Vengeance Child (2 page)

‘Nothing for it.' He took a deep breath. A second later he plunged his face underwater. The fawn struggled, its furry flank pressing against his face. A roar of bubbles filled his ears. Though he couldn't see much through the murk he glimpsed the white of a pebble. Quickly he grabbed it, then used it as a makeshift chopping board. This was his last chance to save the animal that he devoted himself both professionally and emotionally to protecting. He managed to hold the wire taut against the stone. That done, he used the knife to saw at the steel line. By this time the water must have been over three feet deep. For all he knew, the fawn's head might be submerged, yet he couldn't afford to check, just in case he couldn't find the stone again. Underwater, he heard the muffled scrape of blade against wire.

Come on . . . you can do it . . . press harder. Harder!
The words beat in his head. The infant deer twitched.
Damn it . . . convulsions? You get no points for delivering a dead animal back to its mother.
From the depths of this huge, ancient and pre-eminently dangerous river came a bass rumble . . . a sound of primeval voices . . . anger at the intruder. The sound always sent shivers along his backbone. He knew the cause of the rumble – the current rolling boulders along the river bed – but even so, he found himself glancing out underwater, half-expecting to see a dark shape torpedo toward him.

Got you!
The second he cut the wire he surfaced, the fawn in his arms. He dragged his fleece from the danger sign, wrapped the animal inside, then waded back to the shore, panting. As he paused in the shallows to catch his breath the sound of applause greeted him . . . a somehow sarcastic handclap. He wiped the water from his eyes.

A man of around fifty, dressed in a dark blue business suit, clapped him without enthusiasm. ‘Bravo, Victor. Bravo.'

‘Good afternoon, Mayor Wilkes.' Although Victor would have preferred to substitute Mayor with ‘Pompous fart-bag'.

‘You've cut yourself.'

‘So I have.' Victor adopted a deliberately understated tone when what he'd like to have done was lobbed the man into the river.

‘I'd give you a hand but –' Wilkes smiled a political smile – ‘you can see I'm not dressed for the job.'

‘Another golf club lunch?'

‘Don't start that again, Victor. I take my role as the island's guardian very seriously.'

‘Seriously enough to rip up meadow for a fairway.'

‘It would have brought new income to the island. And jobs.'

‘We need income. We need jobs. But that's not the way.' To the fawn Victor said, ‘Take it easy. There.' He set the animal down on the shingle then gently dried it using the fleece. He caught the pleasant scent of its fur. Rose pelt, as it was called, had been popular in years gone by. Aristocratic ladies would have a pinch of the fur sewn into the corner of their handkerchief so they could delicately inhale its fragrance as they walked down the fashionable streets of Cheltenham.

‘Pleasantries aside.' The mayor's voice became tart. ‘I'm here to do you a favour.'

‘So you're agreeing with me that we introduce a grass management programme? Good. That'll help restore the butterfly numbers.'

‘That still has to go before the committee, Victor. As you know.'

‘You also head the committee.' Victor checked that the wire hadn't cut the animal's legs.

The mayor eyed Victor distastefully. ‘You'll find they still have two at the front and two at the back.'

‘It became entangled in a line. If it's broken the skin it'll need a stitch.'

‘My God, you really do love those creatures. Thirty-five, aren't you? Pulling beasts out of the river – is that a proper career for a grown man?'

‘It's the Saban Deer that bring the tourists.'

‘And I know the old wives' tale as well. They're people in animal form.'

‘Do you believe it, Mr Mayor?'

‘Do I hell, but I happily believe in the money they generate. If the National Trust allowed us to sell their stuffed heads as souvenirs I'd be even happier.'

When Victor was satisfied that the animal hadn't suffered any cuts he took away the fleece. It shook itself, then trotted to the undergrowth where the other deer stood. From a black face its blue eyes closely watched the return of its offspring before both mother and fawn slipped silently away.

