by Guy N Smith
Fully awake now, she slid out of bed and padded barefooted across the rough floorboards. A feeling of uneasiness had her hurrying across the tiny landing. When she had looked in on Gavin last night he had been lying still with closed eyes, but she had known that he wasn't asleep. He'd probably worried himself sick all night.
Janie opened the door of the small bedroom and peered inside. It was dark, because the curtains weren't so rotten and they effectively shut out the cold inhospitable November daybreak. She stood there in the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
Oh God, no! Panic flared inside her, making her switch on the light and scrabble with trembling fingers at the heap of discarded blankets at the end of the bed, praying that somehow she would find Gavin curled up asleep beneath them. But her prayer went unanswered. There was no sign of the boy; Gavin was gone.
'What the hell's going on?' Her shout had brought Peter on the run, trying to blink the sleep out of his bleary eyes, angry at being awakened so abruptly.
'It's Gavin. He's gone!' Janie sensed her own helplessness, her futility. This time she would not be able to stop the panic, the fear of this past week that had built up inside her and was threatening to explode at any second in the only possible way. 'For God's sake, Peter, do something. Find Him!'
'Pull yourself together.' He grasped her firmly by the arm, wondering if he ought to slap her across the face now or wait until she became hysterical. He waited. 'The boy's not a prisoner in his bedroom. He doesn't have to wait for us to get up first.' Peter noted the cast-off pyjamas, the bedside chair where his son's clothes should have been draped but weren't. Damn it, there was nothing to worry about. Yet. 'I'll take a look downstairs.'
Peter was aware of Janie following him, and half-expected her to hold on to his pyjama jacket. She never used to get emotional this way, just a bit fraught sometimes during her periods. Now she was frantic.
He checked the front rooms, then went back to the kitchen. All empty. They turned, faced each other, and Janie saw her own fear momentarily reflected in her husband's eyes. I knew there was something out there last night and now they've got my baby!
'He might have gone outside. Probably has.' Peter knew that his voice had trembled, but hoped Janie hadn't noticed it. Damn it, she was unnerving him.
'Let's go and look for him then.' She was already on her way to the back door.
'Hold it.' He caught her by the arm, pulled her back. 'Let's get dressed first. We can't go wandering about on a cold damp November morning in our nightclothes.'
I don't care. I don't care if I bloody well catch pneumonia, so long as I find my baby! She stood there numbed, unable to resist as Peter began pulling her towards the foot of the stairs. It was like a slow-motion dream; somehow, after what seemed an eternity, she found herself dressed in her denim suit, and almost stopped to put make-up on. She followed her husband back downstairs and out into what would have been an olde-worlde garden had it been cultivated. Instead it was just a mass of dying bracken and foxgloves, wet with the dew that soaked their trousers long before they reached the crumbling stone steps that led up to the granary. Janie noted details that had escaped her ah" week: the missing slates on the roof, the way the timbers bowed because they were riddled with woodworm and might snap at any time. Everything was either dead or dying at Hodre.
She opened her mouth to call Gavin, but no sound came. She mentally shied away as Peter pushed open the creaking heavy door and looked inside. He was afraid, too, of what he might see in there, but he had to look.
'He's not in here.' Peter turned back, letting the door swing closed. In the early morning light his unshaven features looked strained and grey. 'He must've gone up the fields.'
'Oh no, not up there.' That wood, so dark and forbidding, hiding whatever it was she had sensed this past week. 'He'd never go into the forest.' But her expression said that he just might.
'We'd better take a look.' Peter came back down the steps and closed his hand over hers. Suddenly even he needed Janie's support.
The big wood was only just visible, a dark mass that showed through the thinning horizon mist like a slumbering monster with a spiked back. A faint golden glow on the dying bracken showed them that the sun was already up, trying its hardest to break through. As it melted the grey swirling vapour Janie became afraid of what they might see. She had to force herself to look. Some sheep. That rabbit again, or was it a hare, up by the top hedge. Funny how you noted these things in a crisis when you were all churned up inside, a kind of inbuilt therapy.
