The Pack (9 page)

There is a stamping above them.

“Here,” says Margaret, “that's the gamekeeper. He'd better not find you here.”

As they hear his steps coming down the stairs, Margaret ushers Bradley into the darkness of the deep pantry. She reaches up to one of the shelves stacked with glass jars and takes one, before closing the door.

“Ah, it's yourself,” says Margaret.

“And who else would you be expecting?” asks the gamekeeper.

“Don't be thinking my courting days are done,” says Margaret.

“Away, ye old crone,” says the gamekeeper, yet not unkindly. “I'm your visitor for today.”

“Well, you'll stay for a scone and jam then. But get your hands away from these strawberries. They're counted.”

“I believe you.”

Bradley can make out through the slatted door the gamekeeper sitting side on to the table; one forearm resting on it. The gamekeeper brings the other arm up from the shadows and lays a long thick strip of fur on the table. The sun strikes it and turns it as coppery as the pans.

“There's another for the collection,” he says.

“Get that thing off my table,” says Margaret. “There's food gets prepared on that, you fool.”

“Keep your hair on, Cleopatra. It's only a fox's brush.”

“I know fine what it is. I've eyes in my head. I just don't want it in my kitchen.”

“Aye, I know. And neither do I.”

The gamekeeper dips his head and a silence falls between them.

“You don't like killing the foxes, do you?” asks Margaret.

“Oh, if it has to be done, I'll do it. Never liked it, but if I saw a reason … Now, the old master and me, we saw eye to eye. We knew that most of the time, if you let it be, the natural world will find its balance; that some kind of harmony will establish itself. We never had peacocks strutting the lawns to defend, like now. All the chickens were safely cooped. So we never feared foxes. But now, now the new master's in, it's war.”

“War?”

“Aye, of a kind. You know, almost everything's gone now. The woods are near to silent, the tracks bare. There's one creature out there, though, that we haven't got the better of.”

“Only the one?”

“Aye, but he's special. A wolf. And it must be the last one there is, because they're social animals, wolves, and I've never seen him with another creature.”

“So you've seen him often?”

“Oh aye, lots. But he's that quick and clever, he's always one step ahead. I see his eyes in the darkness between branches, glittering like fireflies, or I catch the grey streak of him crossing a clearing. But when I get there, nothing. Tell you what though, that wolf and I have an understanding.”

“Don't tell the master that,” says Margaret.

“Do I look stupid?”

“No,” she says firmly, “but nor do you look like someone who's come here to court me, so time you were gone.”

“Aye, time we were all gone from here. There's something rotten gone on and I hate to be a part of it.”

Margaret stops and turns. “What do you mean ‘something rotten'?”

“I mean that Vince has come into this property—aye and much more—in a very shady way.”

“Shush now. You shouldn't be talking this way.”

“No?”

“No, it's easier if we just—”

“Carry on? Tell me you don't have your suspicions.”

“I told you, I don't like to say.”

“Well, I've a lot more than ‘suspicions'.”

“Oh, but keep your voice down.”

Bradley lays his ear against the slats, not to miss anything.

“What's to tell?” says Margaret.

“It all began,” says the gamekeeper, “with a card game.”

*   *   *

Looking down at the dog boy, Skreech saw him frown, before he buried his head deeper in the blanket scraps he lay on. Hunger's silver chest touched him with every breath he took. It was a handsome dog, right enough. Even when he was writhing helplessly in the net, there had been something magnificent about him. Skreech had noticed how some of the boy soldiers, meeting his wild eyes, had retreated back into the group, their taunting sticks dragging on the ground. Now, the dog seemed to sleep peacefully, exhausted from the fight. Only his sharp ears gave an occasional involuntary twitch. The boy's sleep was more troubled.

But he wasn't the only one. Skreech heard from the great hall the sniffling, the broken cries, the unbidden shouts, as what was masked during the day, was revealed. All the homes still grieved for. The mothers still missed. And those who had managed to bury their needs deep within themselves lashed out at those whose surfaces were so easily read.

