The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More Read online

  Therefore, Peter told himself, he must continue to be passive. Do not insult them. Do not aggravate them in any way. And above all, do not try to take them on physically. Then, hopefully, in the end, they might become bored with this nasty little game and go off to shoot rabbits.

  The two larger boys had each taken hold of one of Peter's arms and they were marching him across the next field towards the lake. The prisoner's wrists were still tied together in front of him. Ernie carried the gun in his spare hand. Raymond carried the binoculars he had taken from Peter. They came to the lake.

  The lake was beautiful on this golden May morning. It was a long and fairly narrow lake with tall willow trees growing here and there along its banks. In the middle, the water was clear and clean, but nearer to the land there was a forest of reeds and bulrushes.

  Ernie and Raymond marched their prisoner to the edge of the lake and there they stopped.

  "Now then," Ernie said. "What I suggest is this. You take 'is arms and I take 'is legs and we'll swing the little perisher one two three as far out as we can into them nice muddy reeds. 'Ow's that?"

  "I like it," Raymond said. "And leave 'is 'ands tied together, right?"

  "Right," Ernie said. " 'Ow's that with you, snot-nose?"

  "If that's what you're going to do, I can't very well stop you," Peter said, trying to keep his voice cool and calm.

  "Just you try and stop us," Ernie said, grinning, "and then see what 'appens to you."

  "One last question," Peter said. "Did you ever take on somebody your own size?"

  The moment he said it, he knew he had made a mistake. He saw the flush coming to Ernie's cheeks and there was a dangerous little spark dancing in his small black eyes.

  Luckily, at that very moment, Raymond saved the situation. "Hey! Lookit that bird swimmin' in the reeds over there!" he shouted, pointing. "Let's 'ave 'im!"

  It was a mallard drake, with a curvy spoon-shaped yellow beak and a head of emerald green with a white ring round its neck. "Now those you really can eat," Raymond went on. "It's a wild duck."

  "I'll 'ave 'im!" Ernie cried. He let go of the prisoner's arm and lifted the gun to his shoulder.

  "This is a bird sanctuary," Peter said.

  "A what?" Ernie asked, lowering the gun.

  "Nobody shoots birds here. It's strictly forbidden."

  " 'Oo says it's forbidden?"

  "The owner, Mr Douglas Highton."

  "You must be joking," Ernie said and he raised the gun again. He fired. The duck crumpled in the water.

  "Go get 'im," Ernie said to Peter. "Cut 'is 'ands free, Raymond, 'cause then 'ee can be our flippin' gun-dog and fetch the birds after we shoot 'em."

  Raymond took out his knife and cut the string binding the small boy's wrists.

  "Go on!" Ernie snapped. "Go get 'im!"

  The killing of the beautiful duck had disturbed Peter very much. "I refuse," he said.

  Ernie hit him across the face hard with his open hand. Peter didn't fall down, but a small trickle of blood began running out of one nostril.

  "You dirty little perisher!" Ernie said. "You just try refusin' me one more time and I'm goin' to make you a promise. And the promise is like this. You refuse me just one more time and I'm goin' to knock out every single one of them shiny white front teeth of yours, top and bottom. You understand that?"

  Peter said nothing.

  "Answer me!" Ernie barked. "Do you understand that?"

  "Yes," Peter said quietly. "I understand."

  "Get on with it, then!" Ernie shouted.

  Peter walked down the bank, into the muddy water, through the reeds, and picked up the duck. He brought it back and Raymond took it from him and tied string around its legs.

  "Now we got a retriever dog with us, let's see if we can't get us a few more of them ducks," Ernie said. He strolled along the bank, gun in hand, searching the reeds. Suddenly he stopped. He crouched. He put a finger to his lips and said, "Sshh!"

  Raymond went over to join him. Peter stood a few yards away, his trousers covered in mud up to the knees.

  "Lookit in there!" Ernie whispered, pointing into a dense patch of bulrushes. "D'you see what I see?"

  "Holy cats!" cried Raymond. "What a beauty!"

  Peter, peering from a little further away into the rushes, saw at once what they were looking at. It was a swan, a magnificent white swan sitting serenely upon her nest. The nest itself was a huge pile of reeds and rushes that rose up about two feet above the waterline, and upon the top of all this the swan was sitting like a great white lady of the lake. Her head was turned towards the boys on the bank, alert and watchful.

  " 'Ow about that?" Ernie said. "That's better'n ducks, ain't it?"

  "You think you can get 'er?" Raymond said.

  "Of course I can get 'er. I'll drill a 'ole right through 'er noggin!"

  Peter felt a wild rage beginning to build up inside him. He walked up to the two bigger boys. "I wouldn't shoot that swan if I were you," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Swans are the most protected birds in England."

  "And what's that got to do with it?" Ernie asked him, sneering.

  "And I'll tell you something else," Peter went on, throwing all caution away. "Nobody shoots a bird sitting on its nest. Absolutely nobody! She may even have cygnets under her! You just can't do it!"

  " 'Oo says we can't?" Raymond asked, sneering. "Mister bleedin' snotty-nose Peter Watson, is that the one 'oo says it?"

  "The whole country says it," Peter answered. "The law says it and the police say it and everyone says it!"

  "I don't say it!" Ernie said, raising his gun.

  "Don't!" screamed Peter. "Please don't!"

  Crack! The gun went off. The bullet hit the swan right in the middle of her elegant head and the long white neck collapsed on to the side of the nest.

  "Got 'er!" cried Ernie.

  "Hot shot!" shouted Raymond.

  Ernie turned to Peter who was standing small and white-faced and absolutely rigid. "Now go get 'er," he ordered.

  Once again, Peter didn't move.

  Ernie came up close to the smaller boy and bent down and stuck his face right up to Peter's. "I'm tellin' you for the last time," he said, soft and dangerous. "Go get 'er!"

  Tears were running down Peter's face as he went slowly down the bank and entered the water. He waded out to the dead swan and picked it up tenderly with both hands. Underneath it were two tiny cygnets, their bodies covered with yellow down. They were huddling together in the centre of the nest.

  "Any eggs?" Ernie shouted from the bank.

  "No," Peter answered. "Nothing." There was a chance, he felt, that when the male swan returned, it would continue to feed the young ones on its own if they were left in the nest. He certainly did not want to leave them to the tender mercies of Ernie and Raymond.

  Peter carried the dead swan back to the edge of the lake. He placed it on the ground. Then he stood up and faced the two others. His eyes, still wet with tears, were blazing with fury. "That was a filthy thing to do!" he shouted. "It was a stupid pointless act of vandalism! You're a couple of ignorant idiots! It's you who ought to be dead instead of the swan! You're not fit to be alive!"

  He stood there, as tall as he could stand, splendid in his fury, facing the two taller boys and not caring any longer what they did to him.

  Ernie didn't hit him this time. He seemed just a tiny bit taken aback at first by this outburst, but he quickly recovered. And now his loose lips formed themselves into a sly, wet smirk and his small close-together eyes began to glint in a most malicious manner. "So you like swans, is that right?" he asked softly.

  "I like swans and I hate you!" Peter cried.

  "And am I right in thinkin'," Ernie went on, still smirking, "am I absolutely right in thinkin' that you wished this old swan down 'ere were alive instead of dead?"

  "That's a stupid question!" Peter shouted.

  " 'Ee needs a clip over the ear-'ole," Raymond said.

  "Wait," Ernie sa