The Hunted Page 4

  Thinking back to Martin, she asked herself if it was time to move on, move him out of her house, get rid of the drunk that lay sprawled on her couch by day and snored heavily at her side by night. The problem wasn’t so much whether to or not, but more could she turf him out in his current state? He had nowhere else to go, but that shouldn’t be her problem, and he did have some family somewhere, though they weren’t close. One thing she was certain of, though: she wasn’t going to be lumbered with him for the rest of her life. She deserved a little more than that, which meant it was only a matter of time.

  She folded the magazine she hadn't actually been reading and made her way over to the departure gate. The Emirates flight home was starting to board. Aaron wasn’t on the same flight going back; a shame, really. She'd enjoyed the fun they'd shared, but he'd gone back yesterday, a call into work cutting his trip a little shorter but they’d promised to keep in touch and swapped numbers and email addresses. Whether they did or not they both knew was down to Fiona.

  A desk attendant scanned her boarding pass, and she made her way to the waiting plane, where a flight attendant showed her to her premium seat. Fiona buckled up in anticipation of take-off and rested her head back to think a while longer, savouring visions of the good-looking Aaron sitting in the seat beside her as he had on the journey out. Moments later they were gone and were replaced by a mixture of images circling in her head—a drunken Martin, a rough Michael and the eclectic Aaron—and none of it gave her any clue as to what she should do going forward. Perhaps none of them should do. That was another option—forget them all and start again. She hoped by the time the plane landed back at Gatwick she’d know what the answer.

  As they cruised high up in the sky on a double-decker aircraft, Fiona took advantage of the Wi-Fi onboard and took her smartphone out. Flicking through the great pictures she’d had taken of the trip and choosing the one of her first kill, the buffalo, she loaded it to her social accounts, adding a brief commentary of where she’d been hunting and added the relevant hashtags. She loved using hashtags; it was incredible how far a photograph could go if you used the right one. With a bit of strategy on her part, she could get people all over the world interested in her hobby. The pictures had come out well: she looked sun-kissed, she looked cool in khaki, and most of all, she looked happy. She clicked Share and posted them. She wondered which of her friends and followers would respond to her first. Someone she knew? Or someone far, far away? Aaron dropped into her thoughts again, and a smile crept across her face. Why not? She tapped the Facebook app and searched for Aaron Galbraith. While there were a few as you’d expect, it wasn’t hard to find the right one. Right there was the profile picture of the man she’d spent the last few days with, smiling back. His distinctive dark hair and good looks made him stand out from the others. The ‘add friend' icon stared at her.

  “Oh, what the hell. Here goes nothing.” Tap. Request sent. “Too late now.” He was probably working, so there was no point in waiting for an immediate response. She put her phone back in her bag and picked up the current month’s airline magazine from the pocket in front of her. She flicked idly through the pages, looking for something that might grab her interest. A few minutes later, she was completely engrossed in a story about Italy, a glass of red wine in one hand. In her bag, however, her phone screen was lighting up with responses to her posts. And there was a message from Aaron.

  It wasn’t until she was waiting for her luggage at Gatwick that she pulled her phone out, and then smiled widely at the screen and the long scroll of notifications waiting there. She let her forefinger do the work, skimming the comments quickly. The pleasant ones resonated in her heart; she let the hostile ones fly right over her head. It was just as she expected, but she had noticed that each time she hunted and posted her trophies, the trolls had got progressively nastier. Or was she imagining it? Certainly, some might consider her hobby distasteful, but then she never understood those who enjoyed train spotting or stamp collecting, and no one bothered to shout them out, did they? No.

  Her familiar suitcase trundled towards her on the conveyor belt and she yanked it off, pulled the handle up, and wheeled it towards customs. With nothing to declare except for her love of hunting, she sailed quickly through. She had thought hard about bringing her trophy head back but had decided there was no place in her house for it, with or without Martin there.

