The Hunt
by Ash Miller

______Things started to go badly wrong for Clifford Bell on the day of the winter hunt. At first Mark Stevens had to admit that he found it all quite amusing. After all, Clifford wasn’t exactly his favourite person in the world. He was a right snotty bastard with far too much money, as far as Mark was concerned. Clifford had been sitting up there at the head of the crowd, mounted as usual on his favourite horse. The Colonel coming over as being just as arrogant and haughty as Clifford himself, so they made a good team. For almost five years, Clifford had been leading the Brookbury Hunt and he gloried in every minute of it, the chase, the kill but most of all the attention that he received.

            Over the past couple of years things had been marred slightly by the ever-increasing numbers of protesters that had been turning up. As far as Clifford was concerned, the scum would just have to get out of his way; he had no time for them. He’d even gone as far as to set up large roadblocks to stop the general public from getting onto his estate. The fact that there was a clear right of way through the north western woodland area meant nothing to him. Even when the local police asked him to attend a meeting with the protesters, the idea being to try and work out a solution that would stop any trouble, Clifford had refused. He had no intention of even sitting in the same room as those people, let alone at the same table.

            Clifford rode up resplendent in his blood red hunting jacket and gave cheerful greetings to the other members of the hunt, as usual. That morning he even had a good word to say to Mark, which was rare; he seemed to like him almost as much as Mark liked him. There was an almighty noise coming from the large group of protesters that had congregated. They were being held back by a police cordon at the end of the road that led up to The Stag Inn. Sitting outside the pub on his mount, Mark couldn’t help thinking that the noise seemed far worse than on any previous occasion but Clifford had warned them to expect that.

            Finally the time came round and Clifford led the hunt off down the road towards the protesters. As they got close to them, Mark noticed Tony Mitchell hand his recently born son over to his wife, who was standing beside him. Somehow he managed to break out from behind the row of police, waving a large black and red flag, shouting at the top of his voice and blasting away with a loud air-horn. The Colonel, usually completely unshakeable, was startled by the sudden unexpected appearance and reared up on his hind legs. Taken totally by surprise, Clifford was unseated and landed heavily on the ground.

            The television cameras were there alongside the massed ranks of photographers and journalists; they all got a good view. The sight of Clifford rolling around in the fresh pile of horse shit, surrounded by the pack of hounds, was just the image that they had been waiting for. Like some of the other members of the hunt, Mark couldn’t help laughing at the sight, although none of them would have let Clifford see that; they all knew what he was like. Finally getting back to his feet, Clifford remounted The Colonel. Blatantly ignoring the jeering protesters, he finally led the hunt off into the countryside. Although outwardly Clifford appeared quite composed and calm, one look at his face told Mark that inwardly he was seething. He would want to get his own back on Mitchell for the indignation that he’d suffered at his hands.

            After a good lengthy chase, the hounds finally managed to corner a large terrified vixen. That was when Clifford spoilt the whole hunt, as far as Mark was concerned. He allowed the hounds to rip the fox apart, as he looked on in gleeful silence. When Mark finally managed to call the hounds off, he couldn’t help having a go at Clifford for not controlling them properly and letting them have so much freedom. Stupid thing like that would play directly into the hands of the protesters, he shouted, as he picked up the ragged remains by the tail. Mark might have been a member of the hunt but was also a farmer, he didn’t like to see unnecessary cruelty to any animal; there was no need for it. Clifford just stared down at him through his steely grey eyes and didn’t say a word. He obviously knew that anything he did say would only make matters worse. Mark was well aware that, in Clifford’s opinion, he’d started to think too much about what the protesters thought and not enough about the hunt itself.

            At the end of their day’s sport, once the horses had been stabled and the protesters had departed, they all made their way down to The Stag. Clifford soon found that one of the local newspaper reporters was still hanging around. She wanted to speak to anyone who could be persuaded to talk about the hunt. Tania Wilkinson wanted to find out why things like the hunt still went on and couldn’t hide her obvious distaste. Clifford tried to explain about the damage that the foxes did on the local farms, although what he knew about farm work could be written on the back of a postage stamp. He went on to tell Tania that the hunt wasn’t a cruel way of killing, it was quick and clean. As he continued talking, Mark also noticed that he was pumping Tania for information about the protesters.

            Having been primed by a good few drinks, Tania was quite happy to tell Clifford everything that she knew. A large number of the protesters had come from a travellers’ site on the other side of the village. That piece of information hadn’t really surprised Clifford but he’d wanted his suspicions confirmed. What surprised Mark was that Cheyenne Mitchell had been one of the travellers before marrying Tony. Everyone recognised Tony Mitchell, he was the local labour councillor and had been interviewed regularly by the media. As Tania continued telling Clifford what she knew, Mark could tell that he had something up his sleeve; he was working on some plan or other.

