‘Hold your ground!’ Ivanhoe shrieked; if those sons of bitches turned tail he’d be left on his own. They hadn’t issued him with a gun, just authority, and that was not much comfort.
Rawhead was still holding Coot up, at arm’s length, by the neck. The Reverend’s legs dangled a foot above the ground, his head lolled back, his eyes were closed. The monster displayed the body for his enemies, proof of power.
‘Shall we … please . . . can we … shoot the bastard?’ One of the gunmen inquired.
Ivanhoe swallowed before answering. ‘We’ll hit the vicar.’ ‘He’s dead already.’ said the gunman. ‘We don’t know that.’ ‘He must be dead. Look at him – ‘
Rawhead was shaking Coot like an eiderdown, and his stuffing was falling out, much to Ivanhoe’s intense disgust. Then, almost lazily, Rawhead flung Coot at the police. The body hit the gravel a little way from the gate and lay still. Ivanhoe found his voice -‘Shoot!’
The gunmen needed no encouragement; their fingers were depressing the triggers before the syllable was out of his mouth. Rawhead was hit by three, four, five bullets in quick succession, most of them in the chest. They stung him and he put up an arm to protect his face, covering his balls with the other hand. This was a pain he hadn’t anticipated. The wound he’d received from Nicholson’s rifle had been forgotten in the bliss of the blood-letting that came soon after, but these barbs hurt him, and they kept coming. He felt a twinge of fear. His instinct was to fly in the face of these popping, flashing rods, but the pain was too much. Instead, he turned and made his retreat, leaping over the tombs as he fled towards the safety of the hills. There were copses he knew, burrows and caves, where he could hide and find time to think this new problem through. But first he had to elude them.
They were after him quickly, flushed with the ease of their victory, leaving Ivanhoe to find a vase on one of the graves, empty it of chrysanthemums, and be sick.
Out of the dip there were no lights along the road, and Rawhead began to feel safer. He could melt into the darkness, into the earth, he’d done it a thousand times. He cut across a field. The barley was still unharvested, and heavy with its grain. He trampled it as he ran, grinding seed and stalk. At his back his pursuers were already losing the chase. The car they’d piled into had stopped in the road, he could see its lights, one blue, two white, way behind him. The enemy was shouting a confusion of orders, words Rawhead didn’t understand. No matter; he knew men. They were easily frightened. They would not look far for him tonight; they’d use the dark as an excuse to call off the search, telling themselves that his wounds were probably fatal anyhow. Trusting children that they were. He climbed to the top of the hill and looked down into the
valley. Below the snake of the road, its eyes the headlights of the enemy’s car, the village was a wheel of warm light, with flashing blues and reds at its hub. Beyond, in every direction, the impenetrable black of the hills, over which the stars hung in loops and clusters. By day this would seem a counterpane valley, toy town small. By night it was fathomless, more his than theirs.
His enemies were already returning to their hovels, as he’d known they would. The chase was over for the night.
He lay down on the earth and watched a meteor burn up as it fell to the south-west. It was a brief, bright streak, which edge-lit a cloud, then went out. Morning was many long, healing hours in the future. He would soon be strong again: and then, then – he’d burn them all away.
Coot was not dead: but so close to death it scarcely made any difference. Eighty per cent of the bones in his body were fractured or broken: his face and neck were a maze of lacerations: one of his hands was crushed almost beyond recognition. He would certainly die. It was purely a matter of time and inclination.