Little Black Lies (12 page)

The dismay around me is pitiful. Some of the women and youngsters have started to cry. The men look pale, are blinking hard, rubbing their faces. It isn’t fair. These people have tried so hard and they deserve something back. Unfortunately, nature doesn’t work that way.

‘What now?’ Callum is keeping his voice low. I suspect he knows what comes next. I shake my head at him and he follows me as I walk towards the sergeant. The three of us move away from the crowd.

‘I have to euthanize them,’ I tell the sergeant. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times we carry them out, they’ll keep coming back in.’

The soldier, who isn’t much more than a boy himself, looks shocked. He turns back to the carnage on shore, at the sheer numbers involved.

‘What if we get them deeper?’ says Callum. ‘Tow them out with the RIB?’

I knew this would happen. Arguments and counter-suggestions that do nothing other than prolong the inevitable and increase the distress to the animals.

I shake my head. ‘When whales re-beach themselves, there is nothing anyone can do.’

A pause, while they try to come up with another answer and fail. ‘How are you going to do it?’ asks the sergeant, who is looking younger and less sure of himself by the minute.

‘Gunshot to the head. If you and your men can assist, that will be a big help. If you can’t, then I need to ask you to clear the beach. No one is going to want to see this.’

Callum runs a hand through his hair. ‘Catrin, is there really no alternative?’

I feel anger welling up. This is going to be difficult enough and I need these two on side. ‘No. If we do nothing, they’ll die slowly and painfully. It could take some of them a couple of days. Continually dragging them back is just going to increase their distress and exhaust these people.’

‘I’ll talk to my CO.’ The sergeant walks up the beach. At the water’s edge, people are still carrying the smaller whales back, trying to shoo the returning creatures out of the shallows.

‘Do you not … I don’t know, need some authority to do this?’ asks Callum.

‘Who do you suggest I ask? God?’

‘Where’s John?’

The implication that my judgement isn’t sufficiently sound, that I need to check with my boss infuriates me. Does he honestly think John and I didn’t discuss exactly this possibility before I came out here? That we didn’t carefully count and sign out the number of bullets I was going to need?

The sergeant returns, radio still in hand. ‘My CO can’t approve a cull without proper authority. He’s phoning the Governor’s House.’

‘Your CO has no authority over this beach or over me,’ I tell him. ‘I’m getting started.’

I stride away. I think I see the sergeant gesture to one of his men to stop me but Callum gets to me first. ‘Give it a minute.’ He’s speaking very quietly, his voice just above my ear. ‘The Governor’s staff will phone John who’ll back you up. You might not need this guy’s authority to go ahead, but you do need his help.’

‘What I need is for him to stay out of my way.’

He grabs my shoulder, physically stops me moving. ‘Catrin, there must be fifty people on this beach. Fewer than half are local. They won’t understand what you’re doing and why it’s necessary.’

The sergeant is talking on the radio. It will take time, precious time, for his boss to call the Governor, for the Governor to call John, for the persuasive, soothing words to be said. Time when the whales are suffering and I’m hanging round thinking about one of the worst jobs I can imagine.

‘They don’t have to understand,’ I tell him.

‘What will you do if they decide to protect the whales? Form a physical barrier between you and them? Half of them have cameras. You can’t do this without the army’s help.’

He’s right. I hate him for it, but he’s right.

Aunt Janey, meantime, knows something’s up. She and her friend walk up the beach towards me. Pete and Mitchell have brought the RIB back in and they’re coming over too. I’m not completely on my own. It just feels like it.

‘I’m going to invite everyone to our house,’ Janey says. ‘We can show them round the farm and that side of the island. I’ve got cakes in the freezer. And Ashley’s got a new trick. She actually sits up and begs now.’

I manage a weak smile. Her plan, if it works, will get the visitors off the beach. They won’t see me shoot a hundred and seventy-six whales in the head. A crunching on the sand tells us the sergeant is on his way back. He’s squinting in the sun and his freckles stand out sharply against his pale face.

‘My CO can’t authorize me or my men to take part in the actual cull,’ he says. I’m disappointed but not surprised. No senior army officer is going to want to see pictures of his men shooting helpless animals. ‘We’ll give you space to work, offer what assistance we can,’ he finishes.

