Harvester (An Asylum Tale)

‘It could be goblins or pixies,’ Fletch said from where he crouched near the hole in the ground. ‘But it’s more likely to be badgers or foxes.’

Deakes looked around. Pumpkins lined the field in neat rows, stretching from hedgerow to hedgerow. He estimated there to be around seven hundred of the orange fruit in this field alone. Or rather, there would have been that many had some not been uprooted and stolen. The small pit he and Fletch stood around represented one of about fifty voids where, according to the farmer, a pumpkin had lain the previous day.

‘Goblins or pixies,’ Deakes repeated with a shake of his head. ‘Don’t be saying things like that around Stafford. He’ll think we’re mad.’

Fletch stood, wiping the dirt from his hands. He narrowed his eyes as he said, ‘Stafford and I go way back. He knows the work I do at ARC falls outside the norm, that’s why he called me.’

‘There’s a world of difference between outside the norm and fairy tale creatures, is all I’m saying.’

‘You’ve only been with ARC for seven months. Don’t presume to tell me how to talk with civvies.’

Deakes held his hands up. ‘You’re right. I’m still getting used to all of this myself.’ He motioned down to the hole and ran his foot around some of the perimeter. The earth was unmarred but for a few circular impressions a few inches apart, leading away. ‘If some natural critter had been at the pumpkins,’ he asked, ‘wouldn’t you expect to see claw marks or pawprints?’

Fletch nodded. When he spoke, his tone was less harsh which Deakes put down to his own acquiescence to Fletch’s authority.

‘Yes. And drag marks. As it is, it looks like the thief carried the pumpkins away.’

‘The only animals I can think capable of that are bears, monkeys and raccoons. None of which are indigenous to England.’

‘Ants are renowned for carrying away food.’

Deakes scanned the field. In late October, the pumpkin crop was maturing. Each specimen was worthy of becoming a prize-winning jack-o’-lantern.

‘That would be an unnaturally large ant.’

*

They caught up with Roger Stafford at the edge of the farm. Beyond the fence, wild fields stretched for as far as the eye could see. The only break between them and the horizon was a small forest which lay to the north-west.

The farmer had been teaching his son, Michael, how to tend to the fences. At eight years old, the boy was deemed old enough to learn the craft of farm management. He even had his own vegetable patch at the back of the house in which he grew a variety of crops.

‘My pumpkin was taken first,’ Michael told Deakes and Fletch.

‘Poor lad was devastated,’ Stafford said.

‘When was that?’ Fletch asked.

Stafford rubbed his stubbled chin as he thought. ‘Saturday night. He’d spent the day designing the face him and his mother were going to carve into the pumpkin for Friday.’

‘And your crops started to vanish the next night?’

‘Two that night, six the next and this morning I woke up to find another thirty-six gone.’

‘Could it be regular thieves?’ Deakes asked. ‘It is Halloween in a couple of days. Surely there’s a market for pumpkins.’

‘Not unless they’re tots,’ Stafford answered. He pointed up at posts positioned strategically around his fields. ‘I have high-tech security cameras covering the whole farmland. Night vision enabled and motion detectors. Anything larger than a child will trigger them. Caught nothing.’

Deakes glanced down at Michael. The kid was probably small enough to pass by the cameras without tripping their sensors and could easily carry a pumpkin under each arm. But could he unearth thirty-six pumpkins in one night without leaving evidence?

*

On the walk to the farmhouse, Fletch asked Stafford if he could review the security set up. He had to ensure that the system had not been tampered with. As the farmer led him into the house, Deakes stayed outside with Michael.

‘Why don’t you show me what you’re growing?’ Deakes asked.

Michael beamed. ‘I’ve growed the biggest cucumber in the county,’ he said, and took Deakes around the house.

Deakes was surprised by the size of the plot given to the child. In an area roughly twenty feet by ten, neat furrows were lined with peas, carrots, peppers, leeks, cucumbers and an empty space where a pumpkin had been.

‘Hello boys and girls,’ Michael said to his allotment. ‘I brung you a visitor.’

