The Animal-Lover's Book of Beastly Murder (19 page)

Every night that Roland could go out unobserved, he fed Harry, and usually once during the day too. The few nights Harry did not turn up, Roland supposed he was hunting rabbits or moles. Harry was wild, yet not wild, tame, yet not reliably tame, Roland knew. Roland also realized that he didn’t dare think too much about what Harry had done. Roland preferred to think that Antoine had died from a heart attack. Or—if Roland ever thought of Harry as a murderer, he put it in the same realm of fantasy as the murders in the books he read, real yet not real. It was not true that he was guilty, or Harry either.

Roland liked best to imagine Harry as his secret weapon, better than a gun. Secret because no one knew about him, though Roland intended to tell Stefan. Roland had fantasies of using Harry to kill a certain mathematics professor whom he detested in his lycée. Roland was in the habit of writing letters to Stefan, and he wrote Stefan the story of Harry killing Antoine, in fiction form. “You may not believe this story, Stefan,” Roland wrote at the end, “but I swear it is true. If you care to check with the police, you will find that Antoine has disappeared!”

Stefan wrote back: “I don’t believe a word of your ferret story, obviously inspired by Antoine walking out, and who wouldn’t if they had to wait on you? However it is mildly amusing. Got any more stories?”

Goat Ride

B
illy the goat was the main attraction at Playland Amusement Park, and Billy himself was the most amused—not the children or their parents who fished out endless quarters and dimes, after having paid the one-dollar-fifty admission for themselves and seventy-five cents per child. Hank Hudson’s Playland wasn’t cheap, but it was the only place of amusement for kids in or around the town.

Screams and cheers went up when Billy, pulling his gold and white cart, made his entry every evening around seven. Any president of the United States would have been heartened by such a roar from his adherents, and it put fire into Billy too. All sinew and coarse white hair, brushed to perfection by Mickie, Billy started on the gallop, dashed past a white rail fence against which children and adults pressed themselves out of his way and at the same time urged him on with “Hurrahs!” and “Ooooohs!” of admiration. The run was to take a little froth off Billy’s energy, as well as to alert the crowd that Billy was ready for business. Back at the start of the Goat Ride, Billy skidded to a halt on polished hooves, hardly breathing faster but snorting for effect. The ride cost twenty-five cents for adult or child, and Billy’s cart could take four kids, or two adults, plus Mickie who drove. Mickie, a redheaded boy whom Billy quite liked, rode in front on a bench.

“Gee up!” Mickie would say, slapping the reins on Billy’s back, and off Billy would go, head down at first till he got the cart going, then head up and trotting, looking from side to side for mischief or handouts of ice cream and caramel popcorn which he was ever ready to pause for. Mickie wielded a little whip, more for show than service, and the whip didn’t hurt Billy at all. Billy understood when Hank yelled at Mickie that Hank wanted them to get on with the ride in order to take on the next batch of customers. The Goat Ride had a course round the shooting gallery, through the crowd between the merry-go-round and the ice cream and popcorn stands, round the stand where people threw balls at prizes, making a big figure eight which Billy covered twice. If Mickie’s whip didn’t work, Hank would come over and give Billy a kick in the rump to tear him away from a popcorn or peanut bag. Billy would kick back, but his hooves hit the cart rather than Hank. Still it was seldom that Billy could call himself tired, even at the end of a hard weekend. And if the next day was a day when the park was closed, and he was tied to his stake with nothing to butt, no crowds to cheer him, Billy would dig his horns into the grass he had already cropped. He had a crooked left horn which could tear into the ground, giving Billy satisfaction.

One Sunday, Hank Hudson and another man approached the post at the start of the Goat Ride, and Hank held his hands out palms down, a signal to Mickie to stop everything. The man had a little girl with him who was hopping up and down with excitement. Hank was talking, and slapped Billy’s shoulder, but the little girl didn’t dare touch Billy until her father took one of his horns in his hand. Ordinarily Billy would have jerked his head, because people loved to laugh and turn loose before they were thrown off their balance. But Billy was curious now, and continued chewing the remains of a crunchy ice cream cone, while his gray-blue eyes with their horizontal pupils gazed blandly at the little girl who was now stroking his forelock. The four kids in Billy’s cart clamored to get started.