‘You know . . .' The mayor looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe a book . . . it could tell the story of the Saban Deer. How does the legend go? A thousand years ago there was another island out there in the river. It sank underwater but the gods took pity on the islanders' children, turned them into deer, and they all swam across here to live happily ever after. We could turn the story into a colouring book. Parents would go for that. We could sell them over the Internet.'

‘You're the man to do just that, Mayor. Don't you still own a print works in Bristol?'

‘You think I'm only interested in making money out of the island?'

‘Didn't you say that you'd come here to do me a favour?'

‘I did.' He eyed Victor, as he stood there dripping river water. ‘You're expecting a batch of orphans tomorrow.'

‘From Badsworth Lodge. They're coming down for the week. But we no longer call them orphans, Mayor.'

‘Orphans, waifs, inmates, I'm not interested. They're a negative drain on the island. They don't generate cash revenue.'

‘You could always train them up as golf caddies.'

That touched a nerve. The man flinched before stating coldly, ‘The visit's been cancelled, so you'll need to rearrange your schedules.'

Victor shook his head. ‘You politicians and your funding cuts.'

‘Not this time.' The mayor smiled. ‘One of the orphanage staff took it upon themselves to stand between two buses. One reversed into the other with the clueless mare in the middle.' He clapped his hands together as if crushing a fly. ‘Now, go home and get changed. You're going to catch your death of cold.'

Two

Despite it being May, gusts of cold air made it feel like the approach of winter. In the grounds of Badsworth Lodge the children played on the swings. Usually, there'd be laughter. Today, they were so quiet it made the staff glance apprehensively at one another. Meanwhile, Nurse Laura Parris was determined to work a miracle. Age thirty, blue eyes, wearing casual clothes, strands of blonde hair being mussed by the breeze, she talked into the phone. ‘What happened to Maureen was a tragedy. Everyone here's in shock. Yes . . . the funeral's tomorrow. Eleven o'clock. You're going to authorize permission for Lodge staff to attend?' Laura paused as the Director of Child Care Services ummed, then tried to add provisos. ‘No, Miss Henshaw. Nobody will use it as an excuse to slip away for a long lunch. Maureen was extremely popular with both children and staff. So, I'll have your written permission for us to go to the funeral, and that personnel cover will be provided? Pardon? I don't know how long. As long as it takes to say goodbye to a dead friend.' She struggled to keep her anger under control. ‘Another thing. Don't cancel the children's holiday. Postpone it a few days, but do not cancel. After what happened the children are traumatized. Yes . . . what do you think? There's bed-wetting, emotional outbursts, bouts of social withdrawal. A couple of teenage girls have been self-harming. Yes, I really do believe that the holiday is essential. Goodbye.'

Laura scanned the children on the swings. Listlessly, they swung to and fro. Their faces were so lacking in normal youthful exuberance they could have been plastic mannequins. A girl of fifteen sat on a bench. She appeared to be scratching an itch on her forearm. Laura knew better. Catching the attention of one of the carers, she nodded to the girl, then touched her own forearm. The carer understood and went to chat to the girl to distract her from inflicting another wound.

A middle-aged man with a security pass clipped to his lapel appeared on the patio. He pretended not to notice the eerie appearance of the children who played as if someone had hit the mute button. ‘Nurse Laura Parris?' He gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I'm Robert Cole, Human Resources. I've come to collect Maureen Hannon's personal effects. We're sending them on to her family.'

‘Of course. I'll take you to her room.'

‘Terrible weather for May.' Despite pretending to shudder at the cold he lingered on the patio without following Laura. ‘Absolutely arctic. They're forecasting hailstorms for this afternoon.'

‘Really. I'll get Maureen's things before the children go to lunch.'

‘You're doing amazing work here. It can't be easy.'

She sensed he was building up to say something of more importance. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?'

‘You've a boy here—'

‘Several, as you'll have noticed.'

‘Absolutely.' He laughed. ‘But they all aren't as famous as . . .' He scanned the children, trying to recognize a face. ‘Jay, isn't it?'

‘Ah.'

