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Authors: Paul Johnston
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bent down and dashed water over my face, then brought handfuls to my mouth. I wondered if I should immerse my whole body in order to obscure my scent completely, but decided against that. It was a cold night and without shelter I would be in danger of hypothermia when I finally stopped running. I filled the canteen that had been on the uniform belt I’d stolen, walked up the stream as far as I could, and then stepped out on the other side. I thought about eating the bread from the luckless inmate, but decided I would keep it till I was hungrier. The ground was less steep and the trees came right down to the stream. I pushed my way through the undergrowth and into the next expanse of pine forest. Then I moved on as fast as I could.
The trees petered out after what must have been about an hour. The ground ahead was open, as far as I could make out in the moonlight that was now filtering through the thin cloud cover. I tried to listen for sounds of pursuit, but my breathing was rapid and loud. I had to get some rest. I walked a few hundred yards from the trees and then headed back toward them at a wide angle. That way, anyone after me would be stranded in the open and vulnerable to my rifle, even if the dog had picked up my trail again. I looked for a tree with low branches and found a good candidate. I was able to get high above the ground and the branches were still wide enough for me to sit with reasonable comfort. I unhooked the strap from the rifle and passed it round both my abdomen and the tree trunk. Gradually my breathing slowed and I was able to hear properly. I didn’t pick up any sounds of man or dog, but my stomach was now rumbling loudly. I ate half of the bread, forcing myself to chew slowly. I was desperate for more, but I had no idea where my next meal would come from. Then I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind for sleep. But, as my body went into temporary hibernation mode, my thoughts went haywire and, at last, I found myself remembering more from my past life…
…I’m on a hillside in the rain, my head down in the bracken and my hands gripping a rifle.
“Don’t make any rapid movements,” whispers the man in the waterproof jacket who is lying next to me. “In fact, don’t even blink.”
We wait there, motionless, as the big stag chews away. He lowers his head to the ground and then raises it quickly. He’s seen men with guns often enough to be extremely wary. But the wind is blowing into our faces, so he can’t smell us.
“Right, line him up,” my companion says under his breath. “Remember where?”
“Chest…above the foreleg,” I gasp, my heart racing. I’m suddenly seized by horror at the prospect of killing the magnificent creature.
I look through the sights and zero in on the stag, then pause.
“What are you waiting for?” the man whispers, his eyes wide. “He’ll bolt any second.”
I take a deep breath and hold it, then tighten my finger on the trigger. I have a vision of the great animal coughing up a lungful of blood, his head with the great array of the antlers dropping as his front legs collapse.
“I can’t do it,” I say, letting the rifle sink into the vegetation. That movement is enough to alert the stag. He leaps away, kicking his hind legs high, and disappears over the ridge.
“Sorry,” I hear myself say feebly. “I…”
“Pillock,” my companion says. “It took us three hours to get up here and you blow it just like that.”
“Sorry, Dave. I just—”
“You chickened out, didn’t you?” He gets up and wipes drops of water from his trousers. Some of them land on my face. “It cost us a bleeding fortune, this weekend. Flights to Inverness, hiring the Land Rover, paying the estate an arm and a leg for the privilege of doing their culling for them. And you can’t even fire one shot in anger.”
I stand up and take in the enraged face. Dave Cummings. Ex-paratrooper, former SAS man, amateur rugby league player—my best friend and
The trees petered out after what must have been about an hour. The ground ahead was open, as far as I could make out in the moonlight that was now filtering through the thin cloud cover. I tried to listen for sounds of pursuit, but my breathing was rapid and loud. I had to get some rest. I walked a few hundred yards from the trees and then headed back toward them at a wide angle. That way, anyone after me would be stranded in the open and vulnerable to my rifle, even if the dog had picked up my trail again. I looked for a tree with low branches and found a good candidate. I was able to get high above the ground and the branches were still wide enough for me to sit with reasonable comfort. I unhooked the strap from the rifle and passed it round both my abdomen and the tree trunk. Gradually my breathing slowed and I was able to hear properly. I didn’t pick up any sounds of man or dog, but my stomach was now rumbling loudly. I ate half of the bread, forcing myself to chew slowly. I was desperate for more, but I had no idea where my next meal would come from. Then I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind for sleep. But, as my body went into temporary hibernation mode, my thoughts went haywire and, at last, I found myself remembering more from my past life…
…I’m on a hillside in the rain, my head down in the bracken and my hands gripping a rifle.
“Don’t make any rapid movements,” whispers the man in the waterproof jacket who is lying next to me. “In fact, don’t even blink.”
We wait there, motionless, as the big stag chews away. He lowers his head to the ground and then raises it quickly. He’s seen men with guns often enough to be extremely wary. But the wind is blowing into our faces, so he can’t smell us.
“Right, line him up,” my companion says under his breath. “Remember where?”
“Chest…above the foreleg,” I gasp, my heart racing. I’m suddenly seized by horror at the prospect of killing the magnificent creature.
I look through the sights and zero in on the stag, then pause.
“What are you waiting for?” the man whispers, his eyes wide. “He’ll bolt any second.”
I take a deep breath and hold it, then tighten my finger on the trigger. I have a vision of the great animal coughing up a lungful of blood, his head with the great array of the antlers dropping as his front legs collapse.
“I can’t do it,” I say, letting the rifle sink into the vegetation. That movement is enough to alert the stag. He leaps away, kicking his hind legs high, and disappears over the ridge.
“Sorry,” I hear myself say feebly. “I…”
“Pillock,” my companion says. “It took us three hours to get up here and you blow it just like that.”
“Sorry, Dave. I just—”
“You chickened out, didn’t you?” He gets up and wipes drops of water from his trousers. Some of them land on my face. “It cost us a bleeding fortune, this weekend. Flights to Inverness, hiring the Land Rover, paying the estate an arm and a leg for the privilege of doing their culling for them. And you can’t even fire one shot in anger.”
I stand up and take in the enraged face. Dave Cummings. Ex-paratrooper, former SAS man, amateur rugby league player—my best friend and
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