Woody was stunned. He looked at Jane until she was almost out of sight. Then he looked down at his lunch bag but he didn’t feel so hungry any more.
Woody kept thinking about Jane’s leg for the rest of the day. What did she mean exactly by saying she’d let him see more? Was she going to let him go the whole way? He was still a virgin and wasn’t sure he knew exactly what to do. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing. Maybe she was just leading him on. And what did she mean by “kill a sheep for me”? Was this some kind of test of his manliness? Or was she trying to lead him into trouble?
Woody worked hard on the fence and then started walking home. At the dinner table that night he couldn’t keep his eyes off Jane. She kept smiling at him and even winked one time. Her younger brother Billy did most of the talking, so Harold and Molly were easily distracted.
When the dishes were done Woody went back to his room. Evening times always passed slowly. His room was only big enough for a bed and a wardrobe and was right next to the back veranda. On the other side of the veranda was the washer room, and several times he had watched Jane in there, washing clothes in the sink.
He still thought of her words. “Kill a sheep for me.” What was that meant to mean? Was he meant to bring the body back to her room and lay it out in front of her? What kind of a sick person was she? Or would just the head be enough? Bring me the head of a sheep and I’ll let you see my body. He wished she’d been clearer in her intentions. He lay on his bed and looked at the ceiling.
After an hour of turmoil he could wait no longer. He left his room and edged round to the veranda. He crept on to it and looked into the kitchen. It was empty. He eased open the screen-door and crept into the pantry. He took a large knife and slid it under his shirt. Then he crept outside.
His heart was pounding with excitement as he made the short walk to the home paddock, the carving knife now stuck down the belt of his jeans. He had decided to kill a sheep and bring the head to Jane. Then she would show him her body. Then he would see what would happen next. He quickened up his pace.
He found the herd easily, a grey moving shape in the dark. He walked slowly up to them, but they heard him coming and moved away. He tried running at them but they ran away, faster than he’d thought they could be. He stopped to catch his breath. He tried again. They ran away.
It took him ten minutes to finally catch one, and he was so angry and frustrated he just plunged the knife straight into the sheep’s chest. It seemed to have little effect, so he stabbed it in the neck and then stabbed it again. Eventually the bleating animal was still.
Woody sat on the grass next to it, catching his breath. Sweat was pouring off him and he was covered in blood. He looked at the sheep and immediately felt guilty. Why was he doing this? Taking away a life just so he could see Jane naked? He felt the same revulsion he’d felt last night. He felt his supper starting to come into his throat. He moved away from the sheep and sat down again. Then he lay on the grass and looked at the stars. He waited until he’d cooled down. There was no way he could cut off the sheep’s head. He would just make his way home and forget the whole thing. He would have to throw his blood-stained clothes away.
He left the sheep where it lay. When Harold found it tomorrow maybe he would think a wolf had done it. Woody left the paddock and made the walk home, the knife stuck down into the belt of his jeans once again.
He approached his room from the privy side, where no one could see him. He walked on the path where Skunk was tied up, but as he approached Skunk began to growl.
“It’s only me, Skunk,” Woody said softly.
But then Skunk barked loudly and ran straight for him, his chain rattling as it took up the strain. Woody took a step backwards and then Skunk made another charge. This time, to Woody’s horror, the chain broke and Skunk was on top of him. He wrestled with the dog as it went for his throat. Skunk was going berserk and Woody didn’t know why. Then he thought that maybe it was the smell of the sheep’s blood. Then he remembered the knife in his belt. He managed to get it free and he slammed it into Skunk’s side. The dog whimpered and fell off him on to the dirt. Then Woody passed out.
When he came to, Woody didn’t know where he was. He was lying on his back on something hard and he didn’t recognize the ceiling. He turned his head and looked around. A sofa and some armchairs. A chest of drawers. A cabinet for plates and cutlery. He was in Harold’s living room.
He was lying on a table. He had an incredible pain in his left arm. He looked down and wondered if he was imagining things. He looked down again. His left arm was covered in a white bandage but it was much shorter than it used to be. He tried to wriggle his fingers but he didn’t seem to have any. His hand just wasn’t there any more.
Feeling a panic sweep over him he rolled off the table and put his feet on the floor. He held his two arms out in front of him but the left one was nearly a foot shorter.
“NO!” he screamed, and staggered out of the room.
He was in his own room now. Sedated.
He stayed there for a week while the pain in his arm lessened and his neck healed. But he wasn’t too worried about his neck, he was worried about his missing hand. How was he going to get work now? No one would employ a one-armed man. Maybe Harold would be kind and keep him on. He would have to have a talk with him real soon.
Molly brought him his meals. He hadn’t seen Jane at all. He tried talking to Molly as she fed him, but all she would say was that his hand had been mangled by Skunk. Skunk was dead, of course. She didn’t mention the dead sheep.
Another week passed before Harold came to his room. Woody was sitting up in bed and Harold pulled up a chair and sat down.
“How’s it going, Woody?” he asked.
“Not too good,” Woody said. “What happened to my hand?”
Harold looked down at the floor and didn’t meet his eyes. “Skunk got a hold of it. Chewed it all up. The doc said he couldn’t save it.”
“Are you sure?”
Harold looked up. “Sure about what?”
“Sure that he couldn’t save it.”
“Sure I’m sure. I saw it myself. It’s just bad luck, that’s all.”
“Shit,” Woody said. “I don’t even remember Skunk attacking my hand. All I remember is him going for my throat.”
“Well, it probably happened too quickly for you to remember. You probably passed out before he did it.”
“Maybe,” Woody said.
They were silent for a minute and then Harold cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to let you go, Woody.”
Woody had suspected as much. He nodded.
“After all,” Harold continued. “You won’t be able to do much with one hand.”
“I know,” Woody said. “I’m no use to anybody now.”
They were silent again.
“Sorry,” Harold said, and then he stood up and reached for the door.
The day before he left Woody asked Harold for just one thing. He asked him for a pistol with just one bullet in it.
Harold said okay, but asked him why just one bullet?
Woody said, “Eventually I’ll probably have to shoot myself because I won’t be able to get any work. When I do it though, I want to be sure that I’m doing the right thing. If I have six bullets I’m likely to do it when I’m drunk. If I only have one bullet I won’t know which chamber it’s in when I’m drunk and the feeling will pass. If I kill myself I want to be sober, just so I’m sure that’s really what I want to do.”
Harold had looked at him with a little respect in his eyes. “That’s a good idea Woody, a good idea.”
Woody walked down the road away from the farm, his few belongings in a bag over his shoulder. From the front veranda Harold and Molly watched.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Molly asked.