“Shut it, will ya!”

“Put a sock in it!”

“You want something to cry about, do you?”

Most of them learned to wear disguises; though there was no disguising the fear that seeped into the mattress at night. Fists laid into the culprit come morning.

“You dirty little beast.”

“How old are you? Two?”

“This'll sort you!”

And then there were the quiet revelations. The scratching of old sores. The forearm that never healed. The thigh that looked as if it had been combed with thorns. The nails, like that Victor's, bitten down to the quick.

The boy and the dog must be exhausted, Skreech thought, to sleep through all that. He remembered his first nights here—the hours lying staring at the cracked and peeling walls, surrounded by the restless sleepers. Yet it was not simply the sounds that had kept Skreech awake back then; it was the relief of feeling safe. No matter how unpleasant or how dirty his new “home” was, he had felt a part of something for the first time in a long while, and it had seemed to him then that being a part of something was the only way to survive.

“So much love in the world,” Red Dog would bellow. “So much love. Yet who loves Red Dog? I ask you, who loves Red Dog?”

And the earnest faces would chant, “We do! We do! We do!”

But it had not been long before Skreech realized they were all in competition with each other for Red Dog's favors—and it was Red Dog's mask they all had to learn to wear.

Talking to the dog boy, Skreech had felt his own mask begin to slip. It was unsettling, like a rush of air in a stagnant room. And he knew if he were not to lose all he had, he would have to be very careful.

*   *   *

“I was there,” the gamekeeper says.

“Where?” says Margaret.

“The card game, I'm telling you. I think I was there as a stooge. To make it look as if it was a harmless game of cards. But it wasn't.”

“You're talking in riddles,” says Margaret.

“Give me time to unfold my story,” says the keeper. “It's a hive in my head day and night and I must share it with someone.”

Bradley sees the gamekeeper grasp Margaret's forearms and bring her down in the seat before him.

“Right now, keeper, calm yourself. It can't take forever to tell.”

“It'll take what it'll take,” the gamekeeper says, so strongly that Margaret lays her hand across the hand that grips her and strokes it gently.

“Aye, come on then. Tell.”

*   *   *

“It was the night of that last big storm. Do you remember it?”

“How could I not? It put the great oak across the driveway; it toppled the gable chimney.”

“Aye, I remember the barks of the foxes and the howls of the wolves—everything saying, We're here in this together against the fierceness of the wind and the rain.”

“Hot soup, I remember,” Margaret says, “this request for a pot of hot soup. Vince would be staying over and the mistress would like hot soup for everyone, to burn out the dampness we all felt.”

“Yes, well, it was me who brought up the last two bowls to the gaming room—one for Vince and one for the master. I laid them down and was just about to leave, when Vince said to the master, ‘Here, how about a game of cards to while away a nasty night? Keeper, will you join us?'

“Naturally, I turned to the mistress to see what she would make of this. I'd never spent time upstairs with them at all before.

“‘What a splendid idea,' she says to the master. ‘Don't you think so?'

“The master smiles that devilish smile of his and says, ‘Indeed, my love, I'm feeling lucky tonight. What about you, keeper?'

“Well, I draw myself up and say, ‘I don't rightly know, but I'm willing to give it a go, if you'll guide me in the cards.'

“That's when Vince pipes up. ‘Oh, keeper, it's just a folly to fill an hour, while the storm blows itself out. Luck and skill aren't so important as your company.'

“I have to say, I wondered even then what he could be wanting with my company, never having sought it before. But I couldn't think of a reason to refuse, so I sat as they finished their soup. Odd to watch the master dipping that spoon unerringly into the bowl and bringing it to his lips without once dipping his head or spilling a drop.

“The bowls were laid on a tray to the side. ‘Oh, I do prefer informality,' I remember the mistress laughing, as Vince asked for the cards. The mistress took them from a drawer by the window. Vince broke them open and began to shuffle.