  Martin. What was she going to do about him?

  The traffic was heavy on the M25 as she headed towards home, but when was the motorway ever free flowing? They didn’t call it England’s biggest car park for nothing, but after the long flight, premium economy or not, she was desperate to be in her own place, feet up, with a mug of steaming hot tea. Sitting nose to tail, her thoughts drifted back to Martin again and the problem at hand. She’d texted him from the airport saying she was nearly home, though having posted the pictures from Zambia, he’d likely know she hadn’t been to see her mum in Bath all along, and that in itself would mean a blazing row. She noted she didn’t much care, and that feeling told her all she needed to know. Martin had to go, and take his negativity and half-empty whiskey bottles with him. And the sooner, the better.

  Chapter Ten

  Outside her house, she sat in the driver's seat for a moment watching, running her decision through her mind, the little cogs and wheels turning the issue slowly over and over. While she didn’t need to turf him out today, she did need to tell him, to give him a couple of days to sort himself out, but he had to go soon, preferably by the end of the week. The curtain twitched. He was watching her from the lounge, and waiting. She was not looking forward to this one bit. She trudged up the front path and opened the front door.

  “Hello!” she called out, but it was met with nothing. She dropped her bags in the hallway and walked into the lounge. Martin was sat on the sofa, his bags packed and on the floor beside his feet. He was steepling his fingers before him, looking down at the floor in thought.

  “Hi, Martin. What's going on?” Putting her keys down noisily on the coffee table, she went and sat beside him, the leather crumpling softly under her as she did so.

  “You lied, Fiona. And I just can’t actually believe where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing. I can’t get my head around it.” He sounded as defeated as ever.

  “I didn't think you'd approve. That's why I didn't say anything. I'm sorry for lying to you. It was the only way to avoid a scene.”

  “So that’s okay then, is it? You did it to avoid a scene? What possesses you? What primal need are you trying to fulfil? Help me here, Fiona, because I’m struggling to understand.”

  “I enjoy it! It's sport, and I love it. What's wrong with doing something you enjoy?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with doing something you enjoy, but it’s barbaric! And everyone it seems has seen the pictures you posted. They’ve gone viral, let me add. You’ve become a target yourself now, a celebrity, but for all the wrong reasons.” Martin was straining to keep himself under control, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. With a slight void in the conversation as they both took a moment, he added, a bit more calmly, “Tell me why, Fiona.”

  “I’ve told you, I enjoy it, and it helps with conservation.”

  “What!” Martin spluttered. “You're kidding me, right? Conservation?” Martin was as angry and upset as she’d ever seen him. With his drinking, they’d had plenty of screaming rows but this was something new.

  “Calm down, Martin. There's no need to yell at me,” she said levelly. “Look, why don't I make us a drink, and we can talk more calmly about it.” Fiona glanced at the bags waiting by his feet. She nodded in their direction.

  “Looks like you’ve already decided what you’re doing about it, though. Where you headed?”

  “Stopping at a mate’s for a couple of nights.” His voice was petulant. “On his sofa.”

  “Why do that? Why not stay here and sort this out?”

  “Because you're not the woman I thought you we
re!” he screamed. “I can't trust you, and I don't want to be around someone who kills for fun! Don't you get that?” He took a deep breath to steady himself. He'd obviously been working himself up to a row for a while and was hell-bent on letting his anger out.

  Fiona stayed silent, thinking it a better way to calm the situation. It was at that moment she noticed he was completely sober for a change.

  He spoke again, more calmly now. “Look, I didn't want it to burst out like that, but it's true. It's over, Fiona. I'm out of here. I'm sorry.”

  Fiona watched from her spot on the sofa as he stood and picked up his bags.

  “I guess I’ll see you around,” he said calmly, a bag in each hand, and made his way to the front door. She heard the catch unlock, the door open and then close again. He was gone. She sat back into the soft leather, somewhat dazed. After a few moments in the quiet of her now empty lounge, she smiled to herself.

