Swiftly 2

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

It began with the Spackman brothers hunting and trapping badgers to sell to illegal baiting rings in various parts of England. The young team at Oyster Gables’ Animal Shelter then find themselves caught up in this wickedly cruel sport and try everything to prevent it. The task is filled with risks and threats and they need the help of the Shelter’s Irish greyhound Degsey to bring the Spackman brothers to justice. Degsey has a magical gift, a sixth-sense that can mysteriously alter events as they happen. But the combination of a crooked Wildlife Warden, a poisoning attempt and a fire at Oyster Gables adds up to terrible danger and the greyhound is right in the path of it…

This enchantingly written story covers exciting aspects of wild animal rescue, fantasy, romance and a breathtaking all-action climax. Swiftly 2 is a fast, compelling novel which will hold the reader spellbound to the very last page.

Action and adventure fiction

by Michael Maguire

Shot Silk

Slaughter Horse

Scratchproof

Scorcher

Mylor: The Most Powerful Horse in the World

Mylor: The Kidnap

Superkids

Swiftly

CHAPTER ONE

J oe Spackman parked the Land Rover at the side of a narrow track used by forestry vehicles and swung his long, wiry body out of the driving seat. He popped a throat lozenge into his mouth and sucked on it noisily as he flipped it from cheek to cheek, letting the sweet’s vapour soothe the cough that had been annoying him for weeks. He lifted two solid metal cages with drilled breathing holes from inside the vehicle then paused briefly to take stock of his surroundings. It was one a.m. on a cold October morning and he, his brother, and a friend were engaged in the illegal poaching of badgers.

All three men wore ski-masks, scarves, thick gloves and camouflage jackets as they crossed private woodland before reaching the Nature Reserve known as Scamperbuck Ring.

‘I can see the main sett.’ Joe Spackman’s hot breath came in cloudy little puffs as he clicked on a powerful flashlight. He was aged fifty-two and looked every second of his years. There was a coarse hardness in his face made worse by his high cheekbones, and a sharp nose and bony chin. He turned to a youngish man who was struggling to hold an excited black lurcher dog on a chunky metal-link leash. ‘Are you sure it’s in regular use, Andy?’

‘Positive. I’ve been mapping the area for badger setts as part of my duties. This place is riddled with them.’

‘It’s very nice to have you along, Mr Warden… sir.’ Joe Spackman’s brother, Eric, showed his hideously large false teeth that were yellowed by tobacco. He gave a salute and chuckled.

The man with the lurcher wasn’t called Mr Warden—that was his recently obtained job title. His name was Andy Croucher; he was twenty-two years old and he was now the part-time Wildlife Warden for the neighbourhood.

He returned a small smile but said nothing. By rights he should have been patrolling the area he was about to raid—but animal welfare, for the time being at least, had to be forgotten. He owed both Joe and Eric Spackman money in gambling debts and helping them dig for brockies (a slang word for badgers) was an easy method of repayment.

‘How many brockies use the Ring?’ Joe Spackman asked, giving a violent tug on the leads which held three terriers in check.

‘A whole clan… maybe a dozen in total,’ Croucher said, placing a metal cage on the ground and flexing his fingers. ‘There are a couple of annexe setts close by with several entrances and three outlying setts which are occupied.’

‘A week’s work and we’ll clear the place.’ Acidy pleasure edged Eric Spackman’s words.

Croucher nodded agreement and rubbed his square chin.

‘Two brockies a night for the next six nights,’ Joe Spackman heaved a cough, looking pleased. ‘That’s a nice piece of business, Andy.’

‘And the five hundred pounds I lost playing cards?’

‘Your slate will be wiped clean.’ He sniffed and spat out some brown juice from his throat lozenge. ‘The Spackman brothers always keep their word.’

‘Well, almost always.’ Eric chuckled again.

Croucher shot him a startled glance, decided he was joking, and smiled uncertainly.

