gns.throwback-第14部分

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er　of　them　had　made　the　effort　to　check。　And　now　it　was　too　late。
　　
　　The　engine　was　ticking　over　steadily；　sounded　smoother　than　it　had　done　for　months。　He　let　in　the　clutch；　reversed　slowly　out　into　the　lane。　It　was　about　a　mile　and　a　half　to　Gwyther's　farm；　the　road　following　on　round　the　hill；　barely　the　width　of　the　Land　Rover。　In　summer　you　drove　cautiously　in　case　you　met　an　oning　vehicle；　the　straggling　overgrown　hedge　restricting　your　vision。　But　there　was　no　chance　of　meeting　anybody　today。　Or　ever　again；　if　you　were　pessimistic。　Realistic。
　　
　　A　half…grown　rabbit　scurried　across　his　path；　jumped　to。　safety　in　the　long　grass。　It　looked　perfectly　normal。　Maybe　the　rabbits　were　all　right　because　for　most　of　the　time　they　lived　below　ground。　Foxes　and　badgers　would　probably　be　OK；　too。
　　
　　The　lane　rose　sharply。　Down　into　second　gear；　only　when　there　was　ice　about　did　he　have　to　resort　to　bottom。　Not　hurrying；　letting　the　vehicle　take　its　time　because　he　didn't　really　want　to　go　to　Gwyther's　at　all。　The　twelve…bore　was　in　the　back；　both　barrels　loaded…He　didn't　like　carrying　a　loaded　gun　in　a　vehicle　but　this　was　an　emergency。　He　wouldn't　feel　safe　without　it。
　　
　　The　Land　Rover　made　the　sharp　incline；　its　revs　urging　him　to　change　up　a　gear　now　that　the　lane　was　level　again。　High　up；　virtually　on　the　top；　slowing　to　look　back　down　and　seeing　his　own　place。　One　day　he　must　bring　the　camera　up　here　and　take　a　photograph　of　it。　Every　year　aerial　photographers　flew　over　and　then　tried　to　sell　you　their　work　for　extortionate　sums。　He'd　do　just　that　one　day；　a　D…I…Y　job；　for　kicks。　Jackie　would　have　liked　that。　You　couldn't　quite　see　Gwyther's　yet　because　it　was　further　on；　beyond　the　Knoll；　and　when　you　did　see　it　you　could　almost　convince　yourself　that　you　had　stepped　back　in　time。　Nothing　had　changed　since　Bill's　father's　day　and　probably　wouldn't　now。　A　slow　process　of　decay；　timbered　outbuildings　patched　up；　moss　growing　on　them；　mud　and　cattle　dung　so　deep　that　in　winter　you　needed　four…wheel　drive　to　get　in　and　out　of　the　yard。
　　
　　The　lane　was　starting　a　downward　slope　now；　the　final　run…in　to　Gwyther's。　Jon　let　his　foot　rest　on　the　brake；　slowed　up　more　than　he　needed　to。　He　didn't　really　have　to　call　on　the　old　man。　Damn　it；　he　didn't　bother　in　normal　times；　avoided　it　whenever　possible；　only　went　there　when　it　was　necessary。　It　was　necessary　now；　oh　Christ；　it　was。
　　
　　He　rounded　the　bend；　saw　the　farm；　just　as　it　had　always　been　except　that　part　of　the　big　cowshed　roof　had　finally　caved　in。　More　than　likely　the　storm　the　other　night　had　been　responsible　for　that。　Slowly　he　eased　the　Land　Rover　into　the　yard；　eyes　scanning　the　rectangular　tract　of　hard　baked　mud　with　only　the　odd　puddle　or　two　showing　below　the　outbuilding　walls。　Dereliction　at　its　worst；　stable　doors　tied　up　with　binder　string；　a　heap　of　scrap；　outdated　broken　machinery　that　should　have　been　cleared　a　quarter　of　a　century　ago　littering　one　corner。　But　no　sign　of　life。