I nod my thanks. It’s better than nothing.

‘Are we sure we’ve given it enough time?’ Callum is looking out across the beach, at the ranks of panting, miserable animals.

‘We’ve had a clearer view out on the water,’ says Pete. ‘Every single whale we returned to the sea is making its way back in. Some have done it twice.’

Mitchell nods his agreement. ‘We’re not going to get a different result if we put it off another hour.’

Enough. I turn to the sergeant. ‘Can you ask people to leave the beach? They’ve all worked incredibly hard but they need to leave it to us now.’

‘I’ll come with you.’ Janey takes the young soldier’s arm and gently pushes him over towards the waiting crowd.

‘Let’s hope it’s that easy.’ Callum takes up the rear and follows them.

Telling me he’ll get the gun, Pete heads back to the RIB and I’m alone.

A petrel swoops so low I can feel the rush of air above my head. The unexpected bounty has made them even more aggressive than usual. Knowing I can’t put it off, I head over to the crowd who have already heard the worst from the platoon sergeant.

People start shouting at me as I approach. Some are genuinely trying to be helpful, they have suggestions for helping the whales that they honestly think I haven’t thought of. Others just want their voices to be heard above the crowd. The headache I hadn’t realized I had starts pounding at my temples.

I hold my hand up.

‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, but it was always a strong possibility,’ I say when they’re quiet enough to hear me. ‘In roughly fifty per cent of cases, whales re-beach themselves. Nobody knows why they do it, but to continue with the rescue operation now will only add to their distress. Euthanasia is the kindest solution.’

I wait. Let my eyes drift from one shocked face to another.

‘You should probably leave the beach now. Thank you once again.’

A flurry of questions and protests follow me as I turn away. One young woman runs past me, heading for one of the bigger whales. A soldier sprints after her and grabs her by the arm. I walk on. Crowd control is the military’s job now.

I take a less direct route back to Pete, stepping among the dead and dying animals. We know so little about these creatures. Apart from the relatively small number, mainly of the dolphin species, which we keep in captivity, we have so few opportunities to study them. Much is talked about the intelligence of whales and dolphins. Their brain size, in absolute terms and in relation to body mass, suggests that they deserve a place among the most intelligent species on the planet. They exhibit problem-solving abilities and creative thinking. They show evidence of strong social cohesion, form long-lasting and intense relationships, have been known to display cross-species cooperation. It is even believed that they are self-aware, can recognize themselves in mirrors and on video footage. But the truth is we have so much more to learn.

Do they know what I’m planning, I think, as I walk among them, shooing away petrels, stopping to scoop up water and pour it over noses. It seems to me that they do. That there is a tremor of awareness running through this pod as I make my way back to my gun.

‘Have you ever killed anything before?’ Callum has fallen in step beside me.

I have to think for a moment before shaking my head. I’ve never shot game for sport. I’ve been present when animals have been euthanized but I’ve never been the one pulling the trigger.

‘Want me to do it?’ he offers.

I shake my head. My responsibility.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Be my last line of defence. If the sergeant and his merry men can’t hold the crowd back, I need you to.’

We’ve reached Pete by this stage. He has a case with the spare ammunition. He hands me the gun.

*   *   *

There is nothing neat, quick or painless about euthanizing a large mammal. The bullet tears into flesh, sending pieces of it flying in all directions. Blood spatters, just as it does at any crime scene, and it isn’t long before I’m covered in it. I could stand back, out of reach, but that would increase the chances of missing with the first shot. Even with a good, clean shot – and I am a good shot, I learn that day – the brain takes time to shut down. The animal emits a lonely, mournful cry as it feels itself dying, and that is echoed by those around it. Soon the beach is filled with the sound of whales singing their last. Pete is crying long before we’ve finished. I feel damp trickling down my cheeks and wonder if I am too, but when I put up my hand to brush the tears away, it comes back red. It’s blood, not tears, that is running down my face. The slaughter isn’t saddening me, I realize, before I’m halfway done. It’s adding to my rage.

Callum remains untouched by it all, moving from one dying creature to the next, always shielding me from view, never stopping the accusations ringing in my ear.

