Wildwood Page 17

  Michael wasn’t the only fleeting visitor to the estate. One warm August night I was just getting ready for bed when I heard something scraping and rattling outside my living-room window. Grasping a torch and a steel felling lever I went out to investigate. The torch, chosen in case it turned out to be Bull Peter again, wasn’t necessary for the sake of illumination as there was a full moon that night. As I peered around the corner I saw it was a big deer rattling its antlers against my plastic water butt and, as it lifted its head, catching my scent, I saw the gleam of the moonlight on those tines and realised it was my stag from the wood, the one with the golden antlers.

  I caught my breath. He stared at me, breathing hard. There were big dark patches on his flanks and I caught a rank whiff of his sweat. Then, still staring, he put out a foreleg and pawed deliberately at the empty bucket under the stopcock of the barrel, knocking it sideways.

  ‘You want some water?’ I whispered, not wanting to frighten him. The stag retreated a few paces. His ribs were heaving. ‘OK then. Hold on.’ Carefully I sidled along the wall to the bucket, watching him intently just as he watched me. Filling it from the butt, I swung it out into the open and backed off. The stag came forwards without hesitation, moving with all the unearthly grace of his species, and dipped his muzzle in the water, drinking greedily. Not for long though – all at once there came from over the other side of the house a sound of horns and the faint but insistent clamour of a pack of hounds. The stag’s head swung up and a rasping bellow came from his throat. Springing away, he disappeared into the moonlit shimmer.

  ‘Shit,’ said I. Then, ‘No you bloody don’t!’ and I ran back into the house, scrabbling through the junk on the kitchen table to get my phone. It’s complete bollocks, the myth that every country person is in favour of blood sports, and stag hunting in particular turns my stomach. It used to be very big up on the Devon moors; more recently it had become illegal. But when I grabbed the phone two things made me hesitate: I’d never heard of hunting with hounds at night, and it had suddenly occurred to me that if there was a clandestine hunt taking place on the estate then my employer could well be its instigator.

  As I stood there the belling of the hounds grew much louder, sweeping about the house, and with it came the thunder of hooves. Dark forms flickered past the windows. Stuffing my phone into my pocket I ran out of the house, not even stopping to shut the door. The noise and the figures of the rearmost riders were dwindling in the direction of the old orchard. I picked up my heels and ran after them.

  I’d slowed to a jog by the time I got to the apple trees and caught up with them though, partly because of the distance run and partly through caution. I could see a crowd of riders dressed in tweeds and dark-green hunting jackets milling about in a cluster. They were brandishing, of all things, the phosphorescent glow sticks that you get at concerts and parties, and the sickly greenish light lit them with an eerie glow. Moving as quietly as I could I hurried from tree to tree, closing in until I could see what was happening. Then I crouched in the long grass behind an apple bole, my heart hammering.

  The stag had come to halt and was standing at bay, pivoting in circles with his head down and antlers presented menacingly. All around him was a ring of hounds – great big ones with coarse white hair and reddish ears – who were snarling and yammering and looking for their chance, but every time one closed enough to snap at the stag’s haunches he would whirl faster than I’d have thought possible and slash at it, sending the dog tumbling back into the pack. The men and women on horseback were cheering and urging their animals on.

  I pulled out my phone with sweating hands, scanning the faces in the mob for Michael Deverick’s. It was hard to get a good look at them, though the general impression was of exactly the sort of country set I would have expected. Then one of the men, a big, paunchy, florid-faced one in a black jacket and cream jodhpurs, rode at the hounds, flailing with his whip and shouting. The dogs scattered, moving off from the stag as he cantered in a circle around the beast, which took a moment to stand and draw breath. The crowd, like the animals, fell gradually silent. When the master of hounds had done his job he walked his horse away and dismounted.

