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  DIE LIKE A DOG

  Gwen Moffat

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781445824635

  Copyright © Gwen Moffat 1982

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  SPACE BELOW MY FEET

  TWO STAR RED

  ON MY HOME GROUND

  SURVIVAL COUNT

  HARD ROAD WEST

  Fiction

  LADY WITH A COOL EYE

  DEVIANT DEATH

  THE CORPSE ROAD

  MISS PINK AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  HARD OPTION

  A SHORT TIME TO LIVE

  OVER THE SEA TO DEATH

  PERSONS UNKNOWN

  THE BUCKSKIN GIRL

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 1

  SUNLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH young oak leaves and the foxglove bells to lie for one moment, dappled and immobile, along the blue barrels of a gun.

  The barrels moved fractionally and the sunlight flashed.

  ‘He’s seen that,’ Dewi whispered. ‘Get him now!’

  Bart fired, paused, and fired again. The bodies of the crows fell in the bracken. One fluttered. Dewi slipped out of cover and wrung its neck. The boys looked down at the corpses and smiled, then raised their eyes to the nest.

  ‘Joss is going to love you,’ Dewi said. ‘This old pair has lived on fledglings. Shall us knock down that nest?’

  ‘You’d better. Otherwise another pair may come and use it.’

  Dewi climbed the tree like a cat. He stopped below the nest and looked back.

  ‘It’s hairy out to the side. The branches is too thin for me weight.’

  ‘Pull it down,’ Bart called, grinning, and moved away.

  ‘And up yours! There’s three seasons’ shit and fleas in this nest, man.’

  ‘You’ll have to come down for a stick.’

  ‘To hell with that.’

  Dewi inched sideways with caution and peered over the edge of the nest.

  ‘Four eggs. Shall us have an om’lette?’

  ‘Get your skates on, man!’

  The oaks in the hanging wood were very old. The boy crept a little higher, then leaned sideways and nudged the nest with his foot. Dry twigs fell away and a little dust hung in the golden air. He coughed, balanced himself carefully and levered with his toe. The nest teetered. He gave it a good kick. There was a loud crack, a cry – and nest, branch and boy came hurtling to the ground.

  The thud was shocking. Bart crept over, his eyes and mouth wide, the shotgun loose in one hand. Dewi sat up, gasping for breath, shaking, very white. Bart stared, speechless. Their eyes locked and the shock seeped away to be replaced by incredulous glee. Bart giggled, and reaction came with a crescendo of hysteria until Dewi was rolling on his belly shrieking: ‘Stop! Christ, stop! It hurts.’

  Bart sobered immediately. ‘You cracked a rib?’

  ‘Just sore. Only – you’re making it worse. How – far did I go? Forty feet?’

  ‘Never!’ Bart squinted upwards and decided his mate deserved the exaggeration. ‘Just on forty. Man, you should have broke every bone in your body!’

  ‘That’s how it feels.’

  Dewi staggered to his feet and went white again. He tested his legs warily, then glanced up at a sound.

  ‘Here’s Joss.’

  A young, stocky man was dropping down through the bracken. His bare chest shone with sweat above faded jeans and old climbing boots. His red curls were cropped as short as the lads’ hair but where they were not yet fully grown, he was in his prime physically: in his late twenties, all bone and muscle with not an ounce of fat to spare. On the cluttered slope of the wood he moved with the swift confidence of an animal. Now he halted and fixed them with a bright stare.

  ‘You bloody fools!’

  Bart, waiting for the first words, collapsed in renewed hysteria, pointing at Dewi: ‘You – should have – seen him . . .’ He gestured to the top of the oak, the fallen nest. For the first time the boys caught sight of the broken eggs and they went into fresh paroxysms, swaying towards each other blindly.

  ‘The gun!’ the man shouted. ‘Give me the gun!’

  ‘It’s not loaded,’ Bart whispered, relinquishing it.

  Joss Lloyd broke the gun and said grudgingly, with a glance at the dead crows: ‘You got them with two barrels then.’

  ‘I did.’ Bart could hardly speak but he was smug.