Gavin wasn't on the fields. In which case he must be in the forest. It might stretch for miles, row upon row of artificially planted conifers that somehow destroyed the natural magnificence of the panoramic landscape. Hiding—things.
'He wouldn't go far into the wood.' Peter hoped he would convince Janie, because he didn't convince himself. 'When we get up there maybe we can shout for him.'
When we get up there; Janie was hanging on to Peter, her calf muscles beginning to ache after the first hundred yards. She thought she might be sick or else burst into tears. Maybe both, only right now it was taking her all her time to get her breath.
Sheep eyed them curiously, bunched together and moved away as though they hadn't seen humans before. A ewe was limping as though it had a damaged foot and Janie found herself feeling sorry for it.
Then they were close to the wood, could almost feel its hostility as they stood in the shadow of the nearest trees, which blotted out the hazy rising sun. Silence except for the steady drip of moisture like some form of Chinese water-torture sent to plague them. Somewhere in the dense coniferous greenery a magpie chattered harshly like distant guerilla machine-gun fire. A friendless landscape.
'Ga—vin!' Peter shouted, feeling almost foolish at the feeble noise which his normally powerful lungs made. It was the fog, or low cloud, or whatever it was, of course, stifling his shout, not even allowing it to echo.
They just stood there, two people not daring to look at each other because they did not wish to read the expression of fear in their partner's face.
'He's got to be around here somewhere,' Peter muttered. He thought again about going into the wood. No, the boy wouldn't go in there, he had no reason to. But young boys didn't need reasons.
'Listen!' Janie gripped his arm until her fingernails dug deep like the talons of a bird of prey.
They both listened. The magpie was chattering again as if determined that these trespassers in a corvine domain should not hear whatever it was. A movement somewhere in the thicket as though some heavy creature had trodden on a dead branch and snapped it.
And inside, Janie was wanting to run, to dash headlong back down that steep field, not caring if she slipped and fell. Her terrors of the previous night came back like a damp icy cloud driven by a shrill Arctic wind, chilling her right through. There was something in there; this time there really was!
A monster was forcing its way through a pile of dead bracken, a black-faced creature with horns and eyes that regarded the two watchers intently and had them cowering back; then it lumbered out into the open, standing staring at them with a bewildered expression on its face.
'It's—it's, a—sheep' Janie's voice was weak with relief.
'A ram to be precise.' Peter tried to make it sound casual. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'But where's Gavin?'
It all came back to stark reality, the hopelessness and the panic which was starting to return.
'He must be . . .'
Peter's words were drowned by a shrill whining sound that was fast rising to a crescendo, a harsh noise that seemed to whip the lingering pockets of mist like a sudden gust of wind; an unexpected flood of weak sunshine shafting down as though to spotlight the principal actors in this remote drama.
'What is it?' Janie clutched at her husband's arm, noting subconsciously that he was trembling too.
'Sounds like a chainsaw,' he muttered. 'Bound to be a lot of forestry work going on in a plac
e like this.'
Louder, painful to the ears, vaguely reminiscent of noises that were all part of urban life, a faint smell of diesel on the air.
'Look!' Janie pointed back down to the small valley in which Hodre nestled. 'It's—it's—'
'Motorbikes!' There was contempt in Peter's tone; he saw the machines, two of them traversing the downhill slope, bumping over the rough ground, the riders somehow managing to stay in the saddles. 'Damn it, we had enough of this nonsense at Perrycroft, every bleeding night kids roaring round and round the block creating hell specially to annoy other folks.'
'There's Gavin!' Janie's shriek was audible even above the din of the bikes.
Sure enough even at that distance there was no mistaking Gavin's slight form, his faded light blue denims showing up against the autumn grassland, his red hair streaming as he ran; ran because the motorcycles were gaining on him; mechanical lurchers intent on running down their prey.