  “Saved me a job,” she said out loud.

  He’d gone and done the one thing she had been dreading to do herself—he’d dumped her, beaten her to it. If she had known it was only going to take a hunting picture or two for him to leave, she’d have done it sooner. Fiona stretched out her tanned legs a bit further on the sofa, now vacant at last. Good riddance to his miserable drunken ass. She hadn't bothered enquiring which mate he was going to and realised that, actually, she didn't much care. She grabbed the remote control and channel-hopped until she found something mundane to wash over her and make some background noise in her newfound empty house.

  Chapter Eleven

  She had always enjoyed her breakfast routine. It was the part of her morning she cherished: just coffee and a bran muffin, quietly sat at the corner table in ‘her' café before heading into the clinic. Every morning was the same if she was on duty, and invariably if not. The smell of hot fresh coffee and freshly baked muffins and pastries was simply the best way to start the day, bar none.

  She skimmed Facebook, down through the photos of other people’s children and cats chasing vacuum cleaners and then stopped dead at an article on a news site, featuring a picture of a dead buffalo, a woman with long blonde hair crouching down beside it, rifle in hand, a grin on her face. It was evident from the picture she'd just shot it and was now posing alongside her trophy. It made Philippa's stomach roll and, judging by the comments from her friends who had seen or shared it, it had had the same effect on them too.

  “How could someone do that for sport—take such a big animal’s life for no reason than the thrill of killing it?” she muttered, incredulous. “It’s not like it’s even for food.” As a vet and an animal lover, Philippa abhorred such activities and only just agreed with the concept of line fishing, figuring at least you ate what you caught. Out of morbid interest, she clicked on the comments to see what others were saying, the friends of her friends: Would they feel the same way as she did or were they in support?

  “Gross! How could you?” said one.

  “Get over yourself. It’s human nature to kill animals. Where do you think your steak comes from?” said another.

  “Bitch! I should shoot you and see how you like the senseless killing. You should be ashamed!”

  And on they went, some in support, but the majority against. She clicked through to the whole article to read the story, driven once again by a morbid curiosity. The article reported that the woman, Fiona Gable, lived in South Croydon and recounted her recent trip to Zambia and her hunting hobby—as well as the storm she'd started by sharing the pictures online. Since Ms. Gable had returned, the offending picture had gone viral, as had the news article. The arguments were getting more heated, the comments more poisonous. Philippa wasn't surprised to see the odd cloaked death threat. She sipped her coffee and scrolled on. The picture had been shared by news sites all over the world, and she clicked on a random one.

  “Local woman in kill storm,” said the headline. She read on.

  A local woman shared her experiences online of big game hunting in Zambia, and the post has gone viral. Many of those commenting on the picture of her crouching by the dead buffalo have expressed their disgust for what they term the senseless killing of endangered animals out in the wild, though she's also had support from pro-hunting groups. Their argument is that it's much-needed conservation, to keep the herd numbers in check and allow younger animals to live longer by culling the older ones. The woman who has drawn the attention, Fiona Gable, from Croydon, is unfazed at the ‘kill storm’ she’s created.

  “It's sport,” says Gable. “I’m entitled to do it, and will continue to do it, and the nonbelievers will find something else to amuse themselves with as this unfairness passes.”

  Philippa finished the last of her bran muffin and sat back thoughtfully for a moment. The picture had disturbed her, angered her somewhere deep inside, like a heavy ball rocking low in her stomach, a feeling she had felt for the first time just a couple of weeks ago. Then, another animal story had gone viral and disgusted the nation. This time a couple of youths had chopped the ears off a dog as punishment for losing a dog fight, and taken photos of it, posting them for all to see. They’d been prosecuted and been given a measly fine of £900 but no jail time. The nation had been outraged that thugs so cruel could get away without any real punishment. What fairy-tale land had the judge lived in to think that was perfectly okay to let go? If she’d been on the bench, they’d have been sleeping in a cell for a good few years to come. But she wasn’t on the bench and could do nothing about it. Her mind returned to Fiona Gable and her buffalo. No one would be sitting this woman in front of a judge for what she'd done, and she'd do it again: she'd already said so. Since hunting big game wasn’t an actual crime, she too would go unpunished.

