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Back The Night of the Flood
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Contents
  6. 1954
  7. PART 1
  8. 1.
  9. 2.
  10. 3.
  11. 4.
  12. 5.
  13. 6.
  14. 7.
  15. 8.
  16. 9.
  17. PART 2
  18. 1.
  19. 2.
  20. 3.
  21. 4.
  22. 5.
  23. 6.
  24. 7.
  25. 8.
  26. 9.
  27. 10.
  28. PART 3
  29. 1.
  30. 2.
  31. 3.
  32. 4.
  33. 5.
  34. 6.
  35. 7.
  36. PART 4
  37. 1.
  38. 2.
  39. 3.
  40. 4.
  41. 5.
  42. 6.
  43. 7.
  44. 8.
  45. 9.
  46. 10.
  47. 11.
  48. 1954
  49. Acknowledgements
  50. About the author
  51. An Invitation from the Publisher

When Skitmore’s whistle blew for the end of the first drive, Arthur had bagged six partridge. Not impressive, but at least he’d made a start. They swapped positions for the second drive, and moved down, further away from the farm, towards the most distant fields of barley and wheat. He was close to a line of beech trees, whose leaves were just beginning to yellow. He held his gun raised, waiting for the flutter of a bird to break the emptiness of the sky. But the wind had picked up and clouds were skimming across it, catching the light from the low sun, and the combination of the wind in the trees and the fluttering flashes of light was deceptive. It tricked the mind into thinking there was a bird where there wasn’t. Repeatedly, he heard the pop of a gun and nothing fell. Clearly someone was either a bad shot or the light was playing tricks on them too. Ahead of him he saw a flicker of orange. Jack. He raised his gun and squinted along the sight line. The barrel of the gun was level with the back of Jack’s head. His middle finger squeezed on the trigger. He heard his own breath. It would be so easy to shoot. Bang. A burst of red. Jack would be gone in a firework of colour. He was dizzy with the thought of it. No one would know. It would be an accident. Unfortunate. Tragic. His finger tingled. Then once, twice, three bundles of feathers flew up and he jerked his gun up and the trigger was pulled. An explosion in his ears and he fell, head spinning, into the scrub of the undergrowth. Another bang rang out, this time above him.

‘Halt!’

On the ground, his head was still ringing with a high-pitched whine. The leaves of the beech trees were black silhouettes above him, swaying; the light pulsed, voices shouted. Then above him, a ruddy face. Skitmore.

‘What you doin’, boy? Shooting off yer gun like that? Coulda hurt someone.’ He peered closer. ‘You aright?’

He sat up and squinted at the peering, round face of the gamekeeper. ‘What happened? The gun—’

‘Only that your gun went off, almost had me head off. Oughta be more careful.’ But his voice was kind. ‘Don’t reckon the other lot have noticed, mind. You get back t’the house now; reckon you done enough.’