The main sett was found in heathery ground, amidst a birch and oak glade and surrounded by rocks and bracken. The badgers had dug under a lone tree and this acted as a brace for the roof allowing the straggly roots to give support to their tunnels. Even in the worst weather the underground structure would hold firm without any risk of collapse.

The three men made their way to the main four hole sett. Each hole was a low dome shape, broader than high, with mounds of unwanted earth nearby. Eric Spackman steadied the collie-cross dog he was holding as he watched his brother’s flashlight drift over the trails to the sett. They were littered with hay, once used for bedding.

‘I want both cages here.’ Joe Spackman pointed to a central hole where badger droppings could be clearly seen. ‘This is a fresh dung-pit so it’s a good bet they’ll try to use the hole as the main escape exit.’

Andy Croucher placed the aluminium box he’d been carrying close to the hole. Eric Spackman did likewise and both men slid open the front hatches which would entrap the badgers.

It was starting to drizzle and a northerly breeze was curling the men’s scent into the central hole. Below ground a sow and boar badger shifted restlessly in a nest lined with grasses. They made soft whickering noises to each other as they sensed the danger, their prominent, dark eyes scanning the maze of tunnels for the best method of escape.

Joe Spackman had been in this situation many times before and knew exactly how to force badgers above ground. Although a farmer, a great deal of his money came from the illegal digging of badgers for sale to baiting rings. Once captured, these powerful mammals could be distributed countrywide through Spackman’s network of sporting contacts. The badgers would end their days in pain and torment, pitted against fighting dogs, with many hundreds of pounds being wagered on the outcome. The badgers would be chained to a stake or put in a pit and all would eventually suffer an agonizing death. Many dogs also lost their lives in this sickening battle for survival.

‘Right, let’s flush ’em out,’ Joe Spackman instructed. ‘I want Bowser to cover the east exit, and Stud to cover the north. I’ll release Hustler, Rumble and Salem into the western hole. All clear?’

Both men nodded and took up their positions. Croucher’s black lurcher, named Bowser, was already quivering and growling with excitement. Flecks of froth from the big dog’s muzzle dribbled onto his rubber boots as he stood over the hole.

Eric Spackman and the collie-cross called Stud looked far more relaxed. As Stud yanked on the lead, allowing him to stare into the northern hole’s dark depths, Eric took a hip-flask from his pocket and tossed back the contents.

‘Stand guard, Stud. Good boy.’ Again there was a soft chuckle and the clack of his loose-fitting false teeth as he wiped yellowish spittle from his mouth with the back of a plump speckled hand.

‘Stay off the whisky!’ Joe Spackman yelled at his brother as Hustler, Rumble and Salem jostled for position to be first into the western hole. ‘Keep your mind on the job. We’re here to earn money!’

‘I’d rather be using more natural methods to capture badgers.’ Eric Spackman glared back. His eyes were a shade of grey that was almost colourless. ‘I like the fun of crowning-down holes with a spade… knowing the badgers can’t breathe when we send the dogs in… Hearing them fight for their lives…’

‘We’re not here to take part in a blood sport—we’re here to supply it. I want two brockies—and I want them alive. Our customer list is getting as long as my arm.’

Supplying baiting rings was easy money for the Spackman brothers and it was well known that Eric had a personal grudge against badgers. He’d lost half the index finger of his right hand to the jaws of a large boar badger during a dig some three years ago. A powerful snap of the boar’s teeth had bitten cleanly through the flesh and bone as if it was a simple piece of twig. He’d brooded over the loss at the time, but now he’d learned to break the habit of always keeping his hand in his pocket and to display the stump of his finger with pride. People—especially tourists or newcomers to North Devon liked listening to the man versus beast encounter—and he’d been bought many drinks telling a more daring account of the story.

‘What the hell… ?’ Croucher’s mouth tightened into a tense line as several two-tone sirens belonging to police and emergency services filled the air.

