shot, set up a paper target and let off a round or two. He loaded up for a third, and that’s when his mother found him.
He was so startled, so horrified at her angry expression that he held out the pistol apologetically before him as she approached. What happened next he could not say. He had been through the tragic event a thousand times in his head.
The gun went off.
For a moment his mother’s eyes were wide and uncomprehending. The anger disappeared, replaced with a kind of sorrow. She fell softly to the grass, a patch of scarlet opening up in her chest, her blood spilling onto the grass as he tried to lift her, calling to her, trying to prise open her eyes so that she could look at him, but it was to no avail. She did not look at him ever again.
They carried her inside and she hung between life and death for a full day, but finally she died of her wound.
At first debilitated by grief, his father then exploded with rage. Thomas received such a severe beating from him that the doctor thought he would also die. And when he recovered, and the authorities judged it all a tragic accident, his father sent him away so that he would never have to set eyes upon the son who had murdered his true love. And he had never set foot in the Blackdown Hills since that day twenty-three years ago.
He was paid a small allowance for a time. And enough to buy a commission in the army, and Thomas Blackdown wanted to lose himself, lose the wretch he felt he’d become, by wallowing in the misery of war, for that’s what it turned out to be. His mother had been right; there was no glory to be found among the mutilated dead. There was only pain and misery, but that, he thought, is only what he deserved. As he deserved to die for what he’d done to that kind-hearted, loving woman with his foolhardy carelessness. Yet, despite his apparent heroics on the field, the many brave charges he led, the chances he took with his life, not a single ball or bayonet came his way to end his miserable life. God had decided he should live to endure the burning guilt. He had finally got the wars he’d craved for but it did nothing to assuage the self-loathing he felt, and so he’d had his fill of them and now he wanted to be free of the killing. He was no longer a soldier. He was nothing. He was a ghost of a man.
His allowances had been stopped years ago. He came out of the army possessing only the clothes on his back and few possessions. No sense of where he should take his life next. He fell into the life of a thieftaker quite by accident, something to pay the bills, and found he had a skill for it. And then he received the letter from his brother and he felt he must offer his help. Yet it could not be escaped that his father had disowned Thomas, banished him, and so the decision to come back to the Blackdown Hills to Jonathan’s aid had already been complicated by other stinging emotions.
Facing his mother’s tomb the immensity of it all came back to Thomas Blackdown in a flood. And learning that Jonathan was dead heaped another layer of wretchedness upon his troubled soul.
‘Where does Jonathan lie?’ Blackdown asked.
Reverend Bole pointed out a stone slab in the wall. ‘Behind here.’ There was a simple inscription carved into the stone. He watched as Blackdown ran his hand over the letters. ‘He was a good man, in his way. A little wayward at times, but on the whole…’
‘You said he was murdered,’ Blackdown interrupted flatly. ‘Who did it?’
Bole sucked in a breath. ‘We do not know.’
‘His killer was never found?’
‘It is difficult to know who or what his killer was…’ he began.
‘ What his killer was? I don’t understand.’
‘Come, follow me out into the light,’ said Bole, leading the way. He closed the metal gate behind them both and turned the key in the lock. They mounted the stairs, their footsteps sounding hollow on the worn stone.
‘So his killer was never found, is that what you’re saying?’
He was so startled, so horrified at her angry expression that he held out the pistol apologetically before him as she approached. What happened next he could not say. He had been through the tragic event a thousand times in his head.
The gun went off.
For a moment his mother’s eyes were wide and uncomprehending. The anger disappeared, replaced with a kind of sorrow. She fell softly to the grass, a patch of scarlet opening up in her chest, her blood spilling onto the grass as he tried to lift her, calling to her, trying to prise open her eyes so that she could look at him, but it was to no avail. She did not look at him ever again.
They carried her inside and she hung between life and death for a full day, but finally she died of her wound.
At first debilitated by grief, his father then exploded with rage. Thomas received such a severe beating from him that the doctor thought he would also die. And when he recovered, and the authorities judged it all a tragic accident, his father sent him away so that he would never have to set eyes upon the son who had murdered his true love. And he had never set foot in the Blackdown Hills since that day twenty-three years ago.
He was paid a small allowance for a time. And enough to buy a commission in the army, and Thomas Blackdown wanted to lose himself, lose the wretch he felt he’d become, by wallowing in the misery of war, for that’s what it turned out to be. His mother had been right; there was no glory to be found among the mutilated dead. There was only pain and misery, but that, he thought, is only what he deserved. As he deserved to die for what he’d done to that kind-hearted, loving woman with his foolhardy carelessness. Yet, despite his apparent heroics on the field, the many brave charges he led, the chances he took with his life, not a single ball or bayonet came his way to end his miserable life. God had decided he should live to endure the burning guilt. He had finally got the wars he’d craved for but it did nothing to assuage the self-loathing he felt, and so he’d had his fill of them and now he wanted to be free of the killing. He was no longer a soldier. He was nothing. He was a ghost of a man.
His allowances had been stopped years ago. He came out of the army possessing only the clothes on his back and few possessions. No sense of where he should take his life next. He fell into the life of a thieftaker quite by accident, something to pay the bills, and found he had a skill for it. And then he received the letter from his brother and he felt he must offer his help. Yet it could not be escaped that his father had disowned Thomas, banished him, and so the decision to come back to the Blackdown Hills to Jonathan’s aid had already been complicated by other stinging emotions.
Facing his mother’s tomb the immensity of it all came back to Thomas Blackdown in a flood. And learning that Jonathan was dead heaped another layer of wretchedness upon his troubled soul.
‘Where does Jonathan lie?’ Blackdown asked.
Reverend Bole pointed out a stone slab in the wall. ‘Behind here.’ There was a simple inscription carved into the stone. He watched as Blackdown ran his hand over the letters. ‘He was a good man, in his way. A little wayward at times, but on the whole…’
‘You said he was murdered,’ Blackdown interrupted flatly. ‘Who did it?’
Bole sucked in a breath. ‘We do not know.’
‘His killer was never found?’
‘It is difficult to know who or what his killer was…’ he began.
‘ What his killer was? I don’t understand.’
‘Come, follow me out into the light,’ said Bole, leading the way. He closed the metal gate behind them both and turned the key in the lock. They mounted the stairs, their footsteps sounding hollow on the worn stone.
‘So his killer was never found, is that what you’re saying?’
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