The leaves of the nearest pea stem fluttered at the boy’s voice and swayed toward him. Deakes was reminded of speeded-up footage he’d once seen showing a flower tracking the sun’s progress through the sky. Could’ve been caught in the breeze, Deakes thought, though the air was still.

‘This is Percy Peas,’ Michael said. ‘He’s growing up big and strong and Mum said we can eat him one Sunday dinner then I’ll get big and strong, too, and be like Dad. And this is Larry Leeks. He’s going into a broth but I won’t eat it cos I don’t like leeks but Mum said it’s one of Dad’s favourites.’ A tremor ran through the plant.

‘Do you talk to all of your crops?’

‘Yes. Mum says that’s why they grow so big and says that I have a magic tongue.’ He stuck his tongue out to show Deakes. ‘But I don’t lick ‘em so I don’t know what she means.’

*

The next day, Harland Benson joined them at Meadthorpe Farm. He parked his SUV next to Fletch’s Mercedes, and accepted the bear hug Deakes threw at him.

‘It’s been a while, Ten,’ Benson said. ‘How you holding up?’

‘Never better, Quinn,’ Deakes answered as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.

Fletch stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Hi. I’m Darwin Fletcher. I’m in charge of this case.’

Benson looked him up and down, cast a knowing glance to Deakes and said, ‘From what I hear, the person in charge here is the one stealing all the pumpkins.’

Fletch’s shoulders tensed, his top lip twitched.

‘Go easy on him, Quinn,’ Deakes said. ‘Fletch is a good guy.’

‘I’m just ribbing you, Fletch,’ Benson beamed. He cast his eyes over the fields surrounding the farm. ‘Did you stake the place out last night?’

‘We took shifts watching from the car,’ Fletch said, indicating the Mercedes.

‘And there were no incidents.’

‘No. How did you know?’

‘You scared the thief off.’

‘We were in the car all night. We saw nothing.’

Benson turned back to Fletch. ‘But someone spotted you. Either a human thief saw the car and knew something was wrong, or an animal culprit smelled you and decided not to risk it.’

‘Did you know this?’ Fletch snapped at Deakes.

‘I suspected Quinn had us out here as a deterrent rather than to catch the thief.’

‘This is your plan?’ Fletch asked. ‘Just keeping them at bay until after Halloween when we should be locating whatever is causing this?’

‘It’s Halloween tomorrow,’ Benson answered, ‘so as plans go it’s not terrible.’ He smiled at the frustration on Fletch’s face. ‘But I just needed you to make sure the place wasn’t cleaned out before I got here.’

‘And what difference can you make that Deakes and I couldn’t?’

Benson’s grin widened but he remained silent.

Deakes put Fletch out of his misery. ‘Quinn is the best camouflage and tracking expert to have ever graced the British Army.’

*

The arena of battle checked and the perimeter thoroughly set in his mind, Benson chooses his spot and hunkers down for the night. Earth is streaked through his hair and camouflage paint adorns his face. He’d located a fresh cow pat which, mixed with mud and fallen leaves, cover him from shoulders to feet. As well as disguising his human scent, the concoction provides protection against the night’s chill.

An hour into his vigil, a hedgehog scurries into view. Oblivious to Benson’s presence, it roots in the undergrowth for a hearty meal. It is not the enemy, so Benson let’s it continue undisturbed.

In the distance, the yapping of a fox carries a haunting mix of pain and revulsion.

With no manmade device to tell the time, Benson can only estimate that it’s around eleven o’clock when the thief approaches. Movement fifteen yards to his right. He swivels his eyes to the spot but the night is too dark for him to see clearly.

The target keeps close to the ground, too small to be human, and moves in silence. Only the shuffle of soil being displaced reaches Benson’s keen ears as one of the pumpkins is released from its spot in the furrow. Taking its prize, the enemy disappears into the hedgerow.

Benson is quick to follow. Keeping flat on his belly, he crawls after the thief, careful to avoid making any noise. His focus on the pursuit helps distract his mind from addressing the strange observation he has made: whatever his quarry is, it does not move like any animal he knows of.

