On the road. On his face. I thought he was dead.’

  In that instant Paul grasped the significance of what Adrian had said. The mental jump from Harvey to Butch was wide, but Paul managed to bridge it, as Adrian, too, had done.

  ‘Miss Godwin?’

  ‘He’s alone.’

  Adrian straightened up, again with his hands pressed into his sides, and made off back down the street, and Paul went with him—poor, confused Paul, torn between his anxiety for Harvey and the new complication of Butch. He was beginning to understand that their isolation was indeed a dreadful thing. These were problems that would have daunted grown men, but Paul knew that somehow he would have to find the strength and the courage to face them. He hurried beside Adrian, knowing that he was only a boy, that they were both only boys. They were the little boys who had started school on the same day eight years ago. He could remember that day and he wondered why he thought of it now. He had felt lost that day. He felt lost now.

  ‘There he is.’

  Adrian was pointing. Paul knew it was Butch only because Adrian had said so. Butch was a heap of mud, clothed in rags.

  They dropped beside him, and Paul felt his pulse. It was a pointless thing to do because he had no idea how strong or how weak, how fast or how slow, one’s pulse should be. He did not know why he did it; perhaps it was a gesture to hide his fear or to convince Adrian that there was no cause for alarm while he, Paul, was around.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  Paul nodded and decided then and there, at that moment, to be a doctor. He could imagine nothing finer, nothing more wonderful.

  ‘Leave him to me,’ he said. ‘You get up to the house and get the gun. Hurry, Adrian. Harvey’s in trouble.’

  So was Butch in trouble. He was unconscious, and Paul wondered what on earth he was going to do with him.

  He heard Adrian’s voice as though far distant. ‘I’ll get the gun.’

  Butch was the reason for that premonition of Paul’s. It had had nothing to do with Harvey at all. This was the direction into which he had been looking when he had heard Gussie’s terrified call. It had been Butch all the time. Butch must have been staggering down the road and through some gap in the debris Paul had seen the movement. It had been Butch all the time. Poor Butch.

  He realized that he was alone with the fat boy. Adrian had gone up the massive terraced steps towards his father’s house.

  Paul squeezed the boy’s shoulders and said earnestly, ‘Butch, wake up!’

  Butch did not stir and Paul knew that he was absolutely worn out. Perhaps he had crawled for miles. Perhaps they had passed him that very afternoon. Perhaps they had been within a few yards of Miss Godwin. Perhaps Miss Godwin was really and truly dead. Or perhaps she had never found Butch at all. Perhaps he had been wandering alone. Perhaps. Perhaps. There were so many, many things Paul didn’t know.

  ‘Come on, Butch. You’re too big for me to carry.’

  Butch was in a deeper state than sleep. It was the first time Paul had ever seen anyone in a state of unconsciousness. What was one supposed to do? How did one handle a person in this condition? No wonder Adrian had thought he was dead.

  Paul tried to lift him, but Butch was so heavy, so big, so lifeless. There was only one thing he could do. He would have to drag the boy and hope that he didn’t hurt him, because Butch could not be left here. There was a bull on the loose.

  Paul heaved and strained and tugged, and foot by foot, jerk by jerk, he dragged Butch through the debris until he simply had to rest to recover his strength. And now it was dark and it was difficult to see, even dimly, in any direction. Adrian, in fact, had almost passed him before they saw each other.

  ‘I’ve got the gun.’

  ‘Good.’ Paul was breathless and a little light-headed.

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ said Adrian.

  Paul stood up and reached for the rifle. ‘Careful,’ Adrian said. ‘It’s loaded. Don’t touch the safety catch.’

  ‘Golly! It’s heavy, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a .303. It’s a big rifle.’

  ‘Adrian, I think I’d better go after the bull.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. It’s simple enough. I’m blown. Butch is too heavy for me. Someone’s got to get Butch back to the shop. I reckon I’ve got him halfway. It’s your turn now.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. You’ve never fired a .303.’

  ‘Neither have you.’

  ‘I’ve watched my dad.’

