Viper

47

Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio The forest was sodden and smelled of rotting leaves and swampy earth. Franco Castellani didn't mind. Not one bit. Lying flat on his growling, hungry stomach he steadied his outstretched arms and then, with all the patience of a trained assassin, gently squeezed the trigger of the old Glock.

Fifty metres away a small red deer jolted backwards. It crumpled on its spindly legs and collapsed beside the spidery lower branches of a giant fir. Franco was up and running before the gunshot had finished rolling off the distant hillsides.

The headshot was perfect.

The fawn, along with twenty other deer, had only been introduced into the park in the summer as part of a new wildlife expansion programme. He stood over it. It looked like it had three little black eyes instead of two. It twitched and went into spasm as he touched its head. Franco considered shooting it again, but didn't want to risk any further noise, and he wanted to save the bullets for what he had planned for later. He slipped out his hunting knife, the one he used for fishing, carving and odd jobs at the campsite. He lifted its chin, exposing the soft fur and thin flesh at the neck.

One of the fawn's back legs kicked again. He wondered how long the animal would take to die if he just left it. Its eyes were glazed and vacant. Blood started to trickle from its mouth and nose, but amazingly it still seemed to cling to life. He lowered the chin and rested its head on his knee. Shuffled round so his back was against the giant trunk of a spruce. Settled back to watch it die.

It took several minutes for the animal to stop breathing and, when it did, Franco felt dis appointed. Not sad, most definitely not sad, but disappointed.

Even though the fawn was quite small, he found it was too big for him to carry. He picked up the knife again and began the bloody task of cutting meat. He wished he had one of his axes. With one of those he'd glide through the bone. Whoomph, and it would be in pieces. But the knife was too small to sever the head. He sliced skin away, then tried to break the neck bone over the top of a rock. He stomped hard. But everything was wrong. The head got in the way – the ground was too soft – the bone slipped off the rock. Franco found himself just standing there, dribbling sweat and staring at the young dead animal's head.

Young. Dead.

The words touched him. Mirrored his own fate. Cut down in his prime. One moment happy and free – oblivious to the savageries of the world – then killed by a bullet from out of the blue. He felt a rage building. A terrible rage against the unfairness of life. The unfairness of everything. Franco fell to his knees.

Knife gripped tight, he plunged it. Not once, or twice, but dozens of times into the body of the fawn. Only when he was exhausted did he stop.

Only when he was really sure that the rage was spent, did he finish.

Then he collapsed. Wrapped his arm round the dead, mutilated animal and cried.

Wept like he hadn't wept since he was a child.