Hank was taking lots of paper money from the man. Hank kept his back to the main part of the crowd, and he counted the money carefully. Hank Hudson was a tall man with a big stomach and a broad but flat behind which once or twice Billy had butted. He wore a Western hat, cowboy boots, and buff-colored trousers whose belt sloped down in front under his paunch. He had a wet pink mouth with two rabbit-like front teeth, and small blue eyes. Now his wife Blanche joined the group and watched. She was plump with reddish-brown hair. Billy never paid much attention to her. When Hank had pocketed the money, he told Mickie to get on with the ride, and Billy started off. Billy did his usual twelve or fifteen rides that evening, but at closing time he was not led back to his stable.

Mickie unhitched Billy near the entrance gate, and Billy was tugged towards a pick-up whose back hatch was open.

“Go on, git in theah, Billy!” Hank shouted, giving Billy a kick to show he meant business.

Mickie was pulling from the front. “Come on, Billy! Bye-bye, Billy boy!”

Billy clattered up the board they had put as a ramp, and the hatch was banged shut. The car started off, and there was a long bumpy ride, but Billy kept his balance easily. He looked around in the darkness at whizzing trees, a few houses that he could see whenever there was a streetlight. Finally the car stopped in a driveway beside a big house, and Billy was untied and pulled—he had to jump—down to the ground. A young woman came out of the house and patted Billy, smiling. Then Billy was led—he let himself be led mainly because he was curious—towards a lean-to against the garage. Here was a pan of water, and the woman brought another pan of a vegetable and lettuce mish-mash that tasted quite good.

Billy would have liked a gallop, just to see how big the place was and to sample some of the greenery, but the man had tied him up. The man spoke kindly, patted his neck, and went into the house, where the lights soon went out.

The next morning, the man drove off in his car, and then the woman and the little girl came out. Billy was taken for a sedate walk on a rope. Billy pranced and leapt, full of energy but content to stay on the rope until he realized that the woman was taking him back to the lean-to. Billy dashed forward, head down, felt the rope leave the woman’s hands, and then he galloped and rammed his horns, not too hard, against the trunk of a small tree.

The little girl shrieked with pleasure.

Billy’s rope caught under a white iron bench, and he made circles around the bench until there was no more rope left, then butted the bench, knocked it over, and tossed his head. He liked making his bells ring, and he looked gaily at the woman and the little girl who were running towards him.

The woman picked up his rope. She seemed to be a little afraid of him. Then much to Billy’s annoyance, she tied the end of the rope to a nearby stone statue. The statue, which looked like a small fat boy eating something, stood by a little rock pond. Billy was alone. He looked all around him, ate some grass which was delicious but already cut rather short. He was bored. There was no one in sight now, nothing moving except an occasional bird, and one squirrel which stared at him for a moment, then disappeared. Billy tugged at his rope, but the rope held. He knew he could chew through the rope, but the task struck him as distasteful, so he made a good run from the statue and was jerked back and thrown to the ground. Billy was on his legs at once, prancing higher than ever as he assessed the problem.

Billy took another run and this time put his back into it, chin whiskers brushing the ground. A solid weight struck his chest—he was wearing his harness—and behind him he heard a
crack!
then a
plop!
as the statue fell into the water. Billy galloped on, delayed hardly at all as his plunging legs hauled the statue over the brim of the pond. Billy went on through hedges, over stone paths where the statue gave out more
cracks!
and became ever lighter behind him. He found some flowers and paused to refresh himself. At this point, he heard running feet, and turned his head to see the woman of the house plus a boy of about Mickie’s age coming towards him.

The woman seemed very upset. The boy untied the rope from the remnant of statue, and Billy was tugged firmly back towards the lean-to. Then the woman handed the boy a big iron spike which the boy banged into the ground with a hammer. Billy’s rope was then tied to the spike.

The boy smiled and said, “There you go, Billy!”

They went away.

A day or so passed, and Billy became more bored. He chewed through part of his rope, then abandoned the project, knowing he would only be tied up again if he were walking around free. Billy was well fed, but he would have preferred Playland Amusement Park with its noise and people, pulling his cart with four passengers plus Mickie, to being tied to a stick doing nothing. Once the man put the little girl astride Billy’s back, but the man held the rope so short, it was no fun for Billy. Billy shied at something, the little girl slid off—and that seemed to be the end of his giving her rides.

One afternoon a rather large black dog came loping on to the lawn, saw Billy and started barking and nipping at him. This infuriated Billy, because the dog seemed to be laughing at him. Billy lowered his head and bounded forward, determined to pull up the iron stake, but the rope broke, which was even better. Now the dog was on the run, and Billy bore down at full speed. The dog went round the corner of the greenhouse. Billy cut the corner close, and there was a shattering of glass as one of his horns hit a pane. Blind with rage, Billy attacked the greenhouse for no reason—except that it made a satisfying sound.

