Jon McGregor - Reservoir 13

Martin Fowler was working at the meat counter in the new supermarket when those two from the caravan showed up. They met him round at the loading bay on his cigarette break, and a few nights later they all went hunting together. It didn’t go well. There was some disagreement about which way they should head, and what they were after, and in general there was too much talking for Martin’s comfort. He wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for the knives. He owed them something. The evening was clear and still. They set off around midnight, down over the packhorse bridge and across the hill towards the high moorland beyond the Stone Sisters. There had been drinking. Martin had been careful to pace himself but he wasn’t sure about the others. They were carrying a backpack each, and a lamp, and Ray had a gun in a long black bag. They’d asked him along to do the dressing. This one made a right bloody mess of it last time, Flint said, and Ray had nodded cheerfully. Fair cop, he said. Not my thing. I’m a shooter. There’d been a moment, in the caravan, when Martin had realised there was no licence for the gun. This could have been a moment to leave, but he’d stayed. It took an hour to get beyond the Stone Sisters, and another hour to reach the first clough at the edge of the moor, which Flint had insisted would be the best place to start. They were after a deer, apparently, although Ray had said that if that didn’t work out they could just go for rabbits or hares or grouse. Basically, he’d said, if it moves, we kill it. Martin was fairly sure they weren’t going to see anything with the noise they were making. This was partly his justification for coming along; that no harm was likely to arise. His evenings were long sometimes. It was good to have something to do. The three of them sat in surprising silence for half an hour, the ramshackle incoherence of the evening transformed into concentration and poise, and when Flint finally turned on the lamp Martin wasn’t completely surprised to see a small group of deer standing a hundred yards away. They had a look of interruption. They’d been grazing on the heather and were now staring into the light, blankly curious. Martin held his breath. He heard a rustle as Ray brought the gun to his shoulder. Five of the six deer scattered. The sixth turned its head and tensed to run and was knocked from its feet by the first of Ray’s shots. Martin had been too close to Ray when the gun went off, so he didn’t hear what was said as Flint started running towards the deer, which was even now lunging to its feet, a piece of its foreshoulder torn away. The light swung wildly as Flint raced across the heather and then the gun went off again, closer yet to Martin’s head, and the light went dark as Flint threw himself to the ground. In the whistling silence Martin could just make out the deer, careering lopsidedly towards the lower end of the clough, and Ray bending over Flint to shout something before hurtling in a high-stepped gallop across the heather, his gun held over his head. Martin sat and watched while Flint got to his feet and brushed himself off, uplit by the grounded lamp. There was a ringing sound as his hearing came back. Flint appeared to be checking himself for blood. Somewhere over the hill they heard another shot. Martin headed home. At the weir a heron speared suddenly into the water, its body wriggling on long straight legs, and came up empty-beaked. It shook its head, twice, and resumed waiting. There were springtails in the compost heap in Mr Wilson’s garden, and in the morning Nelson sat watching while they leapt and popped from the surface. A steady rain began to fall and fell unchanging through the day. At the quarry great pieces of limestone slab were being craned into trucks and driven out to the main road, dozens of loads a day, the truck engines grinding under the strain. Somewhere a lot of building was being done.

In November it rained for so long that the cricket field turned into a bog and the bonfire display was called off. The fieldfares retreated from the fields beside the church and fed beneath the hawthorn hedges. At midday Jones left the school and fetched two pies from the shop. At home his sister was waiting for him behind the front door and she told him the police had been round. They took the computer, she said. She was doing that thing with her hands, as though rubbing some dirt away. I was halfway through doing an online survey and they wouldn’t let me finish, she said. He asked if she’d made the tea and she said of course. She asked why they’d taken the computer and he told her they would just check it was all working okay. He told her it would be returned soon. Nothing to worry about, he said. But will they read my Facebook? I don’t want them reading my Facebook. Stephanie was so cross with those comments I made on her hiking pictures. Do you think she reported me? Do you think I’m in trouble? He told her he didn’t think she was in trouble. He told her not to worry. He said he might have to go away for a few days. He took the newspaper through to the toilet and when he came back she’d warmed the pies and laid out their lunches on trays. They carried them through to the lounge and sat in front of the television. There were pictures of bush fires in Australia. What will they do with the computer? she asked. They’ll just check it, love. He ate his lunch and carried his tray through to the kitchen, and when he was done he said he was heading back to the school. He asked if she’d be all right. She nodded. He asked if she had anyone coming round and she looked up at him suddenly, and asked why would she have. She was frightened. No reason, he said, I just wondered. What do you think happened to that missing girl? Christ, Susan, who knows? What? Anything could have happened. It was years ago. Poor kid. They’re not going to find her now. Why are you asking about her? This has got nothing to do with the missing girl. What’s got nothing to do with the girl? she asked. What is this? Susan, it’s nothing. There was nothing. He put his boots back on and as he opened the door she called his name. She had that voice again. He asked what she wanted. She said she was scared. He told her it was okay. He told her he’d be home in time for tea. He heard her crying as he closed the door. There were days he could pull the place down with his bare hands. But what would she do. He was to play the cards he’d been dealt. Promises had been made. He walked quickly along the main street to the school, and when he got there two detectives in plain clothes asked if they could search the boilerhouse. He nodded, and rolled a cigarette. They took his laptop computer away. Late the next day Cathy Harris went to the Clarks’ with an early Christmas card for Richard, before he went away for work again. She wanted him to know what affection remained. He was pleased to see her and he couldn’t bear to see her, and as she hovered on the doorstep his mother called her in. The three of them stood in the kitchen and his mother said what a delight it was to see Cathy again. It had been too long, she said; Cathy should come over for dinner. Richard filled the kettle and fetched down the tea mugs. He didn’t know what he could do to make things the way he wanted them to be. He didn’t know why he was even thinking about this when he was seeing someone else. Cathy was going to spend Christmas in Manchester, with Anthony. He didn’t understand why she wanted him to know. His mother had a small television on the kitchen counter, and on the local news there was a report of a man in court on child-pornography charges. The reporter mentioned the missing girl, and from the corner of his eye Richard saw Cathy put a hand on his mother’s arm. A police officer was shown saying the case was unconnected to the missing girl. There was a shot of a man being led into the court building, and the sweater pulled over his head wasn’t enough to keep them from seeing that the man was Jones.