the world, but at close range he was good enough.
‘What are you doing with that?’ Sue yelled, panic in her voice. Jerry knew how much she hated the gun. She was always asking why he had to have it, and his answer had always been the same. Just in case.
‘There’s some bloody animal in the junk shed,’ Jerry said. ‘I think it might be a wild dog.’
‘And you’re going to shoot it?’ Sue asked.
‘Not if I don’t have to,’ Jerry said. ‘Hopefully if I fire the gun in the air the sound will scare it off, but if it comes at me then, yes, I’ll blow its bastard head off.’
With that Jerry left the house and walked back over to the shed. He listened once more at the door. At first there was silence, and he wondered whether his shouts earlier had scared the animal off already. Then he heard that wet chewing sound again. The animal was still inside.
He carefully opened the door. The smell inside was dank and fusty; there were old beds in the shed that were getting damp. There was also another smell, a sickly smell that Jerry knew, but could not quite place.
The shed was windowless and the only light came from the door itself and few cracks in the corrugated iron roof.
‘All right,’ Jerry said. ‘I’m coming in and I’ve got my gun.’
Though he was certain that the occupant was an animal, he thought that it was best to give some warning. He knew of a farmer who had shot a homeless man in one of his barns, believing him to be an animal. The farmer had been sent down for twelve years. Jerry was not prepared to run that risk.
Jerry stepped into the shed and saw just how much crap they had accumulated in there. The shed itself was large, and high ceilinged, but over the years they had built up a rabbit warren of discarded furniture and broken machinery. Jerry felt nervous; there were a lot of places for the animal to hide.
He walked a little further in, to the point where the light from the door stopped illuminating the floor. He wished he had brought a torch. He had remembered the gun, but Sue and all her bloody questions had made him forget to bring a torch. He waited on that spot for some time. Listening carefully, it seemed unnaturally quiet inside the shed. Gradually his eyes became more accustomed to the low level of light, and he began to make out the paths through the junk in more definition. He clutched the gun tight in his hand, his finger hovering above the first trigger.
He set off down the first path he came to. The junk was stacked up well above his head level. He heard scuffling in the distance; the animal was on the move. He tried to pinpoint the origin of the sound, but it was useless; the reverberation caused by the metal and size of the shed made it impossible. He kept moving, hoping he would scare the animal into leaving without confrontation. The animal was moving constantly. At first the sound was in front of Jerry, then behind, then to one side, and then to the other. Not only was he stalking the animal, it was also stalking him.
His foot caught on something on the floor, and he fell down heavily. He suspected he would have broken his knees had they come into contact with the concrete floor; instead, though, they landed on something far softer and wetter. The area he was in was so crowded with junk on either side, and so far away from the door, that the floor was in total darkness. He reached a hand down and felt something smooth and covered in a tacky substance. He could not make out what it was; it was cold and felt almost like leather, only softer. His hand fumbled around feeling fabric, also sodden with the sticky stuff. He tried to discern the size, and shape of the object he was kneeling on, by moving his hands around it, trying to locate edges. Then he felt a firm, reasonably large lump, he squeezed it, was it some kind of cushion? Had they but part of an old sofa in here? His hand continued its search, and he discovered an almost identical lump next to the first.
That
‘What are you doing with that?’ Sue yelled, panic in her voice. Jerry knew how much she hated the gun. She was always asking why he had to have it, and his answer had always been the same. Just in case.
‘There’s some bloody animal in the junk shed,’ Jerry said. ‘I think it might be a wild dog.’
‘And you’re going to shoot it?’ Sue asked.
‘Not if I don’t have to,’ Jerry said. ‘Hopefully if I fire the gun in the air the sound will scare it off, but if it comes at me then, yes, I’ll blow its bastard head off.’
With that Jerry left the house and walked back over to the shed. He listened once more at the door. At first there was silence, and he wondered whether his shouts earlier had scared the animal off already. Then he heard that wet chewing sound again. The animal was still inside.
He carefully opened the door. The smell inside was dank and fusty; there were old beds in the shed that were getting damp. There was also another smell, a sickly smell that Jerry knew, but could not quite place.
The shed was windowless and the only light came from the door itself and few cracks in the corrugated iron roof.
‘All right,’ Jerry said. ‘I’m coming in and I’ve got my gun.’
Though he was certain that the occupant was an animal, he thought that it was best to give some warning. He knew of a farmer who had shot a homeless man in one of his barns, believing him to be an animal. The farmer had been sent down for twelve years. Jerry was not prepared to run that risk.
Jerry stepped into the shed and saw just how much crap they had accumulated in there. The shed itself was large, and high ceilinged, but over the years they had built up a rabbit warren of discarded furniture and broken machinery. Jerry felt nervous; there were a lot of places for the animal to hide.
He walked a little further in, to the point where the light from the door stopped illuminating the floor. He wished he had brought a torch. He had remembered the gun, but Sue and all her bloody questions had made him forget to bring a torch. He waited on that spot for some time. Listening carefully, it seemed unnaturally quiet inside the shed. Gradually his eyes became more accustomed to the low level of light, and he began to make out the paths through the junk in more definition. He clutched the gun tight in his hand, his finger hovering above the first trigger.
He set off down the first path he came to. The junk was stacked up well above his head level. He heard scuffling in the distance; the animal was on the move. He tried to pinpoint the origin of the sound, but it was useless; the reverberation caused by the metal and size of the shed made it impossible. He kept moving, hoping he would scare the animal into leaving without confrontation. The animal was moving constantly. At first the sound was in front of Jerry, then behind, then to one side, and then to the other. Not only was he stalking the animal, it was also stalking him.
His foot caught on something on the floor, and he fell down heavily. He suspected he would have broken his knees had they come into contact with the concrete floor; instead, though, they landed on something far softer and wetter. The area he was in was so crowded with junk on either side, and so far away from the door, that the floor was in total darkness. He reached a hand down and felt something smooth and covered in a tacky substance. He could not make out what it was; it was cold and felt almost like leather, only softer. His hand fumbled around feeling fabric, also sodden with the sticky stuff. He tried to discern the size, and shape of the object he was kneeling on, by moving his hands around it, trying to locate edges. Then he felt a firm, reasonably large lump, he squeezed it, was it some kind of cushion? Had they but part of an old sofa in here? His hand continued its search, and he discovered an almost identical lump next to the first.
That
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