Dead of Winter

Chapter 3

The lambs bleated in the cold. The wind and snow came driving off the Yorkshire Dales onto the small farm. It was a risky business lambing now. The Dorset Horn was a breed that could produce lambs all year long but they required more looking after if they were to thrive in this harsh environment.

Callum Carmichael ran his hand over the belly of the sheep. . she was overdue. She flinched at his touch. Jumper was an expert mother. She was one of a hundred ewes in the old barn.

Jumper had been with Carmichael for six years now. He had hand-reared her. In the field, she came when he called her name. In the summer months the sheep were allowed outside but now, in lambing season, they had to come into the pens: six feet by four. Foxes had claimed lambs before, as had badgers and buzzards. Everything was hungry now in the worst winter for a long time.

Carmichael looked into the stall next to Jumper where a newborn lamb was suckling on his mother, its tail wagging furiously. Carmichael looked back at Jumper and decided he was probably being overcautious and to let nature take its course, but to check on her again in half an hour. He called Rosie the sheepdog to follow him out of the barn. On his way down to the house he made a last check on his horse. Inside the stable, he slipped his hand between Tor’s back and his fleecy rug and was reassured that he was warm enough. He should be: it had taken Carmichael an hour that morning to bank the straw up high against the walls of the stable.

Stepping back out into the yard, Carmichael locked up and turned his face from the blizzard as he whistled for Rosie. Taking a last look around, he unlatched the back door of the house that had been his home for the last thirteen years since his wife died.

As he walked through the kitchen he pulled the pot of stew from the top of the Aga and left it to one side. He knew he should eat but he hadn’t the appetite. Instead, he walked through to the sitting room and took his Steyr Scout rifle from the gun cupboard, opened it and inserted a magazine. Then he locked it and left it leaning against the doorframe.

Logs were burning in the Inglenook fireplace. It must have burned the same way for three hundred years.

Carmichael went to the dresser, picked up the bottle of Scotch and carried it across to his desk and then he opened his laptop, waiting for it to fire up before he clicked on his music library. It had been a long time since he had listened to any music. Too many memories; too many feelings. Green Day blasted out. It made him smile. He could see his wife Louise’s face now as she’d pretended to hate it. She’d left him in the lounge with his music and his glass of red and she’d come back with Sophie; both of them wearing earmuffs. He smiled at the memory. He hadn’t allowed himself even the good memories for a long time. . he didn’t know why they were coming back tonight. Something in the weather or the world was overpowering him. It was going to be a long night. He poured himself a few fingers of single malt. It melted in his throat and burned as it slid downwards. Standing on the broad hearth he nudged a half-burnt log with his foot, sending up a spray of sparks. His face was bright from the fire, his dark hair wet from the snow. He picked up the photo of Louise smiling at him, Sophie in her arms, and took it over to sit in front of the fire and sip his Scotch. The bridge of his nose burned as his eyes filled. He ran a finger across the photo and held it to his chest as he sat back and listened to the crackle of the fire, felt its warmth through to his bones. He heard his Jack Russell terrier Rusty sigh from his basket as it watched him. Carmichael didn’t even realize he was crying.

‘Enough,’ he said out loud, stood, drank the whisky down, and called for Rosie as he pulled on his overcoat.

The bitter wind sliced his face as he opened the back door and walked back up to the barn. He switched on the light. The barn was musty with the smell of lambing. He couldn’t see Jumper. He walked through the barn slowly, as if walking in tar. In the orange hue the sheep’s eyes stared at him as he passed. The lambs stopped suckling to watch his slow progress. Carmichael kept walking; kept moving one heavy foot in front of the other. Walking in a dream, in a memory. His mind was spiralling back thirteen years, to the day he had walked towards the open door of a small holiday cottage where his wife and child were staying for the weekend. His breathing quickened until it wheezed in his chest as he stepped inside a world that should have been filled with the sound of laughter and chatter and heard only the droning of flies. He turned his head to look at the ewes but instead he saw his wife Louise looking at him, her face splattered with blood. She reached out a bloody hand to him. A cry caught in his throat; the ewes heard it; they turned their heads to listen. The noise jolted him back to the barn and Louise was gone. Jumper was on the floor of her pen. He could smell the stench of the lamb. Its body half out, stuck, breach position. It had died inside her womb and turned toxic and now she could not be rid of it. He ran back to the house and pulled out the box of medical supplies from the tack-room cupboard. . he cursed as he searched for the antibiotics he needed and found just a small amount. She needed a big dose to save her. He had barely any. The vet hadn’t had any on him the last visit and then the snow had come. He picked up the supplies and carried them back to the barn then he knelt beside the ewe and injected what he had into the muscle in her leg before starting to cut out the lamb. For three hours Carmichael worked with the stench of the lamb in his nose. . By the time he finished the task Jumper was dead.