‘The Miracle Moses Boy. The newspaper headline still sticks in my mind after, what is it now? Seven years.'

‘The children will be going to lunch, Mr Cole. If you'll follow me.'

He didn't follow. ‘So he'll be eleven now, won't he?'

‘Mr Cole—'

‘Imagine what he went through. Four years old. A ship full of refugees sinks with the loss of over three hundred lives. There are sharks, storms and he's there alone. A four-year-old boy in an inflatable dinghy. It makes you think, doesn't it?'

‘The newspaper must have paid you plenty if you're prepared to risk your job.'

‘N-Newspaper,' he stammered. ‘I'm nothing to do with any newspaper.'

‘No?' Laura glared at him. ‘The guy who came to fix the roof tiles swore he had nothing to do with a television company, but he had a video camera in his tool bag. Something told me he wasn't going to use it to bang in nails.'

‘I was just intrigued about Jay.'

‘Really.'

‘I am here to collect Mrs Hannon's personal effects.'

‘OK, do it and get out.' Laura turned to where a burly man dug a flower bed. ‘Mr Holt, would you do me a favour? Escort this gentleman to Maureen's room to collect the box on her bed, then make sure he leaves the premises.'

When she was alone again Laura crossed the lawn to where Jay sat on a bench under a tree. The breeze sighed mournfully through the branches. As always, the boy was by himself. Before speaking to him she paused. Laura took pains to avoid having favourites. However, she often found herself thinking about Jay. He always seemed so alone and so fragile. Once a carer commented that he looked like ‘a changeling'. Laura had googled the word. The search had revealed myths about human children being stolen soon after birth by goblins. Then the goblin family replaced the human child with one of their own. It wasn't a happy fairy story. The changeling child looked different to other children – Jay certainly did with those uncannily large eyes – and brought unhappiness to its human hosts. Bad luck would haunt them. Other children in the household might become sickly. Crops would fail. The parents finding themselves with a changeling substitute might be advised to treat the goblin cuckoo in the midst badly, either by beating, starving or even placing on a shovel and holding over a fire. The theory being the real parents would snatch the changeling child back to prevent further suffering. In order to maintain the supernatural balance the real human child would then be returned to their mortal parents.
But Jay doesn't face the prospect of a he-lived-happily-ever-after ending
. She'd been standing behind Jay. He'd not turned back once. When he spoke it took her by surprise.

‘Do you hate me too, Laura?'

Smiling, she sat beside him. ‘Of course I don't. What makes you say anything as daft as that?'

He regarded her with those huge dark eyes that were wise as they were mournful. She, too, remembered that face seven years ago, when it looked from every television and newspaper in the world. The Miracle Moses Child, cast adrift on the high seas. Three hundred and ninety refugees died when their ship sank in the Atlantic. Only one inflatable craft had been found amid shoals of hungry sharks, and on that craft had sat a solitary boy. All this flashed through her mind in a second, but the look in her eye must have told Jay a lot.

‘Why am I different to everyone else, Laura?'

‘We're all different from one another.' She ruffled his hair. ‘That's what makes us individuals.'

He sighed. ‘I'm
too
different. I frighten people.'

‘Nonsense.' She tried to sound cheerful. ‘Now . . . Jay. I haven't told anyone else this, but I've asked my boss to rearrange our holiday.'

He gazed at her. ‘The others are blaming me for what happened to Maureen.'

Air currents whispered through the tree. Laura found herself glancing up into the branches half-expecting to see a frightening face. She brushed the disquieting notion away. ‘Why should they blame you?'

‘You know, Laura. It's happened before.'

‘Coincidence. Nothing more. Come on, time to eat. There's apple pie today.'

His eyes became even graver. ‘Maureen knew something bad would happen.'

Laura tensed. ‘Did you say anything to her?'

‘The others told me I was saying her name – over and over.' Gusts shook the branches. ‘But I don't remember doing that, Laura. Only what I did later.'

‘And what was that? What did you tell Maureen?'