            All that afternoon Clifford had been thinking about what he could do. He wanted to find a way of getting his revenge on the scum. Everyone in The Stag that evening knew that seeing himself featured on the television news that night, rolling around covered in shit, had only inflamed him more. Clifford’s land had been slowly eaten away over the years, the estate now being only a quarter of the size that it had been in his great grandfather’s day. Unlike the rest of the regular hunt members, Clifford had never had to do a real day’s work in his life. He spent all of his time engaged in his favourite hobbies and top of that list was killing things, as was his right, he would often proclaim.

            Clifford had joined hunts all across the world but that pleasure was slowly being denied him. Only that summer he’d been on his biggest hunt so far; an illegal elephant hunt in Kenya. That trip had almost ended up being a complete disaster. After downing a wounded and enraged bull elephant, the party had suddenly found itself surrounded by park rangers. Clifford only managed to make his escape by pure chance. Most of the party had been less lucky and were now awaiting sentencing in a Kenyan prison. They were all well aware that the courts would go heavily on them.

            Even the dubious pleasures of the yearly Canadian seal cull had been upset the previous year, Clifford had told Mark one afternoon. He’d been walking back to his base camp, his snow white thermal suit splattered with gore, when he’d been set upon by a group of protesters. Kicking him to the ground, they then used his own bloodstained club on his head. Clifford had only been saved from serious injury by a nearby group of cullers, who, seeing what was going on, came to the rescue. Clifford had been left battered and bruised but other than that fine, although the whole episode made him think twice about going out there again. It wasn’t the most challenging of kills anyway, he explained, seals didn’t put up much resistance, they didn’t even try to make a run for it.

          As the labour councillor for the area, Tony Mitchell used his position to become one of the main voices against the hunt. One night, a couple of weeks before the next planned hunt, he made one of his rare visits to The Stag Inn. As the evening drew on, he slowly became more drunk and more vocal in his opposition to the hunt. The vast majority of the regulars in The Stag were members of the hunt, so Mitchell’s raised voice did little to help ease the atmosphere. He only began to calm down a bit when Brett Stevens, the landlord, threatened to throw him out. Clifford had also been in the pub most of the night and like everyone else had been listening to Mitchell’s shouting. Finally he decided that it was time he did something about it.

            Walking over to Mitchell’s table, Clifford sat down without bothering to introduce himself. He was a well-known figure in the area and if Tony Mitchell was so against the hunt, he was bound to recognise him. Clifford had a proposal to make and considering the state that Mitchell was in, he was sure that the man would agree. If he were so heavily against the hunt, Clifford said, then, as a gambling man, how would he feel about getting the chance to finally stop it for good? Clifford offered to actually disband the hunt organisation if Mitchell was willing to participate in one last big hunt. The hunt would be between the two of them, man against man, the winner getting their way for or against the hunt.

            As the evening rolled on, the two men set out the rules of the competition, which would be held within the enclosed walls of Clifford’s estate. They would both be armed with paintball guns, to add a bit of excitement, and the aim would be to reach the front steps of the main house. Six possible starting points were listed, each at the furthest edges of the estate, and they would draw their starting positions on the day of the hunt. Although the main target was to reach the house first, a points system was also agreed on. Reaching the stairs first would be worth one hundred points but each paintball hit was valued at between ten and twenty points, depending on the position of the hit.

            At nine o’clock on the morning of the hunt, Clifford and Tony Mitchell met outside The Stag Inn dressed in their combat fatigues. After shaking hands, the two men drew their starting positions from the six envelopes that Brett Stevens held, they then had an hour to reach that point. Clifford had taken the precaution of secretly marking two of the envelopes so that he could be sure of starting on the northern side of the estate. He now had an hour to himself and that was all the time that he needed; he had things to do before the hunt began. At nine-thirty Mark was sitting there waiting at one of the entrance points. He’d been posted there to make sure that neither of the competitors decided to make an early start, if they drew that particular starting position.

            The hunt was due to start at exactly ten o’clock and like Mark, other people had been stationed at all the entry points to make sure that no one got an early advantage. Looking at the clock in his car, Mark saw that it was only five minutes to ten and guessed that neither of the men had drawn his gate. He was just about to drive away when Clifford’s Range Rover suddenly burst into view around the closest bend. Slamming on the brakes and screeching to a halt, he asked rather breathlessly how long there was to go before the starting time. Once Mark had told him, he seemed to calm down a bit and leant back heavily in his seat, taking a few deep breaths.