“How can a blind man play cards? you're asking. Well, it's no mystery to me now. When the hand was dealt, I could feel the tiny patterned blisters of Braille on each one. So while Vince and I looked at our cards, the master, his blind eyes held at exactly the same level as when he'd taken his soup, rubbed the corner of each card gently with his thumb.

“The slightest smile never left his lips. That's what beat me the first time. I thought the smile betrayed a winning hand and I threw mine in—the best hand I got all night too! But soon I realized this was his card-playing face. The smile gave nothing away.”

“And what were you playing for?” asks Margaret.

“Nothing at first. That is, matches. Then, when matches lost their attraction, we played for candles. Each of us with a great box beside us and the mistress laughing, ‘Oh my, what boys you are!' She sat on the arm of the master's chair—she could see his cards clearly—and the same smile played around her lips too, but more so, as if she delighted in how the master's stack of candles rose.”

“So where's the—?”

“Give me time, woman, I'm coming to it now.”

Bradley takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly, his eyes following along a line of preserves—gooseberry, apricot, raspberry, cherry—each one with a date he cannot read in the darkness.

“‘Oh, brother, there's little sport in this,' says Vince all of a sudden and he points to the rain lashing the window. ‘We need stronger diversion than a game
for candles
to keep the likes of that at bay.'

“‘Perhaps you're right,' replies the master, tapping his pile of candles. ‘Still, perhaps the storm bothers you more than it does me. I admit to liking the sound of the wind and the rain. They speak to more than the eyes, like a message to my unsighted world.'

“‘Mmm,' says Vince—and if it was a message, then what happened next told me the master wasn't receiving it. For the master asks, ‘Well, Vince, what do you suggest?'

“‘I suggest,' says Vince, laughing as he says it, as if no one knew the sheer fantasy of it more than he did, ‘playing for the estate.'

“‘For the estate?' says the master. But you know, he never said it with any kind of incredulity at all. It was almost as if Vince had asked him to play for a picnic hamper.”

“Oh, that was him all right,” says Margaret.

“How do you mean?”

“That's the way he always was with Vince. Whenever a challenge came, he wouldn't shirk it. But then, he never lost…”

The gamekeeper licks his lips. “Just one of these strawberries. I need some juice in my mouth.”

“I'll get you a glass of water.”

“No, sit,” says the gamekeeper and he wipes a hand across his lips.

“‘And what will you be wagering?' says the master.

“‘Oh, this is too silly,' says the mistress, but the master lays a hand on her arm and smiles.

“‘Perhaps,' he says.

“‘Oh, of course it is,' says Vince. ‘It's the storm has befuddled my brains with daft notions.'

“‘Answer me,' says the master.

“‘Well, I suppose, if I were to do this, I'd have to wager my portion of the estate—my two farms and the house I live in.'

“‘A fair house,' replies the master.

“‘Oh indeed,' says Vince, ‘but nothing as grand as your inheritance.' And though he said the words lightly, it was plain to me what he could not see, the face twisted with jealousy.”

“I knew it,” says Margaret.

“Wait,” says the gamekeeper. “The master then turns his head towards me. ‘And what,' he asks, ‘will you be wagering, keeper?'

“‘Well, I don't reckon I've anything—'

“He doesn't let me finish. ‘Anything precious,' he says. ‘For that is all Vince and I are wagering. That which is most precious to us.'”

“Oh my lord,” says Margaret, “can I bear it?”

“You must,” says the gamekeeper, “for I have had to.

“‘Well,' I say, ‘I have my dogs and my cottage, but if I lose them, I'll have nowhere for my family and I'll never be able to afford such dogs again. You gentlemen will always have a roof over your heads. I beg to be excused this hand.'

“‘That's fair,' says the master.

“‘Perfectly,' says Vince.

“‘Just like two boys,' says the mistress again.

“‘Get a pen, my love,' says the master, that smile, I swear, never leaving his lips. And Vince looking as though one of the lightning bolts we saw crossing the sky outside had electrified him.

“‘Oh really!' says the mistress. But still she writes as they dictate to her their bills of deed and sign them.