Everyone stopped in their tracks, listening and looking. The three men were high up and well away from the main road where all the activity was taking place. Through the gaps in the trees they could just catch glimpses of the blue roof lights. Two more vehicles arrived and then the muddled scream of sirens ceased.

‘They’re not after us,’ Joe Spackman said, coughing to clear his throat. ‘They don’t use sirens and flashing lights if they want to catch poachers. It must be a road accident.’

Andy Croucher released the breath he was holding and exchanged glances with Eric. He was grinning childishly as he pulled off his ski-mask and scratched at his scalp. Eric was two years younger than his brother and possessed the round pink face of an ugly cherub and a shiny hairless skull. When he spoke, his lips were like strips of liver and even in cold weather he carried the smell of body odour with him always.

‘Right, let’s get on with it.’ There was a huge flurry of dirt as Joe Spackman released the terriers into the western hole. He strode briskly back to the metal cages stuffing the dog leads into his pocket.

‘A fiver says they’ll make for my hole first,’ Eric had a feverish glare in his eyes as Stud dived forward, his head and half of his body disappearing from view.

‘Wrong,’ Croucher said, straining to keep a grip on his lurcher. ‘Bowser’s got them blocked. They’re trying to exit here!’

‘Force ’em back!’ Another fit of coughing shook Joe Spackman’s chest as he kicked one of the cages nearer to the central hole and pulled a telescopic homemade device from inside his camouflage jacket. He’d nicknamed the tool the metal Handshaker—but the gadget had been constructed to offer anything but a friendly greeting. ‘Rumble, Hustler, Salem!’ He bellowed into the hole then pursed his lips in a shrill whistle. ‘Here boys… Here!’

Joe Spackman caught the sounds of underground scuffling, snarling and thumping as his thick fingers extended the Handshaker’s spring-loaded arms. He didn’t like the normal badger-tongs used by diggers and had invented the metal Handshaker himself. It was well worn through constant use and resembled an ancient weapon of torture—fitted with a pair of huge pliers welded to the arms. When in use it could cause enormous bruising to any unlucky badger that was caught in its grasp.

Spackman flexed the Handshaker’s arms, working the jaws back and forth and hearing them snap against a well-oiled spring as he dangled the tool in readiness over the central hole.

Croucher’s black lurcher had forced the badgers to retreat. Bowser, snarling with blood-lust, his teeth dripping with saliva had backed up for air. He shook himself briefly then dragged Croucher forward as he tried to re-enter the hole.

‘Two brockies… Both here!’ Eric Spackman’s eyes glinted with unholy glee. He gave Stud more slack and the dog dived viciously to get a bite of a surfacing pink snout before the sow badger saw the danger and quickly backed up.

Joe Spackman whistled once more and again shouted the terriers’ names. The badgers seemed to be taking every route except the one he had planned.

Seconds passed then…

‘They’re here. We’re in business!’

Joe Spackman could feel the urgent scrabble of terriers beneath his feet. The earth seemed to tremble as a combination of growls, squeals and yelps echoed from the depths of the hole to the surface. A lock of his sparse hair dangled through his ski-mask and hung down over his face which was now glistening with sweat as he stood waiting with the Handshaker.

A badger’s grey rump backed out of the hole. It was a good sized boar and he was dragging Salem with him. The corner of the dog’s left ear was missing and this had caused thin streamers of blood to streak across his muzzle.

Joe Spackman lunged at the badger’s pointed black and white striped head with the Handshaker. All badgers were short-sighted and it was more luck than judgement that the boar managed to dodge the downward thrust from the wicked tool. Metal snapped harshly against metal as the Handshaker’s jaws snapped shut, missing their target and thudding harmlessly into the ground.

Joe Spackman swore loudly, stepping back from the badger’s long, curving claws. There was a tangle of grey as it spun full circle snorting at the air with its muddied snout and snarling as it hung onto the terrier. The badger’s hair was matted and glistened with blood where it had sustained deep bites on its sides and neck.

‘Do you want any help?’ Croucher called out.

