Hung Out to Die

  Hung out to Die

  Anthony Litton

  © Anthony Litton 2014

  Anthony Litton has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author’s note

  Extract from Swords of Arabia: Warlord by Anthony Litton

  Chapter 1

  Desmond Appleby claimed forty, looked sixty and was, in fact, all but fifty. It was his prematurely aged look that was part, but only part, of the reason he was feeling more than a little depressed as he stood looking out through the bay window of the warm and cosy room. He scowled out at a second contributor to his ill-humour and mounting depression, which was the appalling weather of sleety rain, allied to what looked to his jaundiced eye like a ruddy gale as well. It didn’t help his depression that he would very soon have to leave the said warm, snug room and go out in it.

  “It’s the middle of bloody winter!” he’d bleated, not entirely accurately, as it was late March, though an extremely wet and unusually cold one. The third and final cause of his depression was whirling madly round his feet like some canine dervish, he mused unenthusiastically, looking down at the spinning ball of honey-coloured fur at his feet.

  As far as he knew, he’d not actually told the puppy that it was the morning she was to go out on her first grown-up walk, so where she’d picked up on the idea, he didn’t know, but she clearly had.

  Sighing, his air of grievance deepening, he trudged to the utility room and donned outdoor clothing and footwear. Looking at the puppy’s happy smile and madly wagging tail with some bitterness, he could see that she was obviously enjoying the thought of her first official outing considerably more than he was. Leaving the house, he trudged across it’s large, secluded garden and entered a field through a small gate set in the high wall, which gave the grounds total privacy and – more to the point – shelter from the ferocious wind.

  Once outside, he had no such protection as he strode out across the vast field. Unlike the village itself, set down in a small sheltering fold of the hills, the field was on higher ground, and was exposed to the vicious weather. His troubles multiplied when he was horrified to see that his shiny, new Wellington boots - a top of the range pair from the London footwear designer – were getting covered in mud. For heaven’s sake! he chided himself half-heartedly. Mother’s right, you truly are some ‘wimpy townee’! The observation did little to cheer him up, nor did the fact that, a dozen or so yards further on, he discovered his expensive new acquisitions were actually not waterproof. Gritting his teeth, he moved to the side of the field, and made for the relatively mud-free pathways meandering through the small wood, the other side of which marked the formal boundary to his mother’s land.

  Born and brought up in the country, he’d known no other life until, at twenty, he’d fled down to London, planning to never live in the countryside ever again. It was a vow he’d managed to keep for almost thirty years, until three weeks ago, to be precise. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the country, he did – provided it was in small doses or viewed from the other side of a well-insulated window, preferably in a first class railway carriage travelling away from it.

  Bloody hell, he thought sourly as the icy rain lashed his face, and he felt his foot rapidly chilling as water poured into his left boot. Who the hell would want to walk in this, unless they’re completely and utterly barking? He recalled that this was the morning of a planned jaunt by ‘Ramblers Rule OK!’ – otherwise known as a ‘Walking is War!’ group - from the nearby town of Estwich, along with some of the dafter locals. Though why someone would want to leave the luxury of street lighting, coffee and designer-wear shops and, most blessed of all, pavements, left him bemused.

  Though it could be fun, he reflected. The group in question were part of a militant network of walkers determined to reclaim all lost footpaths, and had no problem in cutting fences, chopping down deliberately grown brambles, and whatever else was necessary to achieve their aim. The morning threatened to be rather lively, he thought, as it had become common knowledge that they planned to walk across whatever fields were necessary to ‘reclaim pathways deliberately obscured and blocked by reactionary and fascist elements of the repressive bourgeoisie,’ as their slightly dated literature put it. Had he not been so miserable, he would have smiled as he anticipated the response of the said reactionary fascist in question, Owen Sampson, was going to be. The elderly farmer had loudly announced on several occasions, that he would have no hesitation in ‘shooting the buggers in the arse’ if they attempted to set foot on his land. Knowing the gentleman over many years, it was a statement promising robust action that Desmond, having suffered more than one clout over the ears when caught ‘scrumping’ in the farmer’s orchards, entirely believed would be carried out.

  Despite loving theatrical spectacle and drama, Desmond loved warmth and home comforts even more. He had, therefore, absolutely no intention of joining the expected crowd of onlookers, keen to see what promised to be the best entertainment since the Doherty Donkey had chased and, rumour had it, tried to mount Miss Esterbury, the church organist. More than a tad straight-laced and prissy, she was doubly mortified, as she had suffered years of vulgarity from local children – of all ages, it must be said. Helpful advice such as ‘want any help to know how to get the best out of the organ, Miss?’ or ‘Best to start off gently with your fingers, warm them first, o’course, then do a bit o’ strokin’, then really go for it,’ were two of the less puerile – and obscene – offerings which had made the lady’s life a misery. The whole incident and its aftermath had had Desmond and Gwilym (his business partner) doubled over with laughter when they were boys; indeed, regrettably, still did whenever they recalled the incident.