  Then another of the riders took centre stage, as she slipped down from her big bay and walked straight towards the stag. I stared at her, disbelieving. She’d been riding side-saddle and a split skirt draped her jodhpured legs. She was a tall blonde valkyrie of a woman, made taller by one of those weird little top hats with a veil you only ever see on riding displays. She approached the stag very calmly. He was obviously exhausted; he stood with legs splayed and trembling, his eyes rolling. But he didn’t retreat from her or offer her any threat. He stood stock-still as she reached out a hand, laying it between his horns. Gently she stroked his forehead. He shuddered all over, steam rising from his wet flanks. Softly she murmured to him and ran her hands all over his head, stroking his cheeks and ears and muzzle until he had relaxed, resting his head against her, his great golden antlers almost grazing her face. Still murmuring in soothing tones, she turned her head and nodded at the circle. The master of hounds stepped forwards again drawing something from his boot, but the stag, if he noticed him at all, did not react. He didn’t try to flee even when the man thrust the big knife through his neck and cut down, severing in a single stroke veins, arteries and windpipe.

  My stomach spasmed. The blood was bright, bright red and it went all over the woman’s legs and boots, steaming. She didn’t recoil. She held the stag’s head steady as his legs gave way and he folded to the floor. The dogs, as one, began to howl and the hunters joined in with horns and wild cheers.

  I was beside myself with disgust and rage. I began to stab at the keys on my phone with numb fingers, no longer caring that these were exactly the sort of people that a country constabulary would recoil from arresting. Then, without warning, arms went round me from behind, a hand went over my mouth and I was hauled to my feet and spun around. I nearly slithered out of my skin with shock. Whoever it was put his back to the tree trunk, holding me to his chest, facing out into the dark. For a moment we struggled, silently. He wasn’t trying to hurt me, but I was under no such restriction; I bit the hand clamped over my mouth and when he let go I jabbed my elbow into his ribs, hearing him gasp. His grip slackened enough for me to drop out of it, my T-shirt rucking up to my armpits. But he grabbed me again before I was out of arm’s reach and slammed me back against him, and this time he had the sense to get his hand under my chin, pinning my head back again his shoulder. ‘Avril!’ a voice hissed in my ear.

  It took the smell of wood smoke to tell me who it was. I’d seen little of Ash over the last few weeks; he seemed to have retreated deeper into the wood and was never at the camp when I called by. He did come around to my cottage every two or three evenings, usually very late when he felt safer leaving the wood, but he never stayed for more than a few minutes’ conversation. I had no idea whether he was looking out for me or checking up on me. ‘Shit!’ I rasped. ‘You’ve got to stop doing that!’

  ‘Would you rather it was someone else?’ His voice was tight with rage; I’d hurt him quite a bit I think. ‘Put the phone away for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘No! Piss off!’ I lifted it to my face, trying to make out the keys. ‘They cut his throat, Ash!’ I was trying to whisper, but it was coming out as a croak and only the horrible whooping of the hunters was masking my noise. ‘They hunted him down and cut his throat.’

  ‘I know.’ His lips were so close to my ear that I felt his voice as a vibration. ‘Avril. Avril, listen to me. It’s not real. The stag is not a real stag. The hunters are not real people. You can’t interfere.’

  For a moment I set my shoulders, resisting him. My eyes were wide, but the apple trees blurred and slipped as they filled with tears of frustration. ‘Not real?’

  ‘It’s Lughnasadh, Avril. This night the Summer King dies, like he does every year. He’s not really a stag, and they’re not really hunters. They’re not even human, that’s
just the way they look tonight. It’s their idea of a joke. It’s just a glamour.’

  ‘Not human?’ It had suddenly dawned upon me that even when I could hear the voices of the hunters I couldn’t make out any of the words.

  ‘They’re fay. And they don’t tolerate humans interfering with their rites, Avril. This is really dangerous here. We shouldn’t even be watching.’ Ash let go of my throat and wrapped his hand around mine, mashing all the phone keys at once.

  ‘Fay?’ I only seemed capable of the dumbest questions. ‘How do you know?’ That was another, and I didn’t wait for Ash to answer it. ‘The stag …?’

  ‘Dies tonight. He’ll reappear on May Day, having been reborn at midwinter.’ As I went limp Ash’s grip slackened very slightly, but he didn’t withdraw his arms. ‘Just leave them to it. There’s nothing to be done.’

