She does as he says. The gun discharges, a flat thunderclap of noise, ringing in the ears. The other deer scatter in fright, fleeing at astonishing speed. There are exclamations from the other guests behind him, sharp intakes of breath.
There is a beat, as always, when it seems that the bullet must have misfired, or disappeared completely. Then the doe jerks as though passed through with an electric current. There is the belated thud of the bullet’s impact, the metal entering flesh. A bellow, the sound as much like rage as pain. She staggers a couple of steps, swaying on her feet. And then finally, down she goes – quite gently, as though she is being careful with herself, her legs folding underneath her. Her chest is, suddenly, a mass of red. A perfect shot.
He walks the hundred yards or so to the dying beast. She’s still there, just: her breath mists in the cold. There is a moment when her eyes seem to meet his. Then he takes his knife and shoves it in, clean, to that place at the base of the skull. Now she is gone. He feels little remorse, other than for the grace that once was, now stilled. Unlike other deaths for which he has been responsible, he knows this one is right, necessary. Unchecked, the population would get out of control; resources would be so thin that the whole herd would begin to starve.
He bends, and dips a hand into the wound, coating his fingers with gore. Then he walks back to the woman, Emma, and – in time-honoured tradition – anoints her forehead and cheeks with the blood.
EMMA
The gamekeeper told me I’d have to wait for the fillet from the deer I shot. It needs to be hung for a few days – apparently in the first twenty-four hours rigor mortis really sets in and it would be inedible until the tissues start to soften again. But they’ve got some properly aged meat that I can use if I want. I was going to do a beef Wellington tonight, but I’ve realised I could make it with venison instead. That would be perfect, wouldn’t it – a reminder of our day?
I’ve come over to the barn to collect it. I’ve washed my face first, of course. Apparently there’s some old wives’ tale about not cleaning it off until midnight or bad luck will befall you, but that’s just nonsense and superstition. Besides, it had dried and crusted into a very unsightly mess.
When I get to the barn there’s no sign of anyone, but the door is slightly ajar. I give it a push with one hand and it swings open.
I can hear the murmur of voices, low and urgent. At the sound of my footsteps, they cease. It’s gloomy inside, and I have to squint to adjust my eyes. When I do I take a step back. At one end of the room hang two huge, grisly, bloody pendants of meat next to the carcass of the deer I shot, skinned, its eyes still glassy black and staring. There’s a distinctive smell, impossible to mistake: heavy, metallic.
Behind the carcasses I make out the odd-job man I sat next to at the dinner, Iain, wielding a large cleaver in one hand, and wearing a butcher’s apron soaked in blood. He raises his other hand in greeting; his palm is stained red. Next to him are the two Icelandic guests.
I wonder what these three strangers could have been talking about so fervently.
‘Got your venison ready for you,’ Iain says. He reaches towards the counter behind him and lifts up a parcel wrapped in stained greaseproof paper.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking it from him gingerly. It’s heavy, cold.
‘These two,’ he points to the two other guests, ‘were just asking me if they could have the heart from your kill, as that’s best fresh. I hope you don’t mind them taking that?’
‘No …’ I say, trying to conceal my distaste, as a good chef should. ‘Not at all.’
The man, Ingvar, grins at me. ‘Thank you. You know, you should try it sometime. It’s the tastiest part.’
NOW
2nd January 2019
HEATHER
I stare at the computer screen. I sit with my hand over my mouth like a pantomime of shock. But I am genuinely stunned by what a simple search of Doug’s full name has brought up. It’s bad. Really bad. It’s far worse than probably even my mother could have guessed in her most lurid imaginings.
I can see that even from the brief precis of each article on the Google results page. He almost killed someone. I’ve been living in this place alone with a man who has served time in jail. Who was convicted of, as the official line has it: ‘causing grievous bodily harm with intent’.
The Daily Mail article is the first hit. I click it open. There is a photo of Doug, hollow-eyed, mouth a grim line, hair shorn to the scalp. Another of him in an ill-fitting suit, being shepherded out of a car into the courthouse, his teeth bared at the photographers in a snarl. He looks like a criminal; he looks violent, dangerous. The article that follows is a lurid attack on every aspect of his character. Educated at a private school; university dropout; time in the Marines, the only one to survive an attack by the Taliban in ‘murky circumstances’. Strongly insinuating, if not stating outright, that some foul play or cowardice was involved on his part.
And then a ‘brawl in a bar’.
As I read on, it only gets worse. The form of ‘bodily harm’? Attempted strangulation. I look for anything in the article that might exonerate Doug’s behaviour in some way: something I could latch onto. I want him to be exonerated. Not just because the idea of having lived with someone capable of cold-blooded murder (or at least the attempt of it) is horrifying, but because, despite his taciturn ways, I have come to rather like Doug. I genuinely believed what I said when I told my mum he was ‘harmless’.
There is nothing to excuse him though. I discard the Daily Mail, click on the BBC News link, which should give me an account without bias or sensationalism. That article contains a quote from an eyewitness: ‘It just happened out of nowhere. One moment they were talking, I think – just two blokes having a quiet chat in the corner of the pub, the next that man was trying to strangle him. People tried to pull him off, and he fought them all, until finally there were enough of them to overpower him. It was terrifying.’
My skin prickles with cold, even though the heating in the Lodge is turned right up. Attempted strangulation. I remember the bruising around the guest’s neck, the black and blue collar.
And yet what possible reason could Doug have had to kill the guest? She had only been here for two days. She was a complete stranger.
Maybe, a little voice says, he didn’t need a reason. The man in the pub, according to these articles, was also believed to be a complete stranger.
There is at least one thing that doesn’t fit, I tell myself. Doug’s discovery of the body. Why show me the whereabouts of the body, rather than conceal it somehow? In order to control the situation? Maybe … but then it would only make sense to do that if it were still possible to make it look like an accident. It is fairly obvious, even to someone who is not a doctor, that she was strangled.
There’s a knock on the door. I freeze, then slam the laptop closed. With a few swift steps I’m at the door, have unlocked it. When I open it, on the other side – as I had somehow known he would be – is Doug.
Two days earlier
New Year’s Eve 2018
KATIE
Everyone is heading to their own cabins to get ready for the evening. Miranda wants us all to dress up. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ Samira muttered to Emma and me, ‘we’re in the middle of nowhere, in the countryside. Funnily enough, I have other priorities besides tarting myself up – I thought we all came here to relax?’
‘Oh, but I suppose it’ll give it all a sense of occasion,’ Emma said, loyally.
Besides, in matters like this there is no point in putting up any resistance. Miranda will get what she wants.