  Looking down at his boots, Desmond realised he was going to get much more re-acquainted with the rustic idyll than he’d ever planned to. Leaving the sheltering woodland and standing on the edge of another flat and even more desolate-looking field, the vicious wind hit him with renewed and icy ferocity. This caused him to hunker down even more into his thick, fleece-lined jacket; one item of clothing which, thankfully, was actually doing the job he’d paid for it to do. The puppy, completely unfazed by the weather, raced across the flat, wet expanse, which was broken by nothing but the ridged farrows of the previous autumn’s ploughing. She careered around in a series of mad zigzags, totally absorbed in her new freedom.

  Watching her race happily round the, to her, whole new space, at last brought a reluctant smile to Desmond’s face as he stood, his face and hands chilled as he tried to shelter under the trees at the edge of the wood. Her obvious joy kept the smile there – just – even though he was still miserably conscious of the bitterly cold rain dripping onto his forlorn head and shoulders. Even the puppy’s increasingly wet and muddy condition didn’t dim his slowly returning good nature, as he had absolutely no intention of cleaning her up on their return. That job, he’d decided, was for either his mother or Gwilym to do. They were, after all, the reason she – and he – were out in this foul environment. They’d bought him the damned thing, almost hiding their amusement at the look of stunned shock on his face
. His bitterness was in no way lessened by the realisation that he had no one to blame but himself.

  Conscious of his expanding waistline, Desmond had loudly declared his intention, now that he was back in the country, to exercise often. He’d forgotten saying it – they hadn’t, hence the puppy’s arrival.

  Her high-pitched bark drew his attention back to her and, seeing that she was far out in the centre of the field, he called her to heel, a call she ignored. All her noisy attention was focused on a battered old scarecrow far out in the middle of the field, its ragged coat flapping in the near-arctic wind and exciting the little dog even more. Her frenzied yelping drowned out the increasingly irritated calls Desmond was making, so, with yet another long-suffering sigh, he stepped off the path and squelched grimly across towards her. He held her lead firmly in hand for when he actually did get near the canine anarchist, and he could feel by the tell-tale tightening behind his eyes that her incessant barking was threatening to bring on one of his headaches.

  “Bloody dog,” he muttered as he tramped across the barren field. “Can’t you tell it’s only a blasted scarecrow!” he called out. Bloody early though, he thought, as some of his long-dormant country knowledge came back to life. There’s bugger all to scare anything away from; won’t be for a few weeks yet. Old Sampson must have left it up from last year, lazy sod.

  “Thank God!” he muttered as the dog suddenly stopped barking. It took him a moment to realise why; she had her mouth full and was running proudly towards him, her trophy gripped firmly in her mouth. He stopped abruptly in mid-pace, suddenly oblivious to how much colder he was getting now that he had no shelter from the driving wind and rain. All his attention was focused on a growing, puzzled sense of awareness that he recognised what the puppy had in her mouth. Reaching down, he tried to coax her to give up her find. It took quite a while, ending with a chase and eventual bribery, to get her to relinquish it. One puzzled glance told him he was right. It was a ladies shoe, and, despite its heavy covering of mud and disfigurement by puppy teeth marks, was obviously new, expensive and of a very noticeable shade of brilliant red. It was, more to the point, a shoe which he had seen only the evening before – and then it was on its owner’s foot.

  “Odd to find it out here, chucked away,” he muttered to himself. He knew more than enough about fashion, however, to know that the shoes were so top of the range, no one would willingly discard one of them. Then he looked up, and the blood drained from his face as he saw it hadn’t been discarded by its owner. Indeed, until pulled loose by the dog, it was probably still being worn by her – worn on the foot covered in the wet earth of the ground it now rested on.

  Desmond’s body chilled, and his mind threatened to shut down as his eyes continued to stare at the scarecrow only a few feet in front of him. What he’d thought was a scarecrow’s traditionally ragged garb wasn’t, he now saw, ragged so much as slashed. He wasn’t looking at cast-off rags, but brutally attacked clothing, women’s clothing. He could see that the garments had been deliberately and systematically slashed, again and again.

  And then, finally, sickeningly, he realised that the scarecrow wasn’t a scarecrow at all, but something else entirely. The face above the tattered, repeatedly cut, pitiful, all-but-naked torso was, or had been, human, and had also been sliced. The wide-open, horror-filled eyes set above a mouth stretched impossibly wide, its teeth bared in an equal rictus of horror, dominated a ruined and disfigured face. It was a face that had once been attractive – and a face belonging to a woman he knew, and had been talking to scant hours previously...

  The informal evening, centring round a buffet supper, had been his mother’s idea, and, as with all his mother’s social events, it was going extremely well. This was despite the wide mix of ‘types’ the consummate hostess had brought together. As also was the norm with his mother, she had more than one reason for holding the gathering. Ostensibly, it was to thank the many people who had helped her when two of her very elderly aunts, lifelong companions, had both become ill, and then, within hours of each other, had died. Even Desmond, long grown accustomed to how popular his mother was, had been surprised by the large number of people who had done more than the usual courtesies when the old ladies had entered their last, final illnesses.

