Whirligig by Magnus Macintyre

some ways a very splendid room – an oak-panelled hug of a place. But then he saw beneath the pine table that Peregrine was using as a desk some carpet marks showing that until recently a larger item had stood there. Also, for a library that was clearly so old, it was unusual to see large gaps in the shelves.
    Peregrine urged Claypole to a seat, and placed thedecanter of whisky on a surface within easy reach. When he had recovered his wheezing breath, Claypole spoke.
    â€˜Deer,’ he said. ‘Brr… I hit a deer.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Peregrine. ‘It happens. I wouldn’t worry about it.’ There was a pause. ‘Was it one of mine?’
    Claypole looked darkly at his host.
    â€˜Just… didn’t see it.’
    â€˜Yes. Well. It happens.’
    â€˜Took me an hour to walk here.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Peregrine with relief. ‘Probably not one of mine, then.’
    â€˜Trashed the car.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Peregrine furrowed his brow. ‘Gosh. Are you…?’
    â€˜Brr. No. Just… you know…’
    They sat sipping their whiskies in silence until the library door creaked open. There was Coky.
    â€˜Hello,’ she said. ‘Did you find us OK?’
    A man will find it sexy to see a woman in her pyjamas if what he wants to do is sleep with her. It reminds him of bed, and of nakedness. The degree of sexiness doesn’t normally depend on the bedwear in question. But Coky was wearing large, wasp-yellow winceyette pyjamas, an oatmeal jumper, huge checked slippers, and a pink velour dressing gown. It rendered her, to Claypole’s relief because he couldn’t deal with desire as well as everything else, about as sexy as a Womble.
    When Coky had sat down and gauged the atmosphere to be one of stress, Claypole was forced to relate what had happened.
    â€˜I don’t think… It wasn’t the initial impact that did the damage. It was… Well, I was trying to do the right thing. Brr. You’re not supposed to…’
    He sipped his whisky, wondering whether he would be censured for his actions.
    â€˜What?’ said Coky.
    â€˜I had to… gah, finish it off…’
    Coky and her uncle exchanged glances.
    â€˜You did so, I hope.’ This was Peregrine.
    â€˜Yeah. OK. Yeah. I reversed over it. Was that…?’ Claypole’s expression was pitiful. He had wanted to put the animal out of its misery and hadn’t had a weapon to hand. Surely using the car had been the right thing to do?
    Coky nodded. ‘Yes, I think that was probably –’
    â€˜Several times,’ said Claypole.
    There was a pause. Claypole could feel their country eyes upon him.
    â€˜Seven or eight, OK?’ he said with irritation.
    Coky and Peregrine both raised their eyebrows.
    â€˜Maybe twenty. I think that’s probably… The car’s a bit…’ Claypole went quiet again.
    â€˜Where is the car?’ Coky asked.
    â€˜Ditch,’ said Claypole sadly. ‘I thought I should get it off the road, and it just… Brr… Upside down.’
    All three sat in silence. Claypole had the uncomfortable feeling that if he had not been there, they would have been laughing. But Peregrine changed the subject, spending the next ten minutes trying to convince Coky and Claypole that the meeting in the community hall really hadn’t gone so badly. As Peregrine spoke of his relief that Claypole had replaced him as the chief villain of the wind farm, a large and comfortable black labrador came and sniffed at Claypole. He noticed that it had three legs, and gave it a pat, whereupon it settled at his feet. In the soft embrace of an armchair with a whisky in his hand, and the fire in the grate raging, Claypolewas finding himself beginning to relax. He calculated that the longer he stayed drinking whisky, the greater the chances of being offered a bed at MacGilp House. In his experience of staying in large houses –