Hunter Hunted by Jack Gatland (best value ebook reader .TXT) 📗

had often argued with him about. They were one strike away from being banned because of his antics, they’d say. He’d laugh and tell them that the ghost of Francis Dashwood had done the terrible things, not him, and then walk out before they could reply. In fact, he’d just done that, walking with Scamper eastwards along the Thames, towards Hurley Lock, a mile or so away.

The Thames was to his left, strangely quiet for the time of day; nobody was fishing, there weren’t even any kids playing in the water. It felt wrong, odd, somehow. The bank of the river became an open field to his right, and about fifty yards away a bank of trees showed the woodland copse that bordered the campsite. This was where Scamper was running to as Craig tried to get his battered old iPod Nano to work. If he’d charged it earlier, he wouldn’t have heard the barking.

And that would have changed everything.

As it was, he hadn’t charged the iPod, and therefore he heard Scamper barking at something, somewhere near the edge of the woods. He wouldn’t come back after being called, and Craig almost continued on, convinced that Scamper would just follow him, or just do him a favour and leave forever when he heard the barking cut off abruptly with a yelp.

Turning back to the trees, Craig could see that Scamper had run over to the rickety bridge. And, walking towards it, frustrated that the bloody dog had most likely run into the trees, he stopped about twenty feet away from it as a man appeared the other side of it, emerging from the woods.

He was old, maybe in his fifties. He was slim, had short brown hair in a buzz cut, and wore a green Barbour jacket. His face was pale, like he didn’t get out into the sun that much. And he was smiling.

‘Have you lost your dog?’ he asked, his voice showing the slightest hint of some kind of European accent. ‘He is right here. Come and get him.’

‘Nah, it’s okay,’ Craig said. There was something about this old man that unnerved him. ‘I’ll just wait.’

‘I think he is tangled in nettles,’ the man replied. ‘You must come and help him.’

‘It’s cool, I’ll wait until you’ve moved on,’ Craig tried to smile, but it came out as a leer. The man however nodded at this.

‘Understandable,’ he agreed. ‘I am a stranger. You are right to be wary. But we are not strangers, are we Craig?’

At the sound of his own name, Craig felt an icy wind blowing down his spine. He’d never seen this man before. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘I know everything about you,’ the man continued to smile as he spoke, and Craig found himself irrationally angry at this. ‘I know you have been coming here for years. I know that you are a bully. I know what you did to that girl.’

‘I didn’t assault her,’ Craig snapped back. ‘She came on to me. I didn’t do anything.’

‘I’m sure you did not,’ the man replied, stepping back from the bridge, beckoning Craig in. ‘But perhaps we should talk more about this together, rather than shouting it across a stream?’ The old man watched Craig, still not moving.

‘You dog is in pain,’ he said. ‘You will not save him?’

Now terrified, Craig shook his head. The man thought about this for a moment and then pulled something out of his jacket pocket, tossing it over the stream, landing at Craig’s feet. As Craig bent down to look at it, he could see it was an ivory handle of some kind. Picking it up, he realised it was a wickedly sharp cut-throat razor.

‘See?’ The man smiled. ‘Now you have a weapon. If I attacked, you could hurt me. Please, come in, Craig. Come and play a game with me.’ And as Craig watched, the man walked back into the woods.

With the blade now in his hand, Craig felt more in control of the situation. The man was right; he could hurt him and hurt him badly if he tried anything. And, as he crossed the rickety bridge and entered the wooded copse, he saw Scamper, a rope loosely tied to his collar and secured to a tree, wagging his tail with delight. The dog wasn’t in pain or in distress at all. Craig looked to the man, angry that he had lied to him, and found him sitting on a fallen tree trunk, another fallen trunk facing him.

‘Sit, please,’ the man indicated the other fallen trunk. ‘We have much to talk about.’

Now more curious than scared, Craig ignored the dog and walked to the tree, sitting down on it, blade still in his hand, ready to defend himself. Noting this, the man reached into a pocket and pulled out a hip flask with two small metal cups, made of metal bands that clicked into shape when flicked. Into these he poured a liquid, offering one to Craig, who shook his head.

‘And I thought you were almost an adult,’ the man sighed, drinking one cup. ‘See? Not poisoned. But you will need to drink this, Craig Randall of Gleeson Road.’ He held the offered one up again. ‘Drink.’

Craig didn’t mean to, but the man’s voice was so commanding that he couldn’t help himself, taking the metal cup and downing the liquid with a cough. It was a sweet, strong taste, like apples.

‘Good, yes?’ The man smiled. ‘Schnapps. With a little benzocaine added to numb the pain.’

Craig coughed as the man pulled out a small, silver coin.

‘You know what this is?’ the man asked, not waiting for an answer as he explained. ‘This is a solid silver East-German Mark.’ He twirled it in his fingers. ‘See? A number one is on this side, that is heads, while on the other side is a compass and a hammer; tails. I have had this for many years now.’ He looked up from the coin now, staring intently