nostrils.
Similarly, Regis saw that his brindle dog had been blinded in one eye, its face a mask of blood and sputum. The savage wound on its back leg was also bleeding profusely.
‘Do you want to call it off?’ Ferguson said.
‘No way,’ snapped Regis.
Hardy agreed.
Before either of them could speak again the dogs had joined in battle once more.
Caught on its blind side, the brindle dog saw the charge too late and the other terrier managed to drive its teeth into the fleshy part of its opponent’s neck, shaking its head madly back and forth until its teeth sheared through the smaller animal’s jugular vein. There was a bright red explosion as the vein was severed. Blood spurted high into the air and soon the smaller dog began to weaken.
The barn stank of blood. The crimson fluid was everywhere. On the floor, the hay bales, the spectators, Even on the walls in one or two places.
‘Right, that’s it,’ shouted Regis. ‘Get your fucking dog off.’ He glared at Hardy, who smiled and clambered into the makeshift arena. There might have been a slight chance of saving the defeated animal’s life, if anyone had been so inclined, but those watching were too busy complaining or rejoicing, depending on which dog they’d backed.
Hardy gripped the black terrier by the back of the neck and pulled it away from the stricken brindle dog, which tried to drag itself upright. But loss of blood had weakened it too much, and with a throaty gurgle it fell back onto its side, its breath coming in sporadic gasps.
‘Useless fucker,’ snapped Regis, looking down at the dying animal. ‘I’ve lost over a hundred quid because of you.’ With a savagery born of anger he kicked the ravaged dog in the stomach.
It raised its head weakly, as if pleading for help, but Regis was unimpressed.
Ferguson joined the two men, stepping over the fatally wounded brindle dog. He handed a bundle of notes to Hardy, who quickly pocketed them. Regis, muttering to himself, stalked off to the far side of the barn and returned a moment later carrying the pitchfork they had used to move the hay bales. He held it above the dying terrier, the twin prongs poised over its heaving chest. Regis hesitated and the dog whimpered forlornly.
Ferguson snatched the lethal implement from Regis and steadied himself momentarily, then brought it swiftly down. The prongs punctured the dog’s body and he forced them down until he felt them strike the ground beneath. A blast of foul smelling air escaped from the animal’s punctured lungs and it bucked spasmodically, bloody sputum spilling from its mouth.
Ferguson continued pressing down on the fork until the animal ceased to move. He smelt the pungent stench of excrement as he wrenched the weapon free of the bloodied body. He stuck it into the ground close to Regis, a faint smile on his face.
‘Never mind, Vic,’ he said, grinning. ‘You can’t win them all.’
Eleven
It was a child; that much they knew.
Anything else they could only guess at.
The skeleton lay on a piece of plastic sheeting spread carefully over the table inside Cooper’s tent.
‘Judging from the size,’ said Kim, ‘the child couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I’ll run carbon-14 and nitrogen tests on the bones when I get them back to the museum.’
‘If only we knew where the skulls were,’ said George Perry.
A moment later the flap of the tent was pulled back and Ian Russell walked in.
‘Charles, have you got a minute?’ he asked. ‘Mr Cutler’s here. He says he wants to speak to you.’
Cooper shrugged and got to his feet, following Russell outside. He rubbed his eyes as he stepped out into the dull grey light. He hadn’t slept much the previous night; his mind had been too crammed full of the sights which he and his colleagues had seen. Now he saw two men in suits standing beside one of the excavation trenches peering in at a couple of archaeologists who were busy freeing an object
Similarly, Regis saw that his brindle dog had been blinded in one eye, its face a mask of blood and sputum. The savage wound on its back leg was also bleeding profusely.
‘Do you want to call it off?’ Ferguson said.
‘No way,’ snapped Regis.
Hardy agreed.
Before either of them could speak again the dogs had joined in battle once more.
Caught on its blind side, the brindle dog saw the charge too late and the other terrier managed to drive its teeth into the fleshy part of its opponent’s neck, shaking its head madly back and forth until its teeth sheared through the smaller animal’s jugular vein. There was a bright red explosion as the vein was severed. Blood spurted high into the air and soon the smaller dog began to weaken.
The barn stank of blood. The crimson fluid was everywhere. On the floor, the hay bales, the spectators, Even on the walls in one or two places.
‘Right, that’s it,’ shouted Regis. ‘Get your fucking dog off.’ He glared at Hardy, who smiled and clambered into the makeshift arena. There might have been a slight chance of saving the defeated animal’s life, if anyone had been so inclined, but those watching were too busy complaining or rejoicing, depending on which dog they’d backed.
Hardy gripped the black terrier by the back of the neck and pulled it away from the stricken brindle dog, which tried to drag itself upright. But loss of blood had weakened it too much, and with a throaty gurgle it fell back onto its side, its breath coming in sporadic gasps.
‘Useless fucker,’ snapped Regis, looking down at the dying animal. ‘I’ve lost over a hundred quid because of you.’ With a savagery born of anger he kicked the ravaged dog in the stomach.
It raised its head weakly, as if pleading for help, but Regis was unimpressed.
Ferguson joined the two men, stepping over the fatally wounded brindle dog. He handed a bundle of notes to Hardy, who quickly pocketed them. Regis, muttering to himself, stalked off to the far side of the barn and returned a moment later carrying the pitchfork they had used to move the hay bales. He held it above the dying terrier, the twin prongs poised over its heaving chest. Regis hesitated and the dog whimpered forlornly.
Ferguson snatched the lethal implement from Regis and steadied himself momentarily, then brought it swiftly down. The prongs punctured the dog’s body and he forced them down until he felt them strike the ground beneath. A blast of foul smelling air escaped from the animal’s punctured lungs and it bucked spasmodically, bloody sputum spilling from its mouth.
Ferguson continued pressing down on the fork until the animal ceased to move. He smelt the pungent stench of excrement as he wrenched the weapon free of the bloodied body. He stuck it into the ground close to Regis, a faint smile on his face.
‘Never mind, Vic,’ he said, grinning. ‘You can’t win them all.’
Eleven
It was a child; that much they knew.
Anything else they could only guess at.
The skeleton lay on a piece of plastic sheeting spread carefully over the table inside Cooper’s tent.
‘Judging from the size,’ said Kim, ‘the child couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I’ll run carbon-14 and nitrogen tests on the bones when I get them back to the museum.’
‘If only we knew where the skulls were,’ said George Perry.
A moment later the flap of the tent was pulled back and Ian Russell walked in.
‘Charles, have you got a minute?’ he asked. ‘Mr Cutler’s here. He says he wants to speak to you.’
Cooper shrugged and got to his feet, following Russell outside. He rubbed his eyes as he stepped out into the dull grey light. He hadn’t slept much the previous night; his mind had been too crammed full of the sights which he and his colleagues had seen. Now he saw two men in suits standing beside one of the excavation trenches peering in at a couple of archaeologists who were busy freeing an object
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