　　
　　Jon　came　to　a　halt　in　front　of　the　house；　switched　the　engine　off　and　prayed　that　it　would　start　again　when　he　wanted　it　to。　Sitting　there；　watching　and　waiting；　aware　that　his　pulses　were　pounding。　He　was　sweating　and　it　wasn't　just　because　of　the　heat。
　　
　　He　didn't　like　ing　here；　always　felt　ill　at　ease。　The　old　boy　hated　you；　you　could　see　it　in　those　bright　blue　eyes　as　they　bored　into　you。　What　right　have　you　ing　here　from　the　town　and　buying　a　place？　There　are　plenty　of　farmers'　sons　who　were　forced　to　move　away　to　find　work　who　ought　to　have　your　holding。　They've　a　right　to　it；　you　haven't。　It's　heritage　that　counts；　not　deeds　and　fancy　title　papers。　You　won't　do　any　good　here　with　your　daft　ideas。　Sheep　and　cattle　are　farming；　nothing　else。　You're　playing　at　it。
　　
　　Jon　took　a　deep　breath；　reached　over　in　the　back　for　the　shotgun。　What　are　you　bringing　a　gun　here　for；　boy？　He　almost　drew　his　hand　away。　No；　he'd　take　the　gun　because　he　might　need　it。　That　dog　could　be　around；　or　the　bull　might　be　loose。
　　
　　His　gaze　was　drawn　automatically　towards　the　end　stone　building；　the　one　where　Gwyther's　bull　lived。　The　door　hung　wide；　a　T…hinge　broken　so　that　it　dragged　on　the　ground。　He　could　see　inside；　it　was　empty；　no　sign　of　the　bull！
　　
　　Another　twinge　of　unease。　Well；　the　bull　had　to　be　grazed　sometimes；　left　to　run　with　the　cows。　Probably　that　was　where　it　was　now；　in　one　of　the　lower　meadow　fields　down　by　the　river。
　　
　　Slowly　Jon　Quinn　slid　out　of　the　Land　Rover；　grasped　the　gun　in　his　right　hand；　stood　looking　about　him。　The　place　always　looked　this　way；　it　had　never　been　any　different。　Old　Bill　spent　365　days　a　year　working　in　the　fields　the　hard　way　because　he　didn't　know　anything　else。　Out　at　first　light　and　back　in　at　dusk。　Oil…lamps　instead　of　electric　lights。　But　he　did　have　a　telephone！　It　had　caused　a　stir　amongst　the　other　hill…farmers　when　word　got　around　that　a　Tele　van　had　been　seen　there；　two　men　running　out　a　cable　from　the　Elbow。　Old　Bill　surely　wouldn't　be　having　the　phone　put　in　because　even　if　he　did　he　wouldn't　know　how　to　use　it。　Bill　Gwyther　didn't；　he　only　took　ining　calls　in　his　own　inimitable　way　and　his　quarterly　bill　was　never　more　than　the　cost　of　the　rental。　Another　unsolved　mystery；　but　you　didn't　ask　because　his　answer　wouldn't　enlighten　you　any。
　　
　　Jon　sized　up　the　house。　The　door　and　window　frames　probably　hadn't　seen　a　coat　of　paint　since　before　the　war。　Most　of　the　frames　were　rotten　but　they　would　only　be　replaced　when　they　fell　out；　A　couple　of　panes　were　cracked；　maybe　deliberately　left　uncleaned　so　that　nobody　could　see　in。　You　were　never　asked　in　the　house　whatever　your　business。
　　
　　He　walked　slowly　towards　the　front　door。　Usually　the　dog　barked　a　warning　but　not　today。　Total　silence　except　for　the　distant　bleating　of　sheep　and　a　buzzard　mewing　somewhere　up　on　the　Hill。
　　
　　He　reached　the　door；　paused；　a　schoolboy　about　to　tap　on　the　door　of　the　headmaster's　study。　I'm　awfully　sorry　to　trouble　you；　sir；　but。　。　。　Swallowing；　nervous。　What　is　it；　boy？　What　brings　you　round　here？
