The Hunger Trace by Edward Hogan Page A

nonsense.
    In fact, the thought of watching a driven shoot from the sidelines, with all that snooty affectation and the grating subservience of the beaters, had filled Louisa with nervous dread. She liked the idea of David as a rough shooter, even if the signals said he did not want her to meet the family just yet.
    At the outskirts of the woodland, as he sent the dog into the pillow softness of the ferns, she studied the back of his neck. It was strong, the collar flush against the skin, tiny blond hairs dampened by a milky sweat, like sap. When he stopped in front of her, she leaned into him, not without intention.
    Around mid-morning, a rabbit bolted from the grass, and David fired his right barrel, missed. The noise startled a murder of crows and he swung the gun upwards and fired again, into the black. He hit fresh air. ‘You didn’t follow through,’ Louisa said.
    David looked around, listened to the atmosphere settle. Louisa was worried about the possibility of a gamekeeper, but there was no human reaction. ‘Looks like the only person around here who’s going to miss a couple of rabbits is you,’ Louisa said.
    They shared Louisa’s sandwiches, standing up. David was ravenous, his body clearly baffled by the early start.
    ‘What are you thinking about?’ Louisa asked.
    ‘My father. He’s afraid of losing his job. And he’s not well, really.’
    ‘He’s a powerful man, though, right? What’s wrong with him?’
    ‘He thinks the world is going to end.’
    Louisa looked around. ‘Nice day for it.’
    They finished their food quietly and walked on in the silence that the shoot demanded. Louisa hoped that David felt the same satisfaction she did. Perhaps she was the person with whom he could shed his clown act. She relaxed into that cradled space she inhabited when out with her hawks. Across the stubble fields, through the corn and the bracken, their shadows stretched, David’s crumpled like a garment over the fences. The light was soft, and their breathing slipped in and out of synchronicity. They did not find any release pens; feed hoppers leaked corn for the pheasants but the birds were not to be tempted out of hiding. The only other signs of men were in the angular stands of commercial woodland. The sky ruled, spilling blueness onto the patches of straw-like grass that bordered the fields. Later, they saw a barn owl, the head so human, so still. David’s gun hung empty and open over his arm for much of the walk, but that seemed irrelevant somehow.
    ‘You ready to head back?’ David said.
    Louisa looked at the sun, which was large and low now. ‘Yes, let’s go.’
    As they crossed the final field and approached the canal bridge, Louisa saw a flash of iridescent green in the tangle of overgrown hawthorn acting as a hedgerow. She turned to David; he had seen it too. He loaded cartridges as the dog stalked through the long grass. ‘David,’ Louisa whispered. ‘The dog needs to get behind the hedge, flush towards us.’
    ‘It’s a pheasant,’ said David. ‘It’ll go vertical. We’ll walk it up.’
    Louisa shook her head. They moved to within thirty yards of the hedgerow. The light was poor, but if the bird came up above the height of the first houses of the village, it would be nicely silhouetted against the sun.
    David had little control over his dog, which charged into the cover of its own will, flushing the cock pheasant, which came up briefly and then dipped lower, curling away from the back of the hedge. David fired twice, once as the cock rose, and again when it dropped lower. There was the echo, and the silence. ‘I think I got it,’ David said, marching to the scene.
    ‘Too close to the dog for my liking,’ Louisa said, following ten paces behind.
    She would always remember him, opening his weapon, walking towards the sun. She did not even have to squint, because the light was so soft. The noise he made on recoiling from the hedge was strangled and inarticulate. It was a cattle