            Mark knew that Clifford would have the edge over Mitchell. As far as the lay out of the estate went, he knew it inside out and had already laid some plans. Having arrived at the starting position with just a couple of minutes to spare, Clifford waited patiently for the clock to click around to ten. Finally Mark gave him the nod and he set off into the estate at a run. From the direction that he was heading, it seemed as if he was determined to reach the house as quickly as possible. Mark knew that there was only one direct way to reach the steps and guessed that he wanted to make sure that he had that area covered.

             It took an hour of waiting in his concealed position before Clifford caught sight of Tony Mitchell. His careful approach making Clifford smile as he fired off a volley of paint cartridges, hitting Tony two or three times. Quickly diving off to his left, Mitchell disappeared into the trees in the most obvious direction, just as Clifford had planned. Waiting for a few minutes to make sure that he hadn’t decided to double back, Clifford then set off on a parallel course towards the lake. He was determined to make things as difficult as possible for Mitchell and wanted to score at least a few more hits before finishing the game.

            Clifford was slowly creeping around the edge of the lake when a volley of paintball rounds exploded around him, taking him completely by surprise. One of the paint cartridges burst squarely across Clifford’s faceplate making him lose his balance. After toppling over the edge of bank and landing with a loud splash in the icy water, Clifford sat there looking slightly stunned. With that minor victory won, Tony Mitchell rushed off towards the nearby greenhouses. Clambering up the muddy bank to escape the cold water, Clifford made his way directly towards the house. He’d seen Tony head off in the wrong direction, so he knew that he could still claim his victory. Mark was already waiting there with various members of the hunt committee, a couple of Tony’s friends and Brett Stevens from The Stag. Seeing Clifford appear from behind a high hedge and run towards the steps, they all gave out a large cheer. It wasn’t until he got closer that they realised that he was soaked through, dripping icy water in his wake.

            Clifford was relaxing on the steps with a glass of champagne, trying to make light of his dishevelled state, although everyone could tell that he was far from happy about it, when Mitchell finally appeared. As his group of friends rushed over to him, they could see the half dozen paintball hits, which were more insult than injury. He was obviously not in a very good mood but before he left the estate, he walked over to Clifford and offered his hand. ‘So, are you willing to accept the hunt now?’ Clifford asked with a broad grin, determined to rub in what he saw as a victory.

            ‘I don’t think you’ve won anything, Bell. I’d say that this charade’s finished evens.’ Mitchell said, before stalking off to one of his friend’s cars.

             The day of the next hunt came around quickly. By pure chance the media were already in the village and were able to cover the increasingly hostile confrontation. Various reporters had been hanging around the village for three or four days. They were covering the story of a child that had gone missing from somewhere near the travellers’ site, but Mark hadn’t really taken much notice of the story. Seeing as the reporters were already in the village, covering the hunt seemed like the obvious move for them. Mark could see that Clifford had anchored himself securely in the saddle; there was no way that he was going to come a cropper again.

            Even The Colonel seemed to be ready for anything that morning. He occasionally stomped his hooves and tossed his head, as if trying to keep the other horses in their place. The hunt proved to be a good one, the fleeing fox leading them a merry chase through the countryside, but finally they caught up with it as it reached its den. It was hard to hear anything over the baying of the hounds and the sound of the hunting horn, but finally the hounds were called off.

            Clifford was sitting high on The Colonel’s back, proudly surveying the scene, as Mark dismounted and walked over to the entrance of the den. Out of the corner of his eye, Clifford must have seen the blood drain from Mark’s face, as he demanded to know what was wrong. Barely able to control his voice, Mark told Clifford that he had better take a look at what he’d found. Leaping off The Colonel’s back, Clifford strode over to where Mark was standing. At first glance it looked as if there were two dead foxes laying there but as Mark lifted the nearest one away, Clifford could see that there was something wrong with the second one.

            Grabbing hold of the tail, Mark lifted the second fox up and it came away loosely, there didn’t seem to be any shape to it. Laying on the ground under the fox skin, which had clearly been attached with plastic cable-ties, was a small child. Mark guessed the moment he saw it, that it was the missing child from the village. Whether it had been dead before the hounds attacked it or not, it was dead now; the frenzied hounds had torn it too pieces just as they had the fox beforehand. Looking up at Clifford, Mark saw an evil grin spread across his face as he told him to cover the child up and that he would call the police. That look told Mark everything that he needed to know, the child was obviously Tony and Cheyenne Mitchell’s missing son and Clifford had killed him.

©2001Ash MIller

Ash MiIler has had stories widely published across the small press including Enigmatic Tales, Roadworks and Black Rose. Amongst those pieces that he has currently due for publication are stories for the e-zines Terror Tales, Rear View Mirror, and Nox as well as stories for Black Rose and The Ghost Story Society's All Hallows.