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 Dereliction at its worst, stable doors tied up with binder string, a heap of scrap, outdated broken machinery that should have been cleared a quarter of a century ago littering one corner.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 coming 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 coming 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 Telecom 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 incoming 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 come 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 come 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 greying with age. No more than five feet in height, arms and legs ridiculously short in proportion to the rest of its body. The face was squat, lips pouted then drawing back to show a toothless mouth, close-set eyes narrowed into an expression of curiosity, turning to animosity. A balding head.
Recognition came slowly to Jon Quinn because even when he realised he still refused to believe. The blue eyes, the toothless mouth, the stance stamped with arrogance. In the end he was faced with the possibility that the thing standing before him might be none other than Bill Gwyther! A possibility that merged into a probability. Then a certainty.
Oh Merciful God! Then this is what has happened to the human race; reduced to this!
Gwyther, and it surely was him, was giving a series of low grunts, unintelligible animal noises that were obviously not intended to be friendly. Their interpretation was anybody's guess. 'What're you doin' here, boy?' Advancing another step, stopping again, the pitchfork lifted so that it rested at hip-level, its wicked points trained on Jon Quinn's stomach.
'Mr Gwyther?' Jon felt incredibly stupid, but somehow he had to say something. 'Mister' because he always called the old man 'Mister'. Everybody round here did, even the older generation of farmers. Just as Gwyther called them all 'boy'. A mark of respect in a way, underlining the generation gap because Gwyther had always been 'Old Gwyther' even in their fathers' days.