Mounted on his quad bike, Oscar seethed with anger, a litany of thoughts constantly revolving in his head and finding release in vocal outbursts as he manoeuvred the quad down the glen.

“Stupid bitch. Fucking pregnant. Who wants a fucking kid?”

The bike kicked under him as the tyres hit potholes and stray rocks and he found some pleasure in forcing the quad back onto the track, wheels expertly placed within the ruts of previous journeys. The back of the quad was laden with snares, illegal snares designed to kill outright – or hold any unfortunate animal in agony until he had the pleasure of ending a life. A rifle was strapped into place beside him, although the local deer population would scatter out of the glen at the first sound of his coming. He glanced at the third item in his arsenal, a tin of strychnine masquerading as engine oil, wondering how much he would need to force an abortion, then turned his attention to the track ahead.

For some unaccountable reason the memory of his parents came unbidden into his thoughts, their holier-than-thou pronouncements more often than not accompanied by the lash of the belt whilst he grew as feral as any wild animal.

“Fuck them!” he announced to the air. A fresh wave of anger broke over him as he faced the certain knowledge that he was in no way equipped to bring up a child himself. Anger had accompanied him all his life, a constant boiling of emotion under the skin. His peers understood it and knew when to back off. Like the deer, they valued self-preservation and took care wherever Oscar was concerned. As a result, he found from an early age that he was accepted as a leader, someone who acted as a beacon to those whose personal inadequacies and failings found a natural home in his company. His disciples only served to amplify his worst excesses, applaud his cruelty and encourage him to transgress those lines even they would not dare to cross.

Oscar had left a trail in life as obvious as the one formed by his bike, crossing the glen day in, day out, in all weathers. His employer knew enough about him, more than enough to hold him on a tight leash. But Oscar didn’t care; he worked the job diligently, burning heather, feeding the pheasants and grouse, killing anything else with an enthusiasm his employer chose not to notice. He was cunning, though. Any tagged eagles he poisoned had their transmitter signals masked, tin foil wrapped around the leg until the bird resembled nothing more than a turkey ready for the oven. Oscar took great delight in transporting the corpse, sometimes for a hundred miles or more, until the signal was allowed to be detected far away from the estate he worked. Sometimes he enjoyed targeting other estates, other gamekeepers who had looked at him in the wrong way. A rare smile touched his lips as he considered the latest victim of this ploy, due in court this week. The smile swiftly disappeared as he saw the oak tree approaching. One day he’d burn the fucking thing down. It stood in mute judgement every day, since that silly bitch had been found hanging from its contorted branches. Perhaps the laird hadn’t expected him to take the job, not when he had to face the tree every working day. But the job was the only one he’d ever been offered, and the cottage came with it – somewhere he could live without the pressure of eyes boring into his back. Plus, there was the bonus of work satisfaction, the killing. He’d almost inadvertently made the glen one of the top shooting ranges in Scotland, the number of birds that flapped inanely towards the guns increasing year on year.