‘Help... Someone help...’
I knew dimly from under the flurry of Fynedale’s exertions that it was Sophie. The troops she mobilised came cautiously to the rescue. ‘I say...’ said a well-bred voice plaintively, and Fynedale took no notice.
‘Here. What’s going on?’
The voice this time was tough and the owner tougher. Hands began to pull Fynedale off me and then others to help him, and when I took my nose out of the straw I could see three men trying to hold on to Fynedale while Fynedale threw them off like pieces of hay.
He crashed out through the door with my rescuers in pursuit, and when I got from my knees to my feet the only audience was Sophie.
‘Thank you,’ I said with feeling.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes... I think so.’
I bent down and picked up the pitchfork.
‘What’s that?’
‘He threw it at me,’ I said.
She looked at the stiletto prongs and shuddered. ‘Good job he missed.’
‘Mm.’ I inspected the two small tears in the front of my anorak. Then I slowly unzipped it and put a hand inside, exploring.
‘He did miss, didn’t he?’ said Sophie, suddenly anxious.
‘Direct hit. Don’t know why I’m not dead.’
I said it lightly and she didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. I could feel the soreness of a tear in my skin and the warm stickiness of blood, but the prongs had not gone through to heart or lungs, and the force with which they’d landed had been enough to get them there.
I smiled idiotically.
‘What is it?’ Sophie asked.
‘Thank the Lord for a dislocating shoulder... The pitchfork hit the strap.’
Unfortunately for Fynedale two policemen in a patrol car had come to the sales on some unrelated errand, but when they saw three men chasing another they caught the fugitive out of habit. Sophie and I arrived to find Fynedale sitting in the police car with one policeman while the other listened to the three chasers saying that if Jonah Dereham wasn’t a hospital case it was because they had saved him.
I didn’t argue with that.
Sophie with unshaken composure told them about the pitchfork, and the policeman, having taken a quick look inside my anorak, told me to go and find a doctor and then come along to the local station to make a statement. I reckoned it would be the same nick I’d been to with Kerry: there would be a certain amount of doubtful eyebrow-raising over a man who got himself attacked twice in the same small sales’ paddock within six weeks.
At the nearest doctor’s surgery the damage resolved itself into one long slit over a rib. The doctor, a girl of less than thirty, swabbed away prosaically and said that ten days earlier she’d been called to attend a farm worker who’d driven a pitchfork right through his own foot. Boot and all, she added.
I laughed. She said she hadn’t meant to be funny. She had nice legs but no sense of humour. My own amusement rather died when she pointed out the state of the buckle on my strap, which she’d taken off to get at the cut. The buckle was bent. The mark of the prong showed clearly.
‘One prong hit the buckle. The other went into you but slid along against a rib. I’d say you were exceptionally lucky.’
I said soberly, ‘I’d say so too.’
She stuck on some plaster, gave me a couple of anti-infection injections, and refused my offer of a fee.
‘On the National Health,’ she said sternly, as if offering to pay were immoral. She handed me the strap. ‘Why don’t you get that shoulder repaired?’
‘Can’t spare the time... and I’m allergic to hospitals.’
She gave my bare chest and arms a quick glance. ‘You’ve been in a few. Several of your bones have been fractured.’
Quite so,’ I agreed.
She allowed herself a sudden small smile. ‘I recognise you now. I’ve seen you on television. I backed your horse once in the Grand National when I was a student. I won six pounds and spent it on a book on blood diseases.’
‘Glad to have been of service,’ I said.
‘I shouldn’t wear that strap for a week or so,’ she said. ‘Otherwise it will rub that wound and prevent it healing.’
‘All right.’
I thanked her for her skill, dressed, collected Sophie from the waiting-room, and drifted along to the police station. Once again Sophie was offered a chair to sit on. She showed signs of exasperated patience and asked if I would be long.
‘Take my car,’ I said contritely. ‘Do some shopping. Go for a walk to Windsor Park.’
She considered it and brightened. ‘I’ll come back in an hour.’
The police wanted a statement from me but I asked if I could first speak to Fynedale.
‘Speak to him? Well... there’s no law against it. He hasn’t been charged yet.’ They shook their heads dubiously. ‘He’s in a violent state, though. Are you sure you want to?’
‘Certain.’
They shrugged. ‘This way, then.’
Fynedale was in a small bare interview room, not sitting beside the table on one of the two plain wooden chairs, but standing in the centre of the largest available clear space. He vibrated still as if strung as tight as piano wire and a muscle jumped spasmodically under his left eye.
The room, brown paint to waist height, cream above, had no windows and was lit by electric light. An impassive young policeman sat in a chair just inside the door. I asked him and the others to leave me and Fynedale to talk alone. Fynedale said loudly ‘I’ve nothing to bloody say to you.’
The policemen thought I was being foolish, but eventually they shrugged and went away.
‘Sit down,’ I said, taking one of the chairs by the table and gesturing to the other.
‘No.’
‘All right, don’t.’ I pulled out cigarettes and lit one. Whatever was said about cancer of the lungs, I thought, there were times worth the risk. I drew the smoke down and was grateful for its comfort.
Fynedale began pacing around in jerky little strides.
‘I told you I’d kill you,’ he said.
‘Your good luck that you didn’t.’
He stopped dead. ‘What did you say?’
‘If you had, you’d have spent ten years inside.’
‘Bloody worth it.’ He went back to pacing.
‘I see Vic’s got another partner,’ I said.
He picked up a chair and threw it viciously against the wall. The door opened immediately and the young policeman stepped hurriedly in.
‘Please wait,’ I said. ‘We’ve hardly started.’
He looked indecisively at Fynedale, the fallen chair, and me sitting calmly smoking, and decided that perhaps after all it would be safe to leave. The door closed quietly behind him.
‘Vic’s done the dirty on you, I reckon,’ I said.
He circled behind me. The hairs on my neck bristled. I took another lungful of smoke and didn’t look round.
‘Getting you into trouble and then ditching you.’
‘It was you got me into trouble.’ The voice was a growl in the throat.
I knew that any tenseness in my body would react on him and screw him up even tighter, but it took a fair amount of concentration to relax every muscle with him out of sight behind my head. I tried to make my voice slow, thoughtful, persuasive, but my mouth was as dry as a Sunday in Salt Lake City.
‘Vic started it,’ I said. ‘Vic and you. Now it’s Vic and Ronnie North. You and I... we’ve both come off worst with Vic...’
He reappeared jerkily into my field of vision. The carrot hair looked bright orange under the electric bulb. His eyes alternately shone with manic fire when the light caught them and receded into secretive shadows when he bent his head. Sophie’s remarks about gelignite on the boil came back to me; and his instability had if anything increased.
‘Cigarette?’ I suggested.