Bandwidth (ebook)

Argumento de Bandwidth (ebook)

Killing was in his blood you might say he was born a killer. Either he had inherited a killer gene from some long-forgotten Mallard ancestor or he was missing that tiny brain-cell which prevents humans from hurting their own fellow species. Fox-hunting took him only part way to the satisfaction of his carnal needs leaving a vacancy to be filled.

You, boy! Control that BLOODY DOG! Whip it or Ill ruddy whip you! Devlin gave the young lad, the whipper-in, a stare that backed up his threat.

The lad went to work, whip in hand, with a nervous enthusiasm. He transferred his masters malice to the dogs. The boy kept one eye on the beasts that yelped and jumped to escape the lash and the other on his master, half expecting to feel his boot. It would not be the first time. Blows by the boot, fists, whip, hot water, or any other object or substance Devlin Mallard could lay hands on, to inflict punishment on the lad, were common. That was just the way it was.

Devlin flipped open the cover of his silver hunter-case pocket watch. It was almost time to get this hunt under way, five minutes to two in the afternoon.

Now theres a veneer of respectability about most in society that grants a modicum of self-control. If circumstances, or other people, push the right buttons, that veneer may disappear, leaving only behaviour driven by instinct, emotion and desire. Devlin had no such veneer or control. He had a sense of wicked humour, punctuated and laced with evil intent towards others. He did as he pleased. A man short on compassion, understanding, cooperation, or any other redeeming quality. In a word, he was plain nasty . The sort of man who, if he were not constrained by the mere detail of the law, would kick to death the paper boy for delivering a slightly soiled or creased newspaper.

In his younger days, he was fit and shapely, kept trim by running alongside the hounds, breaking horses and mucking out. But a promotion to Master of Hounds for the Cockington Estate, after the untimely death of his predecessor to flu, complicated by a well-placed pillow to the face, had elevated Devlin in status. Now, he was the Master, in the employ of Lord Abingdon. Since then, the trappings of position, with a middle-aged diet of excess port, beer and meat had left him with a paunch. But he was still not unattractive. He was a tall man with dark wavy hair and an over-groomed handlebar moustache. With cold, steel-blue eyes used to good effect, he was intimidating. In short, he was the Alpha Male in this village, the leader of the pack, and he wanted everyone to know it.

He loved it the hunt! He had a thirst. A thirst for the kill. For blood. That was Devlin Mallards calling in life and death.

But his path would lead him to darker employment. He had yet to reach his potential for depravity. He was a psychopathic killer in the making. Difficult to live with at the best of times, he was feared by all who knew him and none more so than his long-suffering wife, Miriam. It was 1929 and the term domestic violence had yet to be coined. Not that it mattered to Devlin; the right to beat ones wife was still enshrined within the perceived law of property. Often, when he had finished hunt business or sated himself at the inn, he would stagger home to Mead Cottage, and abuse her before passing out drunk. After all, she was his . His property to do with as he pleased.

The clock struck two on this cold, crisp, January afternoon. There was not a cloud in the sky and the hunt had assembled outside the Drum Inn. The inn, Devlins second home, his first being the kennels, with his dogs, a short walk through the village.

Horsemen sipped port at the steps to the inn, surrounded by servants and dogs. They were there for a posthumous and ceremonial photograph, organised by Lord Abingdon. Vicky, the barmaid at the inn, served and mingled amongst the crowd.0