‘No… Hold your position! The sow’s still underground and I want them both.’

Joe Spackman regained his footing and once again snapped open the Handshaker and aimed it at the badger’s neck. The boar gave a grunt and exposed brownish teeth in its undershot jaw as, with a flick of its powerful neck, it tossed Salem high into the air and away. The dog let out a yelp as it bounced against some rocks.

‘Gotcha!’ Spackman’s voice sounded hoarse as he laughed triumphantly. The Handshaker buried itself into the badger’s scruff of neck.

The boar squealed, squirming and twisting from side to side as it was gripped and lifted off the ground like a trophy. A badger’s skin was tough and rubbery, their fur coarse and strong, but the cover that nature had provided was no match for the pressure of the Handshaker’s metal jaws.

‘Leave, Salem… leave!’ Joe Spackman shouted at the terrier that had recovered its senses and returned to join in the action. The dog clung to the boar’s short thick grey tail until Spackman’s boot hooked it viciously away. ‘I said leave!’ he repeated, treating his own dog with the same nastiness that he had for all animals.

‘The boar’s a good size,’ Eric called out. ‘He looks about twelve kilos.’

‘More like fifteen.’ Joe Spackman gripped the Handshaker and swung the badger to and fro before kicking the boar’s rump into one of the cages. He heard the animal give a rasping sigh of surrender as he forced its head into a corner with his foot then released the pressure on the metal jaws, slamming down the front hatch.

There was a quirk of unease in Croucher’s blue eyes. ‘That Handshaker’s a disgusting instrument,’ he said grimly.

‘It gets the job done.’ Joe Spackman rubbed the deep crease between his thick eyebrows and met Croucher’s gaze scornfully. ‘There’s no room for niceness in this business.’

Eric gave a silly chuckle and turned his attentions to the sow badger that was now trying desperately to exit the northern hole. Stud was scrabbling at the earth, snarling and snapping at the pink snout, forcing the female to retreat.

As Salem re-entered the western hole, Joe Spackman kicked the other cage into position with his boot. He took up his position over the central hole, ready for a repeat performance.

‘Over here, mother badger,’ he murmured mockingly, making a soft warble with his lips. ‘Come to Uncle Joe for a friendly handshake and then we can all go home.’

*     *     *

Sky Patakin and Daniel Rusk had made good time to the scene of the road traffic accident. They’d received a phone call from the Wildlife Officer at the local police station soon after one a.m., and had travelled the short distance from Swiftly village to Fremington in a matter of minutes.

Both had become familiar to being dragged from their beds in the early hours of the morning and an assortment of special outer clothing always hung in readiness by the shelter’s front door. Oyster Gables animal shelter was totally independent of other welfare organisations and was funded by a small private charity. It had been established to care for and protect all wild creatures that had made their homes within the surrounding area of Swiftly.

‘There’s an upturned car in a ditch.’ Sky pointed and nibbled anxiously on her lower lip.

Daniel nodded, negotiating the shelter’s white Escort van between two large Accident Ahead signs, several police vehicles, and a breakdown truck which had arrived with heavy lifting gear.

Huge spotlights were being erected at the accident scene and a paramedic was closing the rear doors of an ambulance which was just about to depart.

‘Glad you’re here.’ A police sergeant suddenly leaned into Daniel’s open window. ‘Drive another hundred metres and you’ll see a deer caught in some barbed wire fencing.’ He pointed vaguely ahead. ‘A motorist swerved to avoid it. We want the animal out of the way so we can reopen the road.’

‘Is the motorist alright?’ Daniel asked cautiously.

‘He’s been cut free of the wreckage. The paramedics tell me he’s conscious.’

Sky was about to ask which species of deer was trapped, but stopped short as the sergeant’s radio crackled and he turned his head to speak into his lapel microphone. He suddenly had more pressing business on his mind as he walked briskly towards the spotlights, gesturing Daniel to move off.

Fire-fighters were packing away cutting equipment