  He stood quietly, looking round the long, low room, converted from what had been the separate downstairs rooms of three 16th century weaving families, and now crowded with people from the affluent 21st century. He was happily absorbed in one of his favourite pastimes, watching people and how they behaved. He saw many faces that he’d known for years, and many more that he’d known all his life. There was also a sprinkling of ‘newcomers’, rich, or merely affluent, professionals who did the daily long commute into London and returned home each evening to live their version of the rural idyll. Those he knew less well, and was very content to keep it that way. Indeed, knowing his mother’s views on ‘incomers’ in general, and the ‘aspiring middle classes’ in particular, he was surprised to see quite so many under her roof. He didn’t mind, though; the widely varied mix was giving him the opportunity to do what, besides gossiping, he enjoyed most.

  Farm workers’ spouses mixed happily with solicitors’ wives while their husbands talked animatedly about the pleasures of hunting, though scarcely from the quarry’s point of view, thought Desmond acidly. He looked round the room and saw his mother listening politely to the vicar. ‘Surely one of the most boring men I’ve ever met, darling!’ had been her comment to her son when she went through the guest list. Watching them now, he smiled, knowing that the vicar’s time was rapidly running out. Punctilious as his mother was about the social niceties, she was even more punctilious in swiftly cutting herself loose from those she considered boring. And he certainly recognised the fast-approaching signs; an increase in apparent interest in the facial expression, with the slightly contradictory body language signalling an urgent and imminent need to leave the field. So skilled was she in ending such encounters, however, the listener invariably would actually believe her as she ‘reluctantly’ allowed herself to be dragged away from their side.

  Hell! he thought, moving his gaze swiftly passed a nearby couple, carefully making sure he didn’t make eye contact. Generally an easy-going and affable man, he usually got on with everyone extremely well. He always had done, as he’d inherited not just his father’s fair good looks and a huge amount of his mother’s charm, but also their easy ability to get on with almost everyone. His affability, however, stopped well short of the couple he carefully didn’t make eye contact with.

  Maisie and Duncan Asbury were of a type he actively despised. Devout and cheerless chapel goers, they always gave off an air of smug condescension at everyone else’s spiritual short-comings and obvious sinfulness.

  “Hello, Desmond,” said a quiet voice in his ear, and he turned and saw, to his delight, Jemma Woodbridge, childhood friend and now the local MP.

  “Jemma, darling! How lovely! I didn’t see you arrive,” he said, beaming, his good humour entirely restored as he bent down to kiss her plump cheek. “I’d heard you couldn’t make it!”

  “So had your mother, but she decided otherwise!” She grimaced good humouredly, as she related how Eleanor – her friend’s mother, and long-time honorary aunt – had dealt with the problem by inviting some of the key members of the committee Jemma had been scheduled to attend. All had accepted; Eleanor Blaine-Appleby’s parties were not turned down by those lucky enough to get invited.

  “Good God! So that’s why Piers Bellamy’s here!” laughed Desmond. Bellamy was not one of his mother’s favourite people, too townee and smarmy for her forthright ways, and her amused son wondered why he had been actually allowed over her threshold.

  “Well, Jemma darling, after this, you need never wonder how highly my mother values you!” he grinned.

  “Indeed, and I’m duly flattered,” she laughed, her small, dark face alight with that touch of devilment that had always drawn him, a much quieter and reserve
d child, to her. “She’s still unwilling to use the Dower House for gatherings like these?” she queried.

  He shook his head sadly. “Yes. She still can’t bear to go inside, though she won’t admit it of course. She just says it’s too expensive to heat just ‘for a few parties and such’.”

  She nodded, her good humour momentarily dampened. “She loved your father such a lot, didn’t she.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, she did,” he replied simply. “She once told me that she’d loved him from the moment she’d first seen him when she was only six. And she never stopped, ever,” he ended softly.

  “Will she give the Dower House back to the estate, then?” Jemma asked curiously, with the freedom that long friendship gives for such questions.

  Mid-sip of his drink, Desmond choked with laughter. “Oh come on, Jemma! You know her far too well for that! ‘What we have, we hold’ may be the motto of some great family or other, but it sure as hell could equally apply to Mother!”

  She joined in his laughter, herself well-knowing the oft-told story.

  Eleanor’s father, then the village squire, had been as stunned as the rest of the village when, at seventeen, she had announced that she was going to marry the local shopkeeper. But he loved her enough to deed the beautiful old house to her ‘for as long as she either needs or wants it.’ And that, in Eleanor’s mind, was that, and she had no intention of returning it.

  “Ian must be apoplectic, then!” she said, grinning happily at the thought of Eleanor’s pompous nephew getting bested, yet again, by his determined aunt.

  Desmond grinned with her; neither were fans of the prissy and bigoted little man who, unfortunately for the village, was, besides being Eleanor’s nephew and Desmond’s cousin, also its local squire.

  “I see Gwilym’s looking well. Almost his old self,” she observed, her voice suddenly more serious as she looked across the room at a man, almost as darkly featured as she herself, but, at virtually six foot, considerably taller than her diminutive five foot two inches.