Tainted Ground by Margaret Duffy

stile and then the illumination became obscured by trees.
    Patrick walked a little faster and went on slightly ahead as now there was not sufficient room on the path for us to go side by side. I preferred it like this: he has had a lot more practice at this kind of thing than I.
    We went on, gently upwards, and quickly came to the stile. It was a rickety affair with a barbed-wire fence on either side but we succeeded in getting over it without damaging either skin or clothing. Then I saw the notice: HAGTOP FARM. NO TRESPASSING .
    A couple of hundred yards farther on we came to a gate, climbed over it in case the hinges squeaked and then entered woodland. Still the light from Stonelake’s torch wavered in front of us, sometimes disappearing momentarily as he wended his way between the trees.
    In order not to stumble over tree roots or brain ourselves on low branches it was necessary for Patrick to use his torch, fleetingly, every few yards, and then all we had to do was memorize what we had seen. I proved to be less than perfect at this and tripped, going headlong into a small thicket. By the time I had extracted myself and pulled out a thorn from my hand, by feel, Patrick had gone. Then, somewhere up ahead, I saw the momentary tiny flicker of his torch.
    One could only advance with extreme caution. This went on for rather a long time, too long, and having lost all sight of Patrick I was thinking that I ought to give up and wait for him, or for something to happen, when something did.
    The roar of the shotgun, sounding only a matter of yards from where I stood, was followed by incoherent and furious shouting. Taking advantage of the fact that the trees seemed to be thinning out, I risked all and hurried. Then I saw a light.
    Patrick had Stonelake’s torch, a large flash lamp with a handle, and was keeping the beam fully on him, shining it in his face as he stood with his back against a tree. He also held the shotgun; he had broken it and had it across his arm. He must have heard my arrival for without turning round he said, ‘Unload the other cartridge, would you? My torch is in my left-hand jacket pocket.’
    â€˜This is my property!’ Stonelake bellowed. ‘You’re trespassing, you bastard! You’ve assaulted me and I shall make you pay for it!’
    I removed the cartridge from the shotgun.
    â€˜Shut up,’ Patrick said placidly. ‘I’m impounding this weapon and taking it to the nick. You can make a case for retaining your licence when you go to collect it.’
    â€˜You know damned well I was only going to shoot the bloody dog!’
    â€˜There are laws about killing animals in ways likely to cause suffering.’ To me, Patrick went on, ‘Give him twenty quid from my wallet.’
    â€˜Bribery to keep quiet?’ Stonelake sneered.
    â€˜No, for the dog. We’ll find a home for it. Then you can tell your mother the truth, can’t you?’
    The man snatched the money, and his torch, and slouched off back in the direction we had come.
    â€˜Where is it?’ I asked, casting around with the tiny light with which we had been left, hoping to see eyes reflected in the beam.
    â€˜It bolted. Probably the last anyone’ll see of it.’ Patrick actually sounded quite upset, not difficult to understand given recent events at home.
    â€˜It might have run home,’ I said. ‘To the farm, I mean.’
    Patrick gazed up to where a group of trees could just be discerned on the skyline, a new moon rising just above them.
    â€˜It’s quite a long way from here, if my memory of the local topography’s correct. That stile was on the western boundary of the farm. It might be worth going back and driving round by road.’
    But we did not, walking instead across three fields, the last steep and rutted with sheep walks that followed the contours of the ground. At the top of it, by a gateway that led into a lane, we made out a graveyard of old and