'Oh God!' Janie was already moving forward, still holding on to Peter, dragging him with her. 'They'll run him down, that's what they're trying to do!'
As they began the steep and slippery descent, heedless of their own safety, the angry roar of the bikes below drowned their futile shouts. The machines seemed to be honing in on the fleeing boy, veering at the last second just when it seemed that they must collide with him. Circling, revving up, driving him in the opposite direction like a collie in pursuit of a stubborn ewe.
'They're mad,' Janie screamed in Peter's ear, 'don't they realise the danger?'
Of course they do, he hadn't the breath to reply, they're doing it deliberately, it's yobbish bullying. The way those Wilson boys have been bullying him at school.
Nearer now, the Foggs covering the ground at an amazing speed, the frightening scene only a mere thirty yards away portrayed in every brutal detail. The faces of the black-coated bikers sheer ugliness that was screwed up into masks of hate, slanted eyes that gave them an oriental appearance, both with thin lips that bespoke cruelty. Brothers, they might even be twins. They turned, revved up again, grinned at the sight of their fleeing prey, the way the boy was stumbling, panting for breath. Then they shot forward again. Janie could tell that Gavin was screaming, trying to cover his deathly white face with his arms, surrendering because there was nowhere else to run. She couldn't look any more; this time her baby couldn't escape those wheels which bore down on him.
Yet somehow the riders altered course at the very last second. Their victim had fallen to the ground, a wheel missing his outstretched legs by inches, pumping stinking black fumes into his face.
'Cut it out, you bastards!' Peter stood astride the boy, paternal protection in his stance, anger on his face, fists clenched.
The two youths came round in yet another circle and leered when they saw him; one man on foot could not halt the might of their machines. Jesus, they'd teach him a lesson!
Peter saw them coming at him. He didn't flinch, knowing they would alter course again. Afraid for Janie because she was too close, he gave her a quick glance. Then they came at him, roaring fury bearing down on him. A blur of sheer malevolence.
He saw the wheels turning to miss him, and braced himself. Bastards, he'd show 'em a thing or two. The one on the right, because Peter was right-handed and it was easier. A lightning lunge; he felt the impact, a jarring blow that shuddered right up into his shoulder. He cursed, cried out with pain and stumbled back, just missing the machine behind him.
So fast it was a blur, rider and bike parted company. The machine careered on until it overbalanced; the youth crashed to the ground.
Peter staggered to his feet and went towards the fallen rider. The youth was shaken, just winded, and scrambled up; a comparatively soft landing but it had dulled his reflexes.
'You verminous little swine!' Peter had him by the collar of the fake-leather jacket, stared into that twisted hate-filled face. 'You could've killed my boy. You want birching!'
Slit-eyes returned his glare; the thin lips seemed to buckle and purse. A blob of spittle, accurate with uncouth practice, caught Peter full in the face. It took perhaps a couple of seconds for mind and body to unite and bring the rising anger, to a peak. Then it burst, Peter's free hand went back, then came down with every ounce of force that he could muster in a back-handed blow. Even the high-pitched drone of the two motorbikes could not drown the sharp report of the impact. The mean Up seemed to split and turn crimson and the head jerked back. Peter .released his hold and the youth stumbled backwards, lost his balance and fell heavily.
Silence, so sudden that it was frightening. Peter turned and saw Janie clutching Gavin to her. The fallen machine had cut out, its wheels still spinning with a soft, almost gentle, swishing sound. The second youth was no more than three or four yards away, astride his silent bike, an expression of astonishment on his pallid features.
'What the hell d'you think you're doing riding on private land?' Peter broke the silence, watching the fallen biker getting to his feet, a thick trickle of blood running down his chin and dripping on to the torn jacket. 'That's just a taste of what you'll get next time. Take my advice and keep away from Hodre. You're lucky, I should be calling the police.'