  I fell quiet for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s that noise?’ The voices had dropped to a murmur, accompanied by an indefinable snuffling.

  ‘Ah … They’re eating him. He’s the first fruits of the harvest.’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’ I thought of lions I’d seen on wildlife programmes – their faces, as they lifted them from the belly of a felled wildebeest, painted red.

  ‘Are you OK now?’

  I didn’t answer. I’d become acutely aware that my T-shirt was still rucked up exposing my tits, and Ash’s forearm was tight beneath them. His body was hard against my back and both of us were still breathing raggedly. I had no idea how to define our relationship, or whether we could be said to have a relationship at all. All I knew as I stood pinned against him was that there was nothing in the least platonic about it. Our rough struggle had left my blood burning.

  With a hiss of pain or annoyance Ash let go of my phone and turned his palm up so that he could examine the damage I’d done to him. The bloody imprint of my teeth was clearly visible on the heel of his hand. Without a word I reached out and took the injured hand and placed it onto my right breast. I heard his breath catch. For a moment he cupped the orb, weighing its softness. His skin was a little cooler than mine and my nipple tightened dramatically against his palm and, as he felt this, he groaned out loud. Then he took his hand away and turned me to shove my back against the tree.

  ‘Avril, you …’

  I dropped my phone, my heart beating wildly. He pressed into me hard, his hands heavy on my upper arms, his face hovering over mine until I could taste the promise of his kiss.

  Then yet again that kiss was withheld, and I wanted to scream.

  ‘Please,’ I whispered, but in response Ash put his fingers over my mouth, very carefully this time. In this light it was impossible to read his distraught expression properly; it might have been rage or despair or desire, or all three. All I knew for sure was the hardness of his body as it pinned mine to the tree, so I parted my legs and he thrust one thigh between mine, pressing against my pubic mound. I couldn’t speak with my lips held captive like that, so I pushed my tongue out and ran it across his fingers, feeling the calluses. Ash’s eyes widened. He pushed harder against my pelvis, grinding his thigh from side to side, and I saw stars. I moaned against his hand.

  My own hands were still free. I slid them down his torso to his groin where our legs meshed and my right found the bulge of his cock, ascertaining at once that beneath those baggy army trousers he wasn’t wearing any underpants. I stroked him through the thick soft fabric and he clenched his teeth and retaliated, flexing the hard muscles of his thigh. I squirmed upon him and worked my mouth open and licked his fingers until he shook.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ he groaned. ‘Give me a chance will you, Avril.’

  No. No chance.

  ‘I can’t …’ he said, but what he couldn’t do was buried by what he could do, what he had to do, right now, with desire riding him like a demon. As my palm eagerly massaged the hidden length of his cock he bit my ear and surged against me.

  I hadn’t tried this in years, this frantic, furtive groping through layers of clothing that could not come off, not since I was a teenager. When it was no longer possible for him to deny that this was what was happening, that he was humping me on his leg and I was masturbating him through his trousers, then he let his hand fall from my mouth to my breast, capturing my nipple and rolling it cruelly. Cheek to cheek we panted, biting back our groans for fear of being overheard. He kissed my neck and licked at my throat. I felt like I was so open he’d be able to get his knee inside me, but as he started to come it was his hand he forced between his leg and my crotch, rubbing me off with his strong fingers as he went over the edge, so that I fell into the void after him.

  It seemed to me as I came that in the gloom beyond his shoulder there were wicked red eyes leering at us and the glint of moonlight on needle teeth, but I was so surrendered to my pleasure that I paid them no mind.

  When we came to we were alone. I mean, really alone. The sounds of the sacrificial rite behind me had gone. For a moment I rested against Ash’s shoulder, my lips on his throat, feeling his pulse. He stroked the hair back behind my ears, wordless. When he released me and stumbled away into the night I turned to look, but there was no sign of any slaughter having taken place under the old orchard trees, not even a circle of trampled grass. Not even the remains of a dead stag. Where the body had lain was only a spill of early windfall apples, already rotting and perfuming the air with the reek of cider.

