Simon Pepper is a South London-based book scout for film and TV adaptations. He writes short fiction and always says the book scout bit first. 

Email: simonpepper20@gmail.com

After Maude’s dog was carried off by the eagle

After Maude’s dog was carried off by the eagle, and the crying had subsided, we debated which authority to contact. It seemed clear that you couldn’t call the police for this kind of thing, nor the fire brigade. So when Maude suggested them, I had to shut that down. 

‘They have bigger fish to fry,’ I said. 

In truth, while fish were the eagle’s natural prey, few fish native to these waters had the girth of that pekingese.

We were left with the RSPs – the options were B or CA, it depended on what we were trying to protect royally. I was in favour of B, since this seemed a matter primarily relating to the eagle. Maude argued for CA – the dog was still at the forefront of her mind.

‘But Jessie [this was the dog’s name] may well be dead by now,’ I said, ‘whereas the eagle is almost certainly still alive. That seems like something to be taken into consideration.’

Maude saw my point, although I could tell it hurt too.

In the end – as so often happens to people in these types of situations – we couldn’t agree and so called noone.

A day went by and I was looking for an excuse to contact Maude again. The carrying-off had taken place on our second date and there was a lot to like about Maude. She was funny, or had been right up until her dog was carried off by the eagle – plus, she had a great body. 

I started to research eagles and found details of the reintroduction programme. Eagles had been hunted to extinction in Southern England a century before, but some had recently been bred and released – by all accounts they were thriving. 

I sent Maude a message with details of the programme’s director and suggested we reach out to him together. His name was Ray Thomas. I’d expected Maude to feel some resentment towards me in the wake of the incident. For even though it had been the eagle that carried off Maude’s dog, it had been me who suggested the bird reserve for our date. 

But no, she was fair about it – another tick. We agreed that I would email Ray with her in cc. Ray replied straight away, suggesting that we meet.

The address he provided was for an old forestry hut in a copse. I picked Maude up and we drove there together – date three. She was well prepared, wore sensible footwear: Blundstones, and a waxed jacket in case of rain. The mood in the car was upbeat. I think we were both a little excited at the prospect of a confrontation. 

Ray Thomas wore a wide-brimmed hat with a long feather tucked into the band. I asked if it was an eagle feather. He shut his eyes and nodded.

We talked him through what had happened and I raised the question of his insurance policy. It seemed to me that Maude should be entitled to some compensation. On cue, Maude crossed her arms and tapped the ball of her foot on the floor. I was impressed – we hadn’t even rehearsed.

‘Follow me,’ Ray said. 

We walked through his cramped office into a strange, long hall behind it. Lining each wall were blown up photos of eagles in heroic poses. In one, a lone bird was drying its wings in a dead tree, while the sun rose behind it. In another, it was swooping low over an estuary, claws skimming the water, the head of the fish it had just caught coming up, as if for air.

I looked at Maude to see how she was taking this. She was reading a board about feeding habits.

‘I’m sure it was quick,’ Ray said.

She looked around, confused.

‘The talons have exceptional power,’ Ray said.  

I took Ray aside. Maude went back to reading – another promising sign, I had been looking for someone with an inquisitive mind.

‘This isn’t going to go away, you know,’ I told Ray. ‘A dog has been carried off here.’

‘How did they go extinct?’ Maude asked. She had moved on to the next board.

‘Persecution,’ Ray said, ‘poisoning, clubbing, egg stealing, some shot or trapped.’

‘So dreadful,’ Maude said.

Ray showed us a recreation of a nest. It was the diameter of a large coffee table, lined with feathers and replica fish skeletons. He brought out an egg shell that, he said, had the volume of five large hen’s eggs. Maude cradled it.

The final part of the tour was a section about the relationship between man and eagle – in particular, Orcadian sky burials. Neolithic tribes in Orkney had left their dead out on stone platforms on the cliffs. The eagles would come down to rip away hunks of flesh and carry them off, leaving only picked bones.

As we left, I said to Ray: ‘Expect to hear from us.’

‘Bye, Ray,’ Maude said.

I began enquiries. The enquiries revealed that many people could muster a grudge against an apex predator. Farmers’ grudges stemmed from feelings of protectiveness towards juvenile animals and the tendency for eagles to carry them off, or pick them to bits on the spot. Sport fishermen did not like eagles either, but not through any desire to see fish thrive – they just wanted to be the ones doing the catching. 

The truth of it was that I wasn’t one – a grudge-holder. I was in this for love, even if it seemed like Maude wasn’t ready to call it that. And maybe I wasn’t either, maybe it was just that I could imagine something arriving and taking me out of myself, and that thing might be love.

I took a fortnight off work and set out along M, then A, then B roads into ever lonelier parts of the country, always with estuaries. I was invited into flagstoned kitchens to scrutinise photos of decimated sheep carcasses, laid out on solid oak tables, while men in gingham sat with their arms folded and women lifted whistling kettles off ranges.

 I entered macabre numbers into a spreadsheet. I started a blog and sent Maude a gentle email with a link, outlining the project. After this, I would check the comments regularly for activity from her. When there continued to be nothing, I emailed again, reminding her how much she meant to me. 

And she did email back, just once. What she said made no sense to me, though. She seemed to have got herself all turned around. Anyway, by this point my mind was wholly occupied with the mobilisation of rural stakeholders. They were counting on me.

As for me and Maude, I told myself that all you could hope for in a relationship was a competent person. Someone who could get things done when they needed to be done. And that I was that kind of person. And that I just had to provide the evidence. 

After the court announced its verdict, and we had confirmation that the eagle project would be mothballed, I bought a bottle of champagne and it round to Maude’s house. A spattered Land Rover was parked in the drive. Through the living room window, I was surprised to see Ray Thomas, sitting on the sofa. His face was in his hands. Maude’s palm was laid on the folded-down brim of his hat. Laid with, I noted, what looked like real tenderness. 

As I grasped the door knocker – a polished ring hanging from the mouth of a hound – I felt a vast shadow fall over me, as some great thing came between me and the sun. 

I prayed it would be quick. But you have to be realistic about these things.