  ‘Great. But with the row you been making you scared the pine marten off for good. I saw it again last night. Why didn’t you come and tell me you were going after crows?’

  The boys regarded each other in consternation, and in that silence they all became aware of something approaching through the wood. They tensed and pointed like dogs. In the green, sun-dappled distance dark shadows leapt and fell in the undergrowth.

  ‘It’s him,’ Bart said, and handed a pocketful of cartridges to Lloyd who looked at them, at the boys, and lifted his lip like a wolf. He loaded the gun and said softly: ‘It’s quite an idea ...’ as if responding to a suggestion.

  A horse was lunging through the trees, hooves pounding baked soil. The three waited, like men on their own ground, Lloyd with the shotgun half-raised, his face empty of expression. Bart said meaningly: ‘There’ll be more convenient times,’ and Lloyd shot him a look of astonishment.

  A huge black Alsatian burst into view, alien in that sylvan setting. Another, lighter, fawn and grey, halted behind the first, looking over its shoulder. Above the dogs, cantering along a narrow path, came a heavy man on a big bay horse. He wore a hard hat, and below it pale eyes were set either side of a jutting beak of a nose. He dropped to a walk and approached slowly while the dogs stood off from the group and snarled. Lloyd watched the black one, the barrels of the gun pointing at its chest.

  The horse stopped. The big man looked from the dead crows to the gun, to the boy Bart.

  ‘You’re under age,’ he said.

  Bart blinked. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Saw you enter the wood, carrying a gun.’

  Lloyd glanced casually at the lad. ‘What gun?’

  Bart shrugged and looked at Dewi whose expression was blank and quite stupid.

  ‘Sticks,’ Bart suggested. ‘We was carrying sticks, Mr Judson. For the snakes, see.’

  Richard Judson’s face would always be florid but now it flushed dangerously. He eased himself in the saddle. The black dog took a step forward eagerly.

  ‘Get back, damn you!’ Judson shouted, and then, viciously: ‘You took it off them, Lloyd. That’s his mother’s gun.’

  Joss Lloyd looked at the dogs, the horse, and then, thoughtfully, into the wood. His gaze returned to Judson, calculating. Judson smiled.

  ‘Loaded?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Yes, it’s loaded. For more vermin.’

  Without actually hearing
it through the whispering of the leaves they all observed the other’s slight intake of breath. The boys watched avidly.

  ‘This path needs some maintenance,’ Judson said. ‘Navvy’s work, pick and shovel stuff. I’ll have a word with the Trust –’

  ‘Dogs is off,’ Dewi interrupted, staring after the Alsatians The brindled one was after a rabbit, the other loping in the rear.

  Judson hesitated, then went on, casually: ‘Those dogs are capable of killing a man.’

  ‘They’re going to be shot,’ Dewi said morosely, and gaped at Judson like an idiot. ‘Folks’ll kill anything as moves, Mr Judson – sir. These tenant farmers: all the same, shoot anything as moves.’ He glowered and scuffled his feet in the grass.

  ‘If anyone shoots my dogs –’Judson began, and checked himself as he caught the gleam of amusement in Bart’s eyes.

  ‘You keep quiet,’ the lad told Dewi, and turned back to Judson. ‘No one’s going to shoot your dogs,’ he said earnestly. ‘No one’s going to be hauled up in front of the Bench – before you, sir – and charged with shooting your valuable dogs. What’s a few sheep savaged?’ He gestured towards the valley. ‘Them’s peasants. Life’s cheap to peasants.’

  His expression was nauseating in its contempt and Judson smiled, enjoying himself with the cocky little bastards.

  ‘And the more degenerate of ’em, the mental defectives, who couldn’t reason that far, wouldn’t care about the fine because there’s plenty more money next week, eh? In the dole queue, Social Security –’ he flicked at a fly with his crop, ‘– Mam whoring with the hired help –’ he paused but their faces were like basilisks, ‘– and plenty more dogs where these came from, and cheap at the price, considering. We used man traps in the old days; I don’t know that a dog wouldn’t inflict even worse damage on a man – before he tore the throat out.’