I come across a large female. As I step in close I can’t help but remember the pilot whale that Dad and I rescued all those years ago. The one who’d be fully mature now, of breeding age. The one I was supposed to name if I ever came across her again. ‘Hello again, Rachel,’ I whisper, a second before I shoot her in the head.

9

Rachel was charged with child neglect. Apparently, leaving two lively young children alone in a car on a clifftop for nearly fifteen minutes didn’t qualify as manslaughter. When the trial came around (a judge had to be flown in from the UK especially for it) she was six months pregnant. She pleaded guilty and was given a twelve-month sentence, suspended because of the advanced state of her pregnancy and her two young sons. Her driving licence was taken away for two years. If you were a kindly sort, you’d probably say that the guilt she had to live with was punishment enough.

A week after she was sentenced, Ben took a good hard look at me, realized that what was going on in my head and body was more than grief and admitted me to hospital. I’d caught an infection, probably the result of four months of complete neglect and stress, and although I recovered, my son didn’t. He was stillborn, three weeks prematurely. When I held him for the first and only time, his body still warm from my own, I swear I heard a high-pitched twanging, like the sound of a guitar string breaking, and knew the only remaining cord tethering me to life had gone. I saw myself, a wrecked vessel, the last safety line frayed, drifting into the peril of the open sea.

What followed after was entirely predictable. After eighteen months Ben had largely come to terms with his loss. He was still young, just thirty-seven and so much stronger than I, but he couldn’t deal with a wife who had ceased to function as a human being. Oh, I dragged myself to work each day, did my job competently enough. I managed to keep the house on the acceptable side of squalor. I bought food and did my share of cooking it. I walked and fed Queenie, and wrapped myself around her when I needed reminding that bodies are supposed to be warm and hearts to beat. I even let Ben have sex when I sensed he needed the comfort of physical intimacy and tried not to shudder as his hands roamed over me. But the woman Ben had married wasn’t there any more and neither he nor I knew where to find her. When he told me he was moving out, that he was going to live with a young radiographer from the hospital, I wasn’t remotely surprised. It was a relief, frankly, not having to try to be normal around him. I barely noticed he was no longer in the house. I cleaned less, ate less, spoke to no one not connected with work. The day I heard his son had been born I wept so long and so loudly that Queenie fled the house. After that the woman I’d become resumed the pretence of being OK.

*   *   *

Nobody leaves the beach. Even with the temptations of cake, newborn lambs and a penguin that does circus tricks, no one will follow Aunt Janey to the other side of the island and she won’t leave me in the face of so much hostility. They stay and watch, call ‘shame’ and take photographs as I walk from one animal to the next. ‘Murderer!’ they yell, as I take aim and send a bullet into the brain of a creature that is much more noble and beautiful and deserving of a place on this earth than its killer. I don’t look back or ahead, I just carry on going, walk to the next, aim and shoot. Over and over again I kill, and long before the daylight starts to fade there is little doubt remaining that I’ve become what they’re all calling me. A murderer.

Only once do I stop. Mid afternoon, when around thirty whales are still alive and suffering. I stop because a group of newcomers bypasses the soldiers and gets right up to me. So engrossed am I in my grim task that I know nothing of their presence until they say my name.

I turn and take a few seconds to clear the dark fog that’s been growing in my head since I started killing. Callum isn’t by my side. Occasionally, he’s been stopping to double-check the whales I’ve shot are properly dead. So he’s a couple of metres away, crouching by a young female.

Seven people. All locals, although I can’t immediately think of names. Then I recognize Gemma Brown. Whose son’s body I may have seen on the
Endeavour
a few hours ago.

‘We need to know what you saw on the wreck last night.’ It is a man who speaks to me, most likely her husband, Jimmy’s father.

‘You’re going to have to talk to Bob Stopford, guys.’ Callum strides closer. They all ignore him.

‘We just want to know what you saw. Which one it was. That’s not asking too much.’ A different man, similar to the first, maybe his brother, the boy’s uncle. It doesn’t seem too much to ask, but how can I tell these families that the corpse I saw was unrecognizable? That the little boy they once loved no longer exists.