Crash!—Bang!
—Clatter-tinkle! and again
Crash!

The dog nipped at Billy’s heels, yapping, and Billy kicked and missed. The goat charged the dog, his hooves thundering on the lawn. The dog, a streak of black, disappeared off the property and headed down a street. Billy went after him, but stopped after a few yards, feeling that he had routed his enemy. Billy upturned the nearest hedge for the hell of it, gave a snort and shook himself so his bells jingled like a full orchestra. Then he trotted up the street with his head high, in the general direction of his own lawn. But some flowers by a gate attracted him. There was a scream from one of the houses. Billy moved off at once.

More shouts and yells.

Then a policeman’s whistle. Billy was rudely taken in hand by the policeman who jerked him by horn and harness, and then whacked him on the haunch with his nightstick. In retaliation, Billy rammed the policeman in the belly and had the pleasure of seeing the man roll on the ground in agony. Then four or five boys jumped on Billy and threw him onto his side. Much noise, yelling and dragging—and Billy was back on the lawn where the iron stick was, and the broken greenhouse. Billy stood foursquare, breathing hard, glaring at everyone.

That evening, the man of the house loaded Billy on to the pick-up, and tied him so securely he could not lie down. Billy recognized from afar the cheerful cymbal clashes and the booms of the merry-go-round’s music. They were back at Playland!

Mickie ran up smiling. “Hey, Billy! Back again!”

Hank wasn’t smiling. He stood talking solemnly with the man, pulling his underlip and shaking his head. The man looked sad too, as he went away back to his car. That very evening Billy was harnessed to his cart and made nearly a dozen rounds before closing time. There was much laughter from Mickie and Hank as they put Billy into his stable that night and fed him. Billy was already quite full of hot dogs and popcorn.

“
Billy!
. . . There’s
Billy
back!” The yells from the crowd echoed in Billy’s ears as he fell asleep in his old straw bed.
Some
people in the world liked him.

Billy slipped into his old routine, which wasn’t at all bad, he thought. At least it wasn’t boring. In the daytime, five days a week, he could wander over the deserted grounds where there wasn’t much grass but a good many remnants of hot dog buns and discarded peanut bags with a few peanuts generally in them. All was as usual. So Billy was surprised one busy evening to be unhitched from his cart by Mickie and dragged by Hank towards an automobile with a box at the back of it big enough for a horse.

Billy knew what was happening. Hank was pushing him off somewhere else. Billy braced his legs and had to be lifted on to the ramp by Hank and another man in a Western hat similar to Hank’s, while a third man pulled his horns from inside the box. Billy gave a twist of his body, landed on his feet, and at once bounded into freedom.

Freedom! But where was he to go? The place was fenced in except for the car entrance, and this Billy made for. Two men tried to block him, but jumped aside like scared rabbits as Billy hurtled towards them. Billy rammed the side of a car, not having seen it in the semi-darkness, and knocked himself nearly out. A cry went up from the car occupants. Two huge men fell on Billy and held him down. Then three men carried him back towards the car with the horse box. This time his feet were tied together, and Hank himself jerked Billy’s legs from under him, and Billy fell on his side. Billy kicked to no avail. He hated Hank at that moment. He had never liked Hank, and now Billy’s hostility was like an explosion in him. Once more Billy witnessed from his horizontal position Hank receiving lots of paper money from the man who owned the horse box. Hank shoved the money deep in a pocket of his baggy trousers. Then they closed the box door.

This time it was a longer ride, far out into the country, Billy could tell from the smell of fresh-cut hay and damp earth. There was also the smell of horses. The men untied Billy’s feet and put him in a stable where there was straw and a bucket of water. Billy gave a mighty kick—
tat-tat!
—against the side of his stable, just to show everyone, and himself, that there was plenty of fight in him yet. Then Billy blew his breath out and shook himself, jingling all his bells, and leapt in place from hind feet to front feet again and again.

The men laughed and departed.

The next day, Billy was tied to a wooden stake in the center of a broad field of grass. Now he had a chain, not a rope. Billy was indifferent to the horses, though he attempted to charge one which had whinnied and looked scared. The horse broke away from the man’s hold on his rein, but stopped in a docile fashion, and the man caught him again. Billy thought the morning quite boring, but the grass was thick, and he ate. A saddle fit for a child was put on Billy, but there wasn’t a child in sight. There were three men on the place, it seemed. One man mounted a horse and led Billy, trotting, around a circular area that was fenced in. When the horse trotted, Billy galloped. The man seemed pleased.