Woollard trudged through the mud of the small farmyard hissing through his teeth to attract the two cats he kept not as pets, but as working animals. Until now they had managed to keep the number of rats down you could never keep them away altogether but the vermin were now getting into the buildings, and that could lead to big trouble.
Woollard's weathered face was creased into deep trenches of anger as he turned the corner of an outbuilding, when suddenly he caught sight of a small white object lying in the mud. At first he thought it might just be a bird feather, but the tinges of red along one edge aroused his curiosity. He squinted as he approached, deciding it wasn't a feather at all but a tiny, obviously dead, animal. He was used to finding dead mice around the place, for his cats usually did their job well enough.
This time, though, there was something odd about the furry corpse.
Stooping to examine the body more closely, he suddenly drew in a sharp breath. He reached for the object he now knew was not a dead mouse.
Blood had matted the fur at one end and two of the claws at the other end were missing. He dropped the cat's paw in disgust.
Pushing himself erect, he quickly searched the area around him for the rest of the cat's body. The stupid bloody creature must have got tangled up in some farmyard machinery, or maybe some wiring, and had the paw torn from its body. It must have crawled away somewhere to nurse its wound or die, most likely. It was then he saw the blood-streaks against the wall of the outhouse.
They stretched all the way along the wall's length, dark red, clots of black and brown hair sticking to the viscous surface. One of the cats they had no names, he wasn't that sentimental was black and brown, with white paws. Whatever had got hold of the poor bloody creature had dragged it along the wall, and the frantic red scratch marks gave evidence that the cat had still been alive at the time.
'Good bloody God,' the farmer said in a hushed tone. He followed the gory trail, anger quickening his strides. What manner of creature could do such a thing? A fox? Been none of them around here for years. Anyway, he'd never heard of a fox fighting with a cat before.
Some bloody dog's done it! One of them belonging to someone living in the forest. Never kept their bloody animals locked up! Bad enough with horses trotting all over the place! Well this one'll get my bloody shotgun up its arse.
He reached the end of the wall and hurried round, anger blurring his vision so that he failed to see the object lying on the ground before him. His heavy boot crunched it down into the mud before he realized he had trodden on something hard. He stopped, turned, and once again stooped to examine the object on the ground.
Two sightless slits stared up at him, mud covering the lower portion of the crushed skull. He pulled at a pointed ear and the cat's head came free with a sucking sound, startling Woollard and making him throw the skull into the air. It landed in the mud again with a plop, and lay half on its side, a wicked, feline grin seeming to mock the frightened farmer.
The man crawled on his stomach through the damp grass towards the prone woman. She lay unaware of his stealthy approach, her face turned towards the sun, surprised and happy to receive its warmth so late in the year. She flexed her shoulders against the rough blanket, its thickness protecting her from the wetness of the grass which even the sun could not draw out.
The creeping man smiled and a gleam came into his eyes. A sound behind him made him turn his head sharply and he frowned at his two companions, silently urging them to remain quiet.
The woman sighed and raised a knee provocatively; the smoothness of her legs caught the man's attention. His smile widened and he felt the pressure of the earth against his loins. He was close now, close enough to reach out and touch that wonderfully soft body. He tried to control his breathing so that she wouldn't hear.
Bringing his arm forward, he snapped off a long blade of grass, then pointed its quivering tip towards the woman's face. She twitched as the fine point ran down the side of her nose, then twitched again as the tickling sensation persisted. She suddenly sat upright, vigorously rubbing at her skin as though to dislodge an errant insect.
Terry,' she shouted when she saw his shaking body, and grabbed a handful of grass and threw it into his face.
The two children behind the man laughed excitedly, the small girl jumping on his back and pounding his head with the palm of her hand.
'Oil' he yelped, reaching behind and toppling her over his shoulder.
'S'enough of that!'
The woman smiled as her husband rolled the four-year-old over in the grass. 'Mind her clothes, Terry. She'll get wet.'
'All right, monkey, you heard what your mother said.' Terry tossed the girl onto the blanket where she immediately jumped into the woman's arms.
'Game of football, Dad?' the boy asked, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
'Okay, Keith, get the ball. It's in the back of the car.'
The boy, seven years old, and ready to play for England -maybe West Ham would do scampered off towards the red car parked fifty yards away on a hard piece of ground not too far from the road.
This is nice, Terry,' the woman said, allowing her daughter to scramble free and chase the boy.
Teah. We should do it more often, you know.'
The woman looked at him meaningfully. We could always do it on weekends. It would be better than keeping Keith away from school for the day. Wouldn't do any harm to take them down to Southend now and again. They like the sea.'
Terry grunted noncommittally. He didn't want to make any promises just because he was in a good mood. 'Come on, you two, hurry up,' he shouted after the children.
The woman knew there was no point in pursuing the subject. When do you think you'll go back?' she asked.
Terry shrugged. When the Union says so, I suppose.'