  8: Running with the Fox

  MICHAEL RANG FROM the motorway. ‘I’ll be with you in about an hour or so. Wear something nice, and a coat – we’ll go to the coast.’

  Even the sound of his voice made a shiver run down my spine and my nipples tighten. I stared out at the night pressing in on the window. I’d dreaded and raged against and fantasised about this call. I’d lain awake in the dark begging for it. Now my throat seemed filled with glue. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s try something really unusual.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘How about you come over and spend the night?’ There was no chance of Ash showing up this evening; I hadn’t seen him since the Lughnasadh hunt, having pissed him off once too often, perhaps. Both men had marooned me, and only throwing myself into my work had kept me from going crazy with frustration. ‘No tricks, no audience, no nasty surprises.’ No one ending up in the hospital emergency ward, I might have added, but my mind refused to bring Mr Dunster into focus. ‘Just sex, all night.’

  ‘Sounds kinky. I’ll try anything once.’ But when he arrived on my doorstep an hour later there was a woman with him. At least, it looked like a woman at first.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I demanded.

  Michael leant casually against the door so that she could slip past me. She was short – only up to my shoulder – and slight, with long black hair that looked like it had just come out of a swimming pool. ‘This is … Jenny. You can call her that.’ He stalked into the hallway. ‘I found her by the pond.’

  ‘What are you playing at?’ I was wearing only a light silk dressing gown, which I wrapped around me self-consciously as I followed them back into the house. ‘Did you hear a single bloody word I said?’

  ‘Oh, I heard.’ Michael stood in the middle of my living-room floor. Jenny had climbed onto one end of the sofa and was watching us from under hooded lids. She was wearing a dark-green slip dress which seemed to be wringing wet even though I was certain it wasn’t raining out there. ‘You are extremely clear about the things you want. You’d like nice, fun, discreet sex with someone you like, who’ll treat you with respect and never ever interfere with the rest of your life. Am I right?’

  My jaw sagged. ‘So why do you go out of your way to do just the opposite?’

  Michael gave an infuriating smirk. ‘Do I?’

  ‘You know you do.’

  ‘And do you enjoy that bad sex with me?’

  ‘I hate it.’ My voice didn’t carry much conviction.

  ‘So much that you can’t wait for the next time. So much that you’d get on your hands and knees and beg for it i
f I told you to. You’re wet right now, and all I’ve done is walk into the house.’ He walked around me, hands in his pockets, and I couldn’t refute him. ‘What does that tell you about what you really want, Avril? What does that tell you about your rules?’

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

  ‘The barriers are all in your mind, Avril. You don’t need to fear what’s on the other side. All I’m doing is helping you break out.’

  ‘Right. They used to have a word for that.’

  ‘Liberation?’

  ‘Corruption.’

  He laughed appreciatively. ‘Look on the bright side: a few centuries back I’d have been getting you to kiss a goat’s arse.’

  No shit, I thought. And I’ve bet you’ve done it. ‘I’d rather stick to my comfort zone,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s comfortable. That’s the point.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you felt at home anywhere in the world? If you could do anything, without guilt or fear?’

  ‘That’s your ambition. I’ve got no plans to be a magus.’

  ‘Really?’ He tilted his head. ‘That’s a pity, because I think you’ve got a certain potential.’

  ‘Bet you say that to all the girls.’

  He laughed. I didn’t look at him. Jenny had my attention, and he noticed that. ‘Ever fucked a woman?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s not a woman.’ She had a delicate face that ran down to incongruously pouty lips, but the bone structure was just wrong. And her eyes, as green as pondweed, had no pupils; they were completely green. As she lifted her head they reflected the light like the eyes of cats in the dark. I suppressed a shiver. ‘That one’s not human.’

  ‘Close enough for our purposes. Just don’t let her kiss your face. Have you ever been into girls, Avril?’ He put his hand on the nape of my neck and drew his fingers all the way down my back.