*

At Benson’s request, Deakes and Fletch had stayed the night in the local town to ensure there were no unfamiliar vehicles on the farm. As the sun rose on Halloween morning, Deakes drove Benson’s SUV back to Meadthorpe. The Staffords were already up and about.

Alice brought him a coffee. It was strong and bitter, the way he liked it – far better than the drink he’d shared with Harris all those months ago. By the look on her face, Deakes knew there had been another incident in the night.

‘Another four pumpkins disappeared,’ she told him.

‘What did Quinn say about it?’

‘He hasn’t shown up yet.’

‘Mr Jordan!’ Deakes turned from Alice. Young Michael was running in his direction, a piece of A4 clutched in his hands. ‘This is what I did for Peter Pumpkin.’

The boy thrust the sheet of paper at Deakes. There were irregular holes in the centre. Deakes turned it this way and that before he saw the pattern. Two inverted triangles hovered over a wide rectangle which had jagged lines along the top and bottom.

‘This is the template for your pumpkin face.’ Though only an inverse silhouette, Deakes could imagine the frightful leer it would cast once it had been carved into a pumpkin.

‘Yes,’ Michael said. ‘I showed it to Peter on Saturday and Mum helped me scratch in the eyes and the mouth and she said we can do the real cutting on Halloween but now that Peter’s gone Dad said I can use one of his pumpkins.’

Listening to Michael speak was both exhilarating and exhausting because of the speed at which the boy could talk. They chatted for a few more minutes, during which time Michael rushed through an hour’s worth of words, before Fletch arrived in his Mercedes.

He climbed out of the car and, without preamble, asked, ‘Where’s Benson?’

‘Good morning,’ Deakes said then returned his attention back to Michael. ‘I have to work now. Why don’t you go and help your Dad pick out your new pumpkin?’ After the boy and his mother had left, he said to Fletch, ‘He’s not back yet, but he won’t be far. Let’s go find him.’

They set off away from the farmyard, heading for the furthest pumpkin patch. On their way, Deakes told him about the further loss of the Stafford’s crops. Upon reaching the area Benson had last been seen, Deakes stopped and said, ‘This is where Quinn set up for the night.’

‘Why do you call him Quinn?’ Fletch asked.

‘Harland is shortened to Harley which then becomes harlequin. It’s an army thing.’

Deakes trained eyes saw the uneven earth at the edge of the field and he led Fletch in that direction.

‘Is that why he called you Ten? Because of your initials?’

‘That’s right. Short for Tennessee.’

Deakes stopped and craned his neck to feign scanning the horizon. Fletch followed suit, eyeing the copse of trees two hundred yards to the north-west. With his attention on the distance, he missed the ground moving beside him. When Benson broke cover and sprang to his feet, Fletch let loose a shrill cry of surprise.

Suppressing his laughter, Deakes asked Benson if his night had been successful.

‘Partly yes, partly no,’ Benson answered. ‘Come with me. Let me show you what I found.’

As they climbed the fence, Deakes could feel Fletch’s eyes glaring into his back.

‘The good news,’ Benson said as they headed for the treeline, ‘is that I found the stolen crops. All forty-nine of them.’

‘Forty-nine?’ Fletch asked. ‘That includes the ones that were taken last night.’

‘Yes,’ Benson said but did not elaborate. He led them intro the forest. After twenty feet, he turned to the right and pressed onwards.

‘What’s the bad news?’ Deakes prompted.

‘You’re not going to believe what brought them here.’

Benson stepped to one side. Dozens of pumpkins were strewn around in a haphazard manner. None had been damaged or partially eaten. It seemed as if they had been brought here for protection.

Something close by caught Deakes’s eye. One of the pumpkins had moved. He stepped nearer and peered at the nearest fruit. Thin lines had been cut into it: upside down triangles and a fanged maw.

Michael’s words from the day before came back to him. Mum says I have a magic tongue.

The face on the piece of paper the boy had shown him that morning had represented evil and malevolence. As the live pumpkin tried to squirm away from Deakes, he saw only desperation in its expression – the grim determination to escape a fate which involved being cut open and disembowelled.