The Reservoir Tapes

Well now. Woods was a name you didn’t want to hear at that time of night, in a strange part of the valley and with dogs barking all over the place. Woods was a man you wanted to avoid getting involved with, if you could help it.

But they’d come this far. Martin was out of options.

Right then, he said: let’s go and see Woods.

You don’t go and see Woods, the lad said. Woods comes to see you.

He said the price was going to be a hundred, and he needed half of it up front. Martin was ready to leave by then, but Frank just handed the money over.

Martin knew there was no point discussing it.

The lad said they were welcome to wait in the caravan, and left.

The dogs were still barking, and this tall lad in the doorway of the caravan was looking over at them. It was dark by then, and getting cold, so they thought: what the hell. Why not.

Rake nodded hello as they ducked through the door, and pointed to a sofa at one end of the caravan. He opened a beer, but didn’t offer one to Martin or Frank. Which was fair enough. It was unlikely he’d been expecting guests. They had to move some piles of clothes and magazines before they could sit down.

It wasn’t a big caravan. It had a smell of being lived in, and was a squash with the three of them in there. It was damp and

stuffy, even with the door open. Rake was up to something with some pots and pans on the stove. Not cooking exactly, just sort of poking around. He was too tall to stand up straight in there, so he was stooping around the whole time. Skinny as well. A bony face, with a crooked nose.

There wasn’t much in the way of conversation. Frank was trying to tell Martin something about his wedding anniversary, of all things. And then they were just sat there, waiting. Rake rolled himself a cigarette, and stood there smoking it and watching them. You can put the television on if you want, he said. But they couldn’t get it to work.

The whole time they were sitting there, Martin was remembering the stories he’d heard about Woods. He was trying to work out how they could leave. Frank seemed more relaxed.

Eventually they heard a car outside, and there was a sweep of headlights across the yard. Doors slammed, and the dogs started barking more loudly. Through the open door they saw a big lad come marching towards them. This was Woods, they took it.

Martin had never actually met him before, despite knowing his name all that time. The man looked like he’d been a rugby player twenty years before. He had that size but it had all gone soft. A smooth head. One of his ears was mashed. He was carrying something in a plastic bag.

He came up the steps and leant in through the door. The whole caravan rocked. He nodded to Rake, and asked who was after the dog. Martin put his hand up, like some sort of schoolboy, and Woods dumped the bag in his lap.

All out of dogs, he said. But these are popular.

Martin looked in the bag. The smell was terrible. Whatever it was, it had a lot of dirty white hair.

Llama, Woods said. Baby llama.

Martin was not expecting that. That was non-standard. But time was getting tight.

He lifted it out of the bag, and had a good look at it. He was a butcher, not a vet, but he knew a thing or two about animals. This one was in a bad way. The eyes were all gummy and the breathing was off. Quick and shallow. And there was the smell.

He looked at Woods, and at Frank.

It’s not even a bloody llama for a start, he said to Frank, quietly.

No? asked Woods. What is it then?

It’s an alpaca, is what it is, Martin told him.

If Woods was surprised, he didn’t show it. Well, mate, he said; whatever it is, it’s yours now. He stepped outside, and started talking to the other lad.

Martin said to Frank, muttering: this is no good. This won’t do the job at all. Look at the bloody state of it. It’s nearly dead. What am I going to do with a dead bloody alpaca? Hide it in the garage? If my wife comes home and finds a dead alpaca in the garage, I’m going to get bloody divorced. No marriage counselling, no trial separation, I’m going to get bloody divorced. And I don’t want to get divorced, Frank. I love my wife, okay?

It was the most he’d said all evening. Frank didn’t reply.

Woods came back into the caravan and asked if they were all good.

Mr Woods, Martin said. No disrespect, but this wasn’t what we were looking for. It’s for my wife. She really wanted a dog. I’m sorry. As though he was apologising for not wanting to buy a half-dead alpaca.