  Lloyd’s nostrils were pinched and he blinked, his eyes closed for too long, as if he were trying to conceal his thoughts. Judson studied his face.

  ‘Have you found time to fix that lavatory yet?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Yes.’ Lloyd seemed mesmerised. He rubbed the back of his neck. Judson sat tall on his big horse.

  ‘Good. I don’t want one of my cottages swimming in human excrement, do I?’

  Dewi’s jaw dropped. He said stupidly: ‘It’s all right in your own place, is it?’

  The horse plunged and wheeled, its shoulder, or Judson’s boot, striking Lloyd who was sent reeling into the trunk of a birch. The slash of the riding crop on empty air was lost in the report of the gun. The boys had flung themselves sideways out of harm’s way and while Judson fought his terrified mount they were looking wildly to see where the shot had gone.

  Judson was a good horseman and a strong one. He got the gelding under control and held it on the path, stamping and sweating. The boys had drawn close to Lloyd and neither looked innocent now, nor stupid, but their mouths were a little stretched, almost but not quite grinning. Lloyd looked shocked.

  ‘You can leave this valley under your own steam,’ Judson said flatly, ‘or pushed. I’ll have you out within the week.’

  Lloyd said, in a high voice: ‘If this gun had gone off when it was pointing at you, there were two witnesses to testify it was an accident.’

  Judson’s eyebrows rose. ‘These? You’re out of your mind. The word of three yobos against the magistrate’s?’

  ‘But if the gun had gone off and hit you, by accident –’ Lloyd stressed it with a fierce grin, ‘– you wouldn’t be saying anything, would you?’

  ‘He threatened me.’ Judson smiled grimly. ‘This bread’s none too fresh.’

  Gladys Judson suppressed a sigh.

  ‘It’s baking day; there’ll be fresh rolls tonight. Which one threatened you?’

  He paused, considering. She put down her coffee cup, dabbed her lips with her napkin and waited a moment, her plain, good-natured face registering polite interest, her eyes going over the table. She was wondering if he had finished his luncheon. From the walls of the dim dining room undistinguished portraits stared down at them.

  ‘Called me vermin.’ His eyes danced. ‘That was Lloyd. Shooting me was his threat; shooting the dogs was the boys’ suggestion, but it’s Lloyd would shoot the dogs, you know. He’s the leader ... why, of course he’s the leader, he’s a man. The others are only youths.’ His fist hit the table and the silver leapt. ‘This is – the – whole – point: those two boys are nothing more than that: boys. Until this fella comes along and – and corrupts them! He’ll have every lad in the valley in his pocket once they hear about this morning – but he won’t if I have my way – and I shall. He’s leaving.’

  ‘Oh. Lloyd is leaving? I didn’t know.’

  ‘I’m evicting him.’

  ‘Can you do that, dear?’

  ‘My cottage, isn’t it? Yes, I know it’s on lease. When I said evicting I didn’t mean legally, but then this little problem isn’t going to court.’ His voice dropped. ‘I can’t stand him: feckless, insolent ... This valley isn’t big enough for him and me; he’s going, no question about that. I’ll think of some way.’ He cocked an eye at his wife, sitting patiently, waiting to clear. ‘Would you say he was on drugs?’

  ‘No, not drugs.’

  ‘No. He’s very fond of those boys though. And it’s reciprocated, that’s obvious. Do they spend much time together in his cottage, d’you know? My cottage?’

  She swallowed. ‘You’re in the woods more often than me, Richard.’

  ‘True.’ He slumped in his chair, then brightened. ‘That’s his complaint against me, would you believe it! Says the horse ruins the paths, and the dogs drive the wildlife away. Wildlife! That damn wood’s a sanctuary for vermin.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have leased it to the Trust.’

  ‘I needed the money and that slope’s no good unless I cut down the hardwoods and plant spruce. All the same, I’ve still got the right of way through it; that’s what drives Lloyd mad. He can’t stop me, nor the dogs. You know, my dear, we’ve got the edge on them. Any fella, however thick he is, will think twice before he fires a gun at a man, but a dog don’t think; a good dog is a killing machine, and ours are the best. I saw to that when I bought ’em.’