  ‘I’ve watched him, too. How many bullets in it, Adrian?’

  ‘Five, I think.’

  ‘Golly! Not many.’

  ‘Dad says if you don’t hit your target with the first few you’re not going to hit it at all. And I reckon if we don’t get the bull in the first couple the bull’ll get us, so what’s the difference?’

  Suddenly, Paul wasn’t there. Adrian was talking to the air.

  ‘Paul!’

  Paul didn’t answer, and Adrian felt suddenly guilty, suddenly ashamed, because in his heart he was glad that Paul had take the rifle—relieved and ashamed at the same time. He really hadn’t known how he was going to face that bull.

  He dropped to his knees in the mud beside Butch, and breathed, ‘What’s going to happen to us? What are we to do?’

  The rifle was so heavy Paul wondered how he was going to hold it to his shoulder and aim. Perhaps he would have to get down on the ground and rest it against something, as he had seen marksmen do in shooting competitions. And he had heard people say that a .303 had the kick of a mule. That meant that when he pulled the trigger the recoil from the explosion might injure his shoulder, and might even throw him off his aim.

  He stumbled through the darkness, aware for the first time of the discomfort caused by the continual trickle of water from his hair, down his neck, and into his eyes and his mouth. He stumbled over dead power-lines and branches of trees and deep ditches in places where ditches had never been. He tried to be careful because he was afraid the rifle would go off, but again and again he fell or blundered into obstacles, even dropping the rifle itself. Then he would feel carefully for it in the dark, feel along the barrel or up the butt until he found the safety catch, and then every time wonder in fear whether the catch had moved, whether it should be fully forward or fully back, whether the gun was safe, or cocked and ready to fire. By the time he could hear the barking of Harvey’s dog he was more muddled and frightened than he had ever been.

  He couldn’t see Harvey, or the dog, or the house, or the bull. Usually the darkest night in Hills End somewhere showed a glimmer of light, but this was a night of total power failure, of steady rain and of cloud pressing low. Paul was blind. He could have been locked up in a cell a hundred feet underground.

  He groped on, knowing now that the hill was going up, that the house could not be far away. He wondered whether his voice would carry to Harvey. He wondered whether Harvey was capable of hearing anything, whether in fact that bright and cheeky little boy had already met his end.

  He tried to call, but had no more voice than Buzz the dog. Buzz’s tormented barks were breaking into wheezing squeals, but the very fact that Paul could hear them meant that the dog could not have been far distant. Paul panted for more breath, chewed for saliva, and swallowed to ease his raw and burning throat.

  ‘Harvey,’ he croaked, ‘can you hear me?’

  Paul listened against the thud of his heart, but heard nothing except rain and water flowing and gurgling, momentarily not even the dog, or Harvey, or the bull.

  He should have brought a torch. This was the silliest thing he could have done—to have come without a tor
ch.

  He chewed hard for more saliva and swallowed again and this time found voice. ‘Harvey! Answer me!’

  Harvey didn’t answer, but Buzz squealed and wheezed, and Paul was sure that he could fix the direction. Just what the direction was he didn’t know, but he scrambled towards it, waving his left arm in front of him, fully extended, like the antenna of a lobster. Suddenly he realized that his path was barred by the trunk of a fallen tree, a very big tree; he knew that from the size of the butt. The diameter of the trunk was only a few inches less than his own height. That he was close to the dog he certainly knew, but surely this could not have been the tree that had fallen against Harvey’s house. The angles were all wrong, or seemed to be. Of only one thing was he certain and that was the slope of the hill. When the tree had stopped him he had been climbing.

  ‘Harvey!’

  The dog again, but not Harvey. Yes, this must be the tree that had fallen against the house, if the dog was still on the chain. The fact that he had walked into the trunk and not the foliage meant that he was probably fifty or sixty feet from the walls of the house.

  That put him far closer than he had meant to get. If the bull were still here it might only be a few yards from him. It could be almost breathing down his neck.

  Paul shuddered and settled the big rifle into both hands and waited breathlessly, afraid to call again, afraid to move, almost afraid to listen.