　　
　　It's　your　dog；　Mr　Gwyther。　He's　killed　one　of　my　calves；　turned　feral。
　　
　　Not　my　dog；　boy。　He's　been　chained　up　here　all　the　time；　hasn't　been　loose。　Somebody　else's　dog。　The　door　dragged　shut；　end　of　conversation。
　　
　　Anger　gripped　Jon　Quinn。　No　bloody　fear；　Gwyther　wasn't　getting　out　of　this　just　because　he　thought　he　owned　the　Hill。　It　was　his　dog　and　he'd　have　to　pay。　The　dog　would　have　to　be　put　down。　If　necessary　he　would　call　the　。　。　。　no；　there　wouldn't　be　any　police　now　and　even　if　there　were　they　would　have　more　important　things　to　do　than　to　chase　after　killer　dogs。　He'd　bloody　well　shoot　it　himself！
　　
　　He　rapped　the　woodwork；　winced　at　the　pain　in　his　knuckles。　The　door　looked　as　though　it　was　rotten　like　everything　else　around　here　but　in　fact　it　was　solid　oak。　He　stood　back　and　waited。
　　
　　A　couple　of　minutes　and　he　was　convinced　that　there　was　nobody　here；　not　in　the　house　anyway。　Logically　that　wasn't　surprising　because　Gwyther　worked　all　the　daylight　hours。　He　had　to　be　around　the　buildings　somewhere；　or　else　out　in　the　fields。　Jon　Quinn　would　find　him　wherever　he　was。
　　
　　He　checked　the　outbuildings。　A　long　cattle…shed　that　hadn't　been　mucked　out　for　a　year　or　two；　fresh　straw　constantly　spread　on　the　oid　in　a　continual　deep…litter　system。　Flies　swarmed；　huge　bluebottles　bloated　with　the　filth　they　had　eaten。　They　settled　again；　continued　feeding。
　　
　　An　implement　shed　that　would　have　been　an　exhibit　in　a　farm　museum；　an　array　of　horse…brasses　hanging　from　nails　knocked　in　a　rafter。　The　floor　was　a　carpet　of　rat　droppings。
　　
　　But　no　sign　of　Bill　Gwyther。　Jon　stood　there　in　the　yard　wondering　what　to　do。　Should　he　go　and　search　the　fields？　Or　should　he　go　back　home　and　e　again　later？　Both　would；　in　all　probability；　be　a　waste　of　time；　and　he　did　not　want　to　leave　Sylvia　alone　longer　than　was　absolutely　necessary。　Neither　did　he　want　to　have　to　e　back　here　again。　The　only　time　he　was　likely　to　find　Gwyther　at　home　would　be　after　dark。　After　dark！　His　spine　tingled　at　the　thought。　No　way；　once　dusk　came　he　was　going　to　lock　himself　in　his　own　cottage　with　Sylvia　and　。　。　。
　　
　　A　footfall；　so　soft　that　it　was　barely　audible；　some　sixth　sense　warning　him　before　his　ears　picked　it　up。　He　turned；　stared；　told　himself　that　it　could　not　be；　that　nothing　like　（hat　could　possibly　exist。　It　was　his　imagination。　But　he　had　not　imagined　the　goats　and　the　hens；　unbelievable　as　they　had　seemed；　they　were　real。　And　so；　therefore；　was　this　。　。　。　thing　that　stood　only　a　few　yards　from　him；　frozen　into　immobility　now　that　its　furtive　stalk　had　been　discovered。　It　had　been　in　the　act　of　creeping　upon　him　with　a　broken　rusted　pitchfork；　its　intention　to　plunge　the　sharp　twin　prongs　into　his　back　as　he　stood　there　unaware　of　its　presence。
　　
　　Jon　Quinn's　first　thought　was　that　the　creature　was　some'　kind　of　ape；　a　zoo　specimen　which　had　escaped　and　taken　to　the　hills。　It　had　happened　with　other　animals　in　the　past；　not　too　far　from　here。　The　body　was　covered　by　sparse　hair；　sandy　coloured　but　gr