  Down in the village George Waring of the Bridge Hotel, not content that a gourmet had chosen to spend a week at his pub, was gilding the lily. Complimented on his food, he went into a patter calculated to impress a lady who carried The Times, enjoyed a glass of real ale, and whose coarse grey hair had been tapered by a master.

  ‘... Scotch beef and salmon,’ he was reciting with relish, ‘all the vegetables home-grown, all the eggs and poultry free-range, and the pork and veal.’

  ‘Really?’ exclaimed Miss Pink. ‘But wasted unless your chef can cook.’

  ‘Mrs Banks is superlative. A great character, our Lucy. You’ll be meeting her; you’ll meet everyone in this bar.’

  Miss Pink looked around. The recession had hit Wales hard and those tourists who were on the road this lovely day were obviously saving their pounds for the evening’s drinking.

  ‘We’re always slack at midday,’ Waring said easily. ‘They’ll all be in tonight.’ He lowered his voice. ‘This is what I like about Wales: the total absence of class. No matter who he is, he comes in here, in my saloon bar, and providing he’s neat and he’s had a wash after work – they don’t all have bathrooms, you know, in this day and age! No baths! No doubt they’d put the coal in it but there you are – so long as they’ve washed, I’ll serve them. They all rub shoulders together: the council roadman, the coalman, farmers, tourists –’ Suddenly he became off-hand. ‘I’ve had two Rolls Royces in that forecourt – and the owners talking to the villagers just like ordinary people.’

  ‘Really?’ Miss Pink’s eyes slid away. A woman had opened the door behind him: a slim, pale blonde with her hair in a pleat at the back of her head. Her face was enamelled rather than made-up, the lips carefully outlined, eyebrows plucked to arches, rouge shading
high cheekbones. Her eyes were large and blue, their colour echoed in her sleeveless dress. She held a white bag and gloves.

  Waring introduced her as his wife and Miss Pink repeated her compliments on her luncheon. The woman smiled absently. At that moment the light dimmed a little as if a cloud had passed across the sun. Mrs Waring’s eyes widened. Someone was passing the windows of the bar.

  A man entered, removing an old deerstalker.

  ‘Afternoon, Anna. Waring. Afternoon, ma’am.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Judson.’ The publican’s voice was too loud in the empty room. Anna Waring’s face was suddenly pink.

  ‘Going into town, Anna?’ the newcomer asked. ‘I’ll run you in. Back for tea. That all right?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ The full mouth quivered.

  Waring put a tankard of beer in front of Judson. ‘Sixty pence,’ he said heavily, and inhaled through his nose. He had side-whiskers trimmed to the shape of mutton chops. Fascinated, Miss Pink watched as a bead of sweat dropped from his eyebrow to slip down the arc of a whisker and be caught by a furtive tongue.

  ‘A warm day,’ Judson told Miss Pink pleasantly.

  ‘Beautiful. But you’ll be needing rain.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He took in the large, solid body in cream linen, the sensible sandals. ‘You’ll be a gardener, ma’am.’

  She admitted it, her eyes friendly behind thick spectacles.

  ‘I’m Richard Judson,’ he said, without so much as a glance at Waring standing silently a few feet away. His wife had retreated through the door which evidently led to the kitchen.

  Miss Pink introduced herself. ‘The valley looks lush enough,’ she said, making conversation, ‘at least, here on the meadows.’

  He shook his head. ‘The water’s too low for the fishing ...’

  She went to her room and changed into a well-washed pair of jeans and an Aertex shirt. Picking up an anorak she crossed to the window. Her room looked down a sloping lawn to the river and there was no sign of any other building. The village of Dinas had grown up at a point where a long glen came into the main valley, and the inn had been built on the fringe of the community, beside the bridge over the big river. Miss Pink looked outwards from the village then, up the side combe, but she could see very little of that for the trees.