They did not answer, just spat in unison; a crimson dottle landed on a frond of dying fern. Their impassive gazes fixed on Peter and did not waver. He felt himself flinching; God, they were like zombies. If only they'd speak, curse, threaten. Instead, the fallen bike was uprighted and its rider swung himself easily into the saddle, oblivious of the pouring blood, the crimson rivulet now thickened by twin streams from the nostrils.
The noise began again, reverberating, jarring the brain. Peter watched them go, typical examples of motorbike hooligans. Hodre or Perrycroft—it was just the same.
'Where on earth have you been?' Janie was doing her best to scold Gavin but the impact of her remonstration was tempered by relief. She was trying hard not to cry.
'I went to look for Snowy.' Gavin was trembling. 'Something's happened to him, I know it has. He's somewhere in thereV A shaking forefinger pointed to the forest. Even the morning sunlight could not dispel its aura of foreboding, its silent warning.
'Well, that's settled them.' Peter clutched at his shoulder and winced. 'I don't reckon they'll be back here for a long time to come.'
'Dad!' Gavin's expression was one of terror, a fear that seemed to be mounting now that the bikers had left. 'Dad, you shouldn't've done that. Now I'll really be in big trouble!' 'Whatever are you talking about? I just gave 'em a bit of their own medicine. They won't come back, take it from me.' 'Dad, you don't know who they are.' Almost a scream. 'No, and I don't bloody well care.' 'But / do, Dad. The Wilsons really will beat me up on Monday now because those were their two big brothers, Dai and Ralph. They'll get me for sure now!'
Peter stared. Mother and son were hugging each other close, sharing a mutual fear, blaming him for what he'd done. 'Don't be ridiculous,' He licked his dry lips and felt an icy trickle run up his spine and goosepimple the back of his neck. Tm not going to be intimidated by a bunch of thugs, even if they have terrorised the village ever since they were able to walk. I'll have a word with the headmaster first thing on Monday morning, and if I don't get any satisfaction there I'll go to the police. If the Wilsons have got any sense they'll try and forget that this morning ever happened.'
Janie closed her eyes, feeling giddy for a second. Somewhere far away she heard a receding drone that might have been bees, had it not been too late in the year. Motorbikes, away in the big forest somewhere. The Wilsons going back home, maybe already planning their revenge.
She opened her eyes again and saw the multitude of dark firs that stretched beyond the skyline. Nature's own empire of darkness harbouring its evil minions. She felt Gavin's hand squeezing her own tightly. 'We'd better get home,' she said.
She wanted to run, to flee from here. Not just the Wilson boys, they were only a small part of whatever it was she felt in the atmosphere. Nothing logical, just a knowledge that there
was something up there. Watching you. Hating you. Something evil!
3
The village of Woodside had not changed throughout the last hundred years. Its narrow winding main street had been made long before motorised transport and was stubbornly clinging to tradition. Subsidence created potholes and cracked tarmacadam as though it was a subtle manoeuvre to return to its former surface of mud and stones. One shop, so insignificant among the grey stone cottages that it seemed to be trying to hide from strangers, and a church that would be undergoing structural repairs if ever the twenty-year-old restoration fund realised sufficient money. The aged verger still scythed the grass in the churchyard and maintained that modern mowing machines were 'no good and made too much noise for quiet graveyards.'
The Cat, tike everything else in Woodside had rejected progress. Picturesque inside and out it could have commanded trade from afar but Eli Lewis, its publican, was determined that that should not happen. Strangers were discouraged by the permanent layer of dust in the bar and the inhospitability of Eli and his ageing wife. Outsiders were served in silence, with a mute message to 'drink up and be away'.
Janie was aware of the hostile atmosphere the moment she followed Peter into the Cat on Sunday evening, as grey eyes hardened tike chips of slate and focused on Gavin. She half-expected the grumpy greying man behind the bar to snarl 'Oi, no children allowed in the bar' but he didn't. Maybe he was just curious.
