Skin and Other Stories Read online

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Claud's mouth slowly beginning to open.

  'Now,' I said. 'We have a nice clean-looking raisin with two and a half grains of seconal inside it, and let me tell you something now. That's enough dope to knock the average man unconscious, never mind about birds!'

  I paused for ten seconds to allow the full impact of this to strike home.

  'What's more, with this method we could operate on a really grand scale. We could prepare twenty raisins if we felt like it, and all we'd have to do is scatter them around the feeding-grounds at sunset and then walk away. Half an hour later we'd come back, and the pills would be beginning to work, and the pheasants would be up in the trees by then, roosting, and they'd be starting to feel groggy, and they'd be wobbling and trying to keep their balance, and soon every pheasant that had eaten one single raisin would keel over unconscious and fall to the ground. My dear boy, they'd be dropping out of the trees like apples, and all we'd have to do is walk around picking them up!'

  Claud was staring at me, rapt.

  'Oh Christ,' he said softly.

  'And they'd never catch us either. We'd simply stroll through the woods dropping a few raisins here and there as we went, and even if they were watching us they wouldn't notice anything.'

  'Gordon,' he said, laying a hand on my knee and gazing at me with eyes large and bright as two stars. 'If this thing works, it will revolutionize poaching.'

  'I'm glad to hear it.'

  'How many pills have you got left?' he asked.

  'Forty-nine. There were fifty in the bottle and I've only used one.'

  'Forty-nine's not enough. We want at least two hundred.'

  'Are you mad!' I cried.

  He walked slowly away and stood by the door with his back to me, gazing at the sky.

  'Two hundred's the bare minimum,' he said quietly. 'There's really not much point in doing it unless we have two hundred.'

  What is it now, I wondered. What the hell's he trying to do?

  'This is the last chance we'll have before the season opens,' he said.

  'I couldn't possibly get any more.'

  'You wouldn't want us to come back empty-handed, would you?'

  'But why so many?'

  Claud turned his head and looked at me with large innocent eyes. 'Why not?' he said gently. 'Do you have any objection?'

  My God, I thought suddenly. The crazy bastard is out to wreck Mr Victor Hazel's opening-day shooting-party.

  'You get us two hundred of those pills,' he said, 'and then it'll be worth doing.'

  'I can't.'

  'You could try, couldn't you?'

  Mr Hazel's party took place on the first of October every year and it was a very famous event. Debilitated gentlemen in tweed suits, some with titles and some who were merely rich, motored in from miles around with their gun-bearers and dogs and wives, and all day long the noise of shooting rolled across the valley. There were always enough pheasants to go round, for each summer the woods were methodically restocked with dozens and dozens of young birds at incredible expense. I had heard it said that the cost of rearing and keeping each pheasant up to the time when it was ready to be shot was well over five pounds (which is approximately the price of two hundred loaves of bread). But to Mr Hazel it was worth every penny of it. He became, if only for a few hours, a big cheese in a little world and even the Lord Lieutenant of the county slapped him on the back and tried to remember his first name when he said goodbye.

  'How would it be if we just reduced the dose?' Claud asked. 'Why couldn't we divide the contents of one capsule among four raisins?'

  'I suppose you could if you wanted to.'

  'But would a quarter of a capsule be strong enough for each bird?'

  One simply had to admire the man's nerve. It was dangerous enough to poach a single pheasant up in those woods at this time of year and here he was planning to knock off the bloody lot.

  'A quarter would be plenty,' I said.

  'You're sure of that?'

  'Work it out for yourself. It's all done by bodyweight. You'd still be giving about twenty times more than is necessary.'

  'Then we'll quarter the dose,' he said, rubbing his hands. He paused and calculated for a moment. 'We'll have one hundred and ninety-six raisins!'

  'Do you realize what that involves?' I said. 'They'll take hours to prepare.'

  'What of it!' he cried. 'We'll go tomorrow instead. We'll soak the raisins overnight and then we'll have all morning and afternoon to get them ready.'

  And that was precisely what we did.

  Now, twenty-four hours later, we were on our way. We had been walking steadily for about forty minutes and we were nearing the point where the lane curved round to the right and ran along the crest of the hill towards the big wood where the pheasants lived. There was about a mile to go.

  'I don't suppose by any chance these keepers might be carrying guns?' I asked.

  'All keepers carry guns,' Claud said.

  I had been afraid of that.

  'It's for the vermin mostly.'

  'Ah.'

  'Of course there's no guarantee they won't take a pot at a poacher now and again.'

  'You're joking.'

  'Not at all. But they only do it from behind. Only when you're running away. They like to pepper you in the legs at about fifty yards.'

  'They can't do that!' I cried. 'It's a criminal offence!'

  'So is poaching,' Claud said.

  We walked on awhile in silence. The sun was below the high hedge on our right now and the lane was in shadow.

  'You can consider yourself lucky this isn't thirty years ago,' he went on. 'They used to shoot you on sight in those days.'

  'Do you believe that?'

  'I know it,' he said. 'Many's the night when I was a nipper I've gone into the kitchen and seen my old dad lying face downward on the table and Mum standing over him digging the grapeshot out of his buttocks with a potato knife.'

  'Stop,' I said. 'It makes me nervous.'

  'You believe me, don't you?'

  'Yes, I believe you.'

  'Towards the end he was so covered in tiny little white scars he looked exactly like it was snowing.'

  'Yes,' I said. 'All right.'

  'Poacher's arse, they used to call it,' Claud said. 'And there wasn't a man in the whole village who didn't have a bit of it one way or another. But my dad was the champion.'

  'Good luck to him,' I said.

  'I wish to hell he was here now,' Claud said, wistful. 'He'd have given anything in the world to be coming with us on this job tonight.'

  'He could take my place,' I said. 'Gladly.'

  We had reached the crest of the hill and now we could see the wood ahead of us, huge and dark with the sun going down behind the trees and little sparks of gold shining through.

  'You'd better let me have those raisins,' Claud said.

  I gave him the bag and he slid it gently into his trouser pocket.

  'No talking once we're inside,' he said. 'Just follow me and try not to go snapping any branches.'

  Five minutes later we were there. The lane ran right up to the wood itself and then skirted the edge of it for about three hundred yards with only a little hedge between. Claud slipped through the hedge on all fours and I followed.

  It was cool and dark inside the wood. No sunlight came in at all.

  'This is spooky,' I said.

  'Ssshh!'

  Claud was very tense. He was walking just ahead of me, picking his feet up high and putting them down gently on the moist ground. He kept his head moving all the time, the eyes sweeping slowly from side to side, searching for danger. I tried doing the same, but soon I began to see a keeper behind every tree, so I gave it up.

  Then a large patch of sky appeared ahead of us in the roof of the forest and I knew that this must be the clearing. Claud had told me that the clearing was the place where the young birds were introduced into the woods in early July, where they were fed and watered and guard