  With the vision of severed dogs’ ears and a dead buffalo floating queasily in front of her, she grabbed her bag and left the café. Maybe a busy clinic would take her mind off it, or throw up an idea of what she could do to make a difference. She got in her car and drove the few minutes to work, thinking of not much else.

  The clinic was in the centre of Rickmansworth, a small town some twenty miles northwest of London. The famous Black Beauty movie had been shot here many years ago, though the area was now more built up with modern brick housing. While there were still plenty of green rolling hills, it wasn't quite the same as it had been back then, but not many places were anymore. Progress. And Philippa liked her green hills, having spent several years working in the Yorkshire Dales, in the equally famous countryside, the location of James Herriot and All Creatures Great and Small. But it was the Rickmansworth clinic she now called home and had done so for the last two years, hoping to become partner one day. She loved the varied work the clinic handled, everything from vaccinations to casualties from a wildlife park close by, though she herself looked after the domestic animals mainly. She swung the front doors open.

  “Morning!” called the receptionist, bright and breezy as always.

  “Morning, Shruti,” Philippa said as she passed by.

  “Nice morning again. I hope we’re in for a good summer this year.”

  Still distracted, Philippa mumbled a barely audible reply and carried on walking towards the staff room out the back. She shoved her things in her locker and pulled on her white consulting coat for clinic. Helen, one of the senior partners of the clinic, entered the room just as she was finished getting ready.

  “Oh, Philippa, glad I’ve caught you. I’ve got to go out on a call later this morning. The park needs a hand with one of the rhinos, and from the sounds of it, it's not good news. Fancy coming out with me? It'll be a change from cats and dogs, and if I have to do what I think I'll have to do, I'll need someone with me.”

  “Sounds ominous but yes, love to. What time you going over?”

  “Should be around eleven. I’ve checked your schedule already, and it fits fine.”

  “Great,” said Philippa. “Right, then. I’d better get on with my first patient. See you later.” She banged her locker shut and left Helen
changing into her scrubs for her own clinic patients.

  At eleven, they set off towards the wildlife park in Helen’s well-equipped van and chatted about the morning’s patients, particularly the cat Philippa had encountered yesterday that had got a blade of grass stuck in the back of its throat and was in again today to have it surgically removed before it caused an infection.

  “I reckon I must hold the record for the longest blade removed in the country. It was nearly six inches long and concertinaed up in behind her nose and throat cavity!” Philippa said. If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she probably wouldn't have believed it.

  “Wow, that’s incredible,” said Helen, deftly shifting gears. “I think my record is only about two inches, though probably just as annoying to the poor thing. It’s bad enough when we get a hair stuck that we can’t get out, never mind something like grass folded up and stuck.” She flicked her indicator to turn into the wildlife park entrance, and the conversation turned from domestic cats to rhinos.

  “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this. It’s never nice euthanising an animal. And a rhino can be a bit tricky for obvious reasons, which is why I’ve asked you along.” Helen pulled into a staff parking space nearest the relevant enclosure and undid her door. “I’ll probably have to use a dart but the main reason I asked you to attend is because the drug I will use to put him to sleep with is so potent to humans, that it has to be administered by more than one person in case the one administering it accidentally scratches or injects themselves with it.” Philippa looked shocked, and Helen laughed lightly. “Don’t look so worried. Etorphine actually comes with its own antidote when you order it as well as the safety warning, so there are no mishaps. And I don't plan on catching myself